A state of disobedience

That view changed. On the right side of the field of view a woman, easily recognizable as Wilhelmina Rottemeyer, entered it. Smythe remained still, however. If there were any minimal adjustments to be made, they would be made when Rottemeyer stopped at the podium.

There were none. Smythe had known her height in advance and placed his cross hairs at precisely the right place. Wilhelmina Rottemeyer, President of the United States, placed herself directly on them.

Smythe took a deep breath, let a quarter of it out, moved his finger to the trigger and began to apply a gentle pressure.

* * *

Galilee Episcopal Church, Virginia Beach, Virginia

Alvin was no artist, no assassin, no highly trained oriental spiritualist. He was not even a predatory insect, however buglike a social worker had once made him feel. He was simply an angry man with a job he felt he had to do.

As soon as Rottemeyer reached the podium, he—as had Smythe—took a single deep breath, let much of it out, and began to squeeze the trigger on his rifle. Not so highly trained as the professional was, Alvin's trigger moved more quickly.

* * *

Hotel Cavalier (Hilltop), Virginia Beach, Virginia

The only man or woman present at the scene who had cause to expect a shot, Carroll had placed himself well behind Willi and slightly to her right. He had less than no desire to be either in the way, or immediately behind.

Unlike the others present, Carroll also knew exactly why Rottemeyer had called this press conference—to resign. Thus, as a memorial to the ages he forced his face into a regretful, somber mask as he watched Willi open the folder containing her resignation speech. It was either force the mask, or risk showing the nervousness that threatened to take him over.

Willi had just looked up from her notes when three things happened: the top of her head flew off in a shower of blood and brains, there was the report seemingly of a single rifle shot, and the entire scene immediately and instantaneously devolved into bedlam.

Carroll especially noticed the fourth thing that happened. A bullet, unspent, passed—only slightly deformed— through Rottemeyer's head, through the intervening space, and right through Carroll's stomach. Only the fact that the air was knocked from his lungs kept him from screaming in agony.

With the next breath he drew, the screams began.

* * *

Cavalier Oceanfront Hotel, Seventh Floor,

Virginia Beach, Virginia

Smythe's finger stopped tightening as soon as he felt the recoil and saw the top of his intended target's head fly off. Off to the right side of his scope he saw a man he recognized easily as James Carroll go down flopping like a dying fish.

'What the . . . ?'

Immediately realizing from the obvious angle of the other shot that he must have had an unknown competitor, Smythe grumbled something about 'amateurs.' Although his original plan had been to leave the rifle in the room and make his escape, he knew that that might be a mistake now. There was always a chance that the weapon, however 'underground' it may have been, could be traced to him. Therefore, while insanity erupted below, and while he knew all eyes would have to be focused on the true assassin, he reversed the steps he had taken in preparation for his shot.

Off came the rifle from its cradle. Quickly it was broken down into its constituent parts. These were stowed in the case, to be followed by the tripod as soon as it was collapsed. The case was then closed.

Tearing off the shower cap and the plastic garment, Smythe stuffed these into the overnight bag. There was nothing inherently suspicious about them anyway, so he determined to leave them in the room, at least for now. The rifle case he slid under a bed. He could return for it later, if possible.

Smythe went to the door and opened it, looking down the hall. Good. No excitement here yet.

Lastly, as calmly as may be imagined, Smythe opened the door, stepped into the hallway, and began to walk to his own room.

* * *

Galilee Episcopal Church, Virginia Beach, Virginia

Alvin had no desire to kill anyone but the President. In fact, he expressly did not want any truly innocent blood on his hands. Thus, when a fusillade of shots from what he thought might be three different vantage points began to impact on the church steeple, instead of returning fire, he crawled to the steps and began to slither down them to the main church. Already he could hear sirens, both police and ambulance, converging on the area.

They'll be along for me soon. I wonder if they'll arrest me or just shoot me. Guess it don't much matter, no how. I ain't afraid. 

* * *

Washington, DC

Caroline McCreavy could not at first believe the news reports. Over the next several hours after the shooting, she might be said to have been in a state of denial. Finally, the reports became too consistent, as well as too