is overshadowed by the horrible carnage that took place at 10:38 this morning on the lawn outside the residence and private office of Dr. Andrew Norman. Dr. Norman, personal physician to the President and one of his closest family friends, along with fifty-six others, mostly journalists, photographers, policemen, and Secret Service agents assigned to guard the President, were savagely murdered by a suicide bomber. Many of the dead were standing in close proximity to the explosive-strapped assassin. They were killed instantly. Early reports indicate scores of casualties, many seriously injured. Dozens of ambulances have taken the wounded to hospital emergency rooms throughout the greater Washington, D.C., area.”
“Shit,” Matt Richards said. Trying to rebury the painful memory from thirty years ago seemed impossible now. He slumped down into the wooden kitchen chair. “I hate bombs.”
“They’ve stopped showing the bodies. Now it's just long shots of the area.” Kelly nipped out the joint, setting it aside for later.
“Political correctness moves in.” Matt tightened the drawstring on his pajama bottoms.
“Look, something is happening. It’s that popular CNN reporter, Angela Wu. This is a big break for her.”
“I see cynicism isn’t just reserved for us old geezers.”
“You’re not old, just ridden hard. Look how she’s shaking.”
The scene changed from the newsroom to a chaotic, tree-lined street. “This is Angela Wu reporting just up the street from the Washington, D.C. home of Dr. Andrew Norman, personal physician to the President, who, along with scores of others was savagely murdered this morning during a suicide bomber attack obviously intended for the President of the United States. The police, FBI and Secret Service have cordoned off most of the area around the blast scene. It’s a site of horrific carnage, blood and body parts scattered everywhere. When I first arrived on the scene a severed head lay against the curb.”
“She’s gonna throw up,” Matt said taking another long pull on his scotch. I know how she feels.
The camera held steady, following closely as she bent over. Sounds of retching mingled with the shouts of medics and blaring sirens. The camera swung away in a circle, panning over policemen, firemen, trucks, ambulances and more bodies. Frantic shouts carried. “This one’s still breathing.” “Get a medic over here right now.” “For God’s sake, someone help me.”
Then the strained face of Angela Wu returned. “…I was supposed to be here this morning reporting on the President’s routine checkup but my car wouldn’t start and, as a result, the crew left the studio without me. My colleague, Sylvia Stone, went in my place. She’s out there somewhere. Ruthlessly cut down. Senselessly murdered.”
The shrill sound of an ambulance siren caused the microphone to squeal in harsh protest.
“Stay on me. Stay on me. I’ve got to finish this.”
“I’ve got you, Angela. Keep going. We’re live.”
Tears streamed unchecked. Lips quivered uncontrollably. “Who are these beasts, these criminals, these cowards? This isn’t a noble political cause, it’s just premeditated murder. The savage and brutal slaughter of dozens of innocent people. First we have the horrible destruction and mayhem of September 11, and now this, the first suicide bomber on American soil in a cold-blooded assassination attempt on the life of the President of the United States.”
Another quick panorama shot. Ambulances racing away. Paramedics zipping black body bags.
“When is this senseless killing going to stop? I’m angry, depressed, tired, and just plain sick of all this shit. The whole world has turned into a bloody battlefield. Is no one safe from the madness? What do we tell our children? Kill first before you’re the next victim? What’s it going to take to finally bring peace to the Middle East and put an end to these attacks? When is someone going to do the right thing and make the courageous decisions that will put an end to this madness?”
Her face reflected the chaos all around her. And the chaos inside of her. She looked straight into the camera and out at the world.
“That’s it. I’m finished. I quit.”
The camera held on her, another casualty added to those strewn about the street. The world watched as she threw down the microphone, tore off her earpiece, turned around and forced her way through the large crowd pressing against the yellow police cordon.
“Oh my God,” cried Kelly. The cannabis intensified her tears.
“She’ll be back.”
“Jesus H. Christ, Matt. Don’t you feel anything? Doesn’t this move you even a little bit?”
More than you know. He wanted to say something. But what was the use? How could he help a privileged young college coed, pampered daughter of a senior US Senator, raised on first class trips to Europe and monogrammed underwear, understand the pain and sorrow of something like this? To be really moved, he realized, you had to be close enough to feel the heat from the blast and smell the death.
The screen flashed back to the anchorman at CNN headquarters looking quizzically to his left. Excited voices could be heard. Aware of the probing lens he regained his professional demeanor and faced the camera.
“A senseless tragedy like this affects all of us in different ways. Even the most professional newscasters find it difficult to remain detached when something as horrible as this happens in our own nation’s capital.
“We have just received some remarkable footage of the moments before the blast, taken by our CNN crew on location. Due to the graphic nature of this material CNN has decided not to broadcast all of it. However, we are able to show the moments leading up to the assassination attempt.”
Fade to black. Two seconds later appeared the image of President Pierce shaking hands with Dr. Norman at the top of the stairs in front of a Washington brownstone.
“Here we see the President emerging from the offices of his personal physician and coming down the front steps to make a statement to the press,” the anchorman spoke easily, now comfortable with tape and hindsight. “And here is brief footage from one of our CNN cameramen whose job it was to film the crowd. If you look closely you’ll see a short figure wearing a large fur hat and a black overcoat moving steadily through the crowd, trying to get as near the front as possible.”
Someone in the newsroom drew a yellow circle, like the highlights on Monday Night Football, around a small figure in a large fur hat pushing through the crowd. The hat obscured the face but the intent evident. Squirming through the assembled mass, press badge visible, finally standing at the front of the press corps. A voice called out to the President. The assassin looked up. The camera found its mark.
“ In the name of Allah…”
The picture froze. Matt Richards screamed. “No. It’s… not possible.” The chair crashed to the floor. Matt fell to his knees. Sour vomit spewed across the kitchen floor.
“Jesus, Matt. What’s the matter?”
The deep voice of the newscaster came alive again. “While we currently have no information on the suicide bomber’s identity, we can say at this time that the individual was of Middle Eastern origin, approximately forty-five to fifty-five years of age, with thick black hair.” CNN enlarged the image on the screen. “And as you can see, a woman.”
Walter Reed Military Hospital
Roswell Clayton Pierce lay under the starched white sheets, his eyes glued on the television news. A large bandage covered the deep sutured gash in his forehead. Several other bandages were scattered around his arms, legs, and hands. While he managed the pain in his body, the emotional pain was overwhelming. CNN was showing a rerun of Angela Wu. “I quit…”
As she threw down the microphone and tore off her earpiece, the President of the United States jabbed at the remote control. The screen went silent.
His first visitor since the attack said nothing. He waited. He always waited. Van Ness was a counter-puncher; a fixer of the highest order. A skillful shadow player in the recesses of the global stage.
“She’s right, Karl. Someone should do the right thing. Make the tough decisions. And that someone is supposed to be me.”
Van Ness stared at the scrubbed linoleum. “Anyone can make decisions, Ross. It’s having everything in place behind the scenes that makes a decision stick. We need a little time yet.”
