assault on the country’s most elite military facility. An act of war. Worse, it was a successful attack.
Thanks to the earlier successes of his presidential career, stamping out terrorist organizations around the world, the press saw this as retribution. To the world it looked like he’d picked fights with the world’s terrorist organizations and grossly underestimated their resources. Speaking volumes to this were the number of American dead and injured, not to mention the complete lack of enemy casualties.
Duncan and many of the soldiers at Bragg knew that was because the enemy had simply fallen to pieces, but he couldn’t very well say that on television. The American public would think him insane and incompetent.
Instead, he would do something he loathed. Something he had done only once before as president.
He would lie.
When the attack on the Siletz Reservation had gone public it was declared a terrorist attack. But with no one claiming responsibility and their investigations turning up no leads, the country’s anger had been swallowed and contained, but not forgotten. The country’s rage simply lay in wait for a target.
Once again, without an enemy to point his finger at, without a clear target of the nation’s wrath, not to mention the military’s, the American people would have no outlet for their anger. Unfortunately, there was always someone who would attempt to turn that anger toward his office. Presidents were blamed for scores of the world’s problems, especially when someone was gunning for the job. With an election year coming up, the political wolves smelled blood. Lance Marrs, a senator from Utah and the man who ran against Duncan in the last election (and lost), had come out with guns blazing. The man hit every media outlet that would have him, blasting Duncan for not only failing to prevent the attacks, but inviting them. It was the same old shtick from Marrs, but people were buying into it this time.
A small flat-screen TV that swung down from the car’s ceiling played his latest news conference. The man was doing his best to look presidential. Hair slicked back. Trophy wife waiting off to the side with a candy smile. Flag pin prominently on his chest. “Tom Duncan has failed the American people, not once, not twice, but three times now. When the good people of this nation elected him president, I accepted the decision. The people had spoken, and as one of the people, I accepted my defeat.”
“Horseshit,” Duncan murmured. The man had accused Duncan of fixing the election, called for recounts, and had even talked of a lawsuit. But with Duncan claiming nearly sixty percent of the vote, no one believed the results could have changed enough for Marrs to win.
“When Duncan put his hand on that Bible and was sworn in, he became the landlord for our nation. When something breaks, he’s supposed to fix it. And if our house is broken into, not once, but twice, installing a little security seems like an obvious step to take!” The statement was followed by cheers. “But he clearly neglected his duties to the people of this country. I used to think highly of President Duncan. I thought he was a good man. A man of character. But now I realize he is nothing more than a slum landlord!”
More cheers. Duncan was sure the crowd was stacked with former “Marrs for President” supporters, but it was still disturbing to see. In a time of crisis, when people are afraid, they tend to listen to the loudest voice. And right now that was Marrs.
And the results showed in the latest polls. A growing percentage of the population now thought Duncan was at least partially to blame for the attacks. Duncan turned off the TV and reminded himself that he’d suffered through worse, both in combat as an Army Ranger and on the campaign trail. Putting Marrs out of his mind, he took one last look at the speech in his hands and exited the vehicle.
The path from the car to the podium was clear of people save for his Secret Service escorts. Four of them waited, faces grim, hands ready to draw weapons if need be. They received or uncovered more than two hundred threats on his life in the last twenty-four hours and no one was taking chances. He scanned the roofs of the Fort Bragg barracks surrounding the quad and counted ten snipers. His eyes fell to the base of the buildings where a hurried reconstruction effort was under way. There would be no delay like at the World Trade Center. The military was in charge of the cleanup and repair and expected the base to not just be fully functional within the month, but also much more heavily fortified.
Duncan’s practiced confident stride didn’t falter when he saw the press, who had been allowed back on base for this press conference, turn and face him. Photographers snapped photos and Duncan met them with his handsome face held high. His eyes were set and serious. His shaved head and rigid posture letting the watching world know that this former man of action would take action. But while his body language spoke of a man ready to wage a war, his mind fought with the fact that the words he would offer were ultimately hollow.
General Keasling and Dominick Boucher, head of the CIA, waited for him at the podium that had been erected at the center of the quad. Construction vehicles were hard at work in the background, a strategic view to let the people know that recovery was already under way. The two men were his closest advisors on the subject of war. He nodded to them as he passed and ascended the podium steps.
The seated press suddenly stood, no longer able to control their brewing barrage of questions. A sea of voices flooded over him. He raised his hands for quiet, ignoring the individual voices.
When the press realized he wouldn’t be answering any questions yet, they quieted down and let him speak. He delivered his speech, offering contrived words and phony facial expressions. He asked for patience while they hunted down the identities of those responsible for the attack. He promised swift and just action. And he pleaded for calm and logic, reporting anything strange to the authorities instead of taking action into their own hands.
Much of this was the truth, but just as much was misdirection. Duncan knew the best deceptions were ninety-nine percent truth, so as he crafted his story, he worked in the truth about the number of dead, the monetary costs to rebuild, and the timing of events. But he added a layer of deceit when he placed blame on the Arab world. He mentioned Iran, Saudi Arabia, and Yemen by name. He dropped the names of known terrorist organizations and played the Osama bin Laden card. At the same time, he couldn’t blame any one of them specifically and no one was taking credit.
What made the deception worse was that his words fueled tensions around the world. Hate crimes against Arab-Americans would increase. Violence in the Middle East and Israel would continue. And actual terrorists, bolstered by the belief that some of their own had wounded the heart of the American military, would find their ranks replenished.
As Duncan took a breath, a daring reporter used the momentary silence to shout a question. “Senator Marrs has laid the blame for the deaths of several thousand United States citizens on your shoulders. How do you—”
Duncan’s frustration got the better of him. “Senator Marrs is a self-serving vulture,” he said, then immediately regretted it. His own anger was eating him up. He had no desire to be here. To be lying to these people. He needed to take action, not manage his reelection PR. Screw the upcoming election, he needed to get things done.
But his hands were tied. He knew that. Every action the president made during a crisis was scrutinized. Too much time fulfilling the duties of Deep Blue would garner unwanted attention for the team for whom secrecy was tantamount. When the Chess Team, when the world, needed Deep Blue the most, his duty as the president always got in the way.
As the sea of stunned reporters wrote down the quote that was sure to be the next morning’s headline, he said, “Thank you. That’s all for now.”
Duncan took the stairs down from the podium two at a time, catching the press off guard. Silence lingered for a moment before the din of questions came. Leaving the loud voices behind, he approached Keasling and Boucher. “This is a waste of time,” he grumbled.
Boucher matched the president’s stride as he walked back to The Beast. “It’s your job, sir.”
A Secret Service agent opened the rear door. Duncan paused before entering. He looked back over at the press who were being held at bay by a line of military security. It all seemed a ridiculous circus to him. He met Boucher’s eyes. “I know, Dom. I’m just starting to see things a little differently.”
Duncan climbed into the dark interior of the car and slid into the shadows. Before the Secret Service agent could close the door, Boucher climbed in next to him.
Duncan sighed. “What?”
As The Beast pulled away, Boucher smoothed his mustache and said, “Tom, this will all blow over.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“He’s a hot-air bag. People are going to realize that when the dust clears. They always do.”
“You’re assuming the dust will clear.” Duncan looked out the tinted, bulletproof window. The ruins of Fort Bragg passed by as they headed for Pope Air Force Base. “We don’t even know what we’re up against.”
