of the rifle forward, into its final position. Just a few minutes now… he saw the president striding toward the podium, thinking of what a great spot he had picked for the press conference. The White House stood in the background, a perfect icon for the cameras, a reminder of the power behind his words. Up until now. The president stopped at the podium and looked down at his notes, already laid out for him. Silas had already adjusted for wind and elevation. He moved the rifle barrel minutely, centering the crosshairs of the scope on the president’s head. He took a deep breath, eased it out and slowly pulled back on the trigger.
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
The interview with the vice president was finished. Doug had been surprised at how bright and hot the lights were and finally fully realized why interviewees had a tendency to perspire under them. Fortunately, that was over and now they were touring patient wards. Vice President Santes had insisted on visiting some of the patients before leaving and asked for Doug and the others to come with her.
There was little warning. One minute everything was fine; the next, the lead secret service agent suddenly became alarmed. He pressed a finger to his ear, better to hear the feed coming to him from the device affixed to his other ear. “The President!” he yelled. “The president has been shot!”
All eyes turned toward the vice president, including those of the secret service agent. Only Doug was in a position to see the patient’s hand coming from beneath the covers. Without thinking, or with any concern for his own safety, he dived for the gunner’s hand with his only good one. He barely managed to deflect the shot. The bullet plowed into an agent beside the vice president. Before others could converge on him, the patient cried out in frustration, trying to wrest the gun from Doug’s grasp.
Doug was in a position where he could get no leverage. He held on grimly and could only stare in horror as the gunman was able to slowly turn the barrel—toward him. He flinched, but didn’t let go, knowing the vice president had to be protected no matter what. At the last second he managed to get his other arm in the way, the one with the cast on it. The next bullet plowed a furrow into the cast and through the muscle of his forearm. He was shoved away an instant later and two more shots rang out, but those were from the secret service agents. With the abrupt report that the president had been shot, they were taking no chances. The assassin was dead; the agent he had shot instead of the vice president was dead from the hollow point that plowed into his neck, shattering his spine. Doug was the only other casualty, and even he didn’t realize he had been hit until he saw smoke still curling from the cast and felt the beginning pain from his wound.
All the rest of the rest of the episode was anti-climactic for him. When June saw blood seeping from the hole in the cast and out of the opening near his hand, she insisted that he be cared for right away.
His wound could be treated under local anesthetic; only the muscle had been hit.
“We’ve got to stop meeting this way,” Doug joked as the same doctor who had repaired him before attended to him again. He flinched as the cast cutter touched his arm. The circular, toothed blade looked ominously sharp.
“Young man, I’m certainly willing to call a halt to it. I had just dozed off for some well deserved rest when this happened.” He had to talk around the noise of the special instrument used to cut away the cast, an electric saw with a blade that vibrated rather than spun.
“Was the president hurt or killed? Have you heard?” Doug asked, his eyes still fixed on the saw.
Surprisingly, it proved to be not dangerous at all. The vibration just ate through the cast without touching his skin.
“I think he’s dead, but don’t take my word for it; I’m just going by what people have told me.” The nurse used an instrument to gently open the cast along the cut and replaced it with a temporary device to hold his broken arm immobile while the new wound in his forearm was attended to.
“The president is dead,” June said, returning from a quick visit to Amelia to see whether or not she was needed back at her desk immediately. “There’s something else causing a lot of upset. A secret service agent released some recordings made from the oval office and they’re just now being broadcast. If the President wasn’t in on the plot with Tomlin and General Newman, he was certainly in agreement with the results. If he hadn’t been assassinated, he would have had to resign anyway. And if not, he certainly couldn’t have been re-elected.
“Ouch,” Doug said to the surgeon. “You missed a spot.”
“Sorry. Do you want me to inject you again?”
“No, get it over with. I need to get back to work.”
“We still have to replace your cast, you know.”
“I know all too well,” Doug said. “June, I’m fine. If you need to get back to your office, go ahead. All I need to do is check with Teresa when I’m finished here, then consult with Colonel Christian and Qualluf.
Are they still here?
“I think they’re both being questioned by the secret service.”
“Ouch. That’s not for you, doc,” he added hurriedly. “Those guys could take forever and we need to get Qualluf and Christian out of here and back where they belong.”
“I’ll talk to them,” June said. She leaned forward and kissed him. “Call me when you’re free. I’ll be at the office.”
“Wait. If the Secret Service doesn’t cooperate, have Amelia try calling Vice—I mean President Santes. I don’t know if this number will still be good, but you can try it.” He gave the number to her and June hurried away, while the doctor gave him a peculiar, but very respectful appraisal before returning to his suturing. Doug winced again, but didn’t complain. He wanted this to be over and done with. He eyed the secret service agent standing nearby, waiting to question him as well.
Vice President Santes was hustled away from the CDC and to her plane. By this time, word had come that President Marshall was definitely dead and that she would succeed to the presidency. Her first order after shakily taking the oath of office from a hastily recruited judge was to issue an arrest warrant for Edgar Tomlin and General Newman; under the terms of martial law there was no waiting for a judge’s approval. She settled into her seat as the plane took off, feeling the mantle of ultimate responsibility descending over her, as she knew it had so many times before in the country’s history. She began making notes on the most urgent tasks facing her, even while knowing there would be many more added to her list the second she stepped into the Oval Office.
Before they landed in Washington, she got Amelia’s call, on the number she had given Doug. She listened for a moment, then told Amelia to call her back if the men were not released. She wagged her finger at the nearest secret service officer, who also happened to be the same one who had run her detail since she had assumed the vice presidency.
“Who’s in charge of the detail now?”
“Until we get to Washington, I guess I still am, Mrs. President. After that, I don’t know.”
“I’ll try to see that you stay with me, if that’s your preference. In the meantime, call your boss in Washington and tell him I want Qualluf Taylor, Colonel Christian and Doug Craddock not to be bothered until they have some time to spare. I’m sure there’s very little they could add to the picture in any event.”
“Yes ma’am. I’ll do it immediately.” He hurried toward the front of the plane.
President Santes resumed scribbling notes on the yellow legal pad. Her PDA had been lost in the scuffle, but word had come that it had been found and would be returned. Without a hint of amusement, she mused about how her first thoughts, her first priorities, would almost certainly be preserved on this pad for future historians. Then she did smile inside, knowing how far removed from her true thoughts these notes were. Some things were best left unwritten.
Captain Timothy Foley cursed fluently, but only to himself. He had just heard of the new president’s order to have both General Newman and Edgar Tomlin arrested. So much for his own orders. There was no longer any sense in trying to carry them out now, with no one to report to, especially since there had been only a slim chance of killing the Colonel anyway. He had about decided to try shooting him in plain sight of others and trying to make it look like an accident. All that would get him now was very probably a thorough going over from both the secret service and military intelligence officers. He had no illusions about being able to stand up under the type of
