A Triple Thriller Fest (52 page)

“We used to call it the ‘smoke-filled back room,’ and with some degree of humor, we caricatured the participants in political cartoons as ‘party hacks.’ Of course we each like to think it was only the
other
party that acted that way.” Laughter followed his attempt at humor. “Since those days, we’ve come a long way in the art of deception. To see things as they really are is not quite so easy in this technologically advanced world. With the technology at hand, we could fill this room with holograms,” he said, his arms gesturing in a sweeping motion, “with the images of everyone who once served here. And who would know they weren’t their actual ghosts?”

Rawlings could see Judge Wentworth, Colonel Connor’s former boss at the CIA, seated in a front row position next to Director Granata. Both men kept their composure as President Eastman addressed these new, sensitive areas. Although operatives from both the CIA and FBI reported to Colonel Connor, Rawlings knew that Connor, as the head of the president’s task force, reported directly to the president or vice president, and that the task force members were also precluded from directly reporting to their home agency. Was Eastman really going to deliver their devastating findings here, in this forum?

“Well over a year ago,” Eastman continued, “when the clamor for secession became a reality, and long before the California legislature convened their constitutional committee intent on following through with the ‘divorce,’ I directed the formation of a small, confidential task force to investigate the origins of the secessionist movement. Not the reasons we see each night on the news, but the real purposes behind the façade. Their findings were—well, let’s just say they opened the proverbial can of worms. But then, as my granddaddy used to say, ‘You need big worms to catch big fish.’”

Eastman again looked up at Rawlings and Connor, taking a sip of water as he paused. Looking toward his family, he smiled and continued.

“As one new political entity has recently gained admission to the Union, another, to our dismay, has sought to withdraw, with attendant bloodshed and chaos. In the face of this, I have had cause to consider how Lincoln must have felt as he saw the nation beginning to crumble around him, with the Deep South standing firm for what they believed to be their right to defend their way of life. Today, the secret combinations of which I speak have no such noble aspirations. The almighty dollar is their primary motivation, but mark my words,
this will not stand!”
he trumpeted, emphasizing each word by pounding on the lectern. His sudden fervor electrified his audience, most sitting up straighter, intent on the rising fervor in the president’s demeanor. Rawlings noticed that the members on the floor had begun to divide their response to Eastman’s remarks, with pro and con factions beginning to murmur their opinions.

“Please understand me clearly,” the president said. “The federal government is certainly not blameless in bringing about internal dissatisfaction among the states. For most of the twentieth century, whether it was Republicans or Democrats in charge, Washington has tended to usurp the rights of the separate states, and, by extension, the rights of the individual citizen. Many of those who have worked to affect this ostensibly benevolent control sit in this very room tonight. I do not speak disparagingly of their efforts. In most cases, they acted in good faith, out of a desire to make the bounties of this great nation available more equitably to all our citizens. Nevertheless, we took unto ourselves the power to regulate nearly every aspect of human endeavor, much as a parent might control his young children. Adverse public reaction to such a policy was inevitable and certainly predictable.

“This worldwide separatist movement, with its primary origins coming out of World War II, followed by the demise of the British Empire, increasing dramatically following the fall of the Soviet Union, provided the impetus. Then, once internalized within our borders, it provided the opportunity for men of dubious motivation to align themselves in purpose. Cheap labor, illegal immigration, and blatant greed drove the cause. This domestic dissatisfaction culminated in the California advisory referendum, which was followed by the formal vote for secession and the ultimate adoption of an implementation date and the formation of a constitutional committee.

“The federal marshals intervention, the military confrontation, and the resulting carnage and devastation brought about by the California civil disturbances are all too fresh in all our minds. However, the information gathered by my task force—nothing short of startling, I might add—has shed remarkable new light on the devious nature of this conspiracy.”

More grumbling erupted from the floor at Eastman’s use of the word “conspiracy.”

“I know,” he said, shaking his head in response to his audience’s reaction, “conspiracy is an oft-used word, and seldom with ample justification. But this time, my esteemed colleagues, we have the proof. And the trail, as onerous as it may be, leads right here to Washington, and indeed, right here to this House,” he emphasized.

Rawlings had begun to understand why the president invited him to attend the session. Still, he couldn’t believe that Eastman would publicly announce their findings outside of the normal justice department channels, possibly affecting their ability to prosecute. Or was he merely threatening and posturing, as had Senator Joseph McCarthy nearly fifty years earlier in this same forum?

As Rawlings turned to see Colonel Connor’s reaction to the president’s comments, the sound of two gunshots reverberated throughout the chamber. It took several moments for most of the assembled politicians to comprehend what had happened. Rawlings turned quickly to look at the podium, where pandemonium had broken out. Secret Service agent Cynthia Randall, positioned off to the president’s right, reacted to the shots by drawing her weapon and leveling it at a man standing in the third row of the senatorial pews, holding a pistol. She acted too slowly. Before she could fire her weapon, Senator Malcolm Turner, Democrat from the state of California, shouted, “For California!” and turned the pistol on himself, firing the third shot into his own mouth, splattering those around him with blood and fragments of brain tissue.

Instantly on his feet, Daniel Rawlings’ last view of William Eastman was of the president lying on the dais, blood running down the right side of his head, his body inert behind the lectern as Secret Service agents swarmed around him. Other agents literally lifted the vice president from the second level dais and carried her out of the chamber through the rear door. As animated as their actions were, Dan’s vision of Secret Service agents surrounding a wounded president was compelling—a moment frozen in time that Daniel Rumsey Rawlings would retain for the rest of his life.

* * *

Total bedlam followed the shots in the House chambers as over six hundred people tried to get through eight doors at the same time. Even those for whom emergency situations generally brought their controlled and directive nature to the surface, having demonstrated their leadership time and again in combat situations, found themselves caught up in their inability to affect a calming influence on what could now only be described as a congressional mob.

To make matters worse, the network cameras kept rolling, and several of the cameramen who thought their positions were relatively safe panned the crowd while the network anchors, far removed from the scene and any sense of danger, continued to demand coverage of the event. They pointed out to home viewers what they perceived to be cowardly actions on the part of some legislators who sought their own safety at the expense of their peers. Paul Spackman, reporting live to the San Francisco Bay area residents, characterized it as a physical manifestation of the morally bankrupt, stepping, pushing, and shoving over the genetically weak. It was a situation, Spackman added, that was normally concealed from the public through polite verbiage, designed to cover the hostilities that generally were perpetrated behind closed doors.

* * *

Colonel Pug Connor and Daniel Rawlings were, from their gallery vantage point, unable to move forward or upward toward the doors. Secret Service agents, seated near the First Lady and her family, had driven their protective charges down onto the floor between rows while other agents, located outside in the corridors, fought to escape the melee and perform their protective duties. On the floor of the House, three agents surrounded the now-dead assailant, guns drawn, surveying the chamber for prospective accomplices, while five other agents had immediately removed the lifeless form of President William Eastman. The dais was otherwise vacant following the hasty removal of Vice President Clarene Prescott.

After slowly working their way toward the upper exit, Rawlings and Connor entered the corridor outside the House chambers, where clusters of horrified and increasingly hysterical people were gathered. Secret Service agents and Capitol Hill police, guns drawn, were scurrying about, unsure whom to allow passage and whom to detain and, if necessary, whom to shoot. Years of professional training provided instinctive response, and eventually, with the removal of most attendees and the absence of further violence, order began to return.

Reaching the Rotunda in preparation to leave, Connor and Rawlings were stopped by three men, identifiable by their colored lapel pins as Secret Service agents.

“Excuse me, sir, may I see some identification?” one said to Connor.

Connor held both hands up, palms open to demonstrate his compliance. Pointing toward his suit coat, he reached slowly into his jacket pocket and displayed his wallet, nodding for Dan to do the same. The agent looked at the picture ID and up at Connor’s face, doing the same with Rawlings’ California legislative ID.

“Thank you, Colonel Connor. If you and Mr. Rawlings will please accompany us, we’ve been instructed by the vice president to provide security for you and to bring you to her present location.”

“Where is Vice President Prescott? Is she all right?”

“I’m sorry, Colonel. I can’t advise you regarding her location, but she is safe, and she is uninjured.”

“Fine. Lead the way,” Connor said, falling in behind one agent with the other two following Dan as they entered a hallway elevator.

Two minutes later, Connor and Rawlings found themselves in the inner office of the Speaker of the House, Frank Redman, and were brought face-to-face with Clarene Prescott, visibly distraught at the recent events, but in control of the situation.

“Colonel, it’s well they found you. I’ve been advised that the Secret Service feel that only the one perpetrator was involved.”

Prescott breathed deeply, holding her breath as she stretched her head and neck, seeking to relieve the tension.

“It was Senator Malcolm Turner,” she breathed out. “All we can figure is that he thought to stop the president from exposing him in the conspiracy. The Secret Service found a letter in his office, denouncing what he called the military invasion of California and calling upon all Californians to rally ’round the cause of secession.”

“Excuse me, Madam Vice President,” an agent said, stepping close to speak privately with her.

Rawlings and Connor watched as Prescott’s hand moved to cover her mouth. Her head was bowed, and she nodded slowly as she listened to the messenger whispering in her ear. With another sharp breath and a soul-wrenching exhale, Clarene Prescott turned to face the small assembly gathered in the Speaker’s office.

“I have just been informed that, as of 8:22 p.m., house physician, Allen Wingate, has declared President William Eastman dead.”

Prescott paused, lowering her head and trying to control her rapid breathing as members of the small gathering absorbed this news. Tears openly flowed throughout the room. Those who were old enough, remembered their location and feelings upon hearing of the death of President John F. Kennedy nearly fifty years earlier.

Dan Rawlings, not yet born when Kennedy had ended his presidency, found himself confused at his presence at such a momentous event, less than a week after his own brush with death. Words were not exchanged for several moments while Clarene Prescott stood silently in a corner of the room, several agents close at hand. The agent who had brought the pronouncement again whispered to Prescott, who wiped a tear from her eye and nodded.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve been informed that the chief justice is on his way, and that it is necessary at this time …” She trailed off, her voice breaking.

Speaker Redman stepped to her side and continued. “The chief justice will arrive momentarily to administer the oath of office to Vice President Prescott. I would appreciate it if all present would gather in my outer foyer, where a little more space is available.”

Dan stood quietly in the right center of the small gathering, now risen to about twenty-five people as word had circulated that an historical event was about to take place, causing several congressional members and staffers to seek attendance. The inclusion of Mrs. Ellen Eastman at the last moment—reminiscent of Jackie Kennedy standing beside Lyndon Johnson as he was sworn in on Air Force One in Dallas—added a poignant caption to the news photos of the ceremony, which instantly flashed around the world. The photo of Clarene Prescott hugging a tearful Ellen Eastman made the front page of a special edition of every major newspaper in the world.

It was over in moments as Chief Justice Harland Overton, in his twenty-fourth year on the Supreme Court, asked Clarene Prescott to raise her right arm to the square and to place her left hand on the Bible. With one brief look around the room, Chief Justice Overton held out the bible and began to speak.

“I, Clarene Elizabeth Prescott, do solemnly swear …”

Despite her emotional turmoil at the events of the past thirty minutes, a strong, steady voice rang out, and Clarene Prescott stepped into history.

“I, Clarene Elizabeth Prescott, do solemnly swear …”

Chapter 36

Oval Office, The White House
Washington, D.C.
October, 2012