No Corner to Hide (The Max Masterson Series Book 2) (20 page)

They picked up speed as they approached the Roosevelt Bridge, but slowed to a crawl as they made the right turn that took them along the Potomac toward the National Mall. Rachel hovered above and shouted with excitement to those below, “It looks like they got the lights back on! The whole place is glowing! It looks like nobody left the party, but then again, how could they?” The crowd turned at the sound of the approaching helicopter. When they could make out the driver of the shiny Corvette, they gasped and cheered.

On either side of the bridge, the crowd stood shoulder to shoulder, packed close in anticipation. In front, the TV cameras were strategically placed to provide the maximum effect of their return. Max waved, and the cheering became louder. The Park Service was on horseback, shooing back any of the observers who stepped off the curve into the broad avenue.

Max drove slowly past the Lincoln Memorial, while Rachel found the only landing area ahead that was not occupied, the center of the reflecting pool. The illusion of depth provoked a few screams, but she settled slowly into the eighteen inch deep water with no difficulty. Her landing was immediately followed by the Park Service dry platform, which had been extended from the edge of the reflecting pool to the landing struts by the time she emerged. She waited as Max approached, waving to the crowd in her flight suit. The sound of the crowd’s approval was loud and enthusiastic, causing her to blush at the attention. Max left the Corvette idling at the curb and rushed in her direction. By the time she stepped onto the platform, he was there with his arm outstretched.

They returned to the closely guarded Corvette with arms linked. Max gallantly opened the passenger door to more applause. The etiquette lessons he had been taught as a child were now natural behavior to him as an adult, and this display of civility toward Rachel was not lost on those who looked to him as an example. By doing what was second nature, he was showing a part of his upbringing that had been lost to society as America declined over the previous decades. He had to show how a man treats the woman he adores as much as he would show how the president would treat a foreign dignitary. The Maxims would be followed without question.

Max hopped into the Corvette and the colorful procession of classic American cars proceeded down Pennsylvania Avenue toward the Capitol. Their clear view of the monuments was obscured by the crush of humanity, but they towered in the background. This was the playground of Max’s childhood. Even if his vision was obstructed, he knew they were there, and he could detail them in his memory. First was the Lincoln Memorial, then the Washington Monument and finally, the Jefferson Memorial. Behind them to the west was a grand sunset, with the orange and yellow succumbing to reds and purple as the setting sun sunk toward the horizon.

Max was aware of the danger that sitting in a convertible posed for him. It hadn’t worked well for Kennedy, and since 1963, no president had traveled a public route in a convertible exposed to a sniper’s bullet. But this was Max Masterson, who was so adept at appearing where he was least expected that his security advisors had named it “pulling a Max”. Their code name for him was “Wizard”, for his ability to vanish in one place and reappear where he was not expected. If he could keep them guessing, he could stay alive. At least, that was his untested theory. Too much of his time was spent keeping him safe, and not enough time was spent with those who adored him, he figured, and he made his bold presence felt in person and electronically whenever possible. This drove his protectors crazy. The unpredictable has that profound effect on people.

All of this was contrary to the established protocol for protecting the president, which caused the “assassination pot” to grow to an enormous amount. The pot was a secret betting pool available only to those cynics in government at CIA, FBI, and Homeland Security. Anyone who was entrusted with actually protecting Max was banned from betting for obvious reasons, but that didn’t stop the rest of them from trying to predict the day that Max would prematurely leave office.

None of his disdain for convention was appreciated by those whose job it was to keep him alive, but they had been duly warned before he was voted into office. The newly-elected president was going to do it his way, and millions of people were watching him do it in the most exposed and defiant way possible. In the real world, it was the equivalent of watching a NASCAR race in the hopes of watching a fatal wreck. They didn’t know the when, but they knew that it was likely to happen, and the longer he stayed alive, the bigger the pot grew.

To add spice to the mix, he was being led back to his inaugural by his girlfriend, flying a helicopter, and followed by a parade of classic American cars. They drooled in anticipation, with the hardcore cynics putting the most of their money on Inauguration Day. The press would label the detonation the “Inaugural Event”. It was intended to disrupt Max’s swearing-in as president and send him into hiding as a part of Pryor’s grand plan. It was not intended to kill.

The short procession drove slowly through the crowd toward the steps of the Jefferson Memorial, where Max was scheduled to make his inaugural speech. The excitement was palpable, larger in scale than event planners could create in their wildest imaginations. For the rest of the world, it would be a non-event until the broadcast disk found its way into the hands of the media capable of broadcasting the events of the day. Those in attendance would hear his words, followed by Scarlett’s prepared speech. Then came the inaugural ball, which Max had turned into the world’s largest lawn party.

As he drove the mile or so to the speech venue, he was impressed that the Mall was as lit and festive as planned before the terrorist attack. The Inaugural Event had been reduced to an annoyance, an interruption that would be talked about by conspiracy theorists for generations, but today, the nation’s capitol had been returned to a place of celebration that had captured the attention of the world. Whoever was responsible for the attack had failed, and had only succeeded in boosting Max’s attention factor. The words of Max Masterson would be heard, not silenced.

Scarlett stood at the podium, beaming. She had managed to control the crowd by taking the stage early and rousing her audience with bits and pieces of her stump speech, along with continuous updates of Max’s location. She had disregarded Max’s instructions in a dismissive way, informing Roger that, “How does he expect me to speak to the American people without speaking? I can’t just get up there and show my pearly white teeth and smile them into the comfort zone, can I? I’ll do nothing of the kind.” She reverted into her Charleston accent in times of great stress, and diverting from her day’s plan had ruined the sense of decorum that governed all of her actions. She had only partly recovered from her unladylike and unplanned horse ride to the White House, and to expect her to further deviate from the program. Scarlett’s own sense of importance was only satisfied when she was the center of attention of large groups of people, the more the better.

When lulls occurred, chants of “Where’s Max” would begin with a low rumble and spread from mouth to mouth until the volume nearly drowned out Scarlett’s amplified voice. Finally, she asked for quiet. She didn’t get it.

To the West, the sound of a helicopter could plainly be heard, and all heads turned in the direction of the sound. From the raised speaking platform, Scarlett could make out Rachel’s helicopter, followed by a colorful assortment of cars extending to the limits of her vision. Then came the slow approach up the length of the National Mall, moving too slowly for her tastes. All attention was diverted in Max’s direction until she could stand it no longer. Finally, she made the announcement they had been waiting for: “Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States!”

u

CHAPTER 52

M

ax ascended the stage in two- step bounds, not stopping to shake hands with the picket line of dignitaries who lined the sidewalk that led from his Corvette. There would be time for that later, and he was anxious to get his message

out and be gone. Rachel was escorted behind him, still in her flight suit. In keeping with his purposeful lack of convention, this inaugural would be a visual message that would endure long after the words were forgotten. He had no place for meaningless tradition.

“America, thanks for electing me,” he began. He paused and waited for the applause to die down, looking out at the faces pointed in his direction as far as he could see. It seemed that the crowd had swollen to double the previous size in the time that he was gone, and he realized that the Washington insiders who normally disdained political events in favor of the comfort of their living room had been forced to witness the event live. There was no power on the public grid, and they had nothing to do. Washington as usual had become a single-event city for the time being.

“It’s been quite a day for all of us, hasn’t it?” he continued.

“The difference is, when I woke up this morning, I knew it would be a big day. I didn’t know that someone planned to mess it up for the rest of you and keep me from being your president in the first few seconds. I thought they would at least wait until after the party…” Laughter rolled through the attentive group like a wave.

“I ran for this office to help my country be great again. I stand here today to tell you that I will not, cannot, be kept from that goal.” Those who were sitting stood. Those who were silent clapped and cheered.

“You’re the one, Max!” The chant spread, and he waited. Pulling Rachel to his side, he gave her a tight hug as she looked in his eyes in adoration. They held each other, the image preserved by the few cameras spared from the gamma radiation of the EMP blast. He returned to the microphone and continued. “I was elected to be the president of everyone, not just a few. There are people who are intent on keeping me from doing the job you elected me to do, content with our present stagnation and malaise. I promise you; they failed today and they will fail tomorrow, and they will fail every day after that. We will return to greatness as a nation. The United States of America will not be defeated.”

The applause was deafening. It continued for long after the thought of continuing had left Max. He had no teleprompter, and no notes. Just the heartfelt words he chose to speak. He had no intention of making a long-winded speech, and by the time Scarlett had completed hers, his words would be remembered, and her words would be largely forgotten.
Too much information turns off the mind to the core of the message, and I have said what I came here to say. I need for them to remember. Not just today. Every day.

“There will be other days and other topics to speak about, and you know I’m not a politician.” Scattered laughter came from his audience. He had used that phrase thoughout the campaign for the presidency, but he had never articulated the meaning. It was time. “The president of the United States should transcend politics. The one person you elect to serve you is the representative of our entire nation, every man, woman and child. I pledge to do just that. I will leave the politicking to the legislature. That’s what you elected them to do, and frankly, they are better at it than I am. I am focused on making America great again, and to making your lives better than ever before.”
I need to inspire, to give them hope.

After the applause had subsided so he could be heard once more, Max concluded his brief statement. “I will not always follow the tradition of politics, but I will not shirk the responsibilities of my position. I chose Scarlett Conroy to serve as our vice-president for a very good reason. She is a politician, and she is the best there is. She will make the speeches and she will attend the hearings and she will be our link to Congress. She will communicate the thoughts and desires of our nation to your elected Senators and Representatives, and together, the United States of America will lead again.” I present to you, Scarlett Conroy, our Vice-President.”

As quickly as he had ascended the stage, he left it. Scarlett pulled a stack of cue cards from her pocket and approached the podium. Scarlett began her prepared speech, but paused when she realized that every member of the audience had turned their attention to watch Max take Rachel’s arm and walk slowly toward the White House. Her distress at the lack of attention was revealed in her facial expression. Her moment in the center had been replaced with envy. The speech did not resume until they had disappeared in the crowd of admirers. Regaining her composure, Scarlett resumed the speech.

By the time she concluded, Max and Rachel had been at the White House for an hour, busily reviewing the digital record of the inauguration and directing the distribution to the press, who rushed it to the nearest operable computers that they could find. There was no time to edit. The broadcast was presented in a 24/7 continuous loop, with no voice-overs, no commentary, all as Max had intended.

u

CHAPTER 53
I

have silenced Max Masterson with the push of a button,” exclaimed Adam Pryor with delight. “His new ideas are threatening to our way of life. We must band together to rid ourselves of this menace once and for us all.”

A silver-haired man stood in a corner, quietly assessing the situation. He and the privileged members of the group had pledged to never refer to the membership by name, but he was known by all as the Chairman of the Board of Universal Petrochemical, a conglomerate of oil and gas companies that had a virtual lock on the price of petroleum and the multitude of products produced by petroleum.

Three generations before Doyle Effingham IV was born, his greatgrandfather had single-handedly began the first purchase of oil from the Saudi royal family, and the organization immediately amassed enormous wealth that rivaled that of the sheikhs themselves. As Pryor spoke in his high, annoying tone, Effingham quietly placed his martini on a (antique French) table and purposely spilled it, causing the attention of the membership to be momentarily turned in his direction. Without a word, he strode confidently to the front of the room and stood several feet in front of Pryor, well within his comfort zone. “I assure the membership that Masterson will be cast from office and we will regain…” Pryor stopped in mid-sentence.