Posted by
novelator on Tuesday, March 30, 2010 10:48:37 AM
He checked his weapon one last time, irked that the preacher of that
disgusting church he'd been faithfully attending for the last two years
had seen fit, who knew why, to show up for a visit. Today, of all days.
Infidel.
His past had been rigorously scrubbed from the Net and
from his living room computer, he'd infiltrated the patriotic, Tea
Party forums infesting the Net. His conservative commentary had fallen
right in line with the current anti-administration rhetoric, he'd made
sure of that. Pity the riots hadn't come to pass. Why weren't those
patriots more hateful and violent anyway? You'd think thousands of
illegal aliens marching in the streets of every major city would've
brought those redneck infidels out in force. Not even Andy Stern's SEIU
could start the violence in Washington designed to provoke rioting in
every major city in America, ultimately leading to the declaration of
martial law. But that plan had failed miserably. And now he had no
choice.
A glance about the room at all the right-wing
propaganda, pictures on the walls, brought a smirk to his lips. How
stupid were the American People anyway?
He stuffed his weapon in
the oversize pocket of the camouflage jacket and locked the door of the
house behind him. Twenty minutes from D.C. Thirty minutes from destiny.
*****
"No," she whispered, her hands to either side of her husband's face. "You can't."
"I must," he said, wishing things had turned out differently.
"What am I going to do?" She let her hands to her sides. "The kids, how will I explain this?"
"You can't, not ever. They might talk someday. No one can ever know."
"Even after you're gone." She bowed her head. "It's not fair--you're a hero."
"Well, we tried everything else," he said. "I called them out even and still it wasn't enough."
She raised her head, eyes wet, lower lip trembling. "You'll wait for me."
He tried a smile that cheered neither and reached into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. "No virgins for me, I promise."
"I can't stand the thought of her," she began and stopped.
"Nancy's
just doing what she's supposed to do." He lit the cigarette and took a
long drag, studying the smoke he exhaled into the air. "Same as the
rest of them."
"If they treat me like..."
"Milk the pity for all it's worth."
A single tear rolled slowly over her mahogany cheek. "Like the rest of that pack of wolves."
He
finished his cigarette, the silence between them an insurmountable
gulf. Perhaps this was how a suicide bomber felt moments before the big
bang.
"Who do you want to cover the story?" the last bureau chief said into the receiver.
"Not our regular man," the network chairman replied. "Are you sure this line is secure?"
"Yes. So, who?"
"Anyone new, young, inexperienced. Someone tough enough to keep Garrett from getting too close."
"Major Garrett?"
"Can't
have Fox getting even a whiff of the truth. All they do is stir up
trouble." He paused, then added, "Martial law would've been so much
easier."
"Well, we tried all summer, but those damn tea baggers wouldn't bite."
"Crap, you'd think Stern could've produced at least one riot..." He sighed. "Never mind that now. We're on to Plan B."
The bureau chief thought duh, but said nothing.
"Look, he accepted the assignment going in," the network chairman said. "Never understand these fanatics."
"Me either."
"I'm not happy about this, you know."
"No one is, sir."
"Sometimes sacrifices must be made for the greater good. You know that, don't you?"
"How many of the others are in on this?"
"All
of them, except Fox. You know what'll happen if there's any leaks." The
network chairman sighed heavily. "Remember, the man you want to focus
on will be in the crowd, dressed in camo, near that big SEIU banner.
Make sure you've got a camera nearby. Are the stories ready?"
"Yessir."
The
line died. The bureau chief looked out the window of his office, but
couldn't see past his dread. At least the ratings would pick up, he
thought with a heavy heart, but for how long? Maybe until after the
pity vote in November returned a majority of progressives to the House
and Senate. Perhaps he should just direct his troops to out the coup
instead. If only those damned New World Order fanatics with all the
money in the world weren't bankrolling this, he might be more tempted
to pull a Murrow and risk his life, the lives of his family and even
his friends. Instead, the bureau chief knew he had no choice, none at
all, but to send the brightest rising star in his dwindling corps and
pray that maybe, just maybe, the truth would rise like cream to the
top, without any direct assistance from him.
*****
The
overflow crowd on the sunny mall was happy, loud, ignorant. Jostled
from every side, the wolf in sheep's clothing wished only for a
moment's peace, pacifying his growing nervousness--or was it fear--with
the notion that in minutes he would know eternity. He glanced at the
television camera filming within steps of him, glimpsed the secret
service guard, who caught his eye for the briefest of seconds.
"Let me make this perfectly clear," the target said to the approving roars of the throng.
He
whipped out the gun and fired twice, then wheeled about to face the
secret service man and whispered the two words he wished with all his
heart he might shout with his dying breath.
The
young reporter ducked at the gunshots, disbelieving that this day, and
the biggest story of his fledgling career, could turn in a split second
into utter tragedy and chaos. He found himself at the First Lady's side
and knelt beside her, his voice-activated micro-recorder in hand, in
time to catch the dying President's final, unbelievable whisper.
The
First Lady brought her husband's limp hand to her lips, tears streaming
over her face. Then she caught sight of the micro-recorder and her gaze
traveled up to the young reporter's eyes.
"He's taping," she
screamed repeatedly, jabbing his way, looking wildly about the cadre of
secret service agents who'd already yanked the young reporter aside.
The
reporter backpedaled, unable to do more than react for the utter shock,
the stupefaction. He was immediately shoved into the crowd by medical
personnel descending in droves. More gunshots rang out amongst the
screaming, fleeing spectators, providing a perfect cover for his escape.
The
reporter would have to hide somewhere, he knew that, because whoever
had orchestrated such a grand madness, no less a bona fide coup, these
people would be on the hunt for him now. Should he take the final two
words ever uttered by the President of the United States to the bureau
chief? No, he decided, putting block after block behind him at a dead
run. He'd never trusted his immediate boss, corporate suck up that he
was. Who then? Who could he give this incriminating evidence to? Where
could he go that was safe? Was he already being tracked? A stitch in
his side forced him to a seat on a bus bench, if only to catch his
breath. Sixty seconds later, a carload of young men rounded the corner
and shot him multiple times. As the reporter lay dying half on, half
off the curb, the gang members riffled the pockets of his suit. One of
them raised the voice-activated recorder victoriously.
"Payday," was the last shout the rising young journalist ever heard.
*****
The
bureau chief insisted his network news mention the murder of the young
reporter, if only as an aside to the tragic news of the day and the
upcoming weeks. It was the least he could do. Seated at his desk in his
fine corner office, he looked down to the micro-recorder in his hand,
and wished he had the strength to do more than fall in line. The last
whisper of the President of the United States, the identical two-word
whisper of the assassin shot down by a select member of the secret
service, according to the camera just steps away. That incriminating
evidence, of course, had already been edited from the final version of
events aired on the network, the short piece of film now ashes in a
waste basket.
He realized he held history in his hands, even the
future of his country. If only he had the courage of men like
Jefferson, Hamilton, Washington. A shiver preceded the chill
recognition that he also held a death warrant in his hand, his death
warrant.
The bureau chief pressed play and listened one last
time to the most incriminating Presidential whisper in the history of
America.
"Allahu Akbar."