by Brandt Legg
They crawled to a semi-flat area and Bond crumpled to the ground.
“Are we far enough?” Hudson asked, wiping blood and sweat from his face.
“It’ll have to be,” Florence said.
Thirty feet above, they spotted part of what had to be the follow vehicle.
“Let’s go!” Hudson said.
Judging the distance from their burning SUV one more time, Hudson left Florence to tend to the two injured agents. As he and Fitz scrambled up the steep bank, Fitz slipped on some loose rocks. His rolling slide ended more than forty feet later, when he somehow stopped himself from plunging over a cliff and falling hundreds of more feet down into the river.
“Hang on, Fitz!” Hudson called. “I’m coming!”
At that same moment, a cry of help came from above.
“Someone’s alive up there. Are you all right, Fitz?” Hudson asked.
“Hell no, I’m not all right!”
“What happened?”
“I slid down a big friggin’ cliff!”
“Can you climb back up?” Hudson was already moving up toward the follow vehicle. “I’ve got to get up there.”
“Go!”
Hudson reluctantly left Fitz down on the cliff and continued to claw his way up to the follow car. He was only a few feet from the mangled vehicle when he heard a helicopter. Relieved that help had arrived, he paused to catch his breath. That’s when the first round of machine gunfire tore through the trees all around him.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Hudson’s army training kicked in. He dove for the ground and rolled back down into the thicker trees. Keep away from the vehicle. He knelt and surveyed the area. For a moment, he considered going back to try to protect Florence, but his presence could only make matters worse. Everyone had heard the shots and would be seeking cover. No doubt this was the real NorthBridge.
These bastards really want me dead!
“Help!” The cry came again from the follow car.
“What’s your condition?” Hudson yelled as the chopper circled around, obviously readying for another attack.
“Two of us are alive, but I’m the only one conscious . . . I can’t seem to move my arms.”
“Okay. As soon as they make the next pass, I’ll come and get you.” Hudson shouted, while estimating the time it took the chopper to make the return arc—ten or fifteen seconds. Hudson wedged himself behind two thick trees.
The helicopter returned with guns blazing. Chunks of wood, dirt, and rocks blasted through the air. The shooters seemed to know where he was, as most of the shots tore up the area closest to his hiding place. The instant the gunfire stopped, Hudson began counting.
One-one thousand, two-one thousand.
He bolted toward the car. The sight that greeted Hudson rivaled anything he’d seen in the army. The driver had been decapitated by a huge tree limb, which had come in through the windshield.
Seven-one thousand, eight-one thousand.
The agent he’d talked to had just been hit from the last wave of aerial attack, his face and chest opened by the high caliber bullets.
Nine-one thousand, ten-one thousand.
Hudson heard the chopper coming back and quickly opened the door, grabbing the unconscious lone survivor.
Eleven-one thousand, twelve-one thousand.
The man was heavier than he looked and Hudson weaker than he thought.
Thirteen-one—
Another round of gunfire rained in on the area as Hudson pulled, carried, and pushed the man behind a sturdy tree. Then he started counting again.
Hudson saw the growing column of smoke from the SUV just below where Florence and the injured agents were. It was burning out of control, but still hadn’t exploded. Still counting, he called down to Florence, hoping she could take a look at the guy he’d just pulled from the follow car.
“If he’s stable, I’d rather not leave Bond right now,” she shouted back. “When the chopper last fired on us, the bullets came pretty close. We had to move him again.”
“I don’t know if he’s stable,” Hudson yelled back. “He’s breathing, and only seems to have cuts and bruises.” He continued counting.
“Sounds stable!”
“Okay. What’s the fire like down there?”
“It’s starting to spread.”
Hudson knew the forest was so dry that it could go up in flames any minute and they’d be trapped.
Seven-one thousand.
“Is Fitz back?” he shouted.
“Just,” Florence answered. “Catching his breath.”
“I’m coming to get you,” he yelled, his voice hoarse. “We’ve got to get to the road.”
Ten-one thousand.
The chopper swooped in and sent a missile into the follow car. The force of the explosion knocked Hudson off his feet. The flames instantly ignited nearby trees. Fire spread so fast that Hudson feared the unconscious agent would be burned alive if he left him.
“Fitz, I’ve got to move this guy,” Hudson yelled while dragging the agent farther from the fire. “Bring my daughter up here!”
Three-one thousand.
“Dad, I can’t leave my patients!”
“Yes, you can! If that fire doesn’t get you, then this fire will.”
“Hudson, I don’t know if I can drag this guy up that hill,” Fitz shouted. He and Hudson both knew it was much more than a “hill”.
“I’m coming!” Hudson yelled, pulling the agent as far away as he dared.
Eight-one thousand.
Whoosh-boom! Another missile hit their SUV. Flames spread everywhere. The fire moved rapidly, closing in from three sides. By the time Hudson reached Fitz and Florence, the other agent had regained consciousness.
“Can you walk?” Hudson asked, counting silently, knowing they were low on luck and out of options.
“Yes, sir,” the agent said unconvincingly.
Against Florence’s protests, Hudson and Fitz picked Bond up. Florence tried to keep a hand on his wound to slow his bleeding, but the climb made it almost impossible. The newly conscious agent straggled behind, weak and foggy. The fire, picking up fuel and speed, chased them. A wall of flames raged less than twenty feet from them. Hudson kept counting.
They finally reached the unconscious agent from the follow car. If they didn’t take him, the fire would. Florence dragged him up the grade with some help from the weak agent, who had somehow caught up to her.
Nine-one thousand, ten one-thousand.
They were almost to the road when they heard a second helicopter . . . then a third. Hudson caught a glimpse of them through the trees.
“Finally, the cavalry has arrived,” he said, squeezing his daughter’s shoulder as she bent over Bond’s body. Hudson looked down at the ashen-faced agent. The man, no longer conscious, couldn’t possibly live long enough to make it to a hospital. Hudson wasn’t sure if Bond was even still alive at that moment.
“That looks like a State Police bird, and maybe even the Forest Service, here for the fire,” Fitz offered. “That NorthBridge gunship will just blow them out of the sky.”
“Let’s hope not,” Hudson said.
“They’ll know that the police have already radioed for backup,” the other agent said, panting. “I bet they run.”
He was right. The chopper, pursued by the police, disappeared over a ridge. The Forest Service helicopter dropped water on the fire, and then it, too, went away.
“It sure as hell would be nice if someone dropped down to help us,” Fitz said, motioning to the two unconscious agents.
All of them looked like refugees from a war zone. Hudson was covered in sweat, dirt, and blood—his and that of several agents. Florence had even more blood on her, but most of it belonged to Bond. Hudson, Fitz, and the agent felt safe enough to climb onto the road, leaving Florence in the trees with Bond and the other critically wounded agent. Half a dozen cars had stopped for the fire. People spotted them on the narrow shoulder and ran to offer help.
Medics attended to the almost unrecognizable Hudson and loaded him in the back of a rescue squad, but not before the media got plenty of footage. The candidate had insisted on leaving the scene last.
“I want to make sure everyone is safely out of here,” he said. “I’m not hurt that bad.”
Hudson’s departure hit another delay after the FBI got there. He gave a statement at the scene. By the time he’d been examined and placed in a private hospital room where they’d keep him overnight for observation, the story was monopolizing the worldwide news. He and Florence sat in his heavily guarded room watching the footage while waiting for Melissa and Schueller to arrive.
“The worst day in Secret Service history,” the commentator announced. “Six agents dead. Their burned bodies likely won’t be recovered until tomorrow. Three more injured, with one still in critical condition.”
Hudson squeezed his daughter’s hand. They didn’t know if Bond would make it through the night.
“NorthBridge, in a statement signed by AKA Washington, has claimed responsibility for the attack, which was clearly an attempt on the life of Hudson Pound, the frontrunner for the Republican nomination.”
Hudson thought of the Wizard angrily. This wasn’t Vonner. These people did everything they could to kill me, to kill everyone around me.
“The attacking helicopter, which had been pursued for a time by a much slower State Police helicopter, was discovered a short while ago burning near an onramp to the Interstate. The passengers are believed to have escaped in a waiting car. There are no immediate leads, but the FBI is asking anyone with information, or who may have seen anything, to contact the number on your screen.”
There was a knock at the door. Fitz peaked his head in. “It took me fifteen minutes to get through all your security,” he said, exasperated. “They took my Coke. What do they think? How could I hurt you with a soda?”
“I hope NorthBridge doesn’t try to bomb the whole building,” Hudson responded with a worried look. “My being here is putting everyone at this hospital in danger. I tried to get the doctor to discharge me.”
“They’ve got fighter jets in the air,” Fitz said. “The feds are treating you as if you really are the next president.”
Hudson nodded. “You know what really bothers me? How did NorthBridge know where I’d be? Our route, the whole trip to Iowa, was unplanned.”
“They must have been watching us,” Fitz said. “Probably planning to hit the bus today . . . that would explain the missile . . . when we ditched the bus and went solo, I bet they just improvised the rest.”
“Six agents,” Hudson said, shaking his head. “I want to call all their families.”
“Of course,” Fitz said.
“And we’ve got to suspend the campaign for a few weeks, at least.”
“Not a good idea,” Fitz said. “A few days sure, but we’ve still got the Iowa endorsement and the debate, and you’re the frontrunner, you can’t —”
“I’m not sure I want to be the frontrunner anymore.”
“Daddy,” Florence said quietly, “maybe you don’t want to be president anymore.”
And then she just looked sadly into his eyes.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Hudson woke in the middle of the night to find Melissa sitting next to his hospital bed, and Schueller asleep in the chair next to his sister. They’d arrived while he was sleeping.
Melissa took Hudson’s hand amid the glow of the vital signs monitors and a sliver of light from the hallway. “I thought I’d lost you,” she whispered.
“No way,” he replied softly. “We’re just getting started.”
She leaned in to kiss his cheek. “I hope so.”
The next morning, they left the hospital under heavy security. The media, kept half a block away, had not been told of the candidate’s departure until thirty minutes afterwards. A hospital statement released to the press simply stated that the candidate and his family had been moved to an undisclosed location. The campaign also announced that Hudson would skip the next debate and do very little in-person campaigning for the next ten days. The Secret Service and FBI wanted to move them to a military base, but, after a call with Vonner, Hudson changed the plan.
“You can’t hide,” Vonner told him over the communicator as the motorcade raced toward the airport. “NorthBridge wins if you cower.”
“How have we come to this?” Hudson mused. “I can’t believe this can happen in America!”
“We’re in a war,” Vonner said. “These guys are serious about their revolution, but this time it isn’t going to be muskets fired in open fields. NorthBridge’s revolution could go on for years depending on how many there are, how much money they have, and, most importantly, what kind of technological infrastructure they control. Thus far, their tech seems to be superior to the government’s!”
“The country has been growing more rigidly divided with each election cycle, but open warfare? Do they not recall the first American Civil War?”
Suddenly, the sound of a helicopter above their vehicle sent fear through Hudson. Florence, sitting behind him, grabbed his shoulder.
The agent in the front seat heard it too, and sensed their apprehension. “Not to worry, Mr. Pound, that’s our escort. They’ll be with us until we make destination.”
“Why do they think tearing the country apart with terrorism and war will do anything?” Hudson asked, resuming the conversation with Vonner.
“You’ve seen their propaganda,” Vonner said. “They don’t think there’s any other way to bring about change, and they might be right—except for you.”
“That’s a lot to put on my campaign. Saving the country from civil war. Surely the government can stop these terrorists before the election?”
“NorthBridge has more supporters than you would think. The media is downplaying that right now, but reality will eventually catch up. A significant portion of the population is fed up with the government, and attempts to change it haven’t worked. For decades, more and more people have grown impatient. They’ve hoped and waited and tried and hoped again, but now they’re done with all of that. Now they’re taking matters into their own hands, and they’re willing to use force.”
“We can’t let a civil war happen.”
“You are the last best hope, Hudson. The people might give a non-politician one more chance to change things peacefully. They believe you. You’re the one. But you can’t hide. Lincoln didn’t hide.”
“Okay,” Hudson said, “but you know how Lincoln ended.”
“We’ve got to stop this war, Hudson,” Vonner added before the call ended. “And you want a truly sobering thought? Think about this: we’re the most armed nation on earth. Neither side will ever run out of weapons.”
Another revolutionary war. Another civil war. Hudson could see it now, see that his outsider status put him in a unique position to stop it, to hold the country together and finally get real change accomplished.
He explained the stakes to his family. “I can’t back down.”
Reluctantly, his children agreed. Melissa’s support was unwavering. “We can’t allow these anarchists to take over,” she said as if addressing a large crowd.
The Secret Service and FBI were informed of the decision to resume actively campaigning. Fitz told him that an international firm, which handled protection and security for Vonner’s organization and many heads of state, would be brought in to work with the Secret Service for a coordinated and “smart” plan to minimize the risk to Hudson and his family, “Twenty-four-seven.”
They flew immediately to Iowa. The press pool traveling with them had been heavily screened and included the top correspondents covering the electio
n. Hudson had spoken with them briefly after takeoff, and noticed a difference in how they treated him. They were softer, more respectful. It felt good. His sound bites were relayed on media around the world.
“I will not be deterred. I am not afraid. Terror and fear will not win!”
About an hour into the flight, Schueller came over and sat by his father in the private suite occupied by the family.
“I thought you might want to use this in Iowa,” Schueller said, handing him a legal pad.
Hudson read the page-and-a-half of handwritten lines and then turned back to his son, smiling. “You wrote this?”
“Yeah.”
“I had no idea.”
“I’m a songwriter, Dad. I just thought of the speech as a song.”
“I knew you could write, I just wasn’t sure you believed in me.”
“Of course I do. It’s the system I don’t believe in, and Vonner I don’t trust. But I know you’re the real deal. My dad is our best chance to change things for good.”
Hudson realized that even Schueller sounded like the people Vonner had described. He shuddered. How had the greatest country in history let so many of its people become disenfranchised to the point that they no longer trusted their own government? How had it gotten to a point where patriots could support a group like NorthBridge? He felt a renewed weight of the responsibility of his candidacy.
“I wish I could tell you what your support means to me,” Hudson said.
Schueller patted his dad’s knee. “You just did.”
Hudson nodded, smiling mostly to himself. His unwashed son, scruffy brown hair, unshaven, wiry thin, the constant debater, a firm contrarian, and still the coolest guy he knew.
“So, you’ll use the speech?” Schueller asked.
“Of course I will, about a hundred times. I hope you’ll keep them coming.”
The crowd was enormous when the governor of Iowa endorsed and then introduced Hudson in Des Moines. Bomb sniffing dogs and more than a hundred law enforcement officers and Secret Service agents patrolled. Hudson stepped out onto a stage rimmed by clear, bulletproof panels, thanked the governor, and delivered Schueller’s speech.
