Quantum Touch (Book 3): Shadow Storm

by Michael R. Stern

  “I'll be talking to him soon, I'm sure. Jane will be back tomorrow. Then we get down to the hard part. First the leadership, then the Europeans, Russians, Japanese, and Chinese. This is the last, best chance we have.” He looked out to the Rose Garden and rubbed behind his left ear. “If I can persuade them, if we work together, if we can end the battles in the Middle East, we'll get a chance to focus on climate change and the home front.

  “I couldn't have been luckier than finding Jane. I could have dismissed her as a brash kid with a lot of ego and a lot to learn.” He sucked his lower lip. “I still laugh when I see General Beech. I don't think he'll ever forget when she told him off.”

  “It's funnier now, since she's vacuumed him into her group of admirers, even though he won't admit it.”

  “It's going to be a busy week. When we leave the White House, I think I'd like small family Thanksgivings like we used to have. It's kind of strange thinking about life after here,” he said.

  “It'll be different.”

  Chapter 24

  THE SEASON'S first frost crunched under Fritz's feet on Monday morning. Before classes, Johnny Clayton stopped by and asked if Fritz could give him some advice about college applications. Fritz said he'd be glad to, and Johnny came back as soon as last period ended.

  “Mr. R, I can't stay long. Practice. I've had recruiters chasing me for weeks now, and I have a bunch of offers from all over the place. And though my parents would love it if I got a full scholarship, I think they'd also like me to try to get an academic one somewhere. They think I have a shot at an Ivy given my grades and scores, and they don't offer athletic scholarships, you know. And I know school comes first, and I want it to. My parents would love for me to give up football if I could. You know, concussions and stuff.”

  “I understand their feeling on that score. Have you visited the schools, Johnny?”

  “Most of them. I didn't like some of the locations, but the coaches all know the sales pitch.”

  “How can I help you?”

  “Mr. R, I don't know what I want to do for sure after college. My class rank is pretty high. Harvard and Princeton both called, and I might have a shot at non-sports funding, but I know I'll have full athletic scholarships to Nebraska and Penn State. Not having student loans to pay back is a real temptation.”

  “Well, you won't have to decide before you hear about money from the Ivies. But do think about your goals after college. You'll have to choose a major. What classes do you like the best now?”

  “I've always liked science, Mr. R. No offense.” Fritz smiled. “I've taken AP bio and chem, got fives on both, and I'm doing physics this year.”

  “Then maybe you should talk to the admissions offices and ask them to arrange for you to talk to some professors and visit some classes. You might want to talk to your science teachers here, too. They might have some ideas for you. After all, they had to make those decisions.”

  “Thanks, Mr. R. I'll do that. I have to go now, but can I ask more questions some other time?”

  “Of course. You know where I am. Good season so far, Johnny.”

  “Thanks, Mr. R. See you tomorrow.”

  Chapter 25

  ASHLEY HAD been glum all day, so Fritz poked his head in to see him before he left school.

  “Are you staying or what?” Fritz asked.

  “I'm reading through a history book and writing questions for the tournament,” Ashley said.

  “You're coming for dinner?”

  “I'm bringing it. All week. So no more freeloader cracks.”

  “One week for ten years, yeah, that works. Pretty equal. Okay, no more cracks. This week.” Fritz grinned. “Are you coming now?”

  “No. I'll work on this for a while, pick up dinner, and then grace you with my charms.”

  “Can't wait. See you later.”

  When Fritz walked outside, the swirling wind pelted him with dust and debris. Orange and red leaves skittered through the mostly empty parking lot. High clouds blanketed the afternoon sky. Loud whistles drew his attention to the young men and women on the playing fields. Fritz shivered for them. Before he reached his car, a police car drove up.

  “Has anyone told you the news, Mr. R?” asked Jim Shaw.

  “No, Jim. What's up?”

  “That's why I came. In case you were doing something. You know what I mean.”

  “No, Jim. I have no idea what you mean. What happened?”

  “There's been a hit on the president. He's okay, but some people were killed.” Fritz shivered. “Details are just coming in.”

  Fritz ran back toward the door. “Stay here, Jim. If you can.” At Ashley's door, he said, “Ash, call Jane. There's just been an assassination attempt, and people were shot.”

  “Is Jane okay?”

  “I don't know. Call her. Now.” Ashley already had his phone out. Fritz saw his face go gray.

  “It's Ashley, Jane. Call me. Are you okay?” There were ruts between his eyebrows. “Voice mail.”

  “Ash, let's go. We can find out more when we get home.”

  Jim waited in his car when the door clanged behind them. “Jim, will you be around?”

  “I'm on duty until midnight, Mr. R. So just call if you need me. You can call later than that, too.” They hurried to their cars and watched the police car turn into traffic.

  LINDA WAS WAITING on the front steps. She waved for them to hurry.

  “Did you hear?” she asked, as he ran up the steps.

  “Jim Shaw just told me. Tell us what you know.” Ashley parked his car and ran up. She told them what had been on the news as they went inside.

  Linda returned to her chair, and both men tossed their coats on the couch. She flicked the remote, looking for video. The reporter said the president had been returning from a planned meeting but made a surprise stop. Some members of the press corps were following. “We are processing the footage right now. The assailant was captured after firing a large number of shots.”

  “So they caught the guy,” Ash said. They sat, staring, looking for familiar faces.

  “Our cameraman has captured a Secret Service agent tackling the assailant and knocking the weapon from his grasp,” a reporter said. They saw Ken Shack fly into the picture and buckle the attacker at the waist. They also saw the gun discharge as the attacker went down. “We are awaiting further reports.” Linda changed the channel. The reporter said, “The Secret Service pushed the president back into the car and sped away. We are still waiting for a report on his condition.”

  “Was he hit?” asked Ashley. “Was anyone else? Come on.” He moved closer to the screen as the cameras focused on the ambulances and EMTs on the sidewalk.

  “How could anyone know where or when he would stop?” asked Linda. Both men turned to her. “Someone had to know for the shooter to be right there, right?”

  “That means someone inside. Or the guy was going somewhere just to shoot people and the president happened along. Or maybe, I guess, someone was carrying and ended up in the wrong place at the right time. There are crazies everywhere who hate him,” Ashley said. Fritz watched the DC police hold back the gathered crowds and form a perimeter around the ambulances. An explosion sent a Suburban into the air and hot, flying metal at the onlookers, the police, and the reporters. They saw the camera picture change rapidly as the camera flew and came to rest on the street, facing the scattered wounded.

  “There's nothing random about this shooting,” said Ashley. “What are the odds that they got a bomb under the car with the shooter in it after he was arrested? This is an inside job, the car was rigged, and someone put him in it to die.”

  “The pictures you just witnessed were from our cameraman Dan Woodward, who has been my close friend for many years.”

  “Switch it, Lin,” Ashley said. “Jane still hasn't called.” The newest pictures showed the street littered with the wounded and dead. Screams, shouts, and crying were accompanied by the constant wail of arriving emergency vehicles of all sorts.
Firemen extinguished flames raging in a parked Suburban. Two uniformed legs dangled out of the driver-side rear door. Suits jumped out of newly arrived cars and cordoned off the crime scene.

  “Those are agents, FBI or Secret Service. They're not DC cops. Look,” said Fritz. “There's James.”

  Simultaneously, the doorbell rang and Ashley's phone buzzed. Fritz went to the door. Fritz invited Jim Shaw inside as Ashley asked, “How is she?”

  “Can't stay,” Jim said to Fritz. “Hi, Ms. Russell, Mr. Gilbert. A report came on my radio. Not official. They were just letting me know. The killers apparently knew his route. A DC cop, or someone dressed like one, blew up the Suburban and killed the shooter and himself. They don't have casualty numbers yet. The Secret Service is combing the area, looking for more possible shooters. This looks like an ambush.”

  “CLEAR EVERYONE out of the area. Now. We may have been lucky, but don't push it. And don't get stopped. For now, stay in the District.” When he hung up, he looked around his closet-sized bunker, TVs all on, electronics everywhere, and nodded. The plan was in effect.

  “TELL GEORGE I won't be in for a few days. I'm going to Washington. She was shot. She's at G. W. They hit the president too.”

  THROUGHOUT the early evening, the blather of talking heads and reruns of news reports filled the living room. Fritz and Linda sat together with the remote between them. No commercial escaped a channel change. Speculation included foreign terrorist attack, inside job, random shooting, right-wing terrorist attack, coincidence. Former law enforcement people pandered to their various audiences as Twitter feeds ran freely across the bottom of the screen like locusts, and about as welcome.

  “That's disgusting,” Linda said. “How can they even put that crap on? That's not news. And it's not helpful.” She scanned the vicious stream of comments. “I hope the FBI is watching this.”

  “They will for threats, but there's nothing they can do about the rest of those comments. Still, you'd think the networks would be more discriminating.”

  “Ratings rule, even now.”

  “Nothing is more important than ratings. Especially to that bozo.” Fritz pointed at the screen. “Hard to believe he went to Harvard.”

  FRITZ'S PHONE vibrated and scooted across the coffee table. “How is she?”

  “Lucky. She left the truck that blew up to brief the president. Ricochets hit her, three times. One hit her neck, just missed the carotid. The shooter hit the president twice, leg and arm. Jane's sleeping, but the president is already having meetings in his room. They should release him soon. Fritz, Ken Shack, the young guy who came to your house, is dead, killed when he jumped in front of the door and tackled the guy. I'll call later. Did you call George?”

  “Yeah. He did his usual, but I reminded him he was on the president's team and the president had just been shot. He'll settle down. When are you coming back?”

  “I'll let you know.”

  Chapter 26

  CLASSES WERE SUBDUED. This would be another lost day. In each class, his kids had questions, but the most difficult had been from his ninth graders.

  Samantha said, “Mr. Russell, we've talked about it all day. There are people cheering out there. I just don't get it.”

  “I don't either, Samantha. I don't know what you've discussed in your other classes, but let's think about it.” Fritz leaned against the front of his desk as he spoke. He looked around the classroom and saw arms crossed, red eyes, flexing fingers, and more pen-biting than usual. “The President of the United States is probably the most important, most powerful person in the world. Regardless of that, no matter how hard he tries to represent everyone, the president has enemies. Only some are purely political. Samantha, some people are just haters, with a misguided belief that killing a leader somehow advances their cause. But why would people be so angry that they would be happy about an assassination attempt? I really don't know. I can't imagine being that angry. What do you all think?

  “My dad said he thinks it's a terrorist attack.”

  “But what do you think, Jay? No one has claimed to have been behind it, and we don't know who the attackers are.”

  “I think … I, well, Mr. R, I don't think we have enough information, and if we start guessing, can't it get worse?”

  “How could it be worse?”

  “Well, for one thing, we could blame the wrong people, and they could get hurt.”

  “Good answer. Can anyone give me an example?” Fritz looked for hands. “How about you, Judy?”

  “There have been stories in the news about attacks on Arabs who aren't involved in anything threatening. And on people who are mistaken for Arabs.”

  “Good answer. In 2001, after the World Trade Center and Pentagon attacks were attributed to Al-Qaeda, people were attacked and even killed because they looked different. Does anyone know what Sikhism is?”

  “Isn't it a religion, Mr. R?” asked John Boardman.

  “Yes, John. Let's use this as a research opportunity. Who has internet access now?” Most hands went up, and their previously invisible cell phones materialized. “I want someone to look it up.” He wrote Sikhism on the board. In a moment, hands were raised. “Lauren?”

  “Mr. R, it says here that Sikhism is the fifth most popular religion in the world. Sikhs believe in monotheism, equality, and service.”

  “Do any of you know someone who's Sikh?”

  “I think,” said Don. “The guy at the gas station has a beard and wears a turban.”

  “Good, Don. I know him, and yes, Mr. Singh is Sikh. The turban represents a crown of respectability, of commitment to his religion. Sikhism is a religion from India, not the Middle East. Even some Sikh women wear turbans and traditional clothing. It's the way they look that has caused them to be killed, as Judy said. Class, we're almost done for today. No homework, but I want you to think about some examples of how hate has shaped the history we've been studying. Write your ideas down, I will look to make sure you have, and we'll talk about your analyses tomorrow.”

  “Mr. R, do you think people hate because they're afraid?” asked Susan.

  “Before the bell. What do you think, Susan?”

  “I think people are sometimes afraid of what they don't know or understand. You called them haters, Mr. R. I think some of them are just afraid.”

  “Can you give us an example?”

  “It's on the news all the time. People talk about Sharia law taking over our legal system. That's just silly. And this class has covered why—the Constitution would prevent that. Sharia law is Islamic, so those people hate Muslims because they don't know they're off base. But when I listened to one of these guys on the radio, it got worse. It sounded to me like he wants to impose Christian rules on the country. The interviewer kept asking him about separation of church and state, but he ignored the questions.”

  “Class, you've just heard a great illustration of what we've talked about. Think about it. See you tomorrow.”

  Chapter 27

  JUST AS THE BELL rang, so did Fritz's phone. “Hi Ash. Your timing is good. The bell just rang.”

  “I wanted to catch you before you left. Tom Andrews died this morning. It hasn't been announced yet. The president is mad as hell. He told me that he'll turn over every stone on earth to find out who's behind this attack. Losing people he knows, well, he's grieving. But he's also furious.”

  “I didn't know. I thought he was still at home recovering.”

  “He went back to work yesterday.”

  “Damn. I'll call Linda. How's Jane?”

  “I keep telling her she's accident prone. One bullet creased the top of her leg. Just missed the femoral artery. She has fourteen stitches in her neck. On her arm, only a scratch, relatively speaking. She's up and around, worked with the president all day. She thinks someone other than terrorists is behind it.”

  Fritz sat. He bit down hard on his lower lip, as flashes of his contacts with Tom flew past his open eyes. So did a black Suburban.

  When h
e called Linda and told her about Tom, she said, “Fritz, this is really scary. And even sadder. The news reported that a suicide bomb killed the shooter and a DC policeman had been in possession of the bomb, but the DC police say no one can identify him from any of the pictures or video. There's not enough left of either of them to get fingerprints. So it will take a while for DNA analysis. But it looks like someone was impersonating a cop well enough to get to the scene.”

  “I'll get dinner and be right home. We can talk then. Are you okay?”

  “Blue. I'll feel better when you're here.”

  Fritz drove downtown and pulled into a parking spot on Franklin Street in front of the deli. As he leaned to step out, a black Suburban sped by, nearly hitting his door. That was close. He patted his left leg. Glad I still have this. Another black Suburban. Before he had composed himself enough to look for a license plate, the driver had turned the corner.

  “THAT'S OKAY. We'll get him some other time. Just so he knows.” The man hung up, smiling.

  FRITZ LOOKED left and right before venturing back to his car. As he drove home, a black Suburban followed in the rearview mirror until he turned into his own street. He needed to check with the president and find out if it was protection or the threat it felt like.

  A TEXT MESSAGE from Ashley said he and Jane were coming home and would be back by dinnertime. Fritz had been sad all week, thinking often of the two agents who died. Knowing Ash and Jane were coming back revived him. He called Linda, who said she had already ordered food for him to pick up. “I guessed,” she said. Once again accompanied by a black Suburban, Fritz drove slowly, pen in hand, with a legal pad next to him. He swung to the curb and looked at the driver as the Suburban sped by. He copied the license plate number and jotted a quick description. Moments later, speeding on a cross street, a black Suburban steered to hit him. Fritz stamped on the gas pedal and turned sharply left across oncoming traffic. Tires squealing, the Suburban turned hard into traffic and hurried away. Fritz pulled over, twisted, and got out. He put his feet on the ground, but his legs felt weak. A driver who had witnessed the near-accident stopped.