by Tom Grace
“Gentlemen, I do not want this happening again. I plan to attend the BCS Championship Game and the only thing I want to see on the jumbotrons is a football game.”
“Our technicians are at the stadium now isolating the electronic screens from the outside world,” the FBI Director offered. “And we’re establishing a false front so anyone attempting to access the screens will think they’ve gotten through, so we can track them. That said, I don’t think they’ll hit the BCS Championship Game.”
“Why?” the President asked.
“The previous intrusions were unique and out of the blue. The other three major bowl games played this week went unaffected and the people behind these attacks have to know we will be all over the championship game as well as the NFL playoff games through to the Super Bowl. They have little to gain.”
“Very well,” the President said. “Keep me apprised of your progress.”
“That will be all for today, gentlemen,” Knopper announced as he stood up, signaling an end to the meeting.
The two directors thanked the President and exited through the northwest door into the corridor. Knopper closed the door and checked the latest messages on his BlackBerry.
“What do you think?” the President asked.
“I think they’d both better get their respective acts together to figure out what the hell is going on. Hmmm.”
“What?”
“Governor Lynn’s husband is back in the hospital with chest pains,” Knopper replied.
“Shame it’s not Lady Macbeth’s heart,” the President grumbled. “If he dies, she’ll be center stage for coverage of the funeral, and on the eve of the opening primaries no less. How the hell do I run against a grieving widow?”
“You’re getting ahead of yourself. The report says chest pains, and that the former senator is alert and undergoing some tests. It all sounds routine, but take the high road and call the governor to express your concern.”
The President shrugged his shoulders but knew his chief of staff was correct. “What else is on the schedule?”
“You have China’s ambassador this afternoon—apparently there’s been some positive movement on their participation in the climate exchange.”
“It would be great if we got them on board.”
“Also, Peter Sturla is in town on business. Daniel Page asked if we could squeeze in a meeting.”
Sturla was the President’s single most important financial backer. The multibillionaire international financier traversed the global economy like a great white shark and had most of the Western world’s leaders on speed dial. Through his investment funds, Sturla shifted positions on dollars, euros, and yen like chips on a poker table. And after fifty largely successful years in the game, even his slightest moves caused tremors in the world currency markets.
“I think we can always find time for Peter Sturla,” the President said.
“They’re up next, Mr. President.”
Knopper departed the Oval Office, and returned a moment later with the two visitors. The President stood in the center of the Oval, atop the Great Seal of the United States.
“Peter, it’s good to see you. I wasn’t aware you were in town.”
As the President shook Sturla’s right hand, he placed his left on the financier’s shoulder, making the gesture warmer and more personal. The President stood a full head taller than his guest and was nearly thirty years his junior.
“Mr. President, it was not my intent to impose upon you, but Daniel thought you might have time for a friendly visit.”
“Daniel thought correctly,” the President said with a nod to Page. “Please, have a seat.”
The President indicated a pair of chairs for Sturla and himself, leaving the couch for Page and Knopper.
“You look well,” the President offered.
“As well as a man of my age can expect. I have no complaints. I must commend you on your efforts regarding oil exploration off the coast of South America. I think it will do much good for our Latin American neighbors.”
What Sturla did not say was that the company doing much of that exploration stood to reap huge profits, and that he was that company’s largest individual shareholder.
“Though I think it’s important for the US to curb its appetite for foreign oil, the oil we do buy should come from as close to home as possible. It will help in repairing our long-neglected relations south of the border.”
“That is good,” Sturla said. “Daniel briefed me on some of the initiatives you propose for your second term.”
“We’ve accomplished a lot, but there is still work to be done. The past two years were especially difficult with Congress being so evenly split, but I think we can push the balance back in our favor. The people are tired of Washington gridlock.”
“As in your last campaign, you have my wholehearted support.”
“I know I can count on you, Peter.”
Sturla’s support went far beyond the maximum contribution an individual can make to a candidate during an election cycle. Through political action committees, 527 groups, and his financing of ultra-left-wing organizations, Sturla wielded subtle but considerable influence over American politics.
“My help extends beyond your reelection to the campaigns of like-minded, progressive candidates seeking congressional seats and gubernatorial offices. Your presidency remains our best opportunity to intelligently remake this country. Rest assured that defeating those who oppose our shared vision is my highest priority.”
“We can’t let our opponents continue spreading their lies,” the President sighed. “The American people are incredibly naïve about how the world really works. If it wasn’t for us, the Republicans would eat them alive.”
“Very true, Mr. President,” Sturla said. “I understand that you are meeting with the Chinese ambassador this afternoon.”
“I am,” the President replied, knowing that the financier’s connections in governments around the world ran deep.
“Then I hope your discussion with the ambassador will prove fruitful.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
DEVILS LAKE, NORTH DAKOTA
Michael Unden slipped the bag of shell casings from the twenty-one-gun salute into his coat pocket and then accepted the offered hand of his neighbor.
“Mr. Hansen, it means a lot that you’d come up from Florida for my dad’s funeral,” Unden said.
“Your pa and I go back a long way, and he and your ma were there when my Dottie got sick. It’s only right.”
“Still, it was good of you to come. See you back at the house after all this is over?”
“You betcha.”
Hansen ambled away, stopping briefly at the space in the mausoleum wall where the ashes of Jacob Unden had been placed beside those of his wife. He placed a hand on the cold slab of marble, his fingers gliding over the carved names.
“It was a fine service,” Pat McGivney offered as he approached Unden. “Nice to see your father buried with full military honors. He deserved it.”
Unden’s grip on the folded flag in his arms tightened.
“Dad didn’t talk much about that, least not until recently. He saw a lot more than any kid should.”
“It was a trip to hell that I’d rather not repeat, either,” McGivney agreed, “but your dad did good. You don’t just shake the Medal of Honor out of a Cracker Jack box.”
Unden smiled. “I was just glad to get out of my combat tours in one piece.”
“Both you and your pa were good Marines. Semper fi.”
“Semper fi,” Unden echoed softly.
“Mike, we need to get together to discuss your dad’s estate.”
“Anything wrong?”
“Just some things I’m looking into,” McGivney replied. “Tax code stuff. I should have a clear read on it in a couple days.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA
JANUARY 9
The crowd cheered as the President and head referee jogged
out from the sideline onto the Superdome field. He wore dark gray pants, a white button-down shirt open at the collar and a windbreaker with the presidential seal over his left breast. At midfield, they met the captains of the two undefeated teams squaring off in the BSC National Championship game.
“Captains,” the head referee announced, “allow me to introduce the President of the United States—”
Though a few stray boos could be heard, the audience at the final college game of the season was largely respectful of the nation’s commander-in-chief. The referee paused until the crowd noise ebbed before continuing.
“—who will toss the coin this evening. The University of Michigan is in blue and Stanford University is in white. Here is the coin.”
The referee held out his hand and the cameraman zoomed in on the large silver coin resting in the open palm. The pristine coin looked like it had just been struck.
“On this side we have the Block S, representing Stanford University. Should this side land up, Stanford will have won the toss.” The referee turned the coin over. “On this side we have the Block M, representing the University of Michigan. Should this side land up, Michigan will have won the toss. Mr. President.”
The referee handed the coin to the President, who grasped it between his thumb and forefinger to test its heft. He was attempting to judge how strongly to toss it, knowing a poorly executed effort would guarantee ridicule on the late-night talk shows. What the President wanted was a nice clean arc with the coin spinning all the way until it landed on the BCS emblem painted at midfield.
Glancing up at the jumbotron, the President saw a close-up of the coin in his hand as he prepared to make the toss. He gave it the old one … two … and on three flipped the coin. He followed the perfect upward arc of the coin, but lost it in the lights.
And then the entire stadium went black.
The crowd murmured nervously in the darkness, emergency lights providing only a faint illumination. Secret Service agents with flashlights and weapons drawn raced onto the field to secure the President while other elements of his protective detail donned night-vision goggles and swept the stadium for potential threats.
“Give me a W!” a small group of football fans shouted when the first letter appeared.
“Give me an H!” with the second.
As if it were a cheer for their favorite team, the fans spelled out what had become a familiar question:
WHO IS I?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
AIR FORCE ONE
JANUARY 10
“Damn it!” the President railed. “You assured me that they wouldn’t attack the BCS game.”
“Mr. President.” The FBI Director’s voice sounded calm and clear over the speakerphone, despite the early hour of the call. “I said it was highly unlikely that those responsible for these incidents would hack another bowl game.”
The President paced inside the confines of his office aboard Air Force One, fuming over the latest appearance of the mysterious message: Who Is I?
“Don’t play semantics with me,” the President snapped back. “You didn’t just look like an idiot in front of millions of people. The first primaries are a week away, and I’m standing in the middle of a football field when the lights go out? The right-wing media is going to have a field day with this—I’ll bet the attack ads are already in the can. The stadium was supposed to be off-line. You said there would be countermeasures in place to stop it. What the hell happened?”
“The plan, as per our briefing yesterday, was in place. We are still sifting through the data to determine exactly how this intrusion occurred.”
“Did you learn anything that will help catch these bastards?”
“Watching this incident unfold in real time has provided a lot of data—intel that was lost in the previous attacks that could be the key to identifying those responsible. This time they cut the power from the city grid and we’re tracing back those access points. The hack into the jumbotrons is a little trickier, but we believe it was back fed from the network satellite. As in the previous events, this intrusion displays a remarkably high degree of sophistication and adaptability.”
“It sounds like you admire these criminals,” the President remarked sharply.
“One can admire ingenuity while deploring the aim. And frankly, sir, we have no idea what the aim of these attacks is. So far, no one has been injured and no property has been damaged,” the FBI Director explained. “In fact, it appears the perpetrators of these attacks are taking great pains to ensure that no emergency or life-safety services are affected. If these incidents are just a prank, I’m all for a slap on the wrist and putting these folks to work in our cyber-warfare units.”
“And if it’s not?”
“That’s why we’re investigating these incidents as if our nation is under attack, sir. Until we know for certain, we err to the side of caution.”
“I appreciate that, but these people have invaded my house and have made me look like a fool on national television. If you wish to retain your position in my second term, you will catch them, and catch them soon.”
“I understand, Mr. President,” the FBI Director replied.
The President tapped the button on top of the speakerphone and ended the call.
“Don’t you think you were a little hard on the guy?” Daniel Page asked.
“Hard? I thought I showed remarkable restraint. What I really want is some heads on spikes.”
The President pulled a couple of diet sodas from a small refrigerator, handed one to Page, and opened the other as he sat down in the leather executive chair behind his desk.
“Yeah, the late-night guys and Denby are going to have a lot of fun with this,” Page admitted, “but if you can keep a sense of humor about it, the whole thing will blow over in a couple of days. I’ll have the writers work up some material for your upcoming appearances. My advice is to just laugh it off.”
“Easy for you to say when you’re safely hidden behind the scenes,” the President groused.
“If I don’t get you across the finish line in November, I’ll be just as unemployed as you but without the perks that go with being a former president. Trust me on this.”
The President took a swig of his soft drink and nodded. Page was the best in the business, having moved him from a state legislature to the White House in record time.
“Mr. President,” a woman’s voice sounded over the intercom on his desk.
“Yes, Arleen?”
“The White House has an incoming call from Governor Lynn. Do you want them to patch it through?”
The President turned to Page, who nodded that he should take the call. At last report, the governor’s husband was resting comfortably and undergoing a series of tests on his heart.
“I would be delighted to talk with the governor,” the President lied.
“I’ll put it through on line one.”
A moment later, the button for line one of the desktop phone flickered to life. The President picked up the handset and answered.
“Governor Lynn, how is your husband?” the President asked with well-feigned sincerity.
“Thank you for asking, Mr. President. Bobby’s well, though it was quite a scare. The doctors have ruled out another heart attack, but he’s undergoing a battery of tests to determine what happened.”
“After my father’s struggles with heart disease, I understand something of what you’re going through. Please know that you and your husband are in my thoughts and prayers.”
Page rolled his eyes to the ceiling but remained silent. After all, protocol must be observed.
“Mr. President, I’ll cut to the chase. This latest incident with my husband’s heart has forced us to seriously reevaluate my decision to challenge you for our party’s nomination. I have scheduled a press conference for tomorrow morning where I will formally announce my withdrawal from the race and encourage my supporters to back your reelection campaign to the fullest.”
Taken ab
ack, the President found himself momentarily speechless.
“Well, Governor,” he finally said, “I can’t say that your decision is unwelcome, just something of a surprise.”
“For us both,” Lynn admitted with a tinge of regret. “And I’m sure this concession call is not nearly as satisfying as it would be after thumping a rival at the polls, but in this matter, my family has to come first. My decision to challenge you was based on policy differences we have, and I hope that we can work toward a resolution that will benefit both the country and our party.”
“My door is always open to you, Governor,” the President offered. “And I look forward to your input.”
“I appreciate that, Mr. President,” Lynn replied. “It’s late and I won’t keep you any longer. Have a safe flight back to Washington.”
“And again, my best wishes for your husband’s speedy recovery.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
The President cradled the handset with a pensive look in his eyes.
“So, what was the old bat’s decision?” Page asked derisively.
“She’s out of the race,” the President replied.
“What? She quit just a week before Iowa? She wasn’t that far behind in the polls. I had her pegged to hang on till Super Tuesday.”
The President was familiar with the pool among his campaign staffers as to when Lynn would concede defeat. To his best recollection, no one picked a date prior to mid-January.
“Thank God for Philly cheesesteaks,” the President said with a smile. “Bobby Lynn’s latest round of chest pains has caused the governor to reassess her run against me. Our primary season is over before it began.”
“You really should send flowers,” Page offered. “She just saved the campaign a ton of money that we can bank for the general election.”
“Or not,” the President said with a devious smile.
“What do you have in mind?” Page asked.
“We don’t have to bank it all. In fact, I don’t mind if we blow our entire primary budget on the primaries.”
