by Tom Grace
“But with what?” the Vice President shot back. “His tax filings show he’s a millionaire, but he has nowhere near the kind of money needed to self-fund a presidential campaign. Based on his reported donations, what he can now expect from the GOP, and his personal assets—his campaign will be broke by Labor Day.”
“Assuming Egan is not so naïve about the actual cost of a national political campaign,” Lundford droned, “where do you think he’s getting the money for his challenge?”
“Either he lied on his financial disclosures or some of his billionaire buddies are chipping in above the limit. There could even be some foreign money working its way in, but now I’m just speculating. From what we can see, the numbers just don’t add up.”
“As citizens, we all have to be concerned about to whom our elected officials might be indebted,” Lundford opined.
“Nixon took bags of money from Howard Hughes,” the Vice President offered smugly, “and who knows if Egan has his own Bebe Rebozo lurking in the shadows. It’s in the public’s best interest for the press to look into this shady aspect of the Egan campaign.”
“As in any good crime novel,” Lundford said into the camera, “follow the money.”
COPPERHEAD, MONTANA
A smile curled across Homer Hopps’s face as he watched the Vice President make insinuations against the Egan campaign.
“People who live in glass houses …” Hopps said to himself.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHEVY CHASE, MARYLAND
“Loved your appearance on Lunford’s show this morning,” a doyen of the Washington social scene said as she air-kissed the Vice President’s cheek.
“Thank you, Larissa,” the Vice President replied.
“Good thing that storm finally blew over in time for your party.”
“It looked a little touch-and-go with all the rain, but we dried out enough to get the tent up. And I have it on good authority that the rest of today will be clear and sunny.”
“And hot and muggy,” Larissa added, dabbing the perspiration from her forehead.
“That’s why we have a bar.”
The Vice President offered his arm and escorted Larissa to the nearest of three bars set beneath the expansive tent. Eighty guests were expected at the intimate fund-raiser, a mix of lobbyists and social climbers there to see and be seen.
The Vice President ordered Larissa a Long Island iced tea and a Belgian beer for himself.
“So, where is your lovely wife?” Larissa asked.
“Touring what’s left of our gardens with a few of the other ladies. I’m sure you can find her, but keep an eye out for wet spots. The low areas are still drying out.”
“That damn global warming is just spinning these storms at us one after another,” Larissa said with a honeyed drawl. “Good thing you and the President pushed through that cap-and-trade program to lower our country’s carbon footprint. And not a moment too soon.”
“We must do all we can to save the planet.”
And if some of us make a few bucks off the deal, he thought, all the better.
The eel wriggled into place at a junction in the main sewer line that served the Vice President’s neighborhood. It latched into a joint in the pipe just ahead of a manhole and again curled itself into a spiral, partially blocking the flow in the line.
“She’s in position,” Taylor announced.
“The veep’s party is in full swing,” Hopps reported over the computer link.
The hackers in Montana had tapped the security system in and around the Vice President’s home and had a complete view of the ongoing event.
“He’s got quite a nice selection of seafood, if you boys feel like dropping in,” Hopps added.
“Think we’ll just head into town and find a bar for us regular folk,” Buttrey replied. “Maybe get some crab cakes and beer.”
“You’re making me hungry,” Hopps said with a laugh. “It looks like most of the guests have arrived. Now is as good a time as any.”
“On it, Double-H,” Taylor replied.
Taylor tapped a couple of strokes on the keyboard. A moment later, the coiled eel carefully released the remainder of its liquid nitrogen internally. Within the sealed body of the robot, the nitrogen absorbed heat from its surroundings and boiled into gaseous form. As a gas, the nitrogen inflated the eel’s flexible skin like a balloon, choking off the flow of water in the sewer main.
Unlike the PVC flapper, the eel’s skin did not turn brittle when exposed to the liquid nitrogen. Instead, it absorbed heat from the now-still water in the pipe and created an ice plug.
Deprived of a route to the treatment plant, the mixed flow of storm water and sewage backed up through the network of underground pipes throughout the neighborhood. The sewer lines in the streets quickly filled, reversing the flow back toward the houses. And at only one home did the increasing pressure in the sewer lines find relief.
“Dear,” the Vice President’s wife said gravely, “there is a problem in the house requiring your immediate attention.”
“If you’ll excuse me,” the Vice President said to a group of his guests. “This should only take a moment.”
The Vice President and his wife walked out of earshot.
“What’s the problem, dear?”
“I was in the powder room off the foyer when I heard a gurgling in the fixtures. The toilet won’t flush and the water in the sink won’t go down. And there’s a God-awful smell coming up from the basement.”
The Vice President shrugged with a sigh. “I’ll go take a look.”
The odor hit him as soon as he went inside, faint but certainly noticeable. It was like being downwind of an outhouse. He went through the kitchen and took the servant’s stair to the basement.
The stench was clearly stronger, so he was closer to the source. He switched on the lights and began looking around. He quickly discovered a stream of pungent, filthy water spilling out through the undercut of the wine cellar door.
The Vice President punched in the access code and opened the heavy wooden door. A surge of dark water flowed across the threshold, soaking his boat shoes and the cuffs of his khaki pants. Instead of the pleasantly familiar aroma of cypress and fermented wine, the Vice President smelled the stench of raw sewage.
A waterline nearly a foot off the floor marked the height of the flooding in the wine cellar before he had opened the door. Fetid water gurgled from a floor drain in the corner of the cellar. The Vice President could think of no way to make it stop.
He was ankle-deep in the floodwater when he realized that the only thing he could do was get out. But first, he went to the tasting table at the center of the room. The base of the table was a rack that held two hundred bottles of wine. He thought about the bottles closest to the floor and decided that even if the corks held, he could never bring himself to drink that wine.
The top of the table was a slab of Red Marinace granite set on a carved wooden frame. The Vice President reached beneath the frame and felt around for the concealed release. The granite top opened like the hood of a car. Inside the frame was a hidden drawer, lined with felt and neatly filled with rows of gold coins. It would take several trips, but he would get his gold out of the flood zone.
He removed an exquisite magnum of red wine from a decorative wooden box and replaced it with coins. Testing the weight, he found the gold considerably heavier than the bottle. He lightened the load slightly to avoid breaking the box and headed upstairs.
As he crossed the threshold of the wine cellar cradling his load, the Vice President slipped on a patch of solids that had collected there when the door was closed. As he fought to regain his balance, both feet slipped out from under him and he toppled forward.
Instinctively, he dropped the box and shot his hands forward to arrest the fall. The heavy-laden box fell straight to the tiled floor and shot a plume of displaced water upward into the Vice President’s torso and face. Blinded by sewage, he painfully struck the floor with his for
earms. His chest landed squarely on top of the wooden box—it collapsed under his weight while knocking the wind out of him.
It took a moment for the Vice President to catch his breath. He pulled himself up on his knees, grabbed a fistful of coins from the broken box, and carefully arranged them in the crook of his arm. He repeated the operation until he had recovered all of the coins.
COPPERHEAD, MONTANA
Homer Hopps and several of his associates watched the live feed streaming to them from the security camera in the Vice President’s basement. They all shared a look of dumbstruck amazement.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Hopps announced, “that man exists one heartbeat away from assuming the duties of the presidency of the United States of America. And yet there he is, in a pool of filth and human waste, grubbing around for the wages of his corrupt political life. It is both tragic and justly poetic.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
ON AIR
JULY 30
“Faithful listeners across the fruited plains,” Denby boomed into the microphone, “it is great to be back with you again on this Monday for another excursion into broadcasting brilliance. You already know the program particulars and there is so much to talk about today that I will get straight to it with three simple words: Shock and awe.
“I am still shocked and awed by what happened last Thursday on the closing day of the GOP convention. As most of you know, I was there providing color commentary and brilliant insights as only I can. The drafting of Ross Egan is perhaps the boldest strategic move I have ever seen a political party make. It is also, by far, the greatest gamble.
“If your aim is to demonstrate to the voting public that your party understands the gravity of the problems that beset our nation and that you are willing to bypass the status quo, then the selection of Ross Egan marks a shift in the Republican Party that we haven’t seen since the 1980 nomination of Ronald Reagan.
“As most of you know, I am against third parties because I believe a president should have the support of the majority of voters and not a simple plurality. I was particularly against the independent candidacy of Ross Egan—not on ideological grounds, because I have the utmost respect for him in that regard—but because it promised to split conservatives in a way that would nearly ensure the President’s reelection.
“Egan’s change from independent to Republican and his selection as the GOP nominee heals that fissure and unites party loyalists and independent conservatives into the most potent challenge we’ve seen to progressivism in a generation. I assure you, the White House has taken notice and many there are still on a twenty-four-hour suicide watch.
“Polls this morning show the President down by nineteen points against Ross Egan. Delving deep into the numbers reveals the potential for an electoral landslide the likes of which this country has never experienced. The pounding the Democrats took in the midterms may end up looking like a love tap if the GOP can increase its majority in the House and retake the Senate. The stars and planets are aligning for what promises to be the fulfilment of our conservative ascendency.
“Not to be overlooked is the second big story of national import. I refer you all to the number-one video on YouTube, in which our illustrious Vice President pans for gold in the basement of his Chevy Chase mansion. We’ve linked to it on our website.
“The Vice President is shown in the clip wading through what in elitist circles might be described as effluvia to retrieve something from his wine cellar. Nice to know this hero of the workingman has a well-stocked cellar, judging by the quantity of bottles visible through the open door. The highlight of the clip comes when this paragon of political virtue slips on his way out and lands in the muck.
“The quality of the video is quite good, so kudos to the veep for not skimping on his security cameras. Enhanced stills from the video clearly show what Vice President Orpheus descended into the sewage to rescue from his wine cellar, and I can assure you it wasn’t a prize bottle of vintage Bordeaux.
“Instead, I ask you to recall that tragic hunting accident involving the Vice President earlier this year. In the aftermath, a question arose about some missing gold coins. The late union boss Frank Crusca reportedly used union pension funds to purchase a hundred grand in gold coins while en route to his ill-fated hunting trip with the Vice President. Those coins, described by some as either a bribe or a payoff, never surfaced among Crusca’s personal effects. At least not until now.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
“And China’s decision to participate in the New York Climate Exchange has sparked greater interest around the world,” the President reported. “India is quietly reconsidering its stance on the matter and may join the exchange in November.”
The President was sitting in his private study on a video conference call with Peter Sturla, who sat in the luxurious interior of his private jet somewhere over the Atlantic.
“With Europe’s carbon market in shambles,” Sturla said, “this development provides an opportunity to secure an even greater share of the global effort to reduce carbon.”
And my investment in the bank that will soon clear all of the transactions on the US carbon exchange will pay out billions in dividends per year, the President mused.
“We will both profit handsomely,” Sturla continued, almost reading the President’s mind. “An appropriate reward for forcing the United States into acting not just in its own best interest, but in the best interest of the world.”
“It’s the price of progress.”
Daniel Page rapped on the door to the study and the President waved him in.
“Good afternoon, Mr. President,” Page said before turning to the video monitor. “And I believe good evening to you, Mr. Sturla.”
Sturla gave a polite nod in reply.
“Your special admirer is back in the park,” Page said. “I saw him on my way in.”
“Special admirer?” Sturla asked, intrigued.
“A protester,” the President clarified. “A guy by the name of Unden. He’s shown up at a number of events, usually with a sign blaming me for the loss of his family farm. I even shook his hand after the wreath-laying at Arlington—he was in full dress uniform with the Congressional Medal of Honor.”
“A war hero?” Sturla asked, as if the two words did not belong together.
“He’s a decorated veteran, but the medal belonged to his father. A member of my Secret Service detail recognized this fellow Unden in Lafayette Park afterward and brought him in for questioning. They say he’s not a threat, but given his military background they’ll keep tabs on him just in case.”
“Michael Unden, no middle initial,” Page offered as if quoting the Pentagon personnel file. “He doesn’t fit the standard presidential assassin profile—he doesn’t have three names. Lee Harvey Oswald. John Wilkes Booth.”
“Sirhan Sirhan didn’t have three names,” the President countered.
“He only assassinated a candidate. Mark David Chapman, on the other hand, didn’t kill a president, but John Lennon’s importance still proves the rule.”
The muted television in the study showed the clip of the Vice President searching for gold coins in his flooded basement.
“How many names does a man need to kill a vice president?” the President groused.
“We couldn’t be so lucky,” Page agreed.
“The Vice President is damaged goods,” Sturla said. “He is too great a political liability. You should demand his resignation from office and drop him from the ticket.”
“I can’t,” the President replied. “He has been accused of no wrongdoing. For all I know, he’s an avid coin collector.”
“I doubt the Vice President’s interest in gold coins is purely numismatic,” Sturla countered.
“The President’s right,” Page said. “Keeping the Vice President makes the President look bad, but dumping him makes the President look worse. It’s a no-win situation that could cost us the election.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
DEVILS LAKE, NORTH DAKOTA
AUGUST 5
Mike Unden had just finished pouring the last quart of oil into his truck’s engine when he heard a stern rap at the wood trim surrounding the barn door. He saw two shadowy figures backlit in the bright morning sunlight.
“Can I help you?” Unden called out.
The two men stepped into the barn. Both were dressed in dark business suits and sported earpieces with coiled tubes running down the collars of their starched white dress shirts. Both men held up wallets displaying their badges and official identification.
“Secret Service,” the man closest announced. “I’m Vance and this is Young. Are you Michael Unden?”
“I am,” Unden replied. “And I’ve already spoken with the Secret Service and the FBI. My protest is legal and I ain’t a threat to anyone.”
“Mr. Unden, is it your intent to take your protest to the Democratic National Convention in San Francisco?”
Unden twisted the oil cap back in place and closed the truck’s hood.
“I plan to exercise my First Amendment rights in San Francisco,” Unden said as he wiped his hands with a rag. “In fact, that’s where I’m heading right now, if that’s all right.”
“That’s exactly what we wanted to hear, Mr. Unden.”
The response caught Unden off guard. He barely had a second to consider it when Young drew a weapon and fired.
Instead of a bang, Unden heard only the faintest whoosh of compressed air. A tiny dart bit through his jeans into the meat of his thigh. His knees almost instantly buckled and the world went black.
The two agents donned leather gloves and bound Unden’s wrists and ankles with wide Velcro strips. Vance then rolled back Unden’s shirt collar, felt the vertebrae along his neck for a specific spot, and affixed a dermal patch fitted with a lithium watch battery. Microthin electrodes imbedded in the patch bit into Unden’s skin and completed an electrical circuit with his nervous system. The new circuit disrupted the low-voltage current that normally flowed along Unden’s spine.
