by Tom Grace
Unden was just regaining his senses when his body went completely limp. He tried to speak, but could not move his mouth or raise his head. It seemed the only movement of his body that he could control was blinking his eyes. Vance rolled Unden onto his back and looked him in the eye.
“Just take it easy, buddy,” Vance said in a friendly tone. “You’re about to make history.”
Vance and Young fitted Unden with an adult diaper. They then laid him across the rear seat of his pickup. Unden’s keys were dangling from the ignition.
“Keep a look out while I take care of the house,” Vance said.
Young nodded and took up position in the shadows of the barn where he had a clear view of the house and road.
Vance retrieved a gym bag from his car and entered Unden’s house through the unlocked back door. He found the interior was reasonably neat, but definitely a man’s home. A small soft-sided suitcase stood on the kitchen floor, ready to be loaded into the truck.
It took just a few moments to locate the spot in the den where Unden and his father once handled the business of their family farm. Beside an old roll top desk with a laptop stood a four-drawer file cabinet.
He pulled an envelope from his coat pocket and, with his gloved hand, extracted a few pages of paperwork stapled together with a receipt from an out-of-state gun shop. Vance then flipped through a stack of loose filing and randomly inserted the receipt into the pile.
While in the den, he removed his suit and changed into jeans and a work shirt similar to those worn by Unden. He completed the outfit with a pair of distressed boots and a ball cap with the motto Semper Fi stitched across the crown. From a distance, Vance could now pass for Unden.
He stuffed his dress clothes and Unden’s laptop into the bag, checked that the house was locked, and left through the back door with Unden’s suitcase in hand. He glanced at his wristwatch—less than five minutes had elapsed since their arrival.
“Time to move out,” Vance announced.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
ON AIR
AUGUST 8
“My friends,” Denby spoke clearly into the studio microphone, “never has the distinction between the two major political parties in this country been clearer than what they’ve shown us in Philadelphia and San Francisco.”
“For starters, we have the choice of site for the respective party conventions. The GOP chose Philadelphia—the place where both our Declaration of Independence and Constitution were written, providing the intellectual framework for what made this nation great. The roots of conservatism can be found in Philadelphia because it is there that the ideals laid out in those precious founding documents, and the original intent that we strive to conserve, were made manifest.
“The Democrats chose to celebrate the most radical left-wing administration in the history of the United States in one of the most leftist communities on the left coast. There are a plethora of wonderful things that the city of San Francisco can be proud of, but sane political thought isn’t one of them. And in stark contrast to what the Founders accomplished in Philadelphia, we have the Ninth Circus Court of Appeals in San Francisco. This is the single most overturned appellate court in the country, and you need look no further than their many constitutionally flawed decisions to see why.
“Take their decision to strike down the Stolen Valor Act, which made it a crime to falsely claim winning a military medal. The case came up because some sleazebag lied about having won our nation’s highest military award: the Medal of Honor. This guy argued, and the Ninth Circuit agreed, his right to lie about winning this medal was protected under the First Amendment. Lying, the centerpiece of progressivism, as they cannot be truthful about their objectives, is protected speech under the First Amendment. I can’t wait for the ruling that strikes down perjury or protects false declarations on a tax return.
“Over the past twenty years, an average of three out of four Ninth Circuit decisions reaching the Supreme Court have been overturned! Think about what that atrocious record means to the rule of law when a federal court is struck down on constitutional grounds with such great regularity. Now, this isn’t purely a case of activist judges running amok. The Ninth Circuit now covers more people and sees a greater volume of cases than any other circuit court in the country. To deal with their immense caseload, the court utilizes procedures that cannot guarantee a judgment rendered by a majority of the jurists. We’ve seen the result of these en banc rulings in a number of the wackier decisions out of this court. There is an effort underway in Congress to split the Ninth Circuit and I wholeheartedly support the move.
“So, the GOP stages its convention in the city where the Constitution was born, and the DNC parties hardy in a city where a federal appellate court seems hell-bent on rewriting that precious document.
“The greatest difference between the two parties in this election cycle has to be energy. The GOP convention was electrifying and, for the first time in half a century, newsworthy. The Dems, on the other hand, are putting on such a snoozefest that the ratings for the networks carrying this boring infomercial have flatlined. There are community access shows pulling in more viewers than the DNC convention. Nothing is happening. They have nothing positive to promote and under their leadership the country is clearly worse off than it was four years ago.
“I am truly thankful that my deal to provide political color commentary was only for the GOP convention. Watching the Dems’ convention is cruel and unusual punishment—far worse than waterboarding or any other coercive technique used on terrorists. And I don’t think it will get any better once the President shows up on Thursday to accept the nomination.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
SAN FRANCISCO
AUGUST 9
“Right on schedule,” Vance said.
From a suite in a downtown hotel, he gazed out a window through a pair of binoculars. Surgical gloves covered Vance’s hands.
A motorcade rolled up to the main entrance of the Moscone Center. The Secret Service detail protecting the President and Vice President were augmented by California state troopers and uniformed members of the San Francisco Police Department. Demonstrators, both for and against the current administration, were present in large numbers and kept a safe distance apart.
Both sides grew more animated with the arrival of the motorcade. The rope line between the curb and the main entrance teemed with well-wishers hoping to share a fleeting moment with the most powerful leaders in the free world.
Though unintelligible at this distance, the pulse of the crowd’s chanting clearly grew in volume and intensity. Both sides wanted to be heard by the President.
The shades to a second window overlooking the convention center were lowered to just a few inches above the sill, the window beyond opened to the same height. Young sat behind a circular table, staring through a telescopic sight down the barrel of an FN SPR A5M. The buttstock of the sniper rifle was pressed against his right shoulder with the far end of the stock perched atop a bipod.
Through the sight, Young enjoyed a clear view of the curb and the rope line. The motorcade slowed to a stop and the President’s security detail were the first out. The friendly crowd cheered the President’s arrival, chanting loudly for a second four-year term.
The Vice President emerged from the second armored SUV in the line, waving to supporters as he began walking toward the rope line.
Young scanned the open doors of the motorcade, searching for the President amid the dark-suited men and women. The security detail was on full alert, knowing this moment was among the most difficult in which to protect the President.
The President stepped out of the fourth SUV, his blazer open and ruffling slightly in the breeze. Cool. Calm. Confident. He raised both arms up and flashed his trademark smile to the roaring approval of the crowd. In working an audience, the President rarely disappointed.
Young pulled the trigger and sent a single .308 round spiraling through the narrow opening toward his target. The tinted
insulated glass muffled the report of his shot and obscured quick detection of his position from counter-snipers atop adjacent buildings. He expertly chambered a second round and fired.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
The President felt a sharp tug on his left arm, just below the shoulder. A moment later came searing pain.
A woman shaking the President’s hand screamed as the Secret Service agent standing immediately behind him lurched back and dropped to the pavement. Blood flowed freely from a gaping wound in the man’s chest.
For the President, the next few seconds were a blur of dark-suited figures swarming around like a tsunami that swept him away. His feet left the ground and he only came to a stop when he landed prone on the rear seat of the armored SUV with Agent Laski sprawled on top of him.
“Templar is secure!” Laski shouted into his throat mike as the SUV door slammed closed behind him.
The cheering outside the SUV gave way to shouting and screaming. More car doors slammed and the leader of the President’s detail barked orders for the motorcade to depart. As the motorcade fled the convention center, Agent Laski pushed himself up and onto the rear-facing seat and moved to assist the President up. Then he saw the blood on his hand and the wound to the President’s arm.
“Templar is wounded,” Laski announced. “I repeat, Templar is wounded.”
The President tried to push himself off the rear seat but found his left arm would not respond.
“Easy, sir,” Laski cautioned, helping the President into an upright position. “Are you all right?”
“My arm hurts like hell, but that’s all.”
“We’re just a few minutes out from San Francisco General. The ER is standing by.”
“Tapper? How’s Tapper?” the President asked, his arm throbbing.
“Agent Tapper took a round to the chest. He’s in the vehicle behind…”
Laski paused, his eyes narrowing as he listened to an incoming report.
“Understood,” Laski replied. “Sir, I regret to inform you that in addition to Agent Tapper, the Vice President was also seriously injured in the attack.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
“Two for two,” Vance said as he closed the window.
Young nodded. He was, after all, a skilled professional.
Unden lay motionless on the bed, helplessly watching the two assassins. They had brought him into the hotel in a wheelchair late on the night of their arrival and left him naked in the Jacuzzi tub until this morning. He had eaten nothing in days, but his captors had fitted him with a nasogastric feeding tube to keep him nourished and hydrated.
Both men quickly moved to place Unden’s languid form in the chair behind the rifle. Unden’s eyes darted from Young to Vance, keenly aware of what the men had done and that he would be blamed.
Young moved Unden like a rag doll, carefully placing the paralyzed man’s hands in the correct position on the weapon to leave clear fingerprints. Beads of sweat rolled off Unden’s forehead and onto the gunstock. Prior to loading the weapon, Young placed each cartridge between Unden’s thumb and forefinger. The same had been done with the rounds of the 9mm pistol in Vance’s gloved hands.
“Done,” Young said as he removed Unden’s hands from the rifle.
They returned Unden to the bed. Vance reached behind Unden’s neck and peeled off the dermal patch. Almost immediately, Unden felt a tingling sensation spread down his spine and over his body. Vance wadded up the patch and slipped it into his coat pocket.
Unden grunted softly.
Before he could recover further, Vance placed the pistol in Unden’s limp right hand, pressed the barrel under his chin and fired. The shot was loud and the round blew through the top of Unden’s skull. The surrounding pillow caught most of the gore and a few stray fibers of eiderdown floated around the dead man’s head. Vance quickly checked himself for blood spatter and found none.
“Let’s go,” Vance said as he stepped away from the body.
Sirens wailed outside as Young slipped through the connecting doors between the adjacent rooms. Both men then dead-bolted the paired doors, securing the separation between rooms. Vance removed and pocketed his gloves, then exited the suite using a handkerchief to operate the door’s lever handle.
The hallway was empty except for a housekeeping cart down at the far end. Young stepped out of the adjacent room, laminated convention credentials dangling from his neck, and handed Vance his matching set as they headed toward the elevators.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
The President winced as the doctor adjusted his sling to support his wounded arm.
“That should do it, Mr. President,” the doctor said. “Infection is our biggest concern with wounds like these, but I’m sure you’ll be in good hands. You were very lucky.”
“Yeah,” the President replied. “Thank you, doctor.”
The doctor jotted a few notes on the President’s chart and left. Daniel Page then entered the room along with Agent Laski.
“What’s happening?” the President asked. “How are our people?”
“Agent Tapper is still in surgery,” Laski replied. “His condition is critical but they’re optimistic he’ll pull through.”
“And the Vice President?”
“Sir, I regret to inform you that the Vice President was pronounced dead shortly after arrival. He was shot in the head and the damage was too severe. There was nothing the doctors could do to save him.”
The President bowed his head slightly and bit his lower lip pensively.
“Thank you, Agent Laski. If you will please wait outside, I’d like to have a word with Mr. Page.”
“Of course, sir.”
Laski closed the door behind him, taking up position just outside the treatment room.
“Mr. President, in light of this attempt on your life, I agree with the Secret Service and suggest we cancel your appearance at the convention tonight. The nomination is yours and there’s little benefit to having you appear …”
“I absolutely must address the convention tonight,” the President countered. “This attempt on my life is the biggest news story in the world right now, and we have to be on top of it. The Vice President may do more for the campaign as a martyr than a running mate and we cannot let this opportunity go to waste.”
CHAPTER SIXTY
Following a glowing video tribute introduced by the First Lady, the President walked onstage to the thunderous applause of the convention delegates. He was dressed in a dark suit with an off-white linen shirt and blue tie. His jacket was unbuttoned, the left side draped over his shoulder to accommodate the arm sling. The empty left sleeve was folded and pinned to keep it from flapping as he moved.
The First Lady greeted her husband near center stage with a gentle embrace and then moved out of the light as he completed his journey to the lectern. The standing ovation expressed not only support for the man and his agenda, but sincere relief at his survival.
“Thank you!” the President shouted over the din. “Thank you.”
The delegates gave their leader a final cheer before settling down.
“Thank you so much for that warm welcome. Today did not turn out quite as I had expected when I got up this morning. I had planned to do many things and to meet with many of you, but sadly that was not to be. Instead, all of us were reminded of how everything can change in an instant.
“The culmination of this convention was to have been my acceptance of our party’s nomination for the presidency. And I humbly do accept your kind nomination, and I will strive to be worthy of your faith and trust.
“Following that acceptance, I was to have stood on this stage with my friend, my colleague, my partner in governance for the past three and a half years.” The President’s voice cracked with emotion. “We were to have soared out of this hall tonight, borne aloft to our second term by your enthusiasm for all that we have changed and your high hopes for the hard work that remains. But sadly, that was not to be.
“Instead
, we mourn the loss of a great man, and in his memory we dedicate ourselves to finishing what we started. We will continue to remake America into a fairer and more just nation, to achieve that shining city on a hill, to reach the promised mountaintop of justice and equality for all.
“The Vice President’s murder demands justice, not vengeance. Truth, not rhetoric. The rule of law, not mob rule. And in his beloved memory, we shall not waver.”
PART FOUR
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
ON AIR
AUGUST 10
“There is really only one thing to talk about today,” Denby said calmly to open his radio show. “Yesterday, right about the time we were wrapping up another busy broadcast day, two shots were fired from a hotel room overlooking the Moscone Center in San Francisco. The first grazed the President’s left arm on its way into the chest of Secret Service Special Agent Rolland Tapper. A fifteen-year veteran of the Secret Service, Tapper sustained life-threatening injuries and underwent eight hours of surgery to repair the damage. The spokesperson for San Francisco General lists his condition as critical but stable. The President’s injuries were also treated at San Francisco General and he was released yesterday afternoon. Our prayers are with Agent Tapper and his family.
“The second shot proved far more devastating. It struck the Vice President in the right temple and killed him. No further shots were fired and, aside from some bruises and scrapes among those standing in the rope line to greet the President and Vice President, there were no other injuries reported.
“The Secret Service, FBI, and the San Francisco Police quickly identified the single point from which both shots were fired—the aforementioned hotel room. Inside this room, they located a weapon matching the caliber of the rounds fired in the attack and the body of a man who apparently died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound.
