No Corner to Hide (The Max Masterson Series Book 2)

by Mark E Becker

  not this time.

  “Let’s roll!” announced Max as he slid behind the wheel of the

  Corvette.

  Rachel put her flight helmet on her head and strapped in. Before

  she took flight, she tested the communication system. “Okay, boys!

  Let’s make an entrance they’ll never forget!” Her voice provoked

  smiles from even the most stoic of her protectors as the mini helicopter rose and propelled toward the nation’s capitol.

  u

  CHAPTER 50

  S

  carlett and the White House staff assessed their situation from the oval office. They assumed that they wouldn’t be there for long; security protocol is to get the president and his family to safety, and to maintain order, and the next step is to relocate

  the vice-president to a secure location. But this day, the security protocol was scrapped in favor of the president’s unorthodox inaugural plans. All communications had been knocked out, and any unshielded electronics inside a 12 mile radius of the detonation were useless. The head had been figuratively severed from the body. Max was temporarily unable to communicate with the nation, and the vultures were undoubtedly circling.

  “I am going to need a few minutes to freshen up before I go back out there,” Scarlett announced. “I want the public address system back up and running before I take that podium, and someone will need to find a car that is still running, because I will not be getting on the back of a horse ever again… do you understand me?” She barked out the commands to the assemblage of staffers that clustered around her, waving off their futile efforts at returning her appearance to her high standards. “Somebody find me my shoes!” She looked at her tattered hosiery with dismay. “Never mind! I need an entire outfit, and it better be spotless,” she exclaimed, as several young assistants scattered in opposite directions. “Don’t just stand there, do something! Now!”

  Roger Sinclair stood impassively, waiting for an opportunity to speak with the vice-president alone. As the last of the staffers vacated the room in a hurry, he stepped forward until he was in the mirror’s reflection. He waited until Scarlett acknowledged his presence. She paused from applying her lipstick long enough to address him.

  “Hello, Darlin’, it is so gallant for you to assist a lady in her time of dire need,” she chimed in her best Charleston accent, ‘but I thought you were in Philadelphia”.

  “I was, but I rushed back late last night to attend to some unfinished business. Besides, I’m beginning to think that you are getting used to having me around,” he replied.

  “Right now, I need a handyman, and you’re handy,” she responded. “I don’t know a thing about how to get the power back on, and there are just too many tasks to perform.”

  “We need to unpack the Tesla generators and get them out there to the Mall,” said Sinclair, still smiling from the greeting from his clandestine lover.

  “You are going to get us caught, and I don’t trust the staff to keep a secret just for me. News of my assignation with a man of your character would surely bring enough money to one of my poor ladies to pay for a bodacious townhouse, walking distance from here,” Scarlett responded, ignoring his words for the moment. He held her tenderly in his arms, the first brief opportunity for them to be together in weeks. She craved his touch, nestling deeper. Suddenly, she pushed him away with a start and the look of pleasure transformed to a serious scowl.

  “I mean it, Roger. I’m vice-president of the United States, and I take my position with all of the solemnity that the oath inspires. Y’all will just have to wait until I am through with this glorious day and can get out of these clothes. Now, what was that yammering about a Texas generator?”

  “Tesla, he replied. Tesla generator.”

  Scarlet gave him a blank look.

  “Are you making that up just to impress me?”

  “No, my love, it’s one of those secret inventions that will change

  the world, that’s all, and we are going to use one to put the power back on. You want your speech to be heard by all of those people out there, don’t you?” Roger replied.

  “You know I do, and I want the world to hear. But the president, Max, conveyed a message to me to wait until he gets back, and he is the president after all,” she said while applying the last adjustments to her makeup. “Right now, I think I’ll be leaving those details to you,” she said, rising to allow Roger to help her with her coat. He paused, debating whether to tell her the bad news, and decided to wait until her speech had been delivered. There would be a live audience, but no live coverage. Washington had been shut off from the rest of the world until satellite broadcasts could be restored, a reality of their situation that would best be delivered later by someone who could take the brunt of her anger.

  Sinclair had met her during her first term, at a soiree held for freshman members of Congress. He was younger than her by a few years, but his stories from behind the scenes in the political world held a fascination for Scarlett that surpassed age. He considered her intelligence and exuberance for life to be an aphrodisiac, and he pursued her for over a year before she looked at him in a romantic way.

  Throughout Scarlett’s career in Washington, her love life was unknown to the press and the public. Owing mainly to the total lack of public appearances by Scarlett with a man or woman on her arm, the rumors hounded her. She kept her private life concealed from the public by design: First, it got her the sizeable gay and lesbian vote, but also, it kept the press guessing, all to her delight. It was free publicity, the lifeblood of the politician, and a huge fund-raising asset. In her estimation of life as it should be, Roger was the perfect mate; anonymous, interesting, and available, but only when she wanted him around.

  “I need to focus. You need to get out there and get things back to normal,” she commanded. “You don’t expect me to go out there and set up the equipment myself in front of a hundred thousand people, do you? There are people who do that sort of thing for a living, and besides, I have already taken care of it. By the time you get your dress back on and head back out the door, I’ll have the lights back on and a helicopter waiting to lift you over the waiting multitude,” he replied. Sinclair was painfully aware that things would not be back to normal, and it was not the time to instruct Scarlett on the effects of an EMP detonation and how gamma rays render unshielded electronics useless. For the time-being, she only needed to be reassured that the power was restored and she would be able to make her pre-empted speech. Changes in the program did not come easily to Scarlett, and he knew that she had memorized the order of events days before the inauguration. She would not tolerate further change without making everyone in shouting distance extremely uncomfortable.

  The aide returned with Scarlett’s blue backup dress, which she had passed up in favor of the red only two hours before. They were identical in every respect except for the color, and the appearance of the familiar took the edge off of her agitation. “Oh, thank you for small pleasures,” she cooed. Suddenly, she scowled. “Where are my blue shoes? I can’t wear a blue dress with red shoes! Find them!” The blushing aide, anticipating her wrath, scrambled out of the room without a reply.

  The helipad on the White House grounds was occupied by Marine Two, the president’s personal helicopter, summoned hastily from its shielded hangar at Andrews Air Force Base. Communications had been restored for most of the military and Secret Service, but the Park Service Police that were charged with crowd control had been rendered silent due to their lack of shielded communication devices. They steered the crowd from the back of horses and bicycles, reminiscent of cowboys in the old West. For the moment, they were the only visible means of transportation other than by foot. Sinclair watched from the Lincoln bedroom as Scarlett entered the craft, trailed by three aides who still clung to their wireless communicators, a useless appendage for the moment, but a habit not easily broken.

  u

  CHAPTER 51

  M

 
ax and the parade of classic American cars returned to the Inaugural in unexpected style, with Rachel leading the way. Her co-pilot was a Navy Seal who was personally assigned to her protection due to his ability to fly anything that had

  been built for that purpose, with the exception of the Space Shuttle, which had been mothballed before he obtained his wings. If it had still been in service, Rick Vance would have been an astronaut, not assigned to the protection of the woman most important in the life of the president of the United States. When he first received his duty assignment, he assumed he was doomed to a life of public appearances and boredom, but his first month on the job was contrary to all of his expectations. Rachel was exotic, exciting, smart and beautiful, and he harbored a secret crush for the woman he was duty-bound to protect. If he hadn’t married his high school girlfriend and had two young kids to whom he was devoted, he may have pursued his feelings, but the nagging thought of being re-assigned to a remote post in the Antarctic lingered in the back of his mind.

  Vance would coordinate their re-entry to Washington by a communicator that was shielded and hardened from radiation. He and the security detail on the ground were uncertain whether there would be multiple EMP devices to contend with, and communication during their return was essential to their ability to stay in flight. He admired Rachel as she flew low and in front over the procession, competent and in control. He allowed himself the luxury of a brief fantasy that she might someday be attracted to him, but he was certain that he would never be the apple of her eye. Like all of the Secret Service assigned to protect her and the president, there was a line that could never be crossed by the most base of cads without dire consequences, and he had a keen sense of the obvious.

  The procession emerged onto the Beltway and wound around immobilized cars that appeared in their path at sparse intervals. The occupants had moved on, and the vehicles that remained created an obstacle course that they maneuvered in a snake-like fashion. Twice on the way, Rachel and Vance radioed about obstacles ahead, and one time, the procession on the ground stopped to clear the path, heaving a Cadillac Escalade onto the passenger side. It lay in silent repose, its four wheels pointing toward the center lane. There was a death-like quality to it, and the thought was chilling.

  They picked up speed as they approached the Roosevelt Bridge, but slowed to a crawl as they made the right turn that took them along the Potomac toward the National Mall. Rachel hovered above and shouted with excitement to those below, “It looks like they got the lights back on! The whole place is glowing! It looks like nobody left the party, but then again, how could they?” The crowd turned at the sound of the approaching helicopter. When they could make out the driver of the shiny Corvette, they gasped and cheered.

  On either side of the bridge, the crowd stood shoulder to shoulder, packed close in anticipation. In front, the TV cameras were strategically placed to provide the maximum effect of their return. Max waved, and the cheering became louder. The Park Service was on horseback, shooing back any of the observers who stepped off the curve into the broad avenue.

  Max drove slowly past the Lincoln Memorial, while Rachel found the only landing area ahead that was not occupied, the center of the reflecting pool. The illusion of depth provoked a few screams, but she settled slowly into the eighteen inch deep water with no difficulty. Her landing was immediately followed by the Park Service dry platform, which had been extended from the edge of the reflecting pool to the landing struts by the time she emerged. She waited as Max approached, waving to the crowd in her flight suit. The sound of the crowd’s approval was loud and enthusiastic, causing her to blush at the attention. Max left the Corvette idling at the curb and rushed in her direction. By the time she stepped onto the platform, he was there with his arm outstretched.

  They returned to the closely guarded Corvette with arms linked. Max gallantly opened the passenger door to more applause. The etiquette lessons he had been taught as a child were now natural behavior to him as an adult, and this display of civility toward Rachel was not lost on those who looked to him as an example. By doing what was second nature, he was showing a part of his upbringing that had been lost to society as America declined over the previous decades. He had to show how a man treats the woman he adores as much as he would show how the president would treat a foreign dignitary. The Maxims would be followed without question.

  Max hopped into the Corvette and the colorful procession of classic American cars proceeded down Pennsylvania Avenue toward the Capitol. Their clear view of the monuments was obscured by the crush of humanity, but they towered in the background. This was the playground of Max’s childhood. Even if his vision was obstructed, he knew they were there, and he could detail them in his memory. First was the Lincoln Memorial, then the Washington Monument and finally, the Jefferson Memorial. Behind them to the west was a grand sunset, with the orange and yellow succumbing to reds and purple as the setting sun sunk toward the horizon.

  Max was aware of the danger that sitting in a convertible posed for him. It hadn’t worked well for Kennedy, and since 1963, no president had traveled a public route in a convertible exposed to a sniper’s bullet. But this was Max Masterson, who was so adept at appearing where he was least expected that his security advisors had named it “pulling a Max”. Their code name for him was “Wizard”, for his ability to vanish in one place and reappear where he was not expected. If he could keep them guessing, he could stay alive. At least, that was his untested theory. Too much of his time was spent keeping him safe, and not enough time was spent with those who adored him, he figured, and he made his bold presence felt in person and electronically whenever possible. This drove his protectors crazy. The unpredictable has that profound effect on people.

  All of this was contrary to the established protocol for protecting the president, which caused the “assassination pot” to grow to an enormous amount. The pot was a secret betting pool available only to those cynics in government at CIA, FBI, and Homeland Security. Anyone who was entrusted with actually protecting Max was banned from betting for obvious reasons, but that didn’t stop the rest of them from trying to predict the day that Max would prematurely leave office.

  None of his disdain for convention was appreciated by those whose job it was to keep him alive, but they had been duly warned before he was voted into office. The newly-elected president was going to do it his way, and millions of people were watching him do it in the most exposed and defiant way possible. In the real world, it was the equivalent of watching a NASCAR race in the hopes of watching a fatal wreck. They didn’t know the when, but they knew that it was likely to happen, and the longer he stayed alive, the bigger the pot grew.

  To add spice to the mix, he was being led back to his inaugural by his girlfriend, flying a helicopter, and followed by a parade of classic American cars. They drooled in anticipation, with the hardcore cynics putting the most of their money on Inauguration Day. The press would label the detonation the “Inaugural Event”. It was intended to disrupt Max’s swearing-in as president and send him into hiding as a part of Pryor’s grand plan. It was not intended to kill.

  The short procession drove slowly through the crowd toward the steps of the Jefferson Memorial, where Max was scheduled to make his inaugural speech. The excitement was palpable, larger in scale than event planners could create in their wildest imaginations. For the rest of the world, it would be a non-event until the broadcast disk found its way into the hands of the media capable of broadcasting the events of the day. Those in attendance would hear his words, followed by Scarlett’s prepared speech. Then came the inaugural ball, which Max had turned into the world’s largest lawn party.

  As he drove the mile or so to the speech venue, he was impressed that the Mall was as lit and festive as planned before the terrorist attack. The Inaugural Event had been reduced to an annoyance, an interruption that would be talked about by conspiracy theorists for generations, but today, the nation’s capitol had been returned to a place of celebration
that had captured the attention of the world. Whoever was responsible for the attack had failed, and had only succeeded in boosting Max’s attention factor. The words of Max Masterson would be heard, not silenced.

  Scarlett stood at the podium, beaming. She had managed to control the crowd by taking the stage early and rousing her audience with bits and pieces of her stump speech, along with continuous updates of Max’s location. She had disregarded Max’s instructions in a dismissive way, informing Roger that, “How does he expect me to speak to the American people without speaking? I can’t just get up there and show my pearly white teeth and smile them into the comfort zone, can I? I’ll do nothing of the kind.” She reverted into her Charleston accent in times of great stress, and diverting from her day’s plan had ruined the sense of decorum that governed all of her actions. She had only partly recovered from her unladylike and unplanned horse ride to the White House, and to expect her to further deviate from the program. Scarlett’s own sense of importance was only satisfied when she was the center of attention of large groups of people, the more the better.

  When lulls occurred, chants of “Where’s Max” would begin with a low rumble and spread from mouth to mouth until the volume nearly drowned out Scarlett’s amplified voice. Finally, she asked for quiet. She didn’t get it.

  To the West, the sound of a helicopter could plainly be heard, and all heads turned in the direction of the sound. From the raised speaking platform, Scarlett could make out Rachel’s helicopter, followed by a colorful assortment of cars extending to the limits of her vision. Then came the slow approach up the length of the National Mall, moving too slowly for her tastes. All attention was diverted in Max’s direction until she could stand it no longer. Finally, she made the announcement they had been waiting for: “Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States!”