Roy's Independence Day

by M. L. Buchman

  His big mistake was denying any such thing.

  Ever since, the guys rubbed it in every chance they had. All locker room shit. “He lo-oves her, but he don’t even know her name!” “He so hot for her that he’s humping his rifle at night.” And on. And on. With no more imagination than a tree squirrel trying to hide a winter’s worth of acorns from another tree squirrel.

  It was aggravating to know she was one of the seventeen hundred people who worked at the White House and all he could do was sit in the Secret Service’s basement office and wonder where. Not a chef, they would enter through the Main Residence. Nor one of the First Lady’s staff, as they’d head for the East Wing. She was West Wing which narrowed it down to a thousand and change. Not in the Secret Service office—because otherwise he’d have seen her while poring over route maps until his eyes were redder than a winterberry—down to an even thousand.

  If he was so poor at narrowing target selection as a sniper, he’d never have been allowed in the service at all, but he couldn’t find a way to focus it down any more. So he fell back on his father’s training as a hunter—sit still and wait. By the end of the week, he had run that option dry as well.

  Fernando was right, he really needed to get a life. But even if Roy did, he should never have listened to his friend.

  “Come on, man. You got to meet my cousin. She will love you.” Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Fernando was one of those crazy Latino guys for whom every woman was somehow his “cousin.”

  “It’s the Fourth, man.” Anyone who could, pulled duty on the White House roof for the Fourth of July. From there, snipers had prime seats for the nation’s Number One fireworks show above the Reflecting Pool and the Washington Monument.

  “So? We gotta go out and make some fireworks. You wanta watch or do you wanta do?” Fernando’s tone left no question about his choice.

  Having too little common sense left by Friday night, he agreed to meet “Fernando’s cousin.” After the last watch, he showered and changed. Fernando just shook his head sadly. “You don’t know how to dress up for the ladies, man. This girl, she is hot.”

  Jeans and black tennies along with a flannel shirt against the cool evening seemed fine to him, but apparently it was too country hick for Fernando who’d grown up in Philly. So Roy dug around in his locker and fished out a moderately fresh t-shirt that said USSS in bold letters across the back: United States Secret Service.

  “Shit man. Kind of place we going, they see that, they all going to leave!”

  Roy had worked damn hard to earn the right to wear that shirt, but could take Fernando’s point. The last clean shirt he had said, “Snipers do it with precision.”

  “Now we’re talking man,” which told Roy exactly what sort of night it was going to be.

  So he shrugged on his USSS jacket just for spite and Fernando groaned, but gave up protesting.

  They hit a couple bars and knocked back a couple beers. As they worked their way down the food chain from bistro to bar to dive, he was pleased to see that his jacket did indeed clear out some of the chaff. More than once it opened up space at a crowded bar and Fernando admitted he might be onto something.

  “How far down we going?” A back alley would be a step up from their present locale.

  “Just warming you up, man. Don’t any of you Vermont boys know how to party?”

  Sure he did. You sat back somewhere quiet, which was most of Vermont, and you watched the stars with a six of beer and a friend to share it with. Or during the ski season you headed into the bars of Stowe and hit on snow bunnies there to ski the mountain and slide into a quick fling.

  Fernando led him into a dance bar named Jake’s Hole nowhere near the nice end of town, and D.C. had a whole lot of not nice. “Hole” was a compliment the place didn’t deserve; it rated about a four for habitability, on a scale of a hundred. He, Fernando, and Hank grabbed a chunk of the bar to observe the local talent.

  “I didn’t believe you, hombre,” he slapped Fernando on the back feeling all the camaraderie that happened after three beers. “The women here are all two Budweisers and above.”

  “Say what?”

  “Old joke. How many Budweiser Clydesdales would it take to haul me away from the woman? They’re tough horses; two is a pretty high number.”

  Fernando’s smile was brilliant on his dark face, “I told you so, man. These are my cousins.”

  Some were indeed Latino, but others were Chinese slender or African dark. There were women who were more curve than woman, their bodies teasing with all there was to explore. There were long and lean ones who it was easy to imagine would wrap around your body where they’d cling until a man had nothing left to give. About the only type missing was an average white women. And there was absolutely no sign of a spirited, perfectly proportioned redhead.

  He danced some, drank more, and wondered if the redhead was a better dancer than he was. He hoped so for her sake. Around beer six, the three-beer buzz was wearing thin and he decided that maybe the women here weren’t as hot as he’d first thought. Or maybe they decided he wasn’t. A couple took a run at him but didn’t seem very committed to the effort. Or maybe he was the one who wasn’t—couldn’t tell and didn’t care. They drifted away quickly. He ended up in a corner booth with Hank trading war stories and drinking depth bombs: a beer with a shot of whiskey dropped into the glass. Chug it down to get your shot back.

  Fernando disappeared with some long-legged Latina about the time Hank lost all ability to form coherent words. Roy poured Hank into a taxi, prepaid the driver, and walked home in order to clear his head.

  In less than four hours they’d completely trashed what might have been a lazy Friday night hanging out with the other snipers on rooftop watch and viewing the fireworks. The sun was gone and he heard the first boom of The National Mall’s fireworks show when he was still several miles out. The only part of it he could see from here was the occasional red or blue glow on the horizon. Every once in a while there was a lull in the traffic and he could hear the distant rumble of an explosion. Around here he was just glad it wasn’t gunfire.

  He thought of tonight’s White House counter sniper team with some envy. Even more envy for those who’d set up picnics in the town park of Hardwick. His hometown’s fireworks shows were only everyone’s reservation-bought roman candles and crackers, but it always made for a good picnic excuse by the lake as the fireworks sparkled over the water with sharp snaps and pops. He’d kissed his share of willing girls by the light of those homegrown firework shows.

  Fernando was right about one thing: it was time for Roy to let go of his White House redhead fantasy.

  Crap!

  “Happy Independence Day, Roy,” he told the dark city before beginning the long walk home.

  Five long miles and the only thing that was clear by the end of it was that he was in for a doozy of a hangover in the morning.

  It was the one thing he got right.

  # # #

  Sienna spent the Fourth buried in her office. With most of the staff on holiday, she closed her door against the other senior staff who—like her—didn’t have a life and worked.

  The heavy boom of the first firework and the sudden glare of light through her windows brought her back to reality. Stepping out into the hallway she was rapidly swept up in the tide headed out to the South Lawn. Many who’d had the day off had used their clearance to the grounds to bring their families to one of the prime viewpoints for the show. A large and merry crowd had gathered on the lawn.

  The stars only barely showed above the city, but the South Lawn fountain backed by the Washington Monument and the distant Thomas Jefferson Memorial was one of the best night views in a city that truly shone at night.

  Sienna had wound up near the First Family who had come out for the display. She sipped a beer that the Vice President gave her, judiciously for she’d barely eaten all day, and was th
rilled when Daniel’s wife stuffed a paper plate into her hand with a grilled burger and chips despite the late hour. There wasn’t a bit of fancy, it was pure picnic comfort food—definitely the First and Second Ladies’ doing—and a quick glance showed that they absolutely knew their men who were standing side by side enjoying their own burgers and brews. As the fireworks lit the sky with explosions like flowers, rings, and glowing horsetails, her thoughts had inevitably tracked to the roof.

  She moved farther down the lawn to give the First Families some space…or so she told herself. It was only when she caught herself watching not the fireworks, but rather the briefly illuminated snipers on the roof, that she knew she was doing one of her fixation things. Somehow he’d become a symbol to her.

  The world will be watching you, Sienna.

  Thanks, Dad. Just the confidence builder I needed.

  And that stupid sniper only served to reinforce her father’s comments. It wasn’t as if most people knew what a National Security Advisor was or did—hell, she hadn’t until she’d been dropped into the role. After her first full week, she had to admit she still wasn’t sure, but the Powers That Be had seemed pleased.

  “Never argue with the Powers That Be,” she told the distant sniper.

  Earlier today Sienna’s mom replied to her “Week One down. Doing fine!” text with a “You go, hon!” and a triple smiley emoticon that let Sienna feel every bit of her mom’s joy. But Sienna knew that wouldn’t hold Dad. General Edward Arnson was a man who liked to assess the status of any situation personally. She really didn’t have time for it, but she caved after only a token resistance, knowing that she’d earned her Arnson persistence straight down the paternal line and there was no escaping the inevitable.

  They’d agreed on a time to meet Saturday morning.

  Mom was wise enough to leave the two of them to it.

  Saturday morning they hit one of their regular spots, the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum on the Mall. It was close by the Capitol Building—which always made her father grumble about “a waste of space.” The museum was nearing the end of the renovation of the Boeing Milestones of Flight hall, but it was still roped off. So instead of meeting beneath the Apollo 11 Command Module, they met at the rope line in the hallway and looked in. The additions of the LEM lunar lander and the original Starship Enterprise shooting model made them both smile for different reasons.

  “Most incredible thing I ever did as a young Marine,” her father said gruffly. “I flew the secondary helo for two different Apollo recoveries, including that one right there,” as if she didn’t know he’d flown for that splashdown. Why else did they always meet here? “Got to watch the whole show from two hundred feet. Would have liked to have shaken their hands, but it was back when we still tucked them straight into isolation trailers for fear of them bringing back some space disease. Of course they had to get their camera moment crossing from the helo to the trailer, so it was a darned useless to-do but it played well on the media. Don’t ever let the media control your decisions, Sienna. You hear me?”

  “Sure, Pop. I know that.”

  As to her reason for smiling—her own crush on Jean Luc Picard—she kept to herself. Especially as this Enterprise was the wrong model—the NCC-1701 classic versus The Next Generation’s NCC-1701-D.

  While they stood and watched at the rope line, a pair of the exhibit handlers were lining up the Enterprise in an x-ray machine, imaging its interior structure section by section. They looked silly in their heavy lead aprons using machinery so archaic that it would never have been allowed on the show. She kept waiting for one of the technicians to just whip out a tricorder and get it done with.

  She talked through with her dad what she felt she was free to discuss as they wandered out of the hall and into the “America by Air” exhibit. The early passenger liners, and nose cones for the 747 and some Airbus, weren’t really of much interest to either of them. The second floor with its rovers and the more recent “Military Unmanned Vehicles” exhibit were more their speed. She really needed to get back to the White House to catch up. Or at least try. Her first week had buried her and even working the holiday had barely dented the backlog.

  As they walked and talked, she found it odd to have the shoe on the other foot. She’d always been able to tell when her father had reached the limit of what he was allowed to tell her. It was just an understood part of being a general’s daughter.

  But now she was the one having to be careful about what she said. It wasn’t a question of clearance, her father’s went as high as hers, it was a matter of compartmentalization—which had its own logistical problems in running a command that she wasn’t going to think about right now. So she told him more about the people than what they said, which was a mistake of a different color.

  “Damn the man,” her father growled. “Doesn’t Hayward have any respect? I’ll—”

  “Do absolutely nothing, Pop!” Sienna stopped him in front of a bank of flight simulator rides with lines of children jostling for a chance to be next. “I know how to handle dirty old men, even when they are the misogynistic Secretary of Defense. I’ve run into enough of them over the years. If he hates me now, he’d really hate me after one of your ‘talks’.”

  “Could be. Could be,” her father admitted, though he sounded grumpy about it. “What about that young whipper-snapper over there?”

  Sienna could feel the tease, her father was always pointing out likely men—especially when it served to change the subject from somewhere uncomfortable such as his daughter no longer being twelve. It wasn’t that he wanted her to be someone’s wife—she’d confronted him on that. “Just want you to be as happy as your ma and I are, that’s all.”

  She’d had a heart to heart with Mom as a backcheck. “Love the man to death, but don’t marry a military man lest you have a penchant for being alone. But your father is a sweet man behind all his busyness being a general.”

  Sienna turned to follow her father’s line of sight.

  He had picked out a likely one. Sandy blond hair and six feet of solid, he was strong in a rough-hewn way. Which described his face as well. He would never be called handsome, if it wasn’t for the smile he was aiming at the eight year old girl he was lifting off one of the simpler simulator rides—lifting her like she was made of helium not human despite her stoutness. He wore a badge, so he was helper, not parent.

  His smile, Sienna decided, was lethal. As if to prove Sienna’s observation, the young girl was completely smitten and did her level best to engage the man even as he helped an eager young boy aboard. He must be a docent—one of the thousand volunteers who helped keep the museums of the nation’s capital running. As soon as the boy was settled, he didn’t brush off the little girl, but instead knelt until they were eye level. It was awfully sweet.

  Once the girl was gone off with her mother (with several backward glances, and not just from the little girl), he rose to his feet, though it looked like it cost him. A hard wince and a moment weaving with tightly closed eyes.

  “Think he had a rough night last night,” her father whispered, which with him meant that only the closest dozen or so people could hear him. Thankfully, this was D.C. and no one cared.

  There was no question that he was hungover…but still taking time to be kind to the little girl. She liked that.

  The docent checked on the boy then scanned the busy hall. His eyes didn’t skim; they tracked steadily about the room, assessing everyone. She’d seen it often enough in her consultations with the US Commands to know that meant soldier or some other form of military training. Even police didn’t move that way, or look so good doing it. Military yet still volunteering in another way—more points in his favor.

  Her mother’s admonition about military men slipped into her thoughts and slid away just as quickly. Advice was everywhere, decent guys were few and far between, especially ones who looked the way he did.
He was definitely the sort of man who should always wear tight black t-shirts.

  When his inspection reached her and her father, his gaze didn’t slide by. Instead his blue eyes focused on her with a positive target lock. His eyes popped wide and his jaw dropped. Just like in a cartoon.

  It forced a laugh out of her.

  “You definitely have his attention,” Pop grumbled in her ear.

  She had. It happened to her on occasion, but never quite so dramatically. He took a half step in her direction, stopped, turned back to the boy he was obviously supposed to be watching, then back to her. Trapped.

  “Are you going to put the poor man out of his misery?” Leave it to her father to take pity on a fellow soldier. Except her father wasn’t a soldier, he was a Marine—a distinction she’d had clear in her head before she hit pre-school.

  “I don’t know, Pop. What has he done to deserve it? Hungover means he was drunk last night while I was working. Not the best recommendation.” She made her decision and turned for the stairs up to the second story. As she moved past her dad, she whispered to him, “Is he dying yet?”

  “Near to a coronary,” he chuckled and moved up beside her.

  She continued leading her father away.

  “Have you got a good reason why we’re moving so slow?”

  “I’m not moving slow. I’m just taking my time to admire the exhibits.”

  “That’s my gal,” her father sounded quite pleased. “Hard-ass to the core.” It was one of her father’s highest compliments. She used to wonder how different her life might be if she wasn’t; if she hadn’t spent her entire childhood trying to live up to his “hard-ass” standard. It didn’t mean she was nasty. It meant she demanded the absolute best of herself and everyone around her. And some hungover docent, no matter how nice he was to a little girl, wasn’t going to come close.

  She was just about to pick up the pace, when a hand touched lightly upon her arm.