Secession: The Storm (16 page)

But in reality, she had taken so much from him. The place was now devoid of her sounds and smells, missing her spirit and ambiance. His heart was just as empty.

As he wandered down the hall, he stopped at the usual place. A montage of pictures greeted him, memories from happier times. There was Charlie, grinning with a huge catfish he’d pulled from the bayou. Right beside the image of his brother was his favorite photograph of his dad. Mr. Hendricks was dressed to the hilt, enjoying the festivities at his retirement party.

For the thousandth time since the incident after Katrina, guilt racked his being. Not only had he failed to prevent the deaths of his father and brother, but had eventually sold out, sacrificing their memory and the family’s honor.

He abandoned the wall of memories, sauntering on to enter what had been his favorite room. The dark wood panels covering the walls advertised the space as a serious abode of male dominance – a place where business was conducted. The substantial, heavy desk accented the same theme. Bookshelves lined one wall, hundreds of bound volumes facing outward, signaling a belief that knowledge was a tool. A modern laptop rested nearby, the dark screen and keyboard seemingly unoffended by the more oft-used books.

This had been a retreat and preserve, an office, library, and his only personal space in their sizable dwelling. Kara had avoided the room, even the smallest hint of a woman’s touch invoking a notice of trespass from her husband. “Hang what you will, wherever you want,” he had informed with a smile. “The rest of the house is yours. You can color, paint, decorate and adorn anything and anywhere except for my study. I need a bastion of testosterone, a small cave of primitive, bad taste and dull hue.”

Now the entire home was his, a somber overcast prevalent throughout. The study had been stripped of its unique personality. While Kara’s love of colors and texture still lingered on the physical surfaces of his home, the décor was flat, singly dimensional, and lifeless without her.

The rifle was right where he’d left it, leaning against the wall in stoic solitude. He hefted the weighty piece, respecting what he considered a masterpiece of engineering, craftsmanship, and technology. His latest acquisition… it was called a Trackerpoint.

There were many more firearms in the nearby closet. Expensive weapons acquired over the years for whatever hobby or desire filled his fancy at the time. A catalog of calibers, styles, and capabilities resided in the specially constructed gunroom, a collection any respectable dealer would sincerely appreciate.

There had been periods when sport was at the forefront of his attentions. Mountain hunting, waterfowl, competitive skeet, and even a few trips to exotic lands had constituted recreation for the man seeking to experience joy again. Through his adventures, he amassed quite a collection of specialized weapons for all manner of hunting and shooting.

The rifle he held now was different from all the rest. It was extraordinary, and served only one purpose – the taking of life at extreme distances.

It was a new breed of firearm, a marriage of technology and ultra-precise machining made possible only by digital equipment. Rather than highly polished wood, a stock of black plastic extended from one end. Anodized aluminum and layers of ceramic coatings surrounded the inner workings. The traditional tube of a high-powered scope had been replaced with a boxy-looking apparatus, complete with buttons, wire-jacks, and a battery compartment.

Even the trigger had a different shape, feel, and most importantly - purpose. This weapon no longer directly engaged the firing pin, that task now controlled by one of the many computer chips built into the unit.

This gun was exceptional on so many different levels.

For over 400 years, a rifleman did his best to estimate how far his bullet was going to drop and spin. He would center on a point of aim and then pull the trigger. The better marksmen were capable of judging distance, wind, humidity and other factors that affected the bullet’s ballistics. World-class shooters could hold the aim true until the lead had exited the muzzle.

Now, with the technology he held in his hand, none of that was necessary. Laser range finders, GPS sensors, target acquisition software, and computer chips executing several million instructions per second had all but eliminated the human from the loop. The trigger no longer engaged the firing pin because the digital system was better at the task. A man wasn’t necessary to judge distance – the laser being far more accurate.

Abe grunted, thinking about the first time he’d taken the new rifle to a range. With even the finest of his hunting rifles, a shot at more than 600 meters was difficult. With the computer’s help, that distance was now child’s play. It had required driving to his cousin’s farm to find a practice area with enough distance to push the limits of the new tool. Striking targets at over 1700 yards… a mile… 17 football fields… was now within his grasp.

Chambered in the .338 Laupa Magnum Modified, the weapon was capable of more than just long distance shots. It could deliver a mid-sized hunk of lead at high velocities, impacting the target with a significant level of kinetic force. Because of its considerable abilities, the military classified the .338 LMM as both anti-personnel and anti-material.

He returned the rifle to its resting place and then moved to the computer. A few keystrokes later, he began studying Mrs. Clifton’s publically displayed campaign schedule. Nothing had changed since he’d last checked. She would be coming to his hometown four days before the election.

Sighing, Abe leaned back against the headrest, his eyes focusing on an empty point in space. For a moment, he questioned why he was even entertaining such heinous acts.

Since that day in New Orleans, the ghosts of Charlie and his father refused to rest, haunting him at every step. Their troubled souls pined for justice, their voices demanding some meaning come from their early deaths.

Was there any stone left unturned? What other recourse was left for him?

The answers to his questions came quickly, a harsh mental salvo firing painful realizations at his doubts. It was more than just the murders of his family members. He had tried the justice system, the legal system, politics, and the press. Each attempt had been met with inequity and malaise, sweeping him away to a place of irrelevance and misery. The system no longer functioned, and those who had broken it were about to receive a reward of nearly unlimited power.

“So you are what the end of the rope looks like,” he said, addressing the nearby rifle. “This is what it feels like to have no other choice, to have exhausted all other sensible possibilities. I’ve done everything a reasonable man can, and every single time justice, morality, and liberty were denied.”

“They, however, underestimated me,” he declared with passion. “They expect me to fade away, to stumble into an abyss of numbness and despair. They anticipate my retreat. They assume that I’ll hobble off, a beaten man limping away from the fight with his spirit broken and head hung low.”

“Well, I have a surprise in store for them,” he calmly told the weapon. “Maybe the very heart and soul of the United States has already perished, and if that is true, then I’m already as good as dead, too. So why go quietly? Why go down without a fight? Maybe… just maybe… I can spark a change. I’ve got a chance to open people’s eyes and raise their awareness. I might still salvage a great destiny for America’s citizens, recapture the unique and valuable essence of what was once the land of opportunity.”

“You’re up another point in the latest poll numbers,” floated the aide’s voice. “We’re dumping a ten million dollar media buy into south Florida starting tomorrow, but there’s no guarantee that will accelerate the trend.”

Heidi rubbed her eyes, the motion confirming what everyone at the table already knew. She wasn’t sleeping well, the endless campaigning, 16-hour non-stop days, and constant pressure taking a toll. One of the media experts quickly scribbled a note:
No close-up television appearances this evening
.

“Didn’t we just do a big spend in Dade county a few days ago?” the candidate asked.

“Yes, ma’am. But our opponent scored well with senior voters during the last debate. We feel a strategic 30-second spot will clarify your position.”

The gathering was interrupted by the low voice of the plane’s captain sounding over the VIP terminal’s intercom. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re going to have a slight delay before boarding. The Houston controller just informed me that the traffic pattern is full for the next several minutes. We should be able to let everyone board shortly. Thank you for your patience.”

After a low grumbling over the delay, the crowd of staffers surrounding the candidate began to disperse. 

Thank God
, Heidi thought.
I can relax for a few moments
.

Closing her eyes, she attempted to clear her mind and prepare for the next speech in Dallas.

She felt a rustling in the next seat, the familiar scent of Polo aftershave infusing the surrounding air.
Aaron
.

She kept her eyes closed, hoping his seating selection was based on comfort, and not due to any pressing need or issue. Playing possum didn’t work.

“I know you’re not asleep, Heidi,” he announced in a low voice. “I’ve watched you day and night for the last year, and you hold your lips differently when you’re in dreamland. We need to talk.”

Mrs. Clifton opened her eyes, not sure whether to laugh or scold her chief of staff. “What’s so important that you won’t let a girl catch a little down-time?”

“What’s
wrong
, Heidi? You’re going to be the first woman president of the United States of America. You’ve wanted it for so long, worked so hard, and now that we’re just about across the finish line, it seems like you’re having doubts.”

“I’m fine, Aaron. Peachy keen. Now quit being an old worrywart, and let me rest my eyes.”

“I don’t believe you, ma’am. I can see it, and if it’s that clear to me, then our staff, volunteers, and contributors can see it as well. I’ve already been asked by two members of the press if you’re feeling under the weather. Another asked me if the hostile elements in the crowd today had shaken your resolve.”

Heidi sighed, shaking her head before focusing her gaze on him. “Okay, you’re right; I’m not on Happy Street, not even close. Our country is just so divided, Aaron. Half of the people look at me with hate and rage in their eyes. What’s really bothering me is that I’m going to end up just like our current chief executive – paralyzed and hamstrung by a Republican House and Senate. I’m going to spend the next eight years accomplishing nothing. Look at how those people reacted to my words today. It was the first time I’ve been booed onstage since we started. You and I both know that I have little chance of making a difference.”

“And this is news?” the political expert answered. “You can’t tell me you’re just now realizing this? As far as those couple of jerks today, it’s Texas – what do you expect?”

Her expression changed, a veil of sadness dropping over her eyes. “A month ago, it still wasn’t real. I kept waiting for something to happen… some other incident to derail the campaign and divert our attention. A short time ago, it finally dawned that the dream is going to come true – this really is going to happen. So then what? I want my campaign speeches to be more than just rhetoric. I want to help our people – lead our country… make a difference. But that’s just not going to happen, and it’s pulling me into a weird place mentally.”