Secession: The Storm (17 page)

Aaron waved her off, dismissing the candidate’s concerns with a chuckle. “You can reach out to the other side of the aisle. Your husband is still a powerful man in Washington, and he can help. We can work hard to lure the moderate Republicans into a coalition. It can be done, ma’am.”

It was Heidi’s turn to laugh. “I know you’re one of the most brilliant political minds on the planet, Aaron. I also am quite confident that a full pound of bullshit just flew out of your mouth. Coalition? That’s ludicrous, and we both know it. They will have the Senate back after Election Day, and I’ll be lucky to get new dogcatcher legislation through either chamber. It’s a sad state of affairs for our citizens.”

The campaign guru stared at the floor for a moment, remembering the reaction today to Heidi’s speech… wondering how much her demeanor was influenced by the heckling Texans.

Aaron didn’t hesitate, “Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it. Job One is to get you into the White House. I’ve got a few ideas floating around in my head that might help with our nation’s gridlock.”

“Oh? And what might those be?”

Flashing a sly grin, he chuckled, “First of all, we can let Texas go… give them the option to secede. You know that a week from now they will be passing around that sour grapes petition again, just like the last time they lost the executive branch. Without Texas, the Republicans won’t be so obstructive. Gonna be a pain in the ass reprinting all those maps of the USA, redesigning the flag.... Oh my gawd, we are going to have to revise all those IRS forms, too.”

Heidi knew he was kidding, or at least hoped he was. Before she could reply, the captain’s voice again sounded over the loudspeaker. “Ladies and gentlemen, it looks like the traffic pattern is clearing. Please proceed to board the aircraft.”

Her campaign staff quickly hustled to form a cue, the boarding process for a chartered flight much less formal than any commercial offering. A few minutes later, the staff and press were marching across the tarmac and up the mobile staircase.

As was her tradition, Heidi lingered toward the back, always one of the last to board the aircraft to take full advantage of the sunshine and fresh air. Clearing his throat, Aaron announced, “I’m going to stay here in Houston and catch a later commercial flight. I’ve got some housekeeping to do with the local press. I’ll meet you in Dallas tonight.”

Heidi nodded, happy that her odds of catching a nap on the short flight had just improved.

Her chief of staff continued, “Good luck, and knock ’em dead.”

Heidi maneuvered up the aisle through the shuffle of bodies, gradually making her way toward the front of the aircraft. She forced a fake smile as she passed through the small section reserved for the press corps, nodding at a few of the familiar faces.

Her first genuine relief of the day occurred when she passed through what had been the commercial airliner’s first-class divider and entered the VIP cabin. Reserved for only the most senior campaign staff, here was a sanctuary. Here was peace and quiet. 

Her seat was wide and soft; the comfortable, reclining unit installed specifically at her request. While serving as Secretary of State, she had flown hundreds of thousands of miles on various government aircraft and had grown to appreciate the expensive unit’s features and design. There was a private washroom, complete with shower. A leather settee along one wall ran into an oversized wardrobe for her clothing. A large, state-of-the-art flat screen television and media center rounded out the refuge. Designed for international travel, the VIP cabin wasn’t quite as luxurious as the accommodations on Air Force One, but it was far from roughing it.

Fastening her seatbelt, Heidi thought back to those days when her husband had been the president of the United States. She had learned to sleep while flying, one of the many acquired skills necessary to survive in the age of long-distance air travel. Little had she known how critically valuable that expertise would become in the future.

Her trip down memory lane was interrupted by the captain’s voice, “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve been cleared for takeoff. Please verify your seatbelts are secure.”

The Secret Service detail assigned to campaigning candidates wasn’t nearly as large or capable as the teams protecting the actual Commander in Chief. Abe knew this.

Even if Mrs. Clifton’s plane had been the actual Air Force One, he still didn’t believe the agents would extend their perimeter beyond a half mile… maybe three-quarters at best.

He was just inside a mile, exactly 1,690 yards from the end of the runway, according to the digital display in the rifle’s optic. The wind was calm.

The original Linux software controlling the rifle’s brain had an artificial limit programmed into its system, disabling the mechanism from calculating the lead for any object moving at over 10 mph.

It had been child’s play to bypass the limitation.

He adjusted the bi-pod’s position and then scanned the immediate area one last time, just to make sure he hadn’t been spotted. There was no one around.

The new subdivision provided the perfect cover. Banging dump trucks, hammering, sawing, and nail guns were all an everyday occurrence, common until 5:00 PM. If anyone did hear his weapon’s report, he hoped it would be ignored, written-off as over-time construction work. He’d arrived at 5:15, hidden his truck in a half-complete garage, and climbed to the second floor.

From there, pulling down the attic’s access ladder had provided an even higher roost, a vent making the perfect hide. The elevation, combined with the flat landscape of north Houston, allowed him an unhindered field of fire toward Bush Intercontinental Airport.

For a moment, he experienced a wave of doubt. Even the planes looked like matchbox toys from this distance. Clifton’s aircraft would be rolling at over 150 mph when he took the shot. The bullets seemed so tiny for such a far reach.

But he’d done it before. He’d practiced at much longer ranges than this, and a jet engine was a huge target.

His second bout of insecurity arose when the flight was delayed. According to her schedule, Heidi was to speak in Dallas in just over 90 minutes, yet the plane was clearly visible, sitting at the VIP terminal with the bold logo, “Clifton Express,” painted on the tail.

Fifteen minutes after Abe’s math had calculated the scheduled departure, he exhaled in relief when the big aircraft started moving across the tarmac.

There was a line of planes waiting to take to the skies. He observed the chartered 757 inch forward, his heart rate increasing as the moment drew closer.

And then the aircraft taxied onto the runway and began creeping a little faster.

Abe put his cheek against the stock, exhaled, and closed his left eye. He centered the cross hairs on the fuselage first, the larger target easier to find. Moving the rifle to follow the plane’s ever-increasing speed, he pressed the zoom button on the optical computer.

The image displayed in the view screen grew 35 times in just over two seconds, allowing a clear picture of the starboard engine. He aligned the registration mark on the leading edge of the turbofan and pressed the target selection button.

A green bracket flashed around the Pratt & Whitney engine, telling Abe that the optic’s brain acknowledged his selection. He scrutinized the scope-computer’s display as it calculated the target’s speed, watching the red numbers increase as the pilots applied throttle.

The numbers continued to increase, 100… 110… 130… and then Abe squeezed the trigger, but, as expected, the weapon did not discharge.

A green arrow appeared, telling the shooter to raise his aim higher and to the right. It would take the 250-grain bullet almost three seconds to travel the distance to the target, and during that time, it would drop several hundred inches.

Abe did what the computer instructed him to do, moving the optic higher and in front of the speeding aircraft, his finger keeping the trigger taut.

Inside the electronic optic, several calculations were being processed at the speed of light. The target’s distance, speed, and elevation were combined with the atmospheric conditions of wind, temperature, and humidity. Even the Coriolis Deflection, the rotation of the earth, was accounted for.

The weapon and optic worked together as a system, waiting for its human master to point the barrel at just the right time and place in space. When Abe finally aligned the muzzle where it was necessary, the rifle fired.

Like always, Abe jumped as the surprisingly loud report echoed over the empty subdivision. Despite having fired hundreds of practice rounds through his space-age blaster, he just couldn’t get accustomed to the computer controlling the actual shot.

Wasting no time, he repeated the process as quickly as possible, managing a second shot before the first bullet impacted. He glanced at the target speed indicator just after the follow-up round exited the barrel, satisfied his timing was close enough.

Sighing, Abe hit the zoom button again, decreasing the magnification so he could witness the results of his work.

The first bullet struck harmlessly on the lower, rear edge of the turbofan’s housing, poking a hole slightly larger than a third of an inch and causing minimal damage to the engine’s critical function.

The second shot was devastating.

Striking with far more kinetic energy than any bird-strike, the 250-grain bullet sliced through the jet’s aluminum skin and wreaked havoc on the hyper-rotating blades.

Shards of metal exploded outward, a cloud of shrapnel enveloping the inner workings of the engine and the control surfaces on the wing. A moment later, a secondary explosion ripped through the tortured machine, misting jet fuel providing the necessary pyro-inducement.

The cockpit instruments went insane.

The pilot’s first inclination was a bird aircraft strike hazard (BASH). He was just lifting the front wheels off the ground when his aircraft shuddered violently and then pulled hard to starboard. Warning klaxons, blinking lights, and flashing displays immediately told him his aircraft was in trouble.

A 25-year Air Force veteran with multiple combat tours, the captain’s reflexes were keen and proper. He didn’t need to digest any computer displays or gauges to know his plane was no longer airworthy.

Lightning fast, his right hand yanked the throttles back at the same moment he applied the flaps and brakes. His eyes focused on the end of the runway and the rapidly approaching line of trees beyond.