Secession: The Storm (19 page)

Abe carried his sandwich to the living room and switched on the television where he observed what could only be described as a political riot. He knew the authorities would be ringing his doorbell soon, his preparations completed long before he’d fired at the plane. There really wasn’t much else for him to do but sit and witness the madness.

At first, he’d been a little disappointed when the news confirmed Heidi had survived the crash. While the outcome of his strike wasn’t what he expected, he realized it really didn’t matter all that much. The goal hadn’t been to kill the woman. No, his objective was to draw attention, to make America stand up and take notice, to initiate change in a population content with an unhealthy status quo.

Once everyone realized that terrorism wasn’t responsible, the pundits quickly turned their attentions to the distinct possibility of assassination. When the discovery of the bullet holes was finally made public, all hell broke loose.

Vicious, flagrant attacks flew left and right, the battleground of national media playing host to combatants. Warriors from both sides of the political spectrum wielded their weapons of choice. The Internet bloggers were the foot soldiers; talk radio and television hosts served as the officers, with the political parties filling the role of general staff.

Just as Abe had anticipated, the first shot of the war came from the advocates of stricter gun control. They fired the almost-predictable volley, using past mass-shootings, the nation’s murder rate, and heavily skewed statistics as their ammunition. Within hours, battle rifles and handguns were flying off the shelves in record numbers as gun enthusiasts anticipated the backlash of a weapons confiscation.

The pro-gun lobby responded with an equally absurd barrage, claiming that the crazed acts of individuals were logical justification for arming every American.

The conflict quickly escalated, each side utilizing the attempted assignation as a platform to support not only its position on gun control, but also every other controversial issue plaguing the nation.

Abe sat in silence, disinterested in the theatrics, waiting for the true issue – government tyranny – to make the headlines.

At the Bethesda Naval Hospital, Heidi was watching the drama unfold from her hospital bed. After the local Houston doctors had pronounced her stable enough to be moved, the Secret Service had demanded she be transported to the DC area where they could provide the securest environment.

With the election now only three days away, Mrs. Clifton’s staff had been eager for the move as well. The national press was concentrated in nearby Washington, a fact they felt might become critical should their candidate require extended medical care.

In fact, Heidi was relatively unharmed, at least physically. A few lacerations, a mild case of smoke inhalation, and a sprained shoulder were the worst of her injuries. She had even joked with some of her staff, “The things a woman has to do in order to get a little rest these days.”

But those that knew her well sensed something more was wrong. Her attitude seemed reflective, her mood brooding. A few of the inner circle wrote it off to the aftereffects of a traumatic experience, others worried about the long-term impact.

When Aaron appeared at her bedside, it was if an enormous weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She had forgotten he had a last minute change in plans and thus was unharmed.

After visiting with his boss for over an hour, he finally determined it was time to deliver the bad news. “We lost several staffers,” he announced, knowing she demanded the truth, positive or negative, delivered straight up.

“How many?” she asked.

“Twenty-four,” he replied, “Another six are still in critical condition, but all of them are expected to survive.”

The candidate looked away. While her face remained stoic, Heidi’s eyes told a different story, a deep sadness consuming her normally temperate countenance.

For a moment, her reaction worried Aaron. The attempt on her life, combined with the shock of surviving a plane wreck, was enough to alter anyone’s outlook. He examined her closely, praying the Heidi he knew and respected hadn’t sequestered herself in some remote corner of her mind.

“And what about the election?” she quipped, her voice sounding as if she really didn’t care about the answer.

Aaron steadied his tone, avoiding the attempt to escalate the conversation to a fruitless tiff. “I’m not sure. Nothing like this has ever happened before. I’ve got a call with the party leadership in two hours. I’m supposed to report on your condition, and more importantly, your mindset. I’m going to recommend they begin the process of rescheduling the election… moving the date out a few weeks.”

“No,” she responded immediately, a hint of the old fire in her voice. “I think that would be a mistake.”

“I agree,” sounded a new voice from the door.              

Heidi and Aaron both glanced up to see Mr. Clifton standing in the threshold, a bouquet of flowers in the nook of his arm.

“I thought you were in Europe,” Heidi stammered, truly surprised to see him.

“I was, but as soon as I heard the news, and the Secret Service cleared it, I headed back,” the former president stated, strolling into the room. “How are you, Heidi?”

Aaron was confused by what followed. Despite spending practically every waking hour over the past year with Heidi, he still didn’t understand the Clifton’s relationship. There had been nationally reported acts of indiscretion on his part, less substantiated rumors circulated about her. Like all of the campaign staff, he had never seen anything but hard work and a dedication to politics from either of them.

Yet, there was something odd about the couple. They were separated for months at a time, each jet setting around the globe in the name of government service or personal advancement. She rarely spoke of him, either positive or negative, and never invoked his counsel on matters political or strategic. It would be easy to classify them as two people who had grown apart but never divorced, staying together for convenience, out of habit, and perhaps the occasional circumstance.

But there was a contradiction to that line of reasoning. Despite living two seemingly separate lives, neither would hesitate to drop everything and rush to the other’s side in moments of crisis or need. It was just plain weird, but it seemed to work.

After the greetings and polite chitchat had been exhausted, Mr. Clifton got down to business. “Right now, you have the sympathy of the American people. There is an outpouring of concern. I want to tell you… make sure you understand… having their compassion doesn’t mean you have their vote.”

Heidi nodded, but Aaron didn’t understand. “Sir, I’ve just checked the latest poll numbers, and Mrs. Clifton’s popularity has surged three points since the incident. I don’t quite follow what you’re saying.”

“Son,” the former president began, his smile and slow drawl managing to keep the term on the politically correct edge of derogatory, “the average American feels sorry for Heidi – right now. The man in the street doesn’t like anyone being shot at… or injured. Polls will indicate outrage over those who lost their lives. But that doesn’t mean they’ll vote with that emotion. A lot of people are going to wonder about Heidi’s mental state, her capability to lead, and how she’s going to handle the entire affair emotionally. Trust me here – this attempt on my wife’s life will ultimately result in doubt, and that’s not a positive thing so close to the election.”

Aaron was taken aback by the words, Mr. Clifton’s pronouncement going against what his heart alleged and the polls confirmed. On the other hand, Jefferson Clifton was regarded as one of the most astute political minds of the last century. His ability to perceive the electorate’s mood was legendary, his skill at maneuvering through minefields almost mystical. Anyone on the national stage would be foolish to ignore the man’s sage counsel.

“What would you recommend, Jeff?” Heidi asked from her bed.

“I would get up from that horizontal position and in front of the cameras as soon as I could walk. I would bring in the best makeup artist I could find and let them paint me up like an Indian brave going into battle. And here’s what I would say…”

When he had finished, Aaron understood why Jeff Clifton was so highly regarded. His recommendation was straightforward, direct, and extremely poignant.

“Let me get some people working on this,” the smiling campaign manager stated, pulling out his cell. “It’s brilliant… absolutely brilliant.”

The FBI, Secret Service, and FAA pulled out all the stops. Within hours, a lab technician was entering forensic data into a computer simulation, creating a 3-dimensional model of the attack on the chartered aircraft.

The plane’s speed was known from the flight data recorders, as was the exact position on the runway. These parameters, combined with the entry angle of the first bullet, allowed the authorities to determine the shooter’s vector to within a few points on the compass.

But there were still missing pieces to the puzzle.

“The digital model shows a downward trajectory of over 20 degrees,” noted one of the FBI specialists. “Either our shooter was a couple of hundred feet in the air, or that bullet was dropping off a cliff.”

“Maybe he was firing from an extreme distance,” commented another analyst. “Any conventional bullet drops at a significant pace as the energy bleeds off.”

“That is impossible. That aircraft was moving at over 160 mph and accelerating. There’s not a sniper in the world that could hit a target moving that fast from long range.”