2

THE OKLAHOMA CITY NATIONAL MEMORIAL
OKLAHOMA CITY, OKLAHOMA

At the rear of the stage, Agent Zimmer made a slow circuit from stage right to stage center. He tugged at the hem of his suit jacket. All the agents got their suits a little big in the chest to disguise the fact that they were carrying weapons, currently .357 SIGs. Personally, Zimmer had preferred the previous nine-millimeter version, but oddly enough, the director of Homeland Security hadn’t asked for his opinion when the decision was made.

He met Agent Gatwick in the rear center.

“You getting the same reports I’m getting?” Gatwick asked, not looking at him. With the dark sunglasses, it would be impossible for a spectator to know exactly where he was looking.

“About Marshall?”

“Yeah.”

“You worried?”

Gatwick scanned the Oklahoma City skyline surrounding the memorial complex. “I don’t think it’s worrisome. Weird. But not worrisome.”

“He’s always played point man for presidential appearances in the past.”

“Because he wants to, not because he has to. He knows he can trust us.”

Zimmer subtly stepped forward, adjusting his gaze ever so slightly to examine a Middle Eastern–looking woman wearing an overcoat about three people deep behind the rope. An overcoat on a warm Oklahoma City spring day? That was more than enough to raise his suspicion. He whispered into his sleeve, sending three agents to check her out. “So you think that’s it? He’s decided he can let the little birds fly free?”

Gatwick shrugged. “Who the hell knows? Maybe he got tied up in some Senate meeting. It’s happened before.”

“Congressional oversight of Homeland Security was a big mistake.”

“You’re preaching to the choir, bro.”

Beyond the rope, Zimmer saw his agents approach the woman in the overcoat and quietly search her and run a metal detector over her body. Through his sleeve receiver, he heard the result. She was clean. Claimed she had some weird disease that lowered her body temperature. Like some kind of human lizard—she was cold even when the sun was shining. Still, Zimmer told them to take down her name and address.

Returning his attention to his partner, he noticed that Gatwick was scrutinizing the first lady.

“I don’t like where we’ve got her,” Gatwick said flatly.

“Who? Juliet?”

“Right. Too close to Samson.”

“She’s to the right and two feet back. Exactly where Samson likes her. So when the cameras shoot him from their assigned station, she can be seen in the background beaming at him with adoring eyes.”

The tiniest of smiles cracked Gatwick’s stoic facade. “I’m moving her.”

“What? Why?”

He tucked his head forward in a quick and almost imperceptible nod. “Only skyscrapers in range are to the south. She doesn’t need to be in the potential line of fire.”

“Don’t we have snipers up there?”

“Yeah. But still—I’m moving her.”

Agent Zimmer’s brow creased. “I thought it was agreed—Domino Bravo.”

“I’m making a slight alteration.”

“Don’t you think you should get approval first?”

“From who? Marshall’s out.”

“Then Deputy Director Lehman.”

Gatwick bristled. “I’m in charge, at least on site.” He whispered a few terse commands into his sleeve. “I’m just moving her to the other side of the stage. What difference can it make?”

Zimmer exhaled slowly. “I suppose it can’t hurt anything.”

“Course not.” At the front of the stage, two agents carried out their new instructions. “This is Oklahoma City, for God’s sake. What could happen?”

Ben was pleased to see the first lady move to his side of the stage. He was a good deal more comfortable around her than her husband. He knew in his heart that the only difference between the two was one of methodology, not purpose. Still, when she smiled at him, he couldn’t help but feel she was sincere, even when his brain told him not to be so naïve.

She leaned back toward Ben, smiling. “So where did you two go on your honeymoon?”

Mike covered his mouth.

“Uh…here.”

The first lady gave him a long look. “Your bride must love you very much.”

Ben fingered his collar uncomfortably. “Something like that.”

The governor of the state of Oklahoma, the same man who had appointed Ben to replace Senator Glancy, was the first to speak. He made several gracious remarks, commented on how lovely the first lady looked, then toned down his smile to establish the appropriate gravitas for the commemorative service to follow. “As Oklahomans, we are a proud and stubborn lot, Boomers and Sooners and settlers and farmers and Native Americans. We will move ever forward, and this gleaming monument is a memorial to our indomitable spirit. But we will never forget.”

The governor singled out a few individuals in the crowd, people who had lost husbands, wives, children. He recognized some of the rescue workers who had displayed such valor on that most horrific of days. And when his predetermined five minutes was completed, he said, “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my very great privilege to introduce to you…the president of the United States!”

Thunderous applause greeted President Blake as he made his way to the podium. Ben marveled at the ease with which he moved, despite the fact that so many eyes were bearing down upon him. What a burden—to try to think of something to say on such an occasion. Nothing could ever truly comfort the survivors. Words were simply not enough.

As he watched the president approach the podium, he heard Agent Zimmer, standing just behind him on the left, talking into his sleeve again. “What do you mean? In the Senate building? How is that possible?”

The applause began to ebb. On the opposite end of the raised platform, Ben saw Agent Gatwick talking into his sleeve as well. Several of the agents in the rear were signaling one another.

“No, I don’t understand,” Zimmer whispered. “What has Senator Hammond got to do with Marshall?” There was a pause. All around him, Ben noticed Secret Service agents in motion. “He said what? What does it mean?”

Ben noticed that Mike, sitting beside him, was also observing the sudden increase in activity. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” Mike whispered back. “But something’s come up.”

Ben saw Agent Zimmer advance toward the podium. Before he could get close, however, the president began his speech.

“My fellow Americans,” President Blake said, gripping each side of the podium. Although he had recently hit sixty, he looked older. Like all the presidents before him, he had been aged prematurely by the job. His hair was more gray than black; the tiny creases across his forehead had become pronounced; the folds of flesh around his eyes were so intense, his eyes almost seemed sunken. And yet, for all that, he was still a handsome man. His gaze was steady and the timbre of his voice was rich and forceful.

“How appropriate it is that as we stand here today, we can gaze upon the golden gates and read the words so appropriate to the communal spirit we all share.” The president recited the words as many in the audience quietly read with him:

We come here to remember those who were killed,

Those who survived and those changed forever.

May all who leave here know the impact of violence.

May this memorial offer comfort, strength, peace, hope, and serenity.

“I ask you,” President Blake said, dabbing his eyes, “were truer words ever written? We know we live in violent times. And yet despite the horrors that sometimes confront us, there is hope, and there is courage. There is the resilience of the American people. There is the nobility that comes from living in a land in which individual rights are our most precious commodities, more so than gold or silver or…”

Only days later did Ben realize that the sound he heard next was not the popping of a lightbulb or the backfire of a passing automobile. The president paused. Had he forgotten his speech? Ben wondered. Impossible—he was reading it off the translucent TelePrompTer before and beneath his podium. Then Ben heard another series of popping noises, as if someone had ignited an entire package of Black Cat firecrackers. Only a microsecond later, when he saw two Secret Service agents diving toward the stage, did he realize what was happening.

“We have fire!” he heard Agent Gatwick shout somewhere behind him. “Emergency response mode—now! I repeat: We have fire!”

“Get down! Get out of the way!”

From that point forward, Ben felt as if time went into slow motion. He had been taught in school that time was relative, and for the first time, he believed it. From the shots to the time he was inside Cadillac One, he later realized that barely thirty seconds had elapsed. But it seemed an eternity.

The president had stopped speaking and there were at least half a dozen men racing toward the podium. Ben knew they were running as fast as possible but to him it seemed as if they were moving unbearably slowly, like on The Six Million Dollar Man.

The Secret Service agents finally reached the presidential podium. Two of them tackled the president and quite literally knocked him to the ground.

When the leader of the free world hit the floor, panic ensued. The people at the front of the rope line surged forward, pushed against their will by the teeming mass behind them. The police officers guarding the line attempted to hold them back—but there were a lot more people in the crowd than there were police officers. People buried in the middle tried to race off to the sides and break free, creating even more turmoil and confusion.

The shots continued, faster and louder.

“Get down!” Ben heard Agent Zimmer shout, lunging toward him. He thought the man was protecting him, but of course he was actually guarding the first lady. He grabbed her and pulled her to her feet, careful to position his body between Emily Blake and the line of fire. He placed his hands under her arms and lifted her off the ground. As he carried her toward the back of the raised platform, her face showed that she knew she was in danger, but to her credit, she remained quiet and cooperative.

“Tell me about Samson!” Zimmer barked into his sleeve, even as he carried the first lady away. “Is Samson down?”

Ben waited for an answer, but before he heard one, two plainclothesmen approached and began herding his group to the side of the stage.

“Man down!” he heard someone shout, but he didn’t know whom they were talking about. One of the Secret Service agents standing by the presidential podium dropped, obviously wounded. Blood saturated his neck and shirt with astonishing speed. Aren’t they wearing Kevlar? Ben wondered. Another agent to his right fell. How many shooters are there? How many bullets? How many people are dead already?

The remaining Secret Service agents formed a circle and pulled the president to his feet, careful to keep him surrounded at all times. Another round of shots rang out and another agent dropped. The remaining four instantly closed the circle, keeping the president covered. Another line of agents went down on one knee, aiming their weapons into the distance.

Pop! Pop! Pop pop pop!

Even from the side of the stage, Ben could see a war was taking place. Four more Secret Service agents crouched on the sides of the stage, weapons out, pointed above the heads of the crowd. He knew the problem. They couldn’t find the target.

“Nest One!” the agent standing in front of him shouted. “Where is Nest One? Come in, Nest One!”

Ten more agents came out of nowhere and formed a protective perimeter. The four circling the president moved backward as quickly as possible.

Agent Gatwick raced by, shouting, “Cadillac One. Now!”

The agent in charge of herding Ben’s group nodded and steered Ben, Mike, and Tidwell in the same general direction that the president was moving.

“Cadillac One?” Ben whispered under his breath.

He heard Mike grunt a reply, talking as he moved. “Right now, it’s probably the safest place in the city.”

Before they reached the steps at the rear of the stage, Ben saw three more Secret Service agents drop to the ground. The two men moving his entourage forward continued to plow ahead as if oblivious to the death and carnage.

Outside the stage, the crowd had advanced from panicked to frenzied. The police tried to restrain them, without success. People were climbing walls, splashing through the reflecting pool, climbing the Survivor Tree—anything to get out of the line of fire. Parents were torn between trying to keep their children covered and trying to move them as quickly as possible. Terror had seized the assemblage. The screams were heartrending. A woman near the front was holding a small child in her arms. The child was not moving.

“How can it happen again?” the woman wailed, her voice a piercing, aching cry that cut through the turmoil like a knife. “How can it happen here again?”

The raised platform that had served as a stage began to buckle. Too many people were pressing up against it, trying to escape. Ben just prayed no one had crawled beneath it. The metal supports creaked and groaned and then it all came tumbling down, buckling under the collective pressure of hundreds of desperate people.

As he approached the parked motorcade, Ben for the first time heard shots echoing far above them from different locations. Federal snipers, he guessed, or hoped, and only prayed they would find their target. Was he out of range yet? A Secret Service agent standing next to the rear door of Cadillac One suddenly dropped to the ground, horrifically answering Ben’s question.

And then he heard the shriek. In the days to come, Ben would try to explain how he knew it had come from the first lady. Was there something unique about her voice? He could never answer their questions convincingly. But he knew. He knew it with unshakable certainty.

It took his own injury to snap Ben out of his trance. All at once, he felt a stinging sensation race across his cheek, as if someone had tried to strike a match on the side of his face.

I’ve been shot! Ben thought, lightly touching the side of his cheek. Blood trickled onto his hand. His entire body began to tremble.

Dear God. I’ve been shot!

Four Secret Service agents positioned themselves around the car, guns drawn and at the ready. On a signal, the two men in front began firing, laying down a blanket of cover fire as the president’s four remaining bodyguards literally shoved him into the backseat of the car. No one was more surprised than Ben when his protectors pushed him in behind the president. Mike and Senator Tidwell were the next to enter the bulletproof sanctuary of the automobile.

“Does anyone know what’s going on?” he heard a Secret Service agent outside the car cry out. “What happened to Nest One? Why wasn’t Juliet where she was supposed to be?”

Agent Gatwick ran up to the car, shoved the doors closed, and slapped the windshield. “Go!”

“What about Emily?” President Blake shouted back at him.

Gatwick simply shook his head and pointed at the driver. “Go!”

The driver, who had never left the car, nodded.

“Go!” Gatwick shouted again.

The driver held up his hands helplessly. The panicked crowd blocked his path. There was nowhere he could go without mowing down a dozen people.

“Damnation!” President Blake swore. His face was scraped and his mouth was bleeding, but he seemed essentially intact. There was a wildness in his eyes that Ben suspected could come only from realizing that someone, perhaps many people, had tried very hard to kill him. And he wasn’t in the clear yet. What a change—ten minutes ago Ben had been stammering in the presence of this man; now he had been thrown practically on top of him and barely noticed. “At least we’re safe in here. Bastards can’t hurt us as long as we stay inside.”

Mike nodded. His ears were starting to recover from the constant sound of bullets whizzing by much too close to his face. Thank God they’d made it here. This had to be the safest place in the city right now.

So why didn’t he feel relieved?

It was a comfort knowing that Cadillac One was bulletproof, but in truth that was not being tested because the bullets weren’t coming this way. Why not?

There were ony two possible explanations. Either the president was not the primary target…

Or the sniper had him exactly where he wanted him.

Mike whispered into Ben’s ear. “Do you see that?”

“What?”

Mike was staring out the window. “It’s a reflection. On the chrome of that officer’s motorcycle. And it’s…changing.” His eyes widened. “We have to get out of this car.”

“Are you insane?” President Blake said. “There’s a killer out there! Maybe a whole terrorist cell!”

“You don’t understand,” Mike said insistently. “There’s a bomb. We have to get out of this car.”

The president protested, but Mike didn’t wait to hear any more. He lunged forward, grabbing the door handle and flinging it open.

The Secret Service men outside had their attention trained away from the car on the potential assailants, so they were taken by surprise when the rear door suddenly burst open. Mike grabbed Ben by the coat lapels and tossed him out of the car.

“What the—”

Mike didn’t hesitate a second. He hoisted the president up and out. Several agents immediately formed a protective perimeter around him.

And Gatwick and the rest of the agents had their guns trained on Mike.

“Stand down! What do you think you’re doing?”

“There’s a bomb in this car,” Mike answered, not moving. “It could blow any second.”

Gatwick stared at him. “On Cadillac One?”

“I tell you, there’s a bomb! I saw the clock. We only have seconds—”

Agent Colbert, who had done time with a bomb squad unit, ran to the far side of the limo. “My God, he’s right. Get Samson out of here.”

Two agents grabbed the president and carried him away much as Ben had seen the first lady carried earlier.

“Go!” Mike shouted as he tried to clamber out of the car. Tidwell had the opposite door open and was making his escape in the other direction.

Ben suspected there would be no personal escort for him, so he didn’t wait for help. He scrambled to his feet and ran.

The force of the explosion knocked Ben to the ground, chin first into the pavement. The sonic boom shattered his ears. Car parts flew all around him, like a hideous metallic rainfall.

Cadillac One had become a fireball.

In the midst of the thick, billowing smoke, Ben pulled himself to his feet, his face bleeding in a dozen places, his eyes watering from the fumes. He knew he had been shot at least once, maybe more. He wasn’t sure the president had moved far enough quickly enough to be protected from the explosion. But none of that was uppermost in his mind.

“Mike!” he shouted to no avail, desperately trying to locate his best friend. “Mike? Where are you?”

Stumbling backward, crying, coughing, lost in the sudden cloud of smoke, he was so confused and distraught he crashed into the EMTs who were moving a female body from the stage to someplace away from the fray.

They were moving Emily Blake. Not that there was anything they could do for her now.

The first lady was dead.