Kicking the Can (19 page)

“Dammit, I need a coat,” Bennett screamed, “something to wrap around my waist.” A wide-angle focus revealed Bennett had wet himself. A paramedic draped a blanket over Bennett’s shoulders. He pulled the edges forward, clasping the ends together at his naval with his left hand, covering his genitals.

“I defecated…I’m human.”

“Speaker Bennett, can you tell us in your own words what happened?” She cupped her face to mask the smell—urine, human waste, and burning flesh.

“Haines and I were discussing the progress of the super committee. We just finished debriefing. He dropped me at my condominium. When his car left the curb—
boom
.”

Bennett pointed to the remains of the car. The interior was unrecognizable, a burned-out hulk, with black smoke from burning rubber and smoldering plastic still visible. Cubed glass pellets, resembling hail, from the first two floors of the condominium building littered the sidewalk and street. A crime scene perimeter had been established by a cordon of yellow plastic tape and wooden barriers. Uniformed officers were controlling the crowd and organizing witnesses.

“This great country won’t rest until we bring the people who did this to justice,” Bennett belted out, making a fist with his right hand and shaking it in front of the camera. “We intend to carry on the work of this great nation. By God, I’ll serve as the interim chair of the super committee, if necessary, but we won’t lose a single day because of this cowardly terrorist act.”

The journalist adjusted her right earpiece. She pulled the microphone from Bennett’s mouth to her lips.

“The station reports three Islamic extremist organizations have claimed responsibility. Speaker Bennett, aren’t you afraid you may be the next target?”

“We can’t live in fear. I refuse to live in fear. This incident buoys my resolve to solve our nation’s challenges.”

Bennett stiffened his neck in defiance, staring into the camera. A bystander, escorted by a policewoman, stepped into the frame and draped an American flag over Bennett’s shoulders. The journalist extended her arm toward the crowd, and the audio feed picked up chants of “God Bless America” in the background. Bennett collapsed in a heap on the sidewalk—spent. Paramedics moved in, and the screen went to commercial.

“The press corps will be massing upstairs. We must put out a press release,” the president’s press secretary said.

“There’s no sense going off half-cocked…We need more information. A harried response will draw attention to an already grave situation. Make an announcement that I’ll address the nation this weekend. Don’t specify the time.

“Have Homeland Security analyze all leads,” the president said to its director, Leon Márquez. “Work with the other agencies to piece together what we have. Let’s meet in two hours. I’m concerned this incident will unravel into another 9/11. If we lose another legislator, we’ll have total chaos.”

“How do we secure the immediate safety of our elected officials?”

“We’re locking down Capitol Hill—the barricade is already in place. We have fifteen hundred officers on campus.”

“Mr. President, our emergency preparedness and national security threat protocols are driven by the National Terrorism Advisory System.”

“It’s your call, Márquez.”

“My recommendation is we issue a Severe Threat Communication.”

“You’ve got marching orders,” President Cannon said.

The Situation Room cleared out, except for Cannon and Sebastian.

“Bennett came across as unflappable and human. I can’t say I’d have the presence of mind to roll cameras and tell the world I lost control of my bowels,” President Cannon said.

74

P
EOC became the “command and control center” for the president’s administration to manage the terrorist act that martyred Representative Haines. At 6:47 p.m., DHS reported one senator and three representatives were unaccounted for, but they were hopeful they’d track them down soon. No other casualties were reported. Munitions experts from all branches of the military were converging on DC. A sweep of federal buildings was scheduled to begin at 0100 hours. Progress was being made.

President Cannon needed rest but couldn’t sleep. He spent the night in his bedroom chair, reading JFK’s memoirs of the fateful Saturday when the navy blockade of Cuba was announced. At 3:30 a.m., he picked up a bound manuscript containing President Roosevelt’s diary entries leading up to Pearl Harbor.

At 9:40 a.m., Cannon finished his forth cup of coffee while reading the front-page article in the
New York Times
entitled “America’s Safety.” The article made a compelling case. Americans can’t be safe if elected officials are blown up and Capitol Hill is “locked down.” Cannon crumpled the newspaper and tossed it in the garbage can.

At midmorning the consequences of the terrorist act manifested as dislocations of food, water, and gasoline supplies. Hoarding—lines stretching around city blocks outside of grocery stores and gasoline stations—price gouging, escalating violence, rioting, and looting were being televised in a dozen cities.

President Cannon gave a televised address at 1:00 p.m. The makeup he wore masked his dark circles. He announced his administration had ordered the deployment of the National Guard to institute martial law and a national curfew. Canon concluded the address by saying all financial markets would remain closed for five business days.

75

S
unday morning early. Drummond awoke. He realized any work on the proposal was futile. What he needed was time to meditate. He found a white long-sleeve shirt and beige-colored sun hat hanging in the closet, both constructed of material to wick away moisture. He also grabbed a nylon daypack from the upper shelf. He dressed in shorts and a pair of trail shoes. He tried on the loosely fitting shirt—the arms an inch beyond his wrists—perfect to shield him from the sun. He tucked his sunglasses into the chest pocket and applied sun block to his nose and ears. With the hat on, he looked like an Orvis commercial—missing a fly rod and vest.

The kitchen was deserted. He toasted a bagel with cream cheese and ate it with Raisin Bran and half a grapefruit. He packed a sandwich, power bar, and an apple and two bottles of water—all stuffed into the pack. Drummond opened several drawers before he found a black felt-tip marker and tablet. He retrieved the items, along with a pocket-size Bible. Drummond thumbed pages—New Testament. He then placed the Bible in an outside pocket and zipped the pack closed. Drummond wrote in capital letters, “GONE FISHING,” and signed
his name. Below it he wrote, “P.S. sessions canceled, see you at dinner time.”

He followed the boardwalk west and then north. When he reached the other side of the island, he found the trailhead to the beach. This side of the island was rugged. A rock bluff extended out a quarter of a mile to the north, rising in elevation to several hundred feet. It created a natural breakwater, sheltering the crescent-shaped beach from easterly winds and ocean surge. The pale green water turned blue in gradients following the contours of water depth. The trunks of palm trees to the east—more exposed—were bent from prevailing winds.

Drummond sat down facing the water, supporting his back against a palm tree. In the distance he could see birds riding the air currents along the bluff. He wondered if they were seagulls—perhaps boobies—they reminded him of pictures of Cayman Brac, the first dive trip he took with Barbara. He wiped his tears on his sleeve. He missed his girls. He made a pact that if Sarah lived, he would cherish each waking hour he spent with her. He realized he needed to recenter his life on what was truly important. He was ashamed of his selfish “coping behavior.” He would be a better father.

Drummond unzipped the pack and used it as a tablecloth for his sandwich and apple. He ate both and drank water. He put the sandwich wrapper back in the pack and unzipped the front pocket to retrieve the Bible. Without conscious thought, Drummond settled on Matthew 5 and began to read. He stopped when he finished chapter 6. Matthew wrote chapter 6, juxtaposing Jesus’ teachings about money with his teachings about worry.
The world
had not changed in over two thousand years,
Drummond thought. Drummond prayed for the first time in weeks.

He walked to the base of the bluff. A cavern was visible at an elevation of fifty feet. Drummond dropped the pack on the coarse sand and began to make his way up the rock face. The climb was steep, but the porous rock offered places for hand and toe holds, easily reached. Five minutes later, Drummond was inside a cavern the size of a bedroom. He looked out onto the ocean horizon through numerous penetrations.
It would be an excellent place to hide out in a tropical storm,
Drummond thought.

Drummond reached Isle Airy at 3:00 p.m. and showered. He napped until five thirty and then joined the others in the kitchen for dinner.

76

C
hris Drummond saw apprehension on their faces. The unspoken question was lurking in the backs of their minds—
would the contest be canceled
?

“We don’t know,” Lowsley said, playing devil’s advocate to Vogel’s verbalization of doubt. “The events are destabilizing—but we need to have the mindset President Cannon has a plan to overcome this crisis. If that’s our presumption, then our decision is straightforward. We finish the white paper. We signed on the dotted line and took Donald’s money. I say continue.”

Drummond asked each member to voice an opinion.

“Gupta?”

“Yes.”

“Baturina?”

“OK.”

“Vogel?”

“I agree.”

“Dain?”

“Finish it.”

“Jiang?”

“Yes.”

“Then it’s settled,” Drummond said.

“Jiang, my understanding is we’re ready for you to start stochastic modeling.” Before she spoke, Gupta pushed his chair back from the table and stood.

“I’ll be right back,” he said and disappeared.

Baturina fetched the iced tea pitcher from the refrigerator and poured tea in empty glasses. She took her seat with the others. Gupta reappeared wearing a cowboy hat and silver star pinned to his chest—imprinted with the word “Sheriff.” He was wearing a makeshift holster, with shaving cream-size canisters turned upside down attached to his hips with Velcro. With his hands on his hips, he sashayed toward the table, pivoting his hips—first one, then the other—locking his legs in position, while standing on the balls of his feet. At a distance of fifteen feet, Gupta stopped. He pulled the brim of his felt hat lower in dramatic fashion and squinted.

“There’s a new sheriff in town,” Gupta said, unable to keep a straight face. He reached for both canisters. In fast-draw fashion, he lifted and spun the two cans 180 degrees, placing his index fingers on the canister buttons. Strings of compressed goop—one yellow, the other red—shot out of the cans. Gupta proceeded to plaster ring upon ring of silly goop on the chest, shoulders, and hair of each member of Drummond’s team. Dain had the presence of mind to dive to the floor. He tucked his chin to his left shoulder and executed a perfect summersault, landing on his feet in one continuous motion. Gupta missed him by a mile. With the face of a proud seven-year-old, Gupta holstered his canisters and crossed his arms.

“Same stuff Tom Hanks played with in the movie
Big
,” Vogel asked, seeing the humor in Gupta’s practical joke and relieved the stringy goop was not sticking to her hair.

“Yep…couldn’t help myself. Found it in the arcade room with other party favors. Cala brought the hat and holster from the mainland.”

“Gupta—if you ever do that again, I’m going to duct tape you to a toilet seat,” Dain said in a believable voice.

What a change of events. Ten minutes ago morale was in the dumps
.
Now, all smiles as they picked rubber string from their clothes and hair. Gupta must have been dropped as a baby.

“Jiang, you have the floor,” Drummond said.

“My task is to create simulation using randomization to better predict health care costs. Stochastic modeling differ from deterministic modeling, because it rely upon repeated random sampling and statistical analysis to determine the value of input. Computers have aided ability to perform stochastic modeling.” Jiang spoke confidently about her abilities to perform the final task. “It take couple days.”

77

T
he press corps of forty-seven journalists representing thirty-two nations was herded into the Rose Garden. They stood for nine minutes before President Cannon made his entrance. The sun was shining. Clear blue skies signaling summer brought a new day dawning, and with it, renewed hope for the nation. The aroma of roses, the cacophony of birds singing, and the precision of manicured grass settled an unsettled nation.

“I’m pleased to announce my presidency has made significant progress in the last seventy-two hours to secure the safety of this great nation. In conjunction with numerous federal and state authorities working around the clock, we’ve apprehended the suspect who’s responsible for the car bomb that killed Representative Haines and three other Americans. He’s confessed, and we’ve been able to corroborate his statements by recovering explosives and bomb-making components from his residence. We’ve also obtained new information pertaining to the deaths of Dr. Duncan, the former HHS director, and Carlton Edwards, the
Times
journalist.”

Cannon paused, unclasping his hands, moving them to the outside edges of the podium. “Homeland Security continues to function on a heightened terrorist alert,
but there have been no new reports of terrorist threats. The missing senator and two representatives have been located,” President Cannon said. “The National Guard has squelched all rioting and looting. Hundreds of arrests have been made. I’m ordering the Guard to ‘stand down,’ and the national curfew will be lifted today. My administration has received assurances warehouses are ramping up to replenish food stocks. Shipments will commence immediately. We will be opening the financial markets tomorrow—three days early. Press Secretary Mitchell will take your questions.”