The Trojan Sea (30 page)

Washington, D.C.

The uniformed Secret Service agent and the park ranger crossed Seventeenth Street and walked across the grass with measured steps. Ahead of them the newly refurbished Washington Monument rose with majestic simplicity in the cold February sun. Behind them the two commemorative arches of the World War II Memorial framed the Reflecting Pool with the Lincoln Memorial at the far end. The two men headed for what looked like a military formation that was participating in the WWII Memorial’s dedication ceremonies. But up close any semblance of military spit and polish dissolved into a ragtag band of fifty-four retired veterans wearing ill-fitting uniforms. Old age and a sedentary lifestyle had expanded most of their waistlines, and a few loose belt buckles dangled in the air. About half had undone their coat buttons to escape the straitjackets from an earlier age and were wishing they had bought a new uniform for the occasion. Still, they all sported trim haircuts and polished shoes. To a man, they were the proud survivors of an earlier generation that had fought in Vietnam.

“I can’t believe you’re letting them get this close,” the ranger muttered.

“President’s orders,” the Secret Service agent replied. “She isn’t worried about demonstrators as long as they cool it during the dedication ceremony.” He gave a little snort. “Besides, what can a bunch of old geezers do? They run thirty steps and it’s heart attack time.”

“Baby-sitting the geriatric crowd is not my idea of observing Washington’s birthday,” the ranger groused as he studied the men. “What about the seven guys with the rifles?”

“The firing squad?” the agent replied. “Luckily they’re firing blanks. Otherwise one might shoot his toe off.” The agent pointed at the new monument to the men and women who fought in World War II. “We put ’em over here outa sight so they wouldn’t scare anyone.” He swung his metal detector from its strap. “But we’ll check ’em out and make sure they’re only shooting blanks.”

“At their age what else can they shoot?” The park ranger glanced at his clipboard and called in a loud voice, “May I speak to Colonel William D. Stuart?” Shanker broke free and walked over to the two men. “Are you the organizer?” the ranger asked.

“My name’s on the parade permit,” Shanker said. “Why can’t we get closer?”

“Security,” the Secret Service agent said.

“Look,” Shanker said, “we got rights—”

“Indeed you do,” the agent said, interrupting him. “Which is why you got this far. So here are the ground rules: First, you all must remain in this area from now until the dedication ceremony is over. Second, while the president is on the Mall, the rifles and all blank shells are in my possession.”

“Fat chance,” Shanker said. “You ever heard of the Second Amendment?”

“You ever heard of Leavenworth?” the Secret Service agent replied. “Don’t play silly-ass games with me, Colonel Stuart.” Shanker’s face froze in a grim mask. Thanks to his years in the Air Force, he recognized authority when it was about to run over him and knew when to keep his mouth shut. The agent took his silence as agreement. “Good. Finally, you will not disturb the dedication ceremony in any way, and that includes your bugler over there. After the ceremony is concluded and the president has left the area, you can do whatever you came to do.”

Shanker couldn’t help himself. “Fuckin’ Communist state,” he grumbled.

The agent motioned Shanker aside and spoke in a low voice. “Sir, we don’t need any problems here. Exactly eight weeks ago tomorrow, the president was almost assassinated. It’s not going to happen again—not today, not on my watch. As far as I’m concerned, you’re a problem we don’t need. Unfortunately, the president’s a strong-willed lady who fully supports your right to peaceably assemble. I can’t change her views on that, no one can. But you gotta understand one thing: I’m the guy who’s going to make sure you
stay
peaceably assembled. Now, if you think for one moment that I’m out here alone, you got another think coming.” He pointed to the Washington Monument. “I’ll be over there if you have any questions.”

Shanker watched him walk away. He snorted once. “Okay, boys,” he called, pointing to a spot near the junction of Seventeenth Street and Independence Avenue. “Let’s dig the grave right there.”

Eduardo wheeled the rented minivan onto Independence Avenue and tried for the third time to head west, toward the Lincoln Memorial. But a traffic cop motioned him to turn north onto Fourteenth Street. Frustrated, he crossed the Mall and drove past the sprawling Department of Commerce building. He tried to punch a number into his cell phone, but the combination of so much traffic and driving an unfamiliar vehicle defeated him. Sophia grabbed the phone out of his hands and dialed the number, then handed the phone back to him. “They’ve blocked off Independence,” he said. “I can’t get any closer than Fourteenth.”

“Park and walk,” Luis replied. “I need you in place in thirty-one minutes.”

“Ten-four,” Eduardo replied, mimicking the dialogue from an old TV show.

Sophia sighed and gave him a patronizing look. “This isn’t going to work,” she told him. “Security is too tight. Break it off while we still can. There will be a better time.”

Eduardo glared at her and turned right on Pennsylvania to loop back to the south side of the Mall. “The time is now. We’re not cowards.”

“Neither am I,” she retorted, “but I’m not stupid.” She reached for the door handle, more than willing to take her chances with traffic.

But Eduardo was ready. He slapped her, hard, and jammed on the brakes. Traffic piled up behind them as drivers hit their horns. Eduardo ignored them as he lay across her, pinning her into her seat. Sophia saw a traffic cop walking toward them and held her breath as Eduardo fumbled with a set of handcuffs. The cop was twenty feet away when Eduardo finally managed to clip one onto her right wrist and the other onto the door handle. “Luis warned me,” he said, sitting upright. He was looking directly at the cop, now less than ten feet away. “Sorry, Officer,” he called. The cop stood aside and motioned them forward.

He was able to turn south on Seventh Street and again crossed the Mall. He jerked the minivan onto C Street and pulled into a reserved parking spot behind the Department of Agriculture. He jumped out and buttoned his knee-length trench coat, making sure the vest underneath was totally hidden. But the explosives and wires gave him a bulky look at odds with his slender frame. He ran around the van and jerked Sophia’s door open. But he had forgotten about the handcuffs, and she spilled out onto the ground. “Get up.” He glanced at his watch. Time was running out. He unlocked the cuff on the door and transferred it to his left wrist, tying them together. Then he threw away the key.

Sophia followed the key as it arched across the other cars. “This is crazy,” she told him.

“Think of Cuba,” he told her.

“I’m thinking of now!” she shouted. He pulled a six-foot staff with a rolled-up flag out of the van and threw it over his right shoulder. Then he grabbed her hand and walked quickly away, half dragging her after him.

The final strains of “The Star-Spangled Banner” drifted over Shanker as he watched the two men dig the grave. “That’s deep enough,” he told them. The men climbed out, thankful they didn’t have to dig down to the regulation six feet. “Okay,” he told another group, “start calling.” As one, eight men dug out their cell phones and called every TV station, newspaper, and media organization in the city. Shanker dialed the
Washington Post.
“News desk? Look, I just thought you’d like to know a group of veterans are digging a grave between the Washington Monument and the World War II Memorial while the president is talking.” He listened for a moment. “No, I don’t know what’s going on. But they got an honor guard with rifles, a bugler, and a folded flag. It looks like they’re gonna bury someone. Maybe you wanna check it out.” He punched the call off. “That got their attention,” he announced.

He buttoned the coat to his uniform, thankful that Martha had let out the seams as much as she could. But it was still tight. He carefully adjusted his wheel hat, making sure the bill was exactly the regulation two finger-widths above his nose. He came to attention. “Squad-ron! Fall in!” The men organized themselves into five ranks of eight men each while the seven-man firing squad, minus their rifles, lined up on the far side of the grave. An honor guard of five men bearing the Stars and Stripes flanked by the flags of the four armed services wheeled into position behind Shanker. The lone bugler took his position opposite the firing squad, his brass trumpet gleaming in the sun. The squadron was formed.

The Secret Service agent and park ranger walked over to Shanker. “What in the world are you clowns up to?” the agent asked.

“You ever been to a military funeral before?” Shanker asked. He turned to face the men. “Stand easy!” They all relaxed in place. Again coat buttons were undone and belt buckles loosened. Now they had to wait.

Eduardo kept checking his watch as they hurried along Independence Avenue toward Seventeenth Street. A few latecomers to the dedication ceremony gave them wary looks but moved out of their way. Off to their left a policeman saw them but was preoccupied with a drunk who had passed out on the grass. “At least tell me what we’re doing,” Sophia pleaded. She pulled up. “My foot!” she wailed, faking a cramp. She bent over and pulled at the top of her boot.

At the same time the cop looked up from the drunk. He saw a very pretty woman bending over next to a handsome young Latino. “Hold on,” he called, not moving. “What’s the flag?” Eduardo waved at him and unfurled the flag. Sophia didn’t hesitate. She slid her fingers into the top of the boot and palmed the paring knife she had taken from the kitchenette in the trailer. She slid it up her sleeve as Eduardo gave her a long, lingering kiss. The cop waved back, not recognizing the flag with the white star in a red triangle next to the blue and white stripes. “Honeymooners?” he called. Eduardo hugged Sophia in answer, still holding on to the flag. The cop motioned them on.

Eduardo was careful not to walk too fast, lest he draw attention. He glanced at his watch. “We’re late. Way too late.”

Sophia heard the worry and indecision in his voice. “I want to help,” she said. “But I don’t know what to do.”

Eduardo spoke in a low voice. “There’s only three ways for the
puta
to return to the White House. She can use a helicopter, and Luis will shoot her down with a Stinger.”

Sophia was appalled. During all her time in captivity, she had never seen the deadly American-built, shoulder-held antiaircraft missile or heard them talk about it. But that did explain some of their long absences. “What are the other two ways?” she asked, fearing the answer.

“She can go by car directly north, up Seventeenth Street toward Luis and Francisco, or south on Seventeenth.”

“And if she comes our way?”

“Then I will be there, waiting for her.”

“Why do you need me?”

“So the world will know we stand together.” He started to chant. “We are the few against the many. We are the weak against the strong.”

Fear clutched at her, holding her tight as he dragged her toward the monument. Like the three men, the plan to assassinate the president of the United States was simplicity itself. So simple that it just might work. But thanks to her cover identity as a Cuban fellow traveler and freedom fighter, she was caught up in a suicide mission.

She slipped the knife into her hand.

The handheld radio was glued to Shanker’s ear as the speaker updated him on the ceremony. Still holding the radio in his left hand, he turned to the men. “The ceremony’s over,” he told them. “She’s leaving.” Behind the men he saw two TV crews and what looked like three or four reporters leave the monument and walk their way. The phone calls to the media had worked. Shanker drew himself up and sucked in his stomach. “Squad-ron! A-ten-hut!” As one, the men came to attention. Out of the corner of his eye, Shanker saw the TV crews start to shoot. It was time to tell the world why they were there. “Order of the day!” he shouted, hoping the cameras were picking it up. “In protest against an unlawful act by the president of the United States, Madeline O’Keith Turner—namely, the outlawing of all semiautomatic weapons—we hereby renounce the medals awarded to us by the United States government for the defense of our country and freedoms. Squad-ron, by ranks, pass in review!”

The first row of eight men did a half-decent right-face as Shanker took his place at the front of the line. Then, loudly, “Forward—March!” Shanker led them in lockstep toward the freshly dug grave. As he approached, his right hand grabbed the medals on his chest and he ripped them off, throwing them into the grave. One by one, each man threw his medals into the grave. Tears streaked the faces of two as they struggled to match Shanker’s example. It wasn’t quite what they had planned, but without the firing squad, it was as close as they could get.

Shanker spoke in a loud voice as the second rank of men filed by the open grave. “Firing squad, come to attention and salute each group as they pass by.” The seven men lined up on the far side of the grave did as commanded. “Bugler,” he ordered, “play ‘Taps.’” Off to the side the bugler came to attention and raised his trumpet to his lips. The first haunting refrains of the melody echoed over the park, and the TV cameras were recording it all.

“Ah, shit,” Shanker moaned. A young couple carrying a Cuban flag and walking hand in hand down Seventeenth Street were in the way. As one, the TV cameras shifted their focus. At the same time a burst of machine-gun fire echoed in the distance. “What the hell?” he wondered. He keyed his radio. “What’s going on?”

“Beats me,” the voice responded. “But the Secret Service is going apeshit. Hold on! Oh, my God! I think someone’s shooting at the president!”

A sudden fear grabbed Shanker. If some crazy tried to assassinate the president a second time, the FBI and Secret Service would take the Gray Eagles apart, ride them hard, and put them up wet. They were at the wrong place at the wrong time, doing the wrong thing. He yelled into the radio. “Where’s the president?”