Indivisible (Overlooked by Liberty) (6 page)

      
"I would just like to say one thing, sir," Thomas spoke up.  He sniffed--and blinked to hold back tears, "I've been a disappointment to you.  I accept any action taken against me, sir."  Captain Thomas firmed his jaw and resumed his military posture; the large, solidly built man stood statuesque.

      
"Don't worry about it, Captain.  You're dismissed."  Winifred reached for his computer, closed out the program, and opened a hand-held planner for the day's itinerary.

      
Captain Thomas saluted the inattentive President before walking out the door.  General Paz followed him.

      
The President combed his fingers through his sun-bleached hair.  "I have to talk to the press in twenty minutes, Luc."  He looked up from the screen, "Are we set up?"  Winifred looked presidential: tall and blond, broad-shouldered and slim at the hips.  He had survived many scandals throughout his political career.  By now, nothing could startle him.

      
"We're set."  He waited a moment.  "But what do you want me to do with Thomas?"

      
"You said there was no paperwork," Winifred answered.  "He's a soldier.  Soldiers do what they're told.  We need to concern ourselves with civilians."

      
"You have a private interview now with CBS News," Bennett reminded the President.

      
"Oh, that's right.  I see it here."  Winifred smiled and closed the screen to his planner and strode over to his private office through an adjacent door. 

      
Bennett smiled, he loved manipulating the news media.  They favored their party anyway, but Bennett felt responsible for keeping them in their camp.  He had introduced Nancy Atherton of CBS news to Clifford.  It had been the longest extramarital affair the President had had.  During a time of national turmoil, favorable news coverage could be hard to find.

Chapter 4

      
In the hall, General Paz caught Thomas and spoke in a low voice.  "Captain, I want you to know, I'm with you on this.  Everyone is at fault here."

      
"Yes, sir."

      
"Charles, don't 'Yes sir,' me.  You've been through too much."

      
Captain Thomas looked away to a distant place.  "They were all young boys.  Gut shot, most of them.  General Beaudock ordered me to leave a wounded one.  A boy about the same age as my son."  His eyes began seeping.  "I have trouble sleeping.  I'm sure the others on my team feel the same.  No one talks about it, General.  The President doesn't have to worry about any of us saying anything.  It isn't something you brag about."

      
"This isn't over," said Paz.  "I'll keep in touch."

      
The helicopter whirled and turned out of control, plunging downward toward certain death.  Raindrops hit like darts on Billy's face through the broken cockpit's windshield.  North winds bit to the bone and stirred him to consciousness.  He yanked the controls of the helicopter upward.  In his eleven-year-old fantasy, William Winifred could hardly feel his arm from the gunshot wound he received during his escape.  The bullet numbed his left side all the way to his fingertips, but he could move it, if he willed.  He continued through the storm-drenched cold, feeling nothing but the spectra of death chasing him.  Then something flashed from the foothills below,
it had to be a Stinger missile,
Billy thought.  He popped the decoy flares and cut right, narrowly averting the Sung vase on a stand next to the wall in the corridor.  He gently landed the toy helicopter safely onto the red carpet before his father's private office.

      
William Winifred had never had an episode so close.  That could have been the end of Government Operative 440, Billy Winifred--and the 1031-year-old Sung vase in the hallway.  He pulled out the two-inch pilot from the toy helicopter and adjusted his helmet and arms.  He checked the rotor; that was the weakness of this model.

      
The office door flung open and CBS Correspondent Nancy Atherton walked out as she chatted with the President.  It was another private interview.  She nearly stumbled over the boy's back as he crouched over his model.  "Shit.  What the--" She caught her balance with a hand on his back.  "William, what are you doing?"  Her face flushed.

      
"Checkin' my copter.  See, they got to be serviced every thirty-six hours."  It surprised William, too.  His brown, innocent eyes gazed upward without allegation.

      
His father came to the door.  "William, you need to play some other place.  Lots of people come and go here."  He turned to Nancy, "Are you all right, Ms. Atherton?"

      
"Oh yes.  I'm fine."  She skirted around the child, "Thank you for the interview, Mr. President.  We'll have to finish it another time," she let the words dangle as she continued down the corridor.

      
The boy looked up at his father and lifted the helicopter to be admired.

      
The gesture startled the President from his view of Ms. Atherton leaving.  "Oh, nice gadget, son."  Winifred looked at his watch.  "Oh!" 
The news conference
.

      
Journalists packed the White House Press Room.  They jotted down notes on pocket computers; some gave preliminary commentaries to viewers from where they stood in the crowd.  Nearly a third of the Press Corps were young, pretty women.  They played to the President's partiality to blondes.  In the past, the color red attracted the attention of some presidents, now puffy blond heads dotted the room.  Veteran reporters overlooked the President's obsession with blonds, Winifred represented their political ideology.  The few repulsed by the display kept it to themselves--not wanting to be estranged by their own.

      
Nancy Atherton gave preliminary comments before a camera about "The Dixville Massacre," as the media had dubbed it.  She wore a purple pantsuit with a strand of pearls hanging well into her unbuttoned shirt.  Her blond hair fluffed out from her ears, precisely displaying looped earrings.  Not a blemish could be found on Nancy, an appearance so crisp, so clean, so proper, few men approached her for a date.  They considered her out of their league.

      
"Ladies and gentlemen, The President of the United States," stated a young woman from the podium.  Taped commentaries ceased, silence swept the room.  People talking among themselves stopped in mid-sentence and turned to listen as President Clifford Winifred pushed buttons on a pocket computer and scanned the teleprompter in front of him.  He began to speak, but caught himself with a quick gasp for breath, then paused as though holding back tears.  Everyone waited anxiously.  "My fellow Americans, few tragedies cut so deeply to the soul as the loss of children.  I can't pretend to feel the pain the Dixville families are going through at this moment.  Those boys were American children and when their souls left this planet, some of us went with them.  Excuse me."  President Winifred turned away and wiped his eyes with a hanky and resumed his spot at the podium with resolve.  "I promise you, as your President, I will find the perpetrators of this hideous act and bring them to justice.  There is no place on earth those murderers can hide!"  He hit the podium with his fist.  "If they flee, there's no country far enough!  If they fight, there is no army great enough!  Let God be my witness to this oath!"

      
Journalists applauded and cheered the President; his words moved them.  President Winifred's sincere address caused eyes to moisten.  The tragedy extended well beyond New Hampshire and touched every parent in the country.

      
"As tragic as this massacre was, we must not let the children of Dixville die in vain.  Our fractured nation has many serious wounds.  The blood of those boys will bind us and renew our efforts to help the poor working class families they came from.  And as a nation, we can reassert our efforts to rebuild America and console the Dixville families, renewing their faith in a government that protects them."

      
Applause erupted from the audience.  Clifford waited.  "There are many of you out there who want to help.  You can.  The White House will send investigative teams and troops to the region to catch these terrorists.  Though this nation is financially strapped, we're asking for any support the American people can give to the families in crisis at Dixville.  The American heart is an inexhaustible resource that has never failed us in times of tumult, during war, or in the times of economic hardships of today.  We will endure the Dixville tragedy, more united as a nation, setting aside all our ethnic and religious differences to focus on a common cause.  To the Dixville families: Our hearts go out to you in this time of grief." 

      
Clifford paused and turned from the cameras to reporters in the audience.  "I'll take questions now."

      
Every hand in the room went up, some reporters waving their arms to capture the attention of the President.  Nancy Atherton casually raised her hand from the far left side of the room.  "Ms. Atherton from CBS News," said the President.

      
"There were reports that a boy nearly survived the attack.  Could you confirm or deny that?"

      
Clifford pulled out an electronic note pad from his coat pocket that had details of the incident.  He studied it,  "The accounts from Dixville varied.  Smugglers still have a grip on the region, and the grief-stricken families at the scene were unable to give details because of the hysteria that followed.  There was an incident reported about a boy who somehow survived the slaughter.  Families at the scene said the boy's dog sniffed out the trail and found him at the ambush site.  The child's mother was there and struggled to keep her son alive, but to no avail.  The boy died on the emergency room table."

      
Reporters jumped from their seats, waving hands, calling out.

      
"Yes, Ms. Swanson of NBC News."

      
NBC journalist Kay Swanson, an African-American woman, scanned her notes before asking, "Did the boy say anything about what he saw?"

      
"All indicators point to smugglers.  The Dixville Notch area has been active with groups moving drugs, weapons, and such.  We had sent teams to the area, which made it more difficult for them.  Evidently the smuggling ring wanted to send the Federal Government a message.  Unfortunately, a Scout troop received it."

      
The flurry of waving hands and calls from the group returned.  This time President Winifred recognized a Caucasian male.  "Yes.  Steve Morrison."  The President recognized the redheaded reporter from Spectator News.

      
Though young, Steve Morrison had covered a number of assignments around the globe.  His father had been a journalist--always on the road.  Morrison followed those footsteps.  Home to him had been the pocket computer he used to write.  His few friends would often see him staring at the screen.  The reports, with digital imaging, could be sent from bars, motel rooms or lobbies, anywhere he had phone access.  When asked about his home Steve would recite motel rooms where he stayed.  He had just returned from the Amur Valley, Russia.  There, American troops aided the Russian government in containing a Jewish group vying for independence.  Steve considered himself an objective journalist, and didn't placate the White House as many of his colleagues did.  His coverage of the Amur revolt did not support the White House.  Winifred choosing him was a surprise.  The reporter quickly pulled the gum from his mouth before speaking, "Sir, evidently the accounts from the families at Dixville varied widely in content and cooperation.  In fact, the town of Colebrook blockaded the roads of the village and, at gunpoint, prevented reporters and government officials from going in.  What would explain this, Mr. President?" 

      
President Winifred looked to the floor impatiently.  He shook his head before speaking, "Have you no shame, Mr. Morrison," the President glared at him.  "To stand there and imply that grief-stricken parents would hold back the truth . . . you have no business wearing that press badge and being in the same room with the rest of these fine people."  He backed away from the mike with moistened eyes.  "I'm sorry.  This Press Conference is over."   Clifford stormed through the side door of the Press Room.

      
Lucas Bennett, Chief of Staff, waited in the short hallway outside.  "That was the best news conference I've ever seen you do, Cliff.  You had them by the crotch.  And that white guy, he must have defecated in his boxer shorts.  We'll never see his moronic face in the news business again."

      
"I did chew that kid's ass out, didn't I?"  The President smiled, the moistened eyes vanished.  "I can see this incident as a turning point for this country, Luc.  This tragic mishap could give the people something to rally behind."

      
As the President spoke, Bennett noticed Winifred's zipper had been left down.  He pointed.

      
Winifred noticed his Chief of Staff's gesture.  He looked around and discretely zipped up his pants.  He whispered to Lucas, "Do you think anyone noticed?"