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“But he just said the president won’t—”

“What are you, some kinda beginner?” an agitator asked. “When Mickey says
not
to do something, he really means do it. C’mon, this is what they’re paying us for. Like this…” With that the agitator unzipped his trousers and began urinating into the fountain. Soon about fifty demonstrators were lined up to take turns. By then the fountain’s once clear water had turned an ugly yellow and had developed a pungent odor. The fountain plumbing had a filtration system, but it was not equipped to handle such a copious amount of impurity.

15:00 HRS, August 30
^th
, 2071

Senator Pitstick’s Office

A large bank of monitors covered the wall facing Senator Pitstick’s desk. Every major news feed was showing with subtitles. DC News occupied the central monitor and had live audio. The Senator was leaned back in his desk chair his legs folded and feet propped on the corner of his desk. His left elbow rested on the arm of the chair and his left hand waved a remote with a red laser pointer from one monitor to the next.

“Surely you don’t mean to tell me that’s a couple hundred thousand people out there,” the Senator said. “I’ve seen demonstrations in the Washington Mall before—hell, couple hundred thousand should stretch all the way back to the Monument at least.”

“There wasn’t a lot of notice, sir,” one of the staffers said. “Maybe they’re still on the way.”

“Bullshit!” the Senator said. “I’m gonna have to get my ass up on the South Portico porch before they start getting bored and head for home. These folks are mostly locals, right?”

“Yes, sir, plus a few visitors and curiosity types.”

“Hmm, what is it… 3:15? I better start on over there. I want to be sure I catch the late afternoon sun while I give my speech… don’t want to be in the shadows on the TV cameras. Have the limo pull around.”

“It’s already parked out front, sir. Plus we have a bunch of coolers in the trunk with bottles of water. Figured you might want to show yourself as a man of the people… you know… passing out a few bottles of water to the crowd. Got to be over a hundred out there. Could be a terrific press op.”

“Hmm… I like that! Make sure the press knows. You guys got the portable sound system ready?”

“Of course, sir. It’s already on site. You just have to show up and start talking.”

“Good, good. Well done. But, sir, what about your own security? You’re going to be awfully exposed out there.”

“Hmm… got my vest on, but I don’t figure I’ll be exposed very long—hell, I won’t get more than five minutes into my speech before the president invites me in. One thing he can’t stand is somebody like me hogging the spotlight on his own damned porch!”

“Brilliant call, sir!”

16:30 HRS, August 30
^th
, 2071

White House Bunker – inside the main chamber

The president and his staffers were gathered around the monitors watching the demonstrators on the South Lawn. Some of the monitors were news feeds from across the nation. A conservative feed showed an aerial view from a chopper being described by a busty, big-haired blond with vacant eyes. She seemed to be squinting at a teleprompter. The audio was muted and only the subtitles trailed by underneath her. A liberal feed showed essentially the same thing only they had a panel of erudite looking academics and attractive young staff reporters—none blond and only of moderate breast size. The anchor was a former late night comic who managed to keep everyone laughing. Again, no audio, only the subtitles. A neutral feed had cameras out among the crowd with roving reporters asking banal questions of the crowd members. The subtitles showed the conversation had mainly to do with how they were handling the heat, were they getting enough water, how bad were the port-a-pots, etc. The only feed that had audio was Al Jazeera America, affectionately referred to as ‘A-Jay.’ The anchor was describing real time poll results. The president’s approval had fallen to 47 percent from his ‘solid 52 percent’ of a few weeks ago.

About then the rooftop security cameras showed a large limo pulling up the driveway to the South Portico. It had an open sun roof and a stout little man was sticking out of it waving to the crowd. It traveled at a slow walk speed while staffers trailed behind passing out bottles of cold water from the open trunk. The limo pulled over under some trees about twenty meters from the covered awning that led to the Portico while the portly man got out of the vehicle. Commercial news feeds were showing him passing out water bottles and glad-handing among the crowd. The centrist feed had a roving reporter approaching the man with a live camera and microphone.

“Give me the audio on that!” the president said.

About then the portly man’s face showed up plainly. “Jesus H. Lemuel K. Christ on a Crutch!” the president screamed. “I knew that fat fuck was behind this!”

“Sir, they’re setting up a public address system on the porch.”

“Terrific. Now if I have the Secret Service run him off, I look like a petty dictator.”

“He’s heading up to the porch, sir.”

“I’ve got eyes, dammit!”

“I mean do you want us to go get him?”

“Get him? Let that fat bucket of lard melt out there. He won’t last long in this heat.”

“Uh… beg to differ, sir. They’re plugging some kind of tube into his pant leg. Looks like he might have some kind of cooling system under his clothes.”

“Oh, Christ! And he’s even got prompters. Okay, go get him. I’m not gonna give him the satisfaction of talking to the whole damn nation from my own damn back porch!”

“Do you want us to get you some clothes, sir?”

“Huh?”

“Clothes, sir. You’re in your pajamas. You might have to go outside onto the porch and you won’t want the senator to have the psychological advantage of catching you in ‘your jammies,’ so to speak.”

“Oh, all right, bring me a suit of clothes.”

“And maybe an electric razor, sir? Cameras can zoom in at extremely high resolution these days.”

16:45 HRS, August 30
^th
, 2071

White House Bunker – inside the main chamber

The president approached the senator clapping his hands in slow applause. “Well played, Senator! Well played indeed!”

Senator Pitstick smiled in spite of himself.

“You’ve really thought this out—personal cooling unit, sound system prepositioned. Not much of a crowd though—guess they heard only the organizers were going to get paid. That’s the problem with mercenaries… their hearts are never really in it, are they?”

The Senator stiffened. “They were in it enough for my purposes which is to say they got all the news feeds here in force. I do hope the choppers buzzing around all night didn’t disturb your beauty sleep?” He gabled his eyebrows in faux concern at the end of the sentence.

“Can’t say they did, Senator. Slept like a baby the whole night through.”

“Yeah, I guess that organizational deafness you’ve cultivated for the last two decades can come in handy at times.”

The president’s expression darkened. “Let’s cut the crap. What do you want?”

“Why Mr. President, it’s not what
I
want, it’s what the
People
want!”

The president mumbled, “So much for cutting the crap.” Then he raised his voice, “Please state your true intent, sir. Why have you convened a mob of mercenaries to ruin the pure waters of my fountain?”

“Today is the 30
^th
of August. On the 2
^nd
of September at 10 AM I want you on the West Steps of the Capitol Building to give a State of the Union Address. I want the crowd to see you in the flesh, hear your voice for real instead of over a news feed. I want you to tell them how you are going to put the nation back together again.”

“And you will be there on the West Steps with me while I give this speech?”

“My family too.”

The president held his chin in his hand while he thought a moment, hooded eyes drilling into the Senator, “Very well, Senator Pitstick,” the president said, his voice even and slow. “The West Steps it is.”

“We have to act fast. I’ve scheduled the Address for Tuesday—that’s three days. You have a speech ready?”

“It’s always ready—we update it daily.”

“Good,” the Senator said. “Now you need to go upstairs to the Truman Balcony and tell the people.”

“You don’t think that’s risky?”

“Of course it’s risky. You tryin’ to live forever?”

The president hesitated.

“Come on, I’ll be standing right beside you. Have your people put that bulletproof glass up if it’ll make you feel safer. It’s gonna be a proud moment—the day the United States government started governing again. Lincoln’s statue gonna have a big shit-eatin’ grin on it, just you watch!”

“We already have the glass up, sir.”

The president stopped and looked at the Senator as he spoke, “No glass. I’ll address the people in the buff.”

“Is that wise, sir?”

“No glass,” the president said not taking his eyes off Senator Pitstick.

17:00 HRS, August 30
^th
, 2071

The Truman Balcony above the South Portico

The crowd roared like spectators at a gladiatorial event in the old Roman coliseum. The president approached the microphone with the Senator slightly behind and to his left.

He spoke off the cuff, no prompters, no notes. His words were few but straightforward. “My fellow Americans, the time has come for a break with the paranoia of the past. The time is now for a new future, a new future for a re-United States of America. A time to put aside our differences and put our collective shoulder to the wheel. America, a new dawn is upon us, and you deserve to hear about it. And hear about it you shall. A State of the Union Address has been scheduled for Wednesday, the 2
^nd
of September, at nine o’clock in the morning. At that time I shall address you all from the West Steps of the Capitol Building, in the flesh, in my own voice, there for all of you to hear me and see me. At that time, I shall tell you in precise terms how we shall restore this nation to its former greatness. Now it is time for all of you to go home and get out of the hot sun. Your message has been received and taken to heart. Go home now. Go home to your families. Go home to your own plumbing. Go home and spare the White House fountain from further humiliation.” With that he waved to the left and right with both of his hands.

Senator Pitstick attempted to approach the microphone but was politely wrestled back inside by two Secret Service men.

“Happy now?” the president asked.

“Why did you change the time? It’s scheduled for 10AM. You said 9AM.”

“Why, Senator Pitstick, we’ve a nation to rebuild, you and I. We need to get started!”

“But it’s been scheduled for ten. Everyone will be confused.”

“Good day,
Mister
Pitstick.”

*   *   *

The Secret Service gently escorted Senator Pitstick out of the room leaving the president and his close staff alone.

“How did he react to the time switch?”

“He appeared to twitch a little, but mainly he just maintained that beatific grin of his.”

The president smiled with satisfaction. “A twitch you say?”

02:00 HRS, September 2
^nd
, 2071

Sniper Ops Command Center

“Setup teams, report status.”

“Team One up.”

“Team Two up.”

“Team Three up.”

“Setup teams, pull back. BREAK. Security maintain over watch.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-
N
INE

08:30 HRS, September 2
^nd
, 2071

Sniper Ops Command Center

A long white awning extended from the Diplomatic Reception Room of the ground floor of the White House. Parked at the end of the awning was the president’s limo affectionately known as the ‘Beast.’ The Secret Service had given up on the idea of converting a commercial limo for tactical purposes 24 years ago when the president’s predecessor was assassinated by a long range .50-caliber armor piercing sniper round. At that time they had believed that the vehicle’s bullet proofing could withstand a .50-caliber armor piercing round. They had not anticipated the round would be depleted uranium whose density to frontal area ratio would allow it to pass through special armor like it was whipped cream. Post mortem investigations identified five sniper team positions. Over two hundred rounds had entered the vehicle in two minutes causing many to speculate that the teams had used machine guns rather than long range rifles. The bodies were later removed in 129 small plastic self-sealing bags, each one labeled as to where its contents were collected to later aid in identification. It was considered a very professional hit. The vice president, now president, was travelling in a separate vehicle several cars to the front. It sped away unscathed causing conspiracy theorists to speculate that the hit had been an inside job and that the VP had been involved. While the vice president’s vehicle may have emerged damage free, the vice president had been severely traumatized, and though functional, never fully recovered.

Today’s ‘Beast’ had its tactical roots in Mine-Resistant Ambush Protection or MRAP vehicle technology first developed for the Mid-East wars where road side bombs and mines were the weapon of choice by Taliban fighters and other unsavory characters. It had a tandem rear axle to support its 17-ton weight, a V-shaped hull to deflect mine blasts, and special armor and laminated polycarbonate bullet-proof glass. It only needed a coat of shiny black enamel paint to give it a bit more dignity from the outside and some cushy leather seats and a wet bar to give it the required elegance on the interior. The top of the vehicle mounted two ‘air conditioner’ units such as were popular on large recreational vehicles. Only these air conditioners housed remote controlled weaponry that would allow the presidential entourage to fight its way out of a major ambush. One contained a 30-mm short-barrel chain gun and the other a half dozen 75-mm high explosive armor piercing rockets that could be salvoed or fired independently.