“They’re putting Wild Bill in the game?” a surprised UPI reporter mumbled.
“Here comes the end run!” the correspondent from Reuters said back to him under his breath.
Bill approached the podium and leaned into the mic, causing feedback. A technician backed him off. Locating the ABC reporter in the room he asked, “Could you … could you repeat the question, please?”
“What were they working on at Intellichip’s Westchester plant that could have exploded like that?”
“Not a thing.”
The room burst into a flurry of shouted questions. Reynolds, the blood drained from his face, rushed back to the podium.
“Too short a sentence, Ray?” Hiccock asked as he was pushed aside. Reynolds glared at him and then turned to the press. “Now hold on. As I said before, neither Mr. Hiccock nor anyone else knows for sure what that plant was engaged in.”
“That’s not entirely correct,” Hiccock said. A trained observer would have recognized the frozen eyeballs in Reynolds’s head as his life passed before his eyes. Hiccock continued, “Our records indicate Intellichip was involved in parallel processing firewall technology. That’s creating chips that will protect the next generation of computers, which will be so complex that they will be even more susceptible to hacking and other nastiness.”
“For Israel?” the ABC vet asked.
“We have no information of any activity in the military procurement area, which, as you know, without permission from DARPA or the State Department, would be tantamount to treason.” The room broke into a frenzy upon the use of the word treason. Reynolds buried his head.
“Someone’s going to swing for this. You can’t tell the truth here,” said the Reuters correspondent, summing up the moment.
∞§∞
“Good God, Ray, what the hell were you thinking, putting Hiccock up there?” Spence asked, brandishing a fanfold of wire copy with a death grip. Watching her, Hiccock figured that whatever finishing school network anchors go to didn’t cover getting so worked up that your neck veins showed.
“It was a gut call. I expected him to snow ’em.”
“I don’t snow people, Ray.”
“Grow up.”
“‘White House leaves terrorism question open in Intellichip blast,’” the press secretary read from a headline. She continued, “‘Science geek number one scares nation … Arabs protest accusation they planted bomb.’ Sweet Jesus, what a mess.” She threw the copy down.
“I asked you what they were working on,” Reynolds said angrily to Hiccock.
“And I told you.”
“Gentlemen, please,” the press secretary said. She turned to Hiccock. “Mr. Hiccock, please don’t ever talk to the press directly again, and any releases are to be cleared through my office first.” Without looking, she held a finger out in the chief of staff’s direction, “Do I have your support on this, Ray?”
“Of course.”
“Does this mean you don’t want me to accept the request to go on Geraldo?” The vicious looks he received in response to that quip dissolved Hiccock’s little smile.
∞§∞
Carly Simone made it to the press briefing room just after the briefing ended. It took her 30 minutes to get through White House security and obtain her press pass. Her original papers were back at the hotel by now, the airline having lost them with the rest of her check-in baggage. So there she stood outside the empty pressroom in the same clothes she wore last night. She also didn’t have a clue where you went after a briefing was finished. But she didn’t panic; after all it was only her first day as White House correspondent for Scientific American. Suddenly she saw him, William Hiccock, the reason she got this new assignment. If things had gone as planned last night, she would have introduced herself at the A.I. Convention, and this morning would not be the first time, but the explosion ruined everyone’s night.
She pitched her story angle to the editors, on the basis that never before had anyone in the American public even known there was a science advisor to the president. This guy was a an ex-football hero, and that meant that the science-minded Americans who read their magazine might be interested in who he was, what he would and what he could do to advance the cause of science in America today. Last night her premise was proven when the technocratic elite warmly embraced Hiccock.
She had already written 300 words on last night alone. She promised her editor 2500. With 700 more going to background, she only had 1500 or so more to write. Might as well get this over with, she thought as she steeled up for her introduction, attempting to smooth a night’s worth of wrinkles from the dress she wore at the dinner. She walked towards Hiccock. He looked like he had something on his mind. She turned on the smile.
As for Hiccock, he was running through a whole bunch of scenarios in his mind about any future encounters with the press. All at once he was looking into a vaguely familiar face, a really pretty face framed with blonde hair.
“William Hiccock, I’d like to introduce myself;, Carly Simone, from Scientific American.” She extended her hand.
“Pleasure to meet you.” A real pleasure. What brings you to the White House?”
“Actually, you.”
“Me?”
“Well, your story.”
“I wasn’t aware that I had a story.”
“Wait until you read it in Sci-Am.”
“Oh I get it; you are going to do a story on me for Scientific American.”
“Hopefully with your cooperation.”
I don’t think you’ll have any trouble getting anything out of me. “Sure, whatever I can do to help.”
Wow, that was easy. “Thank you. Can we sit somewhere for a while and talk?”
“That sounds nice… er fine.”
“I think three times would do it.”
“Excuse me?”
“Three interviews. I think that’s all it would take. The third would probably just be a follow up to clarify.”
“What are you writing, a novel?” I hope it ends with me getting the girl. Stop that, William, she’s serious.
She doesn’t know how to read the little smile that just rippled across his face. Is he taking me seriously? Has it just hit him that I am in the same dress? “I assure you, I only offer that as a measure of ensuring accuracy. Our readers demand it, as do my bosses.”
“I completely understand.” What a great dress… Oh crap! I can’t do this.
“Of course you’ll just have to clear everything through the Press Secretary.” Sorry babe.
“Well, of course; how do you think I got this pass?” She said, holding up the pass dangling on a strap between her décolleté covered breasts.
“Well, that’s very impressive,” My God you are healthy, “but I think you should really review that with her one more time, especially after today.”
“What happened today?” Oh shit, I should have been here.
“You really are new around here. Cover that with her; she’s nice in a mean sort of way. Good to have met you. I’ve really gotta run.” If I talk to you any longer we are going to be picking out china patterns and registering at Macys, he thought as he walked off in a deliberately more self-important rush than was necessary.
Leaving Carly to say to his back, “And nice meeting you, too. I look forward to working together.” Nice butt, she thought as he turned and walked down the corridor. She was pleased having just had her first encounter with her subject.
On the way back to his office something about her was nagging at him. She looked familiar, although he couldn’t place from where. As soon as he reached his office, the pile of memos, press releases, and position papers nudged any further thoughts of… Was it Carly Simon? Wasn’t that the name of a singer? Like I should talk, thought Wild Bill Hiccock. He dove right into a position paper on “The Health Issues of Power Line Proximity in Niagara County.” Somewhere between “effective radiated power coefficients” and “the field effect of electromagnetism on cellular membranes�
��, it hit him. Aunt Mary! She was the blonde from last night. The one sitting up front! Damn, why didn’t I remember her? I hope she wasn’t offended. “...the fluxivity of the domain within the nucleus alternates between two…” So she followed me here? He read the next four dry, technically precise pages with a smile.
CHAPTER FOUR
Gift from Heaven
THERE WAS A SOFT, early fall breeze blowing into his face. That was good; he wanted to be downwind of his target. Dennis Mallory’s eyebrows knitted as he strained to listen for any crack of a twig or brush-by of a bush that would reveal the position of his prey. Not wishing to betray his location by the slightest move, he didn’t dare check his watch. Instead he judged by the position of the sun that he’d been waiting for at least two hours. The only movement he did risk was the rippling of his fingers over the main part of the weapon that hung comfortably in his lowered hands. An eagle circled above, catching a thermal with outstretched wings. The hot sun baked the valley and created huge heated updrafts upon which a bird of prey could hitchhike. Two hunters, he thought. Only the bird doesn’t need contacts.
The quiet rustle of the forest was soothing. A few years back, at just about this time of day, he would be traipsing through some god-awful neighborhood. Suddenly, a movement caught his attention. As he had been trained to do with so many other weapons, his mind was immediately flushed of any and all thought save one: lining up his shot. The antlers and head of a magnificent eight-point buck peeked over the bramble about thirty yards ahead. Having long ago gotten over buck fever, he exhaled, eliminating even the remotest possibility that the holding of a breath could affect his body mechanics when he released the arrow. He silently coaxed the “venison on hoof” a little more out into the open, where he would be able to get a good shot. He slowly brought his arms up and lined up the “peep site” with green fiber-optic pin of his Titan site. The eagle above suddenly started flapping his wings in an almost silent flurry of whooshes. It didn’t faze the buck, which lazily strode out another two feet into the clearing. Dennis pulled back the remaining tension of the 70-pound draw, Bowtech Guardian Compound bow, making them one single, deadly weapon system and was waiting for the next foot of revealed buck to cross his sights when a cry came from above them.
“Shit!”
Dennis and the buck looked up. There was the sound of breaking branches as the eight-point buck’s flag went up and the white underside of his tail disappeared into cover. Dennis watched, both amazed and perturbed, as a swatch of colors, lines, and ropes came crashing down into the opening. At the center of the ball of color and cloth was a helmeted man rolling in agony.
“Aw, fer christsake!” was all Dennis said as he replaced the arrow in his quiver. He then unstrapped his safety belt from the trunk of the tree and climbed down from the stand that required an hour of positioning. He approached the man on the ground and saw that he was rapidly losing blood from his upper leg. Dennis quickly opened his own belt, yanked it through the loops of his camouflage pants, and dropped to his knees. He used the shaft of an arrow as the turnbuckle of a makeshift belt-tourniquet. The man on the ground was going into shock and shuddering. The twisting of the tourniquet stemmed the flow of blood. Dennis determined that this daredevil had lost quite a bit of blood, but not as much as he had seen other men, including himself, lose and still survive.
“You’re going to be okay. You’re bleeding a lot and you might have a concussion. Don’t worry, I’ll get you out of here.” He removed his Gerber Skinner knife from its sheath and slit the man’s parachute. Was it a para-sail or para-glide? He couldn’t remember what the hot dogs who jumped off of cliffs called these things. Making a blanket of the multicolored fabric, he covered the crumpled body, deciding to leave the man’s helmet on but loosening the neck strap a bit. Dennis figured if he could at least keep him warm, the guy might not go into total shock. Dennis reached into his pocket to retrieve his cell phone. There was no signal. That’s when the man’s eyes met his.
“I’m going to a campsite about a mile back to get help.” As he walked away, the man grunted and tried to talk. Dennis came back and leaned down to listen.
“My … poc … ket.”
Dennis felt all the man’s pockets and found a cell phone in his right front. “I already tried but there is no sig …” Dennis was surprised to see a full signal until he read the name of the phone. It was a Comsat 310. “No shit, a satellite phone. Well, buddy, this is the best three grand you ever spent.”
Dennis was lucky to have drawn a tag from the Montana lottery and called the park rangers with the number printed on his out-of-state hunting license. He then reached in his pocket and retrieved his own personal Radio Shack GPS system. A gift from his wife, Cynthia, with a note that said “So you can always find your way back to me.” In the past, the only thing that got in the way of his coming home to her every night was the ritual at the watering hole, three blocks from the precinct that was his office for twenty-five years.
“My name is Dennis Mallory. I have a wounded man here, at 45 degrees, 37 minutes, 4.36 seconds, north, 110 degrees, 33 minutes,
35.82 seconds. Need air-evac, he’s lost a lot of blood.”
“Hold on.” The ranger didn’t put his phone down and Dennis could hear him calling to the chopper whose scratchy response was followed by a repeat of Dennis’s coordinates. The ranger got back on the line. “Is the victim conscious?”
“He’s going in and out.”
“Are you by a clearing or place for the helicopter to land?”
“We’re about 300 yards west of a nice clear patch. I’ll mark it with a part of this guy’s parachute.”
“Parachute?”
“Yeah, a little present from heaven dropped down here with a thud … cut up his leg on a broken branch as he was coming in, probably busted a couple of bones to boot.”
“That’s a first!”
“For me, too, buddy. For me, too!”
∞§∞
The chopper was four minutes out, and Dennis was packing up his gear when he heard a sound that freezes all hunters dead in their tracks. He turned and saw a giant chestnut-brown grizzly three yards from the downed man. Instinctively, Dennis started shouting, trying to distract the mammoth beast from the smell of blood. He knew that, at sixty yards, the .38 strapped to his ankle would do little more than piss off the thing.
The bear turned around as it got wind of yet another predator in his domain.
“Now what do I do?” Dennis said to the trees as he quickly unzipped the bag into which he had just stowed his bow. He cut himself on the razor-tipped edge of a Carbon Express, three-veined arrow as he snagged it out from the quiver. The bear started toward him. Then, as if the animal had calculated the distance between them, it turned to go back to the raw meat writhing on the ground only a few feet away. Like an Indian brave, with his bow out in front of him, Dennis began running toward the bear as he nocked the arrow to the string. To get the bear’s attention he started screaming again … to no avail. It hovered over the bleeding fellow for a second, sniffing at the brightly colored blanket.
While running, Dennis observed the bear’s hesitation, the nylon chute momentarily confusing the bear. The scent of fresh blood, however, overcame the grizzly’s visual disorientation and it began to prod and poke the bright fabric covering the newly butchered prey it was so fortunate to stumble upon. Then the grizzly got a handle on something that looked edible. With a snap of his head, the bear chomped down on the man’s arm.
Dennis stopped momentarily, just long enough to take a shot, then continued running. As soon as the arrow left his bow, he feared that he might hit the man he was trying to save. The bear swung the man out of harm’s way just as the arrow punctured the animal right above its left shoulder. The pain pulling the beast sideways created the image of the man being dragged like a rag doll.
This time, Dennis got down on one knee as he nocked the next arrow. Taking a deep breath, he retracted the bow and aimed. On exhale, he
loosed the arrow. The animal cried out, dropping the man’s arm. Having been hit right in the chest it rolled backwards, snapping off both arrows that lodged deep in its body. The 1,200-pound grizzly roared as he beat the ground with massive paws and tried to shake away the pain that stung him like giant bees. Dennis approached the man and saw he was still breathing. Although his arm was gnawed, it was still intact.
Dennis fit the string into the notch of one more arrow. Cautiously, he advanced toward the wounded animal. It lay helpless, its breathing rapid and short, its thick fur rippling with spasms. Its eyes wide, the bear was choking on its own blood, the arrow having punctured the right lung. Dennis, a hunter all his life, of men, as well as animals, felt a genuine sadness for this great creature’s agonizing confusion.
“Sorry, pal, but this is for your own good,” he said as he let go of an arrow that went right into the beast’s heart. The giant bear stopped moving as if a switch was thrown off. Dennis gazed upon the grizzly for a moment. How sad that such a glorious animal had to be wasted like that. He had to put his daughter’s dog, Patches, to sleep when it contracted a tumor in its old age. She grew up with the dog and even though she was sixteen, he still had to explain to her that it was for Patches’ own good that he be put to sleep. His daughter didn’t buy it. It took a year before their relationship normalized again. Normal only for a brief second because then she was seventeen and discovered a completely new set of ways to test him.
Dennis heard the rotors of the approaching chopper and ran to the clearing to flag down the paramedics.
CHAPTER FIVE
Cake and Soufflé
THERE WAS A TIME when people actually took tours of the Mason Chemical Plant Number Five. But that was long ago, before the National Football League decided that Canton, Ohio, was the perfect place for the Football Hall of Fame. Now they give all the tours. As with most industrial plants that are not working on anything of vital national or corporate security interest, the chemical plant had minimal security, mostly to keep out mischief-makers and give the employees the sense that they were being protected. This unseasonably warm fall evening, that protection was the responsibility of Eugene Harns, one of Canton’s finest, retired some fifteen years now from active duty, filling out his pension check on the night shift three days a week in the guard shack. It was an easy job. He wound up being more like the old guys at Kmart, a smiling, welcoming face waving folks through as long as the picture on their ID was a close-enough match.
The Eighth Day Page 4