by Brandt Legg
Lester considered the latest bombshell report his best work yet. The accuser was gorgeous, and claimed that she’d grown up a school friend of the president’s daughter, Florence.
“I used to go to weekend sleepovers at [the Pound’s] house. Her dad [Hudson Pound] would always stay up flirting and teasing with us. He was so handsome. I lost my virginity to him,” she said on a TV interview.
“How old were you at the time?” the show’s host asked.
“It was the summer before I turned fifteen.”
“Then you were only fourteen-years-old?” the host asked in an astonished tone, slowly emphasizing “fourteen” as if it were two words.
“Yes,” the woman replied, weeping.
Lester replayed the interview. The studio audience, consisting almost entirely of women, was riveted and appalled.
“A spokeswoman for Florence Pound claims she never knew you,” the host said. “However, we have located two of your former teachers.”
Two older women came on stage. Both took turns talking about Florence and the accuser as school girls. “They were inseparable,” one said.
The president’s approval ratings plummeted in spite of White House counter claims that neither of the “teachers” or the woman accusing Hudson appeared in any of the yearbooks, and no school system records indicated any of them were actually there during that time.
Many of Florence’s classmates and actual teachers came forward to deny ever knowing the woman who made the accusations, or the teachers corroborating her story. However, most media outlets didn’t cover the rebuttals and denials. Instead, they replayed earlier claims by other women and the interview of the woman saying she was only fourteen. White House spokespersons insisted all the records had been faked, and that the media was complicit in the character assassination job.
At the same time, another scandal broke that Hudson had plagiarized papers in college. A firm Lester had secretly contracted produced evidence they fed to the hungry media firms, happy to contribute to the takedown of Hudson. Lester had also crafted a grand scheme to go after Schueller next.
“The White House is right,” Lester told his right-hand man. “There’s no need to hire an assassin to take out the president when the media will do the same thing. And it’s a lot more fun to watch.”
“But not all the media is playing along,” the man said.
“Yeah, it’s not like the old days when there were only three or four TV channels and the wire services to feed. Much less control now, but that also has its advantages. The more controversy, the better,” Lester said, laughing heartily.
Chapter Forty
The president’s travel schedule was the most restricted of any president in history due to the threats arrayed against him. When he did travel, extreme measures had been put in place which far exceeded those implemented by his predecessors. When flying aboard the presidential helicopter, Marine One, three decoys flew in unison, along with four armed gunships.
Due to the difficulty and risks associated with moving the president in the NorthBridge era, Hudson visited the secure Camp David retreat more than any other president. He often felt like a prisoner in the White House, and with limited options, the two thousand wooded acres seemed like total freedom in the wilderness. The thirty-minute flight also gave him a chance to catch up on intelligence reports. Melissa often stayed there for a week at a time, able to accomplish more with fewer distractions. She also felt it caused Hudson to come to the relative safety of Camp David more than he would otherwise.
On this trip, back to the White House, he reviewed the latest summaries from the Wizard, Granger, and Rex. As he read one of the REMies’ recent MADE events and looked over Granger’s latest revisions to the “Fair and Free” plan they hoped would one day replace the current corruption, he had difficulty concentrating on the financial minutia and complex structures.
A new sexual misconduct allegation had surfaced. This time from a “former Pound Hardware store employee. He didn’t remember the woman, and had already checked with his sister Trixie. The accuser had never worked for him, but like the previous claims, the media ran the salacious stories first and asked questions later.
Suddenly the pilot shouted an expletive through the intercom, then yelled, “Brace! Brace!”
Successive explosions erupted in the air around Marine One. From the large rectangle windows, the president watched in horror as two of the decoy helicopters, which had been flying in tandem, spiraled to the ground in flames. More ordnances, threatening Marine One, blazed past.
“We’re going down!”
Hudson assumed a crash position, but seconds later the pilot clarified that they’d be making an emergency landing.
“The military is already responding, Mr. President,” another official said as they descended rapidly. “Four F-15 Eagles have been scrambled. They’re en route at supersonic speed. ETA three and a half minutes.”
With all the current chaos and uncertainty, Hudson didn’t know if that made him feel any better. He knew there were those inside the Pentagon who were appalled and alarmed by his presidency, some even disgusted at the negotiations with China, the calls for peace, and, of course, his proposed massive defense budget cuts. The Wizard had warned him that assassination attempts could come from inside the Pentagon, either sponsored by REMie controllers, or even independent plots. Yet as Marine One neared the ground, still taking fire, he knew that the most likely culprits were individual REMies, possibly Bastendorff or Coyne. At the same time, he didn’t discount the fact that it might also have been NorthBridge. Both Fonda and Booker had made it clear that NorthBridge was far from a unified body, and even though they had acted in the past with precision and discipline, elements within the increasingly powerful terror group could initiate unsanctioned attacks. Dranick and others had warned that the known NorthBridge leadership—Booker, Fonda, and Thorne—might be losing control of the different factions within the terror organization.
Marine One hit the ground hard, jostling the president. Before he had time to stand, or think what to do next, rough hands of a Marine pulled him up and pushed him toward the door.
“Go, go, go!”
Another Marine clamped a locator bracelet on Hudson’s wrist.
“Mr. President, we have to get you away from any target,” a different Marine shouted as they moved away from the helicopter.
“Aren’t I the target?” the president asked breathlessly as they jogged.
Four Secret Service agents surrounded the president. Hudson tried to count all the people shielding him. “Who’s attacking?” he asked, shaken. His combat training and experience left him better prepared for this kind of situation than any of the previous attempts on his life. Colorado had also been similar, but his daughter and Fitz’s presence changed the priority of that mission.
“We’ve got to make cover,” the Marine ordered.
It could be a rogue unit of NorthBridge, members who had moved farther to the extremes even beyond Thorne, or it could be a foreign actor—terrorist, or state, seeking to strike a weakened America.
“You’re much harder to hit than that big bird there,” the Marine answered his earlier question about being the target. “We’re moving to the tree line.”
There wasn’t much daylight left. Hudson estimated ten to fifteen minutes before the twilight would go dark. It was difficult to know just where they were, but it looked to be some sort of rural suburban area.
They made it to the trees. As another chopper landed and six more Marines jogged toward them, he wondered again if the military might have staged the event to take him out. Listening to the cross-talk on the many radios, he ascertained that several more were securing the helicopters. As they stumbled through the trees, Hudson was beginning to think the threat had passed until an explosion shook him. Seconds later one of the Marine’s radios crackled with the report that they had lost Marine One. Fortunately, there had been no casualties.
“Where are we?” the pr
esident asked.
“Somewhere outside Germantown, Maryland.”
“Where are we going?”
“Still working on that, sir. There’s a housing development on the other side of these trees,” the Marine said while looking into his GPS and urging everyone to move faster.
“The FAA has already cleared a no-fly zone and grounded or diverted all planes within a four-hundred-mile radius,” someone else reported.
“Have any other attacks . . . is the vice president safe?” the president asked.
“Yes, sir, Nobel is secure,” a Secret Service agent responded, using Vice President Brown’s code name.
“Thus far, no other attacks detected,” a Marine replied.
The tree line ended at a field, which turned out to be a large backyard in a row of generously spaced McMansions.
“Looks like we found a temporary refuge,” the Marine said.
“Do we know anybody there? Are they Republicans?” the president asked, trying to inject some humor to defuse the tension.
“Sir,” the Marine began, “we are trying to get you out of harm’s way.”
“I know that, but who’s giving you your orders?”
“I’ve got standing orders,” the Marine responded, moving rapidly away from them toward the house.
“DC is talking in my ear,” a Secret Service agent said.
Hudson looked over at his trusted Secret Service agent as if to ask, Are we okay?
The agent responded by moving closer to the president and spoke only a few inches from his ear. “As of this moment, the Marines have jurisdiction, but you can change that.”
“Mr. President, wait here,” another Marine said, halting the group as two Marines ran into the yard and the remaining Marines took perimeters fifteen feet apart. The Secret Service closed in tighter around the president. “Teacher in gauntlet,” one of them said into his wrist.
“What’s to stop whoever was shooting at us back there?” the president began. “Do we know yet who was shooting at us?”
No one answered.
“What’s to stop them from blowing up this house?” he continued. “If we go in there, aren’t we a big target again?”
One of the Marines ran back and signaled the group to move across the field.
“Or getting us while we’re in the open?” the president persisted.
Still no answers.
Two military jets buzzed overhead at low altitude. “I assume those are ours,” the president said. By now he knew he was talking to himself.
Several helicopters could be heard getting closer.
“And I damn sure hope those helicopters are ours!”
Chapter Forty-One
Boom, boom!
Someone shoved the president forcefully to the ground. He hit the cold, damp lawn and his military training kicked in, instantly rolling and scanning for cover. Old injuries from prior attacks reminded him he wasn’t twenty anymore.
“What’s going on?” he snapped in a whisper, trying to see where the explosion had come from.
Several Marines crouched around. The Secret Service agents stood with guns drawn. Even after his movement, the perimeter remained around him. Other Marines continued to move toward the house.
“We’re still trying to track the source,” a Marine said. “The ordnance detonated over the woods.”
As fiery shards rained down over the trees they’d just come through, two agents grabbed the president’s arms and hoisted him to his feet. The three of them kept low as they pushed him toward the house.
“Move, move, move!”
The president’s foot caught in a hose and sprinkler and he tripped. Before he could even hit the ground, Secret Service agents caught him and supported him upright until his feet found ground again. Seconds later, they were at the home’s backdoor that the Marines had just kicked in.
They found themselves in a large kitchen—granite countertops, stainless steel appliances, mahogany cabinets. The agents had Hudson crouch between the island range and kitchen sink while the Marines and two Secret Service agents searched the house. He heard screams and guessed they belonged to the homeowners.
Some poor family, he thought, just minding their own business, probably watching TV, trying to relax on a Sunday evening.
A few minutes later a Marine reported back, “House secure.”
“What are we dealing with?” one of the agents asked.
“Family of four,” the Marine said, making eye contact with the agent and then looking back over his shoulder. “We have them in the basement. Married couple, son—twelve, daughter—nine.”
“You didn’t hurt them, did you?” the president asked. “They aren’t part of this plot.”
“They are unharmed,” the Marine said. “Their level of involvement is still unknown.”
The president shook his head and laughed in annoyed amusement. “We randomly stumbled into this house to seek refuge. We could have gone anywhere. The odds that they’re involved are miniscule.”
“That’s above my pay grade, Mr. President. Smarter people than me solve those problems.”
“No doubt,” the president said, looking from the Marine to a Secret Service agent. “Take me to talk to them.”
“Negative,” the Marine said.
“I wasn’t asking,” the president snapped. “It was an order. In fact, bring them up to the living room.”
The Marine looked at the Secret Service agent, the communication clear.
“Yes, sir,” the Marine said, turning on his heel and heading back to the basement.
“Take me to the living room,” the president said to his agent.
The shaken family marched into the living room a few minutes later.
“I’m extremely sorry for this intrusion,” the president said to the parents.
“Oh my God,” the mother said. “You’re the president.”
“Guilty as charged.” He turned to the Marine. “You didn’t tell them?”
“At first, we thought it was a robbery,” the husband spoke up. “Then we thought it was some sort of mistaken identity drug bust or something, then we realized they were soldiers and we didn’t know what to think.”
“I was flying back from Camp David,” the president began. “Someone shot our helicopters out of the sky. We did an emergency landing. Marine One got hit after we were out.”
“That’s awful,” the mother said.
“We aren’t sure who’s shooting at us or where they are. That’s about right, isn’t it?” he asked, looking from the Marines to the Secret Service agents for confirmation.
“Oh my God,” the mother repeated. “Then we’re all in real danger.”
“I’m afraid so,” the president said. “However, you can be assured that all manner of assets possessed by the mightiest military on earth are converging on this spot as we speak.” He reached out his hand toward the woman. “We’ll be okay.”
She held his hand for a moment and looked into his eyes as if thinking, This man never dies.
The president shook the father’s hand. “I’m truly sorry about this intrusion and about how you were treated. Sometimes my security team is overzealous.” He asked the son and daughter their names as he shook their hands. “We’re going to get out of your way just as soon as we can, and we’ll see to it that you get a new back door. I’m not sure why they couldn’t just knock, but they’ve got a tough job. Apparently, a lot of people don’t like me.”
The president quietly told an aide, who had been in a trailing group and just caught up with them, to be certain the family was invited to the White House. “Also send them flowers from the first lady and myself,” the president added. “And make sure a crew gets here to do permanent repairs.”
“Yes, sir,” the aide replied.
It wasn’t long before a military Black Hawk helicopter landed on the front lawn. Seven others hovered above. With efficient precision, the president was whisked away. On the flight back to the White House, he
was informed that two “adversarial” helicopters and a makeshift ground base from where the missiles had originated had been destroyed.
“Has NorthBridge claimed responsibility?” the president asked.
“Not yet,” the commander on board told him.
Hudson didn’t think they would. Although the operation reminded him of the attack during his campaign in Colorado, which had been ordered by someone in NorthBridge, he didn’t believe that Booker, Fonda, or even Thorne would be looking to take him out right now. But he had to admit that he didn’t know about the other NorthBridgers.
We’ve got to find out who AKA Adams is before NorthBridge turns this into a full-scale revolution.
Chapter Forty-Two
The first lady and Schueller had flown back to Washington as soon as they were informed of the attack on the president. They’d been attending a Free Food Foundation event in North Carolina. The media reported the news almost instantly as the nation stood once again gripped with fear that the president might be killed, and if NorthBridge could reach him, then no one was safe.
Florence and all of Hudson’s siblings phoned him even before he’d landed back in DC, and in the coming days the White House was inundated with well wishes from across the country and around the globe. Countless world leaders sent their concerns and congratulations that Hudson had survived yet another horrible assault. Mexico and Canada promised continued full cooperation and new efforts to assist in apprehending NorthBridgers on their side of the borders.
However, within hours it became clear that NorthBridge had not been responsible for this latest attack. Information gathered by the Wizard and Granger showed a broken but likely trail leading back to Bastendorff. Not enough to prosecute or go public with, but the substance made it clear that NorthBridge hadn’t been involved.
“There’s another possibility,” the Wizard had told him. “It’s real esoteric, even Granger thinks I’m crazy, but there’s something in the cycle of data that could mean this is actually a double frame, kind of a dual reality . . . ”