by Martha Carr
No one wanted the general electorate catching on that the trip had two purposes. Several of his aides had done their best to talk him out of the idea but Hayes was determined to see how things were going for himself.
“Sir, we can arrange a press conference during prime time. Reach far more people with a lot less risk.” They had tried every argument.
He had looked up at his senior aides, flanked by their junior assistants and for a moment wondered just how out of touch he might be with the real world. But then he remembered something he learned in his first year in the Circle. Reality is a very shaky proposition.
The weight of trying to figure out what was the right thing to do was with President Hayes all of the time. It wasn’t right to put logistics ahead of gathering enough information so he could get as clear a picture as possible. Things were so complicated that he knew getting the information from anyone else would make that more difficult. Nothing was going to get him to stay home.
It was true that there had already been several attempts on his life. It would be next to impossible to protect him on the road. If, God forbid, something did happen to him then the certainty of holding the White House would be in jeopardy.
The Episcopal Bishop of Virginia had even sent in Fred to try and convince him to stay where he was until the war was more decided. Surely, this couldn’t go on for much longer. Eventually, the middle class would start to put things together, and no one wanted that to happen.
“If you’re going to order young people into harm’s way, you had better at least have the good sense to go and see what’s going on for yourself. Second-hand intelligence is not going to cut it,” he had shouted in exasperation.
“It’s hard enough to run a country with so many different forces pulling strings. Imagine trying to win a damn war where the people don’t even know they’re on the battlefield.”
It wasn’t going to be easy to get the President in front of large groups of people without the general media noticing but Hayes had made up his mind. They were being billed as visits with local business leaders, which was partially true. Many of the officers were directors and vice presidents in their jobs just a few states away.
But calling them fundraisers would give the Hayes campaign the excuse it needed to keep the meetings private and allow the enlisted men and women to be in the room without their faces being in the background of photos.
That would have been close to impossible to explain and would have broadcast to Management exactly who was in the Circle and where they were encamped.
Most of the larger battles were still closer to the Canadian and Montana border but small skirmishes had spilled over making a wide red line that zigzagged down the middle of America, cutting through parts of Iowa.
The campaign was stopping in picturesque Pella, Iowa. The storefronts all looked like something out of an upscale Western. An old Dutch windmill in nearby Central Park, in honor of the town’s founders, was now being used as an information booth and was only adding to the small town charm.
It even helped that the area was filled with local hunters who wouldn’t take to kindly to having their gun rights restricted. The chances of anyone bringing up what looked like an uptick in gun violence along that red line were low. As long as no one got the idea to start any kind of investigation, there was a better chance of no one connecting the battlefield like little dots on a map and seeing the bigger picture.
The town was perfect as a backdrop for a Presidential stop along an American tour de force for a lot of reasons.
There were less than 11,000 residents of Pella on any given day, which also made it easier on the Secret Service to do a general background search. The Service was not only looking for possible felons or people with a grudge against America but any Management operatives who might be living in the area.
Pella turned out to be the perfect place for President Hayes to give a speech and shake hands and return home in one piece.
The media turned out in two large buses that were leased at the Des Moines airport, the closest big city to Pella and they packed Franklin Street, making a u-shape of three packed rows in front of Mooi’s Diner, open till ten pm every day but Sunday, when they closed at seven.
Secret Service made up another layer between the media and the diner standing quietly with their hands folded in front of them, constantly scanning the crowd. Several more plainclothes officers were scattered in the crowd, constantly moving around to check for anything out of the ordinary in a small Midwestern town.
Other Secret Service were camped out on top of nearby buildings and in the park keeping an eye on anyone coming and going. Others had set up computers in a nearby accountant’s office to keep track of the war and ensure that nothing moved in their direction. The accountant was given a story about being of service to his country and gladly vacated the premises for the day. He was given a good seat at Mooi’s and had memorized his question. Just in case he got close enough to the President to ask him something, he wanted it to count.
Pella was the safest place to be in America that day.
The President’s advance team had cleared the drop-in with Mooi’s owner, John Earp, a distant relative of Wyatt Earp who had grown up in Pella in the 1800’s. Everyone in the diner that morning was hand-picked, vetted and had their carefully crafted question ready to ask the President when he stopped to ask how they were doing. It was the usual routine.
The team had even helped a lot of them with what to say to the media if the tables were turned and they suddenly found themselves in the spotlight. Nothing could go wrong.
“How many times can the media start a story with Wyatt Earp?” asked an exasperated aide who was staring out the plate glass window.
The President turned around and gave him a quick look that everyone on his team had seen plenty of times. A quick shorthand to stop talking. The aide gave a nervous smile and turned away to take a phone call. The President turned back and smiled at the elderly couple sitting with him.
“Wonderful town, Pella. You’ve lived here all your lives, I understand.”
The couple smiled nervously and at first said nothing as an awkward pause went on for seconds till a junior assistant gently tapped one of the file cards in his hand, reminding the elderly man what they had already rehearsed.
“What do you plan to do to keep Social Security going?” the man asked, a small tremor in his voice. His wife smiled and ducked her chin down.
It was a slow start but the President was a veteran of the meet and greets and started off slowly with a story about how Social Security had helped him out after his father had died when he was just a boy. Hayes watched the man’s shoulders drop just a little.
This is going to be an easy day, he thought. Long, but routine.
Hayes had told this story so many times he could recite it without even thinking about the details. The entire tour had become more like a one-man show and he was just the actor with a lot of people working behind the scenes.
“Our older citizens have been of service to their country throughout the years.” The President heard his voice drone on as his he glanced out the window at the photographers and journalists all staring in his direction.
For a moment it all struck him as ridiculous that anyone could care this much what one man was doing in a small town in Iowa on any given day. Then he smiled and gave a small wave toward them and waited for the flash of cameras as they all got their picture. The couple across from him turned and smiled as well. Everyone loves their moment of fame, no matter what they might say later.
Long, but routine, he thought, thank goodness.
“Perfect weather you’re having,” he said, only slightly off-script. “Indian summer. Just marvelous and on such a clear, sunny day. My favorite weather.”
He could see heads bobbing in agreement all around him.
After a brief exchange Hayes thanked the couple for their support and shook the husband’s hand before moving on to the next table. It was never
good to have the people move and the President sit still. It looked too much like people paying homage to a ruler or at the least like a lazy President.
Hayes worked his way around the room, guessing which topic would come up next just to pass the time. Taxes, jobs, support for farmers. He ticked them off in his head wondering if there would be one surprise in the bunch and someone would ask a question they came up with themselves. No one did.
Every question was delivered the way it was rehearsed with a few personal anecdotes about the town or their family thrown in for good measure. The President played his part and gave the answers his team of writers had already come up with for him last night on the train. Just enough of the material was familiar to the media that they would repeat his agenda once again on the nightly news, mixed with a few tweaks to keep it fresh.
Everyone was just putting in a day at their job, including President Hayes.
Hayes made a point of thanking John Earp and getting a picture with him by the counter that the owner of Mooi’s could frame and hang on the wall.
He then waved at the crowd, giving a big smile that showed most of his teeth just like the media trainer had shown him in all those hours of filming as he took two steps back toward the door, flanked by his Secret Service agents who were busy talking into their respective sleeves.
A path was cut in the center of the crowd outside as a black Lincoln Continental with darkened windows pulled up close to the entrance, agents walking alongside, keeping pace.
The President kept walking and smiling, calling out to reporters and photographers that he recognized, making a point of raising his arm high to wave. Another tip from the media trainer to make him appear taller and in command of the crowd.
Everything was playing out exactly as it was supposed to and would later be replayed on every news channel for the minute it took to cover what everyone already knew, along with a spin that either supported or deflated the President, or just poked fun at him. There was nothing new in American politics, thought Hayes as he made a point to shake an older reporter’s hand, giving him a moment on camera. The man had always tried to play it fair and Hayes had noticed it did nothing for his career. Still, he was still in front of a camera long after a few others had faded into other jobs in smaller markets.
Hayes reached the door of the Lincoln and was about to duck down when he heard a small rush of air that he realized a moment later was someone gasping and the bright light from a sunny day bounce off of something pointed in his direction. He wondered who was straying from their carefully orchestrated morning. It seemed so off-script that it was taking him a moment to realize what was happening.
Two large hands were on his shoulders, pushing him down and shoving him unceremoniously into the back of the Lincoln, shoving his legs inside. Just as he went head first into the back seat he saw one of his aides drop to the ground and another, a young assistant crumple behind him.
“Is someone shooting at us? Is someone shooting?” he yelled at the agent, who was quickly shoving him in further as he got in next to him and slammed the door.
“Go! Go! Go!” yelled the agent as the agent in front hit the gas and the car came perilously close to mowing down some of Pella’s citizens and a few reporters.
The President was still shouting, “What happened, what happened?” as he tried to sit up but the agent next to him kept shoving him back down on the seat. He felt his head start to swim and tried to push the agent off so he could get his bearings.
“Who’s hit, dammit? Who is hurt?” he growled. “What the hell happened?”
“You are, sir. You’ve been hit,” said the agent, as he kept the pressure on the President’s shoulder.
It took a moment for President Hayes to comprehend what the agent was telling him. The sudden rush of adrenaline had made his heart pound till that was all he was aware of but slowly the pain in his shoulder was growing.
“What the hell?” asked the President, trying once again to sit up.
“Stay down, stay down,” barked the agent. “Pella Regional, now,” the agent yelled out.
The driver nodded his head and kept his foot on the gas. Hayes could hear the engine whine as they pushed the speed limit but his head was still below the line of sight to be able to see out of a window.
“Is anyone else hurt?” asked the President, no longer trying to sit up and instead, twisting so he could get some support against the back of the seat. His long body was folded between the floor and the seat.
“Three, sir. An agent and two aides, along with a reporter. My focus is on you right now. They are all being tended to at this moment.”
“I want to know their status as soon as possible. That’s not a request,” said Hayes.
“Understood, sir,” said the agent, maintaining tight pressure, while continuously looking out the car windows in different directions. They had left the other agents who usually accompanied them in the car back at Mooi’s. There wasn’t time to get them in the car before they had left the scene.
The car came to a sudden halt and in one swift movement the agent backed himself out of the car while keeping a hand on the President’s shoulder. Hayes could hear another car pulling up quickly behind them and tried, once again to sit up. This time the agent helped him and pulled him up so quickly the blood rushed from his head. He wondered for a moment if he was about to pass out.
It would not have mattered. Hands reached out to him and moved him along without saying a word. No one was asking him what he wanted to do or if he could move by himself. Circumstances were taking over from him.
Arms dressed in pale green were suddenly poking him and peeling back his expensive suit, cutting off his shirt altogether as he was laid on a gurney that appeared beside him. His feet had only touched the ground for a moment before he found himself being wheeled quickly into the trauma center and rushing down a hallway. Time felt like it was speeding up but for once no one was asking for his help or his guidance or even a comment.
It had been years since that had happened and he found himself slipping into a quiet, tired feeling that he welcomed.
“Am I dying,” he asked, and a few anxious faces turned toward him but no one answered as they kept moving quickly, jerking the gurney into a surgical bay.
“One, two, three,” someone counted, and he was lifted at his head, shoulders and feet onto a flat surface and the large, round light just above him came on, and was immediately adjusted toward his shoulder.
A needle was inserted into his arm and he felt himself drifting further away.
“Where’s the Vice President,” someone asked. “Is he secure?”
It was the last thing President Hayes heard before he drifted off to a drugged sleep.
Already agents were swarming the halls, securing the area and moving any unnecessary employees or any other patients off of the floor. Behind them doctors were scrambling to take the President’s vital signs and determine just how much damage was done to see if his life was actually in danger of being over.
Everyone in the room was a known Circle operative who had been on stand-by as a precaution in the unexpected event something like this happened. No one had been expected to be called into service that day.
Mooi’s had become controlled chaos.
The people who were inside of Mooi’s who had been enjoying an historic moment they expected to be telling their family about later, suddenly found themselves locked inside and an agent barking at them to sit still, don’t move.
A man had been tackled to the ground on the edge of what they could see and the man was covered by several large agents who were pinning him to the ground. Another agent was quickly going through the pockets, pulling out the man’s wallet and retreating back a few steps from the shooter.
Another black Lincoln Continental that looked identical to the one that had whisked away the President pulled up and the agents stuffed the suspect, now handcuffed, into the back, an agent on either side of him. Another agent slammed the d
oor and pounded on the roof as the car pulled away just as quickly as the President’s car.
An agent on the roof across from Mooi’s kept watch on the scene below as he spoke into his radio, “We have the suspect. The scene is secure. Send in the ambulances. Mission accomplished.” He folded the rifle’s scope and prepared to leave the scene with no trace that the team had ever been up there. It was standard protocol and particularly when there was an incident.
The people inside Mooi’s could see out the large, front windows that there were three bodies on the ground with a crowd of men in suits, crouched over them, and yelling orders in different directions.
The crowd behind them was being pushed slowly back as cameras kept flashing from every angle.
“Is anyone we know hurt?” asked one of the residents. Someone closer to the front of Mooi’s shook their head, no but no one was really sure.
Eventually, ambulances showed up and took three people away, scooping them up and driving off. It had all taken just minutes but to the spectators wondering what had just happened, it seemed so much longer.
The Vice President, Ellen Reese was quickly located at her residence at the Naval Observatory and was moved to the White House. Phone calls were made and key members of the President’s Cabinet started showing up at the East entrance, quickly making their way to the West Wing, to the long Cabinet room by the Rose Garden. Each one had a seat that was made just for them when they were first appointed, molded to their body and posture. It made it easier to get everyone to take their seat and not build resentments over who got to sit where at any given time.
The Vice President took her usual seat, her name on the brass plaque on the back, not even glancing at President Hayes chair. She was not about to signal to anyone that things might be changing.
Once everyone was seated the Vice President opened the meeting. Less than half of the Cabinet had been invited to the meeting, along with the Senate leader, a Circle operative of many years.