“Rounding Elmore Hall,” the agent told his radio. A moment later they turned left, keeping to the street instead of the sidewalk, an ivy-covered building where Devon had a couple of classes on their left. Parked in the fire lane before the building was a black Chevy Suburban with the engine running. A man seated on the passenger side threw a wave that Handelman returned.
Although the temperature would rise steadily throughout the day, right now their breath steamed in the chilly, late October morning air as the sky began to slowly lighten above a line of trees dressed in red and orange leaves. Devon felt himself loosening up as they neared the end of their first mile, his lungs drawing easily and the first warmth of a pleasant burn appearing in his legs. He picked up the pace, and Handelman stayed with him.
“You still want to be a jarhead?” Handelman asked as they passed a shrub-ringed statue of one of the school’s founders. He always engaged in conversation when they were out in the morning, insisting that it was good for the breathing. He said it was the reason military units sang cadence when they ran, not simply for the fun of obscene rhyming.
“I’m going to be a Marine like my dad,” Devon said. “Not infantry, though. I’m going to be in intelligence.”
The Secret Service agent seemed to think about this for a moment. “You’ve got the brains for it. I’ve seen your grades.”
“Really?”
A grin. “I peeked. You need to work on the math, though.”
Devon made a face. He crushed math. At fifteen he was already in college-level classes. When he looked at the agent, the man was grinning. “You like breaking my balls, don’t you?”
A shocked gasp. “Language, Mr. Fox.”
Now it was Devon’s turn to grin.
“I guess you’re smart enough. But do you have the killer instinct?”
“Not all Marines are trained killers,” the boy said.
Handelman laughed. “Oh, yes they are. Just ask one, he’ll tell you. Even the cooks and the clerks. Trained killers, every one of them. The question is, are you tough enough to be a Marine?”
They ran across another street and onto a path that would take them in a wide loop past the sports fields and eventually back to the dorms. “If I’m too much of a wimp,” he said, “I’ll just join the Navy like you.”
Handelman let out a deep laugh. “You already sound like a jarhead.”
They ran the next mile in silence, until Devon spoke again. The playfulness was gone from his voice. “This Trident thing…does it make you nervous?” In his heart he doubted anything made the big man nervous.
“I worry about the things I can see and touch,” the agent replied.
“But it’s in you, right?”
“Yep, just like everyone else. Does it make you nervous?”
Devon shook his head. “I saw the doctor yesterday.” Then he frowned at his own stupidity. Of course Handelman knew that. He’d been at the appointment with Devon, checking the office before allowing the boy inside. What he didn’t know was that Handelman had taken a long look at his medical record as part of his mission to identify any threats to life or health. Not entirely ethical or part of Secret Service policy, it was something many agents did quietly with those for whom they were responsible. “The doctor told me my body has almost killed it off,” Devon said. Handelman knew this too. “What about you?”
“The Service has us checked regularly. Mine is dying off too, but at a slower rate.”
“How about the other guys? The rest of the detail, I mean.”
“Crossing Bingham Road,” Handelman told his wrist mic, then to Devon said, “Most of them still have it, but it’s not hurting anyone. Nothing for you to worry about.”
They crossed at an intersection and moved onto a sidewalk on the other side to avoid some parked cars. The brick building they were now passing had a few more lights on than they’d seen before. People were waking up.
“What does your biology professor say about it?” Handelman asked.
Devon shrugged as he ran. “He told us there’s not enough information to make an informed decision, but that it’s definitely something new. He says it’s probably a result of pollution and mishandling of the environment.” He looked over at the agent’s face, but the man’s expression didn’t change. Agents discussing politics where protectees could hear them was forbidden by the Service, but it happened, and Devon knew the men on his Detail (and, he suspected, most of law enforcement and the military) leaned to the right and weren’t big believers in the often-liberal views his professors espoused. His biology teacher in particular was not a strong supporter of Garrison Fox. The President spoke more often about a robust economy and a strong national defense than he did about global warming. Devon still wasn’t sure where he landed on any of these issues himself, but he believed in his dad, and that was good enough for now.
“The doctors will figure it out,” Handelman said, trying to end the discussion.
The young man was quiet for a while as they ran. Despite his bodyguard’s casual dismissal, Devon was worried. The news was reporting that everyone had it. Sure, some were fighting it off, as was the case with his family and, apparently, Marcus Handelman. Trident seemed harmless, but if that were true, why would his body be killing it?
His forehead still wrinkled with a frown, Devon said, “Let’s pick it up,” and ran faster.
Handelman stayed right beside him.
The dining hall was packed for the noon meal, two hundred young men between the ages of thirteen and eighteen, all dressed in khakis, dark blue blazers and striped ties talking at once, making the high-ceilinged hall buzz. Devon was eating with Sean and a few other boys his age at a table near one of the fire exits (an insistence of the Secret Service so that he could be quickly removed if need be) with Handelman standing against a wall fifteen feet away, watching as always. While Devon had showered and gotten dressed for the day’s classes, Handelman had changed back into his dark suit.
“The boss is stopping by today,” he’d explained on the way to the dining hall. Normally, within the Secret Service the Boss referred to POTUS, but in this case it was Handelman’s immediate boss, a supervisory agent named O’Brien. “Be sure to tell him I’m the greatest.”
“I’ll tell him you couldn’t take out a Cub Scout with a limp.”
“Outstanding.”
Between bites of hamburger, Devon and Sean talked about the last season of Game of Thrones, something they secretly streamed on their laptops (the school would never allow a program with so much sex and nudity to be shown in the rec room) and it was precisely those two elements that captured their fascination. Along with the storyline, of course.
“Cersei is the hottest one,” Sean said.
Devon made a face. “Dude, she’s like, your mom’s age.”
The other boy grinned. “She’s a cougar.”
“Sansa Stark is the hot one,” said Devon. “I wish she’d do a nude scene. I love redheads.”
Neither boy had any experience with the opposite sex, other than a little kissing with some of the girl’s from St. Jerome’s, the neighboring, all-girl Catholic prep school. The occasional dance or sporting event brought boys and girls together, but nothing real had ever happened, especially with watchful nuns lurking about. Sean called them The Penguins.
Devon noticed that a boy seated just down from Sean, a kid of about thirteen whose name he couldn’t remember, wasn’t eating but instead sat and stared at Marcus Handelman. It was something Devon had become accustomed-to. Most of the kids at the school were past being impressed or curious about Devon’s Protective Detail, but for the newer students, like this one, they were as exotic as zoo animals. Many tried to strike up conversations, and the agents were polite but brief, not permitting their attention to be drawn away from their assignment.
Devon gave Sean a little nod, then spoke to the staring boy. “He kills on command, you know.”
The younger boy looked at Devon. “Bullshit,” he said, but his eyes told
a different story.
“Oh, yeah. Last year some kid cut in front of me at lunch. I just looked at Handelman and he dragged the kid outside, beat the shit out of him.”
The other boys at the table all nodded, straight-faced as the thirteen-year-old looked back at the agent and paled.
“You don’t fuck with Captain America,” Sean whispered, glancing around to make sure no adults had heard his profanity.
“He’s bad-ass,” said another boy, jumping on board. “A few weeks ago some terrorists tried to snatch Devon outside the library. Handelman shot four of them right in the head.”
“He did not,” said the younger boy.
“I heard it was five,” said another.
The thirteen-year-old looked at each of them in turn, eyes narrowed.
“They don’t like us to talk about it,” whispered Sean. Across from him Devon rolled his eyes. His friends would overplay it like they always did, and the gag would come to a swift end. It did just that when a fourth boy announced that the Secret Service agent had shot down a helicopter over the Lacrosse field with a rocket launcher. No one could hold it in after that, and the table exploded with laughter. The boy’s face reddened.
Devon laughed, but winked at the younger kid. “He’s a normal guy, and he’s cool. I’ll introduce you later. You’ll like him.”
“Ah, Dev,” moaned Sean, “why’d you let him off the hook like that? He was buying it.”
Devon threw a French fry at his friend. “A rocket launcher? Really?” He stood. “I’ve gotta get to class.”
Agent Handelman left when he did, suppressing a smile. He’d heard it all, of course.
In the dining hall behind them, Trident lived on every table, every tray and plastic cup, in the kitchens and in the food. It drifted through the air, virulent and unseen. Within the bodies of the students and staff in the dining room, it advanced at different rates, silent and relentless, a threat that not even Captain America could protect them from.
-9-
DESIGN
Dallas, Texas – October 27
The media referred to her as “The Softer Side of Fox” because of her many humanitarian efforts and wildly popular housing programs for the poor, but the word soft had rarely been an accurate descriptor of her life or personality. Before becoming First Lady, Patricia Rand-Fox had been a Marine’s wife, a senator’s wife and a successful architect, this last the source of her Secret Service code name. A smart, confident woman, she was also the mother of two, a job that was often as challenging as any faced by a Marine.
A graduate of UVA, at forty-nine Patricia was a bit of a maverick among First Ladies; beautiful and gracious, photogenic and well spoken, the perfect hostess, but also extremely savvy about political matters and unafraid of expressing her opinions, even if at times they didn’t mesh perfectly with her husband’s. The American people loved her, and both her marriage and the presidency was a true partnership.
Like a Marine, she now found herself deployed in terrain that was potentially hostile, a minefield where a misstep could lead to disaster. She had just finished a forty-five minute address to NOW, the National Organization for Women, an event hosted by the University of Texas at Dallas, with more than three thousand in attendance. They had come to the Q&A portion, and a woman in her thirties wearing glasses had just approached the microphone.
“Mrs. Fox,” the woman said, “you gave a good speech, but I’d like to know why your husband hasn’t focused more on women’s issues. Surely they’re more important than the expense to commission yet another aircraft carrier.”
The cameras focused on Patricia’s face to capture her reaction. She gave a confident smile.
“Let me first say that, like my husband, I believe in both a strong national defense and a strong economy. The expense and launch of the USS Dragoon achieved both those goals, providing jobs during the construction and providing a state-of-the-art cornerstone for our nation’s military.
“Concerning women’s programs, the President is as committed as I am. If you will recall, just six months ago he called upon Congress to double federal spending for rape education and crisis centers, and last year he sponsored legislation to make rape a federal offense with lengthy, mandatory sentencing. I’m sure you remember the Palmer Bill.”
“But neither of those passed,” said the woman.
Talk to your congressman about that, Patricia thought but didn’t say. Instead she gave the woman a smile and said, “My husband is working hard with Congress to bring everyone together on this, to achieve true bipartisanship. Yes, the bills were defeated, but the fight isn’t over yet.”
Another woman took the microphone. “Can you tell us why he is still on the fence about abortion?”
Here was the real landmine, one of the most heatedly debated topics in the political landscape, something that fired volatile passions on both sides of the issue. She’d been waiting for it, and knew that this group wouldn’t be satisfied with her answer. Neither would the Republican base.
“My husband believes in life,” she said. “We have two children that he loves very much, and we’re both proud of the young people they’ve become. Neither of us could imagine life without them. He also believes in a woman’s right to make decisions about her own body. But regardless of his personal opinions, the President believes, as he has said all along, that this is a state’s rights issue, and something that the federal government should leave to the individual legislatures.”
Although there were more questions and some scattered shouts from the crowd, that was all they were getting. Patricia moved past the topic and quickly wrapped up by thanking the National Organization for Women and the University for having her here today, and asked those gathered here to return her husband to the White House for another four years. Despite the sensitive subject and the non-answer she had given, Patricia received a standing ovation and waved as she left the stage.
“It went better than I expected,” said the young woman, a sharp political operator with a law degree from Yale. The First Lady considered her indispensable, which was why she’d picked her for her Chief of Staff.
“Thanks, Maria,” Patricia said. They were in the limo heading to the private airfield where a jet would take them to Boston. “But after all the applause, they’re still going to vote for a democrat.”
Maria nodded, her boss’s leather-bound agenda resting on one knee. “It’s a hard sell, and your husband’s opponent is intensely vocal about being pro-choice.”
Patricia looked out the window as her own small motorcade moved through Dallas, realizing that in these circumstances and in this place it was almost impossible not to replay the events of 1963. She forced the morbid thoughts aside.
Part of her wished Garrison would take a firm, official stand on abortion, one way or the other, but what she’d said about him was true. He felt both ways, and didn’t think the federal government should even be involved. It wasn’t a strong position politically, but it was what her husband believed and she respected him for it.
“What time do we land in Boston?”
The younger woman didn’t need the itinerary to answer. “We’re wheels-down at six-thirty. Dinner with Kylie at eight. You’re staying at the Westin, downtown.”
“And in the morning?”
“An hour with the Massachusetts governor over breakfast, then you and Kylie are in the air and headed for Ohio. You’ll arrive in Cleveland just as the rally is ending so you’ll miss it, but that was what you and the President wanted.”
Patricia nodded absently. It was a trip that promised to be stressful. It wasn’t that Kylie Fox, her twenty-two-year-old daughter and firstborn didn’t love her family and want to see her father, but the girl hated being the child of a U.S. President, and strained at the restrictive yoke that went with it. She would resent being pulled away from her post-graduate life at Harvard, even if only for a weekend, to be “Part of the circus” as she put it. The fact that Garrison would keep her away from the ca
meras wouldn’t matter.
“Any change with Devon?” Maria asked.
“No, he’s still not coming. Too much going on at school.” And wouldn’t that start an argument. She could hear it already. Why do I have to go and Devon doesn’t? Patricia sighed. Daughters.
The First Lady looked at her young Chief of Staff, at the dark circles appearing around her eyes. “You’re not getting much rest,” she said.
Maria smiled. “I’m fine, ma’am. Nothing a couple of gallons of Starbucks won’t fix.”
“Did you see the doctor?” Caroline had insisted that everyone on her staff see a physician regularly to keep track of what appeared to be, for lack of a better word, an unidentified virus. She knew the Secret Service was doing the same. Unlike Patricia, whose body had effectively killed off the intruder in short order, her Chief of Staff and everyone in her entourage was carrying an expanding strain of Trident, alive and thriving in their bodies.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Maria. “No symptoms, no change.” The younger woman let out a little giggle, then opened her eyes wide in surprise and covered her mouth. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Fox. I don’t know where that came from.” She started to turn red. “I don’t…”
Patricia looked at the girl. “You’re exhausted. As soon as we get to the hotel you go straight to bed. I don’t want to see you until we’re on the plane tomorrow. Understand?” She squeezed the young woman’s knee.
“Yes, ma’am.”
-10-
DEVIL DOG
Airborne – October 27
Angel cruised at 35,000 feet, the massive blue and white aircraft heading east with Oklahoma passing far below. The sun was setting behind Air Force One, painting the sea of clouds in shades of amber and coral. Lifting off from Travis Air Force Base in California only hours ago, the plane was on the final leg of what had been a four-state tour beginning at five o’clock this morning, with Ohio still ahead, the final stop of the day.
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