46
In the situation room, the main screen showed the panicked reaction of the crowd near Sharon and Brenda as the awareness of what had happened took hold. And they could see the two agents jumping up above the crowd looking for Jeremy. Looking, but not finding him.
47
“Mr. President, I’m sorry to have to bring bad news, but there have been some deaths at the demonstration and we may be getting into a bad situation.” Frank Morrison had been the messenger of bad news before. He knew the drill. And so did the president. Bad news didn’t always mean imminent thermonuclear war. But it was always bad. Often very bad.
“Yes,” the president acknowledged noncommittally, a slight inflection indicating he wanted to hear more now, before they met in the situation room in the White House basement.
“Briefly, Mr. President, several demonstrators have been killed during the evening. Knifings mostly, and scattered around the demonstration areas. We have no witnesses, no motives, and no one or group claiming responsibility as yet. This doesn’t appear to be gang-related. The victims are all mostly clean-cut, all-American types. One of them was that Newsweek college girl—the one they interviewed in last week’s issue—Sharon Richards.”
“Oh, Christ, Frank. Does there always have to be some maniac? Can we do anything for their families? How is Metro handling this?”
“That’s just it, Mr. President. National Park police and Metro say things are getting out of control. They want the troops brought in. They want a declaration of a state of emergency. You need to authorize it.”
“I don’t understand. What is happening that Metro can’t handle?”
‘Well, sir, we’ve got about five hundred thousand demonstrators here and they’re pretty upset about these killings. Numerous disturbances, cases of isolated crowd violence have broken out all over DC. Metro is spread too thin for the geographic spread that’s developing. I just talked with Chief Bennett and he tells me that arson is beginning to break out as well. He believes we don’t have a lot of time to react.”
As he gave his orders to Morrison Drummond began pulling up the knot in his tie that he had loosened earlier in the day.
“Frank, meet me at the situation room in fifteen minutes. I want Chief Bennett and Colonel Anderson there. Ask Senator Paxton and Senator McGruder to open secure lines to the conference room—have White House Communications locate them. Please arrange for General Slaider to open lines as well. Tell Amanda Brock I will need her assessment of who and why by midnight. I know that doesn’t give her much time, but I want her best effort under the circumstances. Also tell Chief Bennett that I will need his assessment of what it will take to restore order and why Metro cannot do it. I’ll need that also by midnight. Have someone from the Signal Corps get a secure line between the SITCON conference room and Mayor Burgess. That’s it for now Frank. I’ll see you in a half-hour. Goodbye.”
Drummond quickly showered, shaved and put on a fresh shirt. When he arrived at the Situation Control conference room, Colonel Anderson, representing the military forces at nearby Fort Myer, had already arranged for coffee and sweet rolls.
Vice President Latimer arrived shortly after the president. The communications officer who would operate the telephone and telescreen systems was checking his gear. The president was the first to sit, with Paul Latimer on his right side and Frank Morrison on his left. Metropolitan Police Chief Bennett and an aide arrived and took their place at the conference table. The president began as soon as they were seated.
“Okay, ladies and gentlemen. Let’s get started. I guess you’re up first, Chief.”
Chief Bennett sat slumped in his chair. The late hour, combined with lack of sleep and tension over developments in his city, left him drained of spit and polish. He was just under six feet. At two hundred and thirty pounds, he should have seemed overweight. Instead, he gave an impression of size rather than weight, of a person capable of exercising disciplined power. His face was surprisingly sculptured for a man of his bulk. Instead of the expected round, open face, there was an angular face and penetrating eyes. The very short haircut emphasized the roundness of his head. By tradition the Metro Chief of Police was a black man.
“Mr. President—we’ve got five dead kids. All stab wounds, all in different parts of the quad area. We’ve got five thousand police and five hundred thousand demonstrators. My men are trying to confine the demonstrators to the quad area but twenty or thirty thousand have broken out and are drifting into the rest of town. Four two-alarm fires have been reported—one two-alarm is typical for this time of year. Large groups are gathering around each fire scene creating a potential for more violence. The bulk of the demonstrators are at the quad, but they are agitated about the stabbings. They’re not singing anymore. They’re chanting and yelling some pretty antagonistic things to my men. I’d say screaming, not yelling.” He paused and looked around the room.
“Mr. President, my men cannot hold the line at the quad and we are facing potential anarchy here if I don’t get at least another ten thousand men almost immediately. My men are tired and we’re risking a serious mistake by one or more of them if they don’t get some relief soon. I’m going to start making mistakes myself pretty soon.”
Chief Bennett surveyed the faces around the table. “This is not just crowd control, gentlemen. We’ve done that many times. And with bigger crowds. I know my job and what it takes to keep things in line. But this time, with these killings, we have a different situation. This is not just a hostile crowd or a worked up crowd or even a rowdy crowd. This is a very ugly crowd. These were not just random stabbings like you can get in any demonstration this size. These were the doers, the leaders, kids that were very popular and very visible.”
The room was dead silent. Paul Latimer, leaned forward, elbows on the table, his glance shifting to the president. He received an approving nod from Drummond. “Chief,” he began, “are you implying that these deaths were the result of a conspiracy?”
“Mr. Vice President, I’m not implying anything. I’m telling you—they were not random. It was a smooth job accomplished by one or more pros. Each victim was killed by a single paralyzing puncture from the rear. There was not a lot of cutting. Just in and out in the right spot. Not a lot of blood. Not a lot of mess. The crowd in each case was packed so tight that by the time the victims hit the ground the killer was gone. Each little scene created enough confusion for the perp to move away to the next target.”
Latimer remained silent, returning Chief Bennett’s gaze.
President Drummond repeated Paul Latimer’s question. “Chief, do you believe this was a conspiratorial act or not?”
“Yes, Mr. President, I do.”
“Why, Chief?”
“Because the killings were identical. Identical MO’s. Also, the victims were chosen for maximum impact. I believe it was an attempt by some radical elements to discredit the opposition—you know, the people against your fusion program. It was done to make them look bad. That’s what I believe, Mr. President.”
Drummond began tapping his pencil on the desk.
Paul Latimer watched the president. “Mr. President, it is vital that we agree on the nature of these attacks so that the nature of our response is appropriate. If this is a conspiracy, it may not be over. In which case, sir, it is critical that we get the situation under control. Probably by now with the military.”
“I understand, Paul.” The President turned to the Chief. “Have any government buildings been hit? Have any political, or governmental deaths occurred?”
“No, sir. Not up to fifteen minutes ago, anyway.”
“What do you have to say about Chief Bennett’s theory, Amanda?” The President turned to his FBI Director.
“I’m afraid I agree with Chief Bennett, Mr. President. At least to the extent that I believe we’re dealing with a conspiracy here. I don’t agree with the Chief’s assessment of who is behind the events, however.”
Waiting that pregnant moment, Brock co
ntinued. “As you know, gentlemen, for events like this demonstration, we track as many as a thousand potentially violent individuals. One does stand out, however. We’ve had a person of interest named Jeremy Leach under surveillance for a few months now. He’s more or less a freelance smorgasbord, Mr. President. Various skills. Killer, thief. Competent and elusive. My people in New York followed him to Washington. They lost him in the crowd, but he was definitely there during the time of the killings and aerial surveillance put him near the first victims at the time of her murder.”
“Freelance? Do you know who he is working for?” Drummond asked.
Amanda Brock was silent for several seconds before answering. “No, sir.”
Paul Latimer stopped taking notes. “Amanda, can you make a guess about who he’s working for?”
Brock looked around the table, examining each face examining her.
“No, sir,” she said softly. “Not at this time.” Then, after a pause, she continued, “But I’ll tell you one thing, I’m damn sure of. If he’s our man, he’s not working for some lunatic fringe among the demonstrators. They couldn’t afford his price. If he is involved in a larger conspiracy, well then, this is a well-financed operation and consequently extremely dangerous.”
“Excuse me, Amanda,” Paul Latimer asked, interrupting Brock. “Why was Leach under surveillance?”
“It was in regard to another matter Mr. Vice President.”
“What other matter?”
“The Alves killing, sir.”
The president raised his head and focused his gaze on Amanda Brock.
Paul Latimer continued. “You mean the Alves death don’t you, Amanda?”
“Yes, sir. He was peripheral to the scene at the time of the Alves death and we decided to watch him for a while.”
Drummond tapped the table. “Is there something you aren’t telling me, Amanda?”
“No, sir.”
“Okay.” He got up and walked to the coffee cart for another sweet roll. Sitting down again, he asked his chief of staff, “What do you think, Frank.”
“Mr. President, I think we need to get the troops out of their barracks and we need to do it now. We can’t have anarchy in the nation’s capitol.”
“Frank, I’m not convinced. So far we have five dead youngsters. And that’s a tragedy. A terrible tragedy. But it’s no reason to place a city under martial law. We have tired police officers. That too is no reason for martial law. We have a mysterious character the bureau has grave misgivings about. That is no reason to place Washington under martial law.” The president sat back in his chair and turned to Bennett.
“Chief, I’m not convinced.”
“Well, with all due respect, sir, you left one thing out. We’ve also got five hundred thousand angry people on the streets of this city. Do we wait until they go completely out of control or do we take preventive action beforehand?”
“Good point, Chief. To be on the safe side, I’ll go along with the preliminary steps for the moment. Frank, get Senator McGruder on the line. I’ll want to talk with him in a few minutes. Colonel Anderson, I want you to initiate all actions for the establishment of martial law short of deploying your troops. You will work with Chief Bennett, the mayor, and the Congressional liaison. I will want a clear statement of your mission in this exercise and a presentation on your deployment plan by six o’clock this morning. In my office.” The president paused as Colonel Anderson took notes.
“You will deploy only on my order. Is that clear? On my order only. Please use the open line to General Slaider to inform him of my decision regarding martial law. I will want him to be present at your presentation. Should this operation become necessary, I will also want you personally in command. Understand that my priorities are, one, minimize loss of life, two, protect all government operations and property, three, facilitate the expeditious departure of all those visitors wishing to return to their homes, and four, isolate and detain agitators and those who fail to cool down following your deployment, should I approve that step. Establish detention centers outside of the District. In any event, I want military bus transportation between the quadrangle and BWI, Reagan National and Dulles airports, Union Station, and the bus terminals for anyone with a bona fide ticket. And I want it ready to go by nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Get going, Colonel.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. President.”
The president turned to Frank Morrison. “Frank, have you got McGruder?”
“Yes, sir. Line three.”
“Good.” Picking up his handset, Drummond spoke quickly. “Charley, I’m sorry to get you up at this hour, but as Frank has explained we’ve got a situation now that we have to deal with and I need your help . . . thank you, Charley. I appreciate that. I’m being urged to authorize martial law for the district and I’m very reluctant to do it. I want to try a personal effort at calming the crowd. I want to address the demonstrators this morning at six-thirty. That only gives us a couple of hours to get the word out . . . Lincoln Memorial . . . that’s right. Six-thirty in the morning. Work with the media people, your contacts with the demonstration organizers—you know what to do . . . fine, thanks, Charley. Stay in touch.”
As Drummond placed his handset back in the cradle, Paul Latimer placed his hand on the president’s shoulder, a look of shock on his face. Forgetting protocol, he challenged the president directly.
“Emerson, are you crazy? You can’t do this. Security will be a nightmare. There’s no time for precautions. This is too risky. Emerson, it’s too much. I understand your concern, your love for what these people are doing in supporting you, but there is a possible conspiracy being acted out here. You can’t risk yourself this way. Think of the danger. My god, Emerson. Don’t do this.”
He was instantly seconded by Brock and Bennett and Morrison.
“I’m sorry gentlemen, but this is my decision. Amanda, work with the Secret Service, the National Park Police, Metro, and the Army Corps of Engineers to arrange for my arrival at six-thirty. Make sure a helicopter landing pad is cleared in front of the Memorial. No more discussion. I want this done.”
48
Vice President Paul Latimer watched his telescreen set, unable to believe the reality of what he was seeing. Anchorman Bob Andrews was repeating over and over, “The president has been shot. The President of the United States has been shot.”
After several moments, mesmerized by the confusion, Latimer switched on the multichannel mode so he could watch the three cable news networks simultaneously.
“ . . . military security forces have pushed back the crowds to a perimeter of one hundred yards around the Lincoln Memorial.”
“ . . . unknown assailant, firing from an as yet undisclosed position has felled the president as he was addressing the crowd of demonstrators.”
“ . . . for security reasons now obvious to everyone, Vice President Latimer was not by the president’s side when he addressed the crowd.”
“ . . . will not allow the Secret Service to remove the wounded President from the Memorial grounds. A spokesperson for General Morgan Slaider, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, has advised CNN that the president has been placed under the protective custody of the Commander of the Military District of Washington.”
Latimer’s office phone began to ring just as he became conscious of the knocking at his office door. He opened the door and two Secret Service agents, not previously known to Latimer ,introduced themselves with the security code indicating a new rotation of his guard, an automatic procedure under the circumstances. He waved them to chairs by his desk as he picked up the phone.
“Sandra, I’m fine. I know. I’m watching it now. You’ve got to get off the line, I’ll call you later. I’m okay. Don’t worry. Thank god, it looks like Emerson is not dead. I’ll call you as soon as I can. It may not be today. Don’t worry. All hell is going to break loose now. Goodbye. I must keep this line clear.”
Latimer turned to the two security officers.
“What do
you know?” he asked them.
The two men stood as soon as he addressed them. They both were large men. And not young, which always reassured Latimer. In their early forties, he guessed. Both men carried submachine guns. Of the two, the shorter agent spoke up.
“I’m Agent Williams, sir. We don’t know much right now. We’ll arrange for any transportation requirements you may have. Basically, you stay put until we say it’s safe to go where you want to go.
“Have you got an update on the president’s condition?”
“No, sir. The Washington Command has taken jurisdiction at General Slaider’s orders and we’re doing everyone else. So far there haven’t been any other shootings. We’re trying to determine if there’s anything more to this—a national or international conspiracy—or whether it’s just some lone perpetrator. We don’t know yet.”
“Why has General Slaider taken jurisdiction from the Secret Service?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
The transceiver slung over Agent Williams’ shoulder suddenly coughed out a message. Agent Williams excused himself and responded while Latimer turned his attention once again to the telescreen.
“ . . . unable to determine the extent of injuries, although we know that military medical personal are attending to the president in a makeshift area within the Memorial. We can hear the sound of military vehicles as they encircle the Memorial grounds. The scene is one of utter pandemonium, ladies and gentlemen. I now hear the characteristic engine sound of a helicopter. I can’t see it yet, but it must be very close. There it is. Can you see it? Okay, it’s approaching the Memorial. I assume it will be used to evacuate the president. Armed soldiers are now forming a human barricade, establishing a landing zone in front of the Memorial steps.”
On Deception Watch Page 18