The (New) American Way

by Mark R. Adams

  “General St. Claire, will there be any repercussions if we destroy a few pirate ships?”

  “Do you really care?”

  “No,” I said, I don’t. They will be getting what they deserve and anyone who disagrees with that puts themselves at risk, I won’t stand for pirates killing our friends.”

  Admiral Segers responded, “I’ve been wanting to hear this from one of our Presidents for years. Just turn the U.S. Navy loose, and we will solve this problem for you.”

  I ordered, “General St. Claire, set up the situation room. I want satellite imagery of the area, monitoring all movements in the Gulf of Aden and southward toward Kenya in the Indian Ocean. Tell me how many submarines you can send to the area, Admiral Segers, armed for the destruction of pirate ships. This will be a warning to all nations that dare to kill our friends. Let me know when the activity picks up in the area and come get me. I want to be there to give the final order to put these murderers in their place—the deep six.”

  A week later things were in place. Satellites were wonderful for watching terrorists like these pirates. They don’t realize they are being watched. The ability to see such clear images of these criminals preparing to hijack another ship is amazing. There were three such vessels, all cruising the coast of Somalia. Our submarines were quietly stalking all three. The crews of these pirate ships were armed and the satellite images were proof enough for me that they were intent on taking another tanker. There was a large tanker flying a Saudi Arabian flag heading right for the pirates about 25 nautical miles away. I wasn’t taking any chances that some of the Saudi crew could be killed if we waited too long to destroy the pirate ship. It had no identification, so I felt sure I was doing the right thing.

  “Admiral Segers,” I ordered, “take them out!”

  “Yes, sir, Commander,” he answered. “I’ll be honored to carry out your orders.”

  The communication officer sent the submarine the signal to attack. It was over in a couple of minutes. The pirate ship took two direct hits from torpedoes launched while submerged. They never knew what hit them. The submarine surfaced to assess the damage and found some debris floating along with the bodies of several pirates. The tanker arrived shortly and was informed of what had taken place. The crew of the tanker cheered as they floated past our vessel.

  The other two ships met the same fate. The message was loud and clear to the pirates of Somalia. Death could come at any time from our submarines. The U.S. Navy was not to be taken lightly. There was a new commander in charge and his name was Adam Marsh.

  Martial law couldn’t last forever. The troops were getting tired and they needed a break. I told General St. Claire I was going to New York to give a speech in September, and the whole country would be watching. I wanted to convince them we were right to do what we did.

  General St. Claire spoke up, “Oh, sir. I don’t think you should go.”

  I responded, “No, no, no --- maybe it’s not a bad idea. Foreign policy is on the horizon for next month, but in the meantime, I’m attending to the budget, regulations, immigration, and the wall. If I went to New York and gave a speech on these matters, maybe I can win that part of the country?”

  He returned, “Sir, um . . . With all due respect . . . Our system is no longer democratic at this time. It doesn’t matter if some people disapprove.”

  “It matters to me, General. Let’s block off a couple of days.”

  The General agreed but said, “If you go up there, I will be in charge of security. I don’t want any screw-ups.”

  September rolled around before I knew it. Cindy came to ride with me in Air Force One to New York City. The speech I’d prepared would be delivered at a high school football stadium. I wanted to show the people of New York, I was one of them and not have to deliver the speech in an opera house. I was just as comfortable in that setting as they would be. But General St. Claire was not happy. Security was going to be a nightmare. They had been working on security in the area for a month, but I was determined to use this as my venue. It was a short flight and I was taken to the high school where a dressing room was set up for us. Two security personnel escorted Cindy and me to the room. One of them was a woman I’d seen only once before. She was very serious about her job; I had not seen her crack a smile. Her name was Gloria McPherson, thirty-eight years old, of Irish descent, and tough as nails. She was assigned to protect Cindy and me and she wasn’t letting us out of her sight.

  I sat before a mirror, getting my make-up done by a young female make-up artist. Cindy sat in a chair against the wall; I could see her reflection in the mirror.

  Cindy said, “You’ve got nothing to be nervous about, honey.”

  I averted my gaze from her and looked at my own reflection. I replied, “Well, that’s good news ‘cause I’m cool as a cucumber.”

  With eyebrows up, Cindy said, “Really? Is that why your hands are shaking?”

  I looked down at my hands. Indeed they were. I turned to the make-up artist and said, “Could you excuse us for just a second, dear?”

  Nodding, the make-up artist gathered her things and left the room.

  I turned my chair to face Cindy. I said, “Hey, you shouldn’t talk that way in front of the people. She’s gonna run and tell all her liberal friends.”

  Cindy smiled, “She loves you, Adam. She told me before.”

  We eyed each other, gazing deeply. Cindy continued, “What’s the matter? You seem far away.”

  I shrugged a little and said, “I’m just . . . a practical man. Always have been. I got a creative streak in me, too, but it’s practicality that makes me who I am. And that’s a good thing—most of the time. But the bad news is . . . its practicality that makes me know this thing can’t keep going so smoothly ‘til the end of time.

  “What do you mean? You mean the system’s bound to fail again?”

  “It’s simple math, I’ve smashed many of the dependable equations. And numerous good things have occurred. But I can’t know what I don’t know. And it’s those unknowns that might grab me in the end.”

  Cindy smiled and rose from her seat. She said, “How ‘bout just focusing on what you know then?” She leaned over and kissed my forehead.

  The make-up girl returned and finished her job. It was time to go. Gloria escorts us to the stage. A bright sun shone down upon small town New York. I stepped up to the podium as a large crowd applauds my presence.

  “Thank you all! Thank you, New York!”

  Little by little the applause died down so they could hear me.

  “Now, I’m here to address some important items. To be sure, they’re not as colorful as my other agenda items leading up to this point, but as far as I’m concerned, they’re more important. I want to talk about the future. I see this takeover ending soon. And how we function as a nation afterward is critical. I want to find out from the common, every day, normal citizens, like me, if we can work together from now on to make our country the best place in the world to live. The division in our nation has hampered our ability to conduct our daily lives with ease and simplicity—and common sense seems to have gone right out the win—“

  BLAM! BLAM!

  The crowd screamed as the two shots rang out.

  I was down behind the podium. The first shot hit me in my left shoulder. Instantly, Gloria, my security to my right, dove across my body. The second bullet hit her in the back right shoulder. Shrieking, Cindy, who was seated just behind me, ran to one side revealing my wound. By that time, 6 security guards surrounded me and saw gushing blood from the wound on Gloria. I’m conscious enough to point to the direction the shots came from. I had felt the bullet move the air across my face from the right to my left.

  Cindy yelled, “Oh-no-honey! Oh-no-oh-no-oh-no! Oh, my God!”

  The General swept in and put his jacket under my head. Secret service men swarmed around him and I said, “General, get Gloria to the hospital; I’ll be fine.”

  The General barked orders to get Gloria into an amb
ulance. I tried to sit up, but the pain stopped me. “Can you make it to the van? I don’t want to wait for the ambulance.”

  “I can make it!” I leaned on the secret service men and staggered to the van. The doors flew open. The General stuffed me inside. Cindy climbed in. The General climbed in. Two secret servicemen climbed in and slammed the door shut. Up front another secret serviceman started driving.

  Cindy is distraught and uttered, “How did you let this happen, General?”

  General St. Claire responded in a kind voice, “We’re going to save him. Think positive.” One of the secret servicemen took off his jacket and used it to apply pressure to my wound.

  Cindy, still frantic, said, “I heard two shots. Did they get him two times?”

  General St. Claire answered, “Only one. The other shot hit Ms. McPherson. Sloppy bastard.”

  Cindy broke down crying and whimpered, “Not sloppy enough.”

  Then General St. Claire assured her, “He’ll be alright. Flesh wound.” He whipped his head toward the front. “FASTER!”

  I heard the engine gun louder.

  Cindy buried her face in her hands and cried, “We should have never done this.”

  General St. Claire answered, “Don’t say that, Cindy.”

  Cindy argued, “It’s true! Nothing is worth this!”

  The General thought for a minute. He looked at Cindy and said, “Your husband saved the country.” Collecting himself he continued, “And he will not die. Keep it together, Adam!”

  My eyes swam in their sockets, but I was still aware of what was happening. The General looked at Cindy, and Cindy looked back. Then I coughed; it was an anguishing sound and it hurt a little. I was bleeding, but I was not coughing up blood.

  Cindy’s crying intensified. I had to talk to her if I could clear my head. But then in a shocking moment to everyone in the van, I said, “So much for liberals, huh, General?”

  Astonished, the General looked at me then laughed.

  I laughed, too, as Cindy took my hand and begged, “You can’t die, hon. You have to hang on.”

  I gathered my breath, “I’m not going anywhere. All the liberals have done is pissed me off.” I was worried about Gloria, and I asked the General to radio for a report on her status.

  “She’s going into the ambulance now and she’s talking to the EMT,” he said.

  “You know I’m pinning a medal on her; she took that second bullet for me,” I declared.

  General St. Claire agreed, “If you don’t, I surely will.”

  Cindy said, “I may buy her a car or even a house for saving Adam.”

  “Are you sure? I’m . . . are you . . . sure . . .?” I passed out.

  Chapter 19

  THE RECOVERY

  I heard words and asked, “Where the heck am I?”

  Cindy appeared above me and kissed me softly on the cheek several times. “You are in the hospital and you’re waking from your surgery to remove the bullet,” she explained.

  I wasn’t in intensive care, so I couldn’t be too bad off. Sunlight streamed in through the room’s window.

  General St. Claire appeared at the foot of the bed and said, “We have security everywhere and everyone is okay except for you and Ms. McPherson.”

  “I want to go see her,” I said as I tried to get up.

  “You’re not going anywhere, Mr. Marsh,” said the nurse. “I’ve got my eye on you.”

  When I felt the pain in my shoulder, I changed my mind anyway.

  The General spoke up, “Do you want me to say it now or wait a while?”

  “Go ahead,” I said. “Let me have it.”

  “I TOLD YOU SO! The whole idea was a security nightmare.”

  “Did they catch the shooter?” I asked.

  The General laughed and said, “Well, now that’s a long story, but you’ve probably got time. When you pointed from the direction you thought the bullet came from, the security team was on the hunt. They radioed the helicopters and started to monitor any movement from the distance they felt a shot could have been fired. The helicopters sent word to the mobile units to follow certain suspicious acting vehicles. The hero was your old friend Craig Archer from the FBI, who brought you to us on the first night we met. He approached a pickup truck with a New York plate, and the guy driving tried to run Craig over. The chase was on. The helicopters were following above, and there was no way the guy was going to escape. He made it to a rural farmhouse and crashed through the door of a barn. He got out of his truck and started firing a high-powered rifle at the agents. Craig returned fire from behind his vehicle. Soon there were secret service, FBI agents, military personnel, and even a local sheriff. They called in his plate number and got his name and address. We found out later, he had been cut off from his unemployment benefits and had told some of his neighbors he would kill you if he ever had the chance. Evidently, the neighbors were on his side because they didn’t bother to tell anyone. The stand off lasted all of about 30 minutes and that is when New York’s Seth Hunter charged out of the barn, firing at all the men surrounding him and was shot to death. His body must have been hit with 40 rounds of ammunition. There will be no trial, no life in prison, and no pleading insanity.”

  I answered, “Well that’s good. Quick and efficient. Don’t need to be wasting money on some trial.” I winked, and the General laughed.

  He looked at Cindy and smiling said, “Seems like he’s going to be just fine.”

  Cindy said, “Yeah. Unless this happens again.”

  I shook my head and said, “Nah, sweetheart. It’s not gonna happen again; I’m out.”

  General St. Claire looked at me, perplexed and asked, “Sir?”

  I declared, “Oh, not right away. I just need four or five more months. That’ll be plenty of time. Then this whole system will get some new leaders. Elected ones. New President. With my approval rating at 60% and maybe even higher after this fiasco, the country might just elect someone with common sense, conservative values and a work ethic. I hope both political parties vanish and candidates just run on their ideas with no affiliations. We will need a new Congress. We need to elect people that will work together to find the answers to our problems. At least I will leave them with a lot fewer problems to solve. Surely they won’t get back into the same rut we were in before our takeover.”

  General St. Claire asked, “Four or five months? Isn’t that a little . . . rapid?”

  “Just the way I like it. Then . . . time to slow down, play golf. Maybe some speaking engagements. Heck, I’d like a chance to enjoy our country now that it’s new and improved.”

  Everyone in the room smiled.

  The next day my shoulder was really sore. They gave me some pain medication that morning, shortly before the doctor came in who performed the surgery. He brought a surgical mask in and asked me to sign it.

  “Who do I write this to?”

  “Doctor Benjamin Morris,” he proudly announced. “It’s the closest I’ll ever be to a President.”

  “Now, you know I’m just a Commander in Chief, not an elected President.”

  “I know,” he said, “but you have saved this nation from itself. I will never forget what you have done for our country.”

  “I’m honored to meet you, Dr. Morris, and thank you for everything.”

  I signed his mask and listened to his orders for the day: No sudden movement, no excitement, just stay calm and rest. He left and a nurse took his place. She was really cute, in her early 30s and blonde.

  “Where’s my wife,” I asked.

  “Right here,” said Cindy as she entered the room, “and you’re old enough to be her father.”

  I laughed, but that hurt. The nurse blushed and Cindy winked at her to let her know she was just kidding.

  “My wife’s a comedian sometimes.”

  “Oh, that’s okay, Pops,” she chided.

  Cindy laughed loudly; I tried not to laugh.

  Someone needed to get me some information on Ms. McPherson. H
ow is she doing? What is her status? Those were my concerns that day. I raised my bed up and stepped on to the floor.

  “Where do you think you are going?” asked Cindy.

  “To see Gloria if you can give me her room number,” I said.

  “She’s in room 3212,” Cindy answered.

  “I’m walking there now,” I said.

  I put on my robe and headed down the hall. The secret service agents snapped to attention as they saw me enter the hall. I told them to follow me and to pick me up if I fell. I made it to her room and knocked on the door. She answered, “Come in.”

  When she saw me she tried to get up but fell back in bed. Her wounds were a little more serious than mine.

  “Ms. McPherson,” I said, “I can never thank you enough for what you did. You didn’t have to do that, you know.”

  “Oh, yes I did, Commander Marsh. It’s my job and I take it seriously.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “A little rough, but I will be fine. How about you?”

  “About the same as yourself. I’d like to know how you became a secret service agent.”

  She began, “My parents were both army officers. They loved this country and instilled their values in me. When I graduated from high school, I joined the army to get my college paid for. I served my time, went to college, and graduated with a degree in criminal justice. I applied with the U.S. Marshall service and was hired as a trainee. Eventually, I got interested in serving the office of the Presidency as a Secret Service Agent. I put in my time, worked my way up, and this is what it got me.”