William Bernhardt - Capitol Conspiracy

Zimmer exhaled slowly. “I suppose it can’t hurt anything.”

“Course not.” At the front of the stage, two agents carried out their new instructions. “This is Oklahoma City, for God’s sake. What could happen?”

Ben was pleased to see the first lady move to his side of the stage. He was a good deal more comfortable around her than her husband. He knew in his heart that the only difference between the two was one of methodology, not purpose. Still, when she smiled at him, he couldn’t help but feel she was sincere, even when his brain told him not to be so naive.

She leaned back toward Ben, smiling. “So where did you two go on your honeymoon?”

Mike covered his mouth.

“Uh…here.”

The first lady gave him a long look. “Your bride must love you very much.”

Ben fingered his collar uncomfortably. “Something like that.”

The governor of the state of Oklahoma, the same man who had appointed Ben to replace Senator Glancy, was the first to speak. He made several gracious remarks, commented on how lovely the first lady looked, then toned down his smile to establish the appropriate gravitas for the commemorative service to follow. “As Oklahomans, we are a proud and stubborn lot, Boomers and Sooners and settlers and farmers and Native Americans. We will move ever forward, and this gleaming monument is a memorial to our indomitable spirit. But we will never forget.”

The governor singled out a few individuals in the crowd, people who had lost husbands, wives, children. He recognized some of the rescue workers who had displayed such valor on that most horrific of days. And when his predetermined five minutes was completed, he said, “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my very great privilege to introduce to you…the president of the United States!”

Thunderous applause greeted President Blake as he made his way to the podium. Ben marveled at the ease with which he moved, despite the fact that so many eyes were bearing down upon him. What a burden-to try to think of something to say on such an occasion. Nothing could ever truly comfort the survivors. Words were simply not enough.

As he watched the president approach the podium, he heard Agent Zimmer, standing just behind him on the left, talking into his sleeve again. “What do you mean? In the Senate building? How is that possible?”

The applause began to ebb. On the opposite end of the raised platform, Ben saw Agent Gatwick talking into his sleeve as well. Several of the agents in the rear were signaling one another.

“No, I don’t understand,” Zimmer whispered. “What has Senator Hammond got to do with Marshall?” There was a pause. All around him, Ben noticed Secret Service agents in motion. “He said what? What does it mean?”

Ben noticed that Mike, sitting beside him, was also observing the sudden increase in activity. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” Mike whispered back. “But something’s come up.”

Ben saw Agent Zimmer advance toward the podium. Before he could get close, however, the president began his speech.

“My fellow Americans,” President Blake said, gripping each side of the podium. Although he had recently hit sixty, he looked older. Like all the presidents before him, he had been aged prematurely by the job. His hair was more gray than black; the tiny creases across his forehead had become pronounced; the folds of flesh around his eyes were so intense, his eyes almost seemed sunken. And yet, for all that, he was still a handsome man. His gaze was steady and the timbre of his voice was rich and forceful.

“How appropriate it is that as we stand here today, we can gaze upon the golden gates and read the words so appropriate to the communal spirit we all share.” The president recited the words as many in the audience quietly read with him:

We come here to remember those who were killed,

Those who survived and those changed forever.

May all who leave here know the impact of violence.

May this memorial offer comfort, strength, peace, hope, and serenity.

“I ask you,” President Blake said, dabbing his eyes, “were truer words ever written? We know we live in violent times. And yet despite the horrors that sometimes confront us, there is hope, and there is courage. There is the resilience of the American people. There is the nobility that comes from living in a land in which individual rights are our most precious commodities, more so than gold or silver or…”

Only days later did Ben realize that the sound he heard next was not the popping of a lightbulb or the backfire of a passing automobile. The president paused. Had he forgotten his speech? Ben wondered. Impossible-he was reading it off the translucent TelePrompTer before and beneath his podium. Then Ben heard another series of popping noises, as if someone had ignited an entire package of Black Cat firecrackers. Only a microsecond later, when he saw two Secret Service agents diving toward the stage, did he realize what was happening.

“We have fire!” he heard Agent Gatwick shout somewhere behind him. “Emergency response mode-now! I repeat: We have fire!”

“Get down! Get out of the way!”

From that point forward, Ben felt as if time went into slow motion. He had been taught in school that time was relative, and for the first time, he believed it. From the shots to the time he was inside Cadillac One, he later realized that barely thirty seconds had elapsed. But it seemed an eternity.

The president had stopped speaking and there were at least half a dozen men racing toward the podium. Ben knew they were running as fast as possible but to him it seemed as if they were moving unbearably slowly, like on The Six Million Dollar Man.

The Secret Service agents finally reached the presidential podium. Two of them tackled the president and quite literally knocked him to the ground.

When the leader of the free world hit the floor, panic ensued. The people at the front of the rope line surged forward, pushed against their will by the teeming mass behind them. The police officers guarding the line attempted to hold them back-but there were a lot more people in the crowd than there were police officers. People buried in the middle tried to race off to the sides and break free, creating even more turmoil and confusion.

The shots continued, faster and louder.

“Get down!” Ben heard Agent Zimmer shout, lunging toward him. He thought the man was protecting him, but of course he was actually guarding the first lady. He grabbed her and pulled her to her feet, careful to position his body between Emily Blake and the line of fire. He placed his hands under her arms and lifted her off the ground. As he carried her toward the back of the raised platform, her face showed that she knew she was in danger, but to her credit, she remained quiet and cooperative.

“Tell me about Samson!” Zimmer barked into his sleeve, even as he carried the first lady away. “Is Samson down?”

Ben waited for an answer, but before he heard one, two plainclothesmen approached and began herding his group to the side of the stage.

“Man down!” he heard someone shout, but he didn’t know whom they were talking about. One of the Secret Service agents standing by the presidential podium dropped, obviously wounded. Blood saturated his neck and shirt with astonishing speed. Aren’t they wearing Kevlar? Ben wondered. Another agent to his right fell. How many shooters are there? How many bullets? How many people are dead already?

The remaining Secret Service agents formed a circle and pulled the president to his feet, careful to keep him surrounded at all times. Another round of shots rang out and another agent dropped. The remaining four instantly closed the circle, keeping the president covered. Another line of agents went down on one knee, aiming their weapons into the distance.