Tom Avitabile - The Hammer of God

Brent reached down and took the gun from Hiccock’s hand. He threw off the safety, pulled back the slide, and popped the clip. “My little rule is approach every gun as loaded and every time for the first time.”

“Yeah, you look more cautious than me.”

“Every firearm accident happens because overconfidence makes you get sloppy. Every gun is loaded, even the one you just put down.” He placed the unloaded gun on the cleaning table next to his own identical automatic then intentionally picked up his. “Until you know that this time it isn’t.” He hit the slide hard and ejected the live round from the twin gun.

It was a bit of obvious sleight-of-hand, but it made the point to Hiccock. “Got it.”

“So since you just want to be proficient, we’ll start on the basics.”

And so Hiccock’s Introduction to Firearms 101 course started with Brent Moscowitz, the Secret Service agent from Queens. This was all happening because Bill confided to the agent, who was assigned to protect him, that he didn’t want to be seen as a weenie by the men and women of the various law enforcement agencies over which he now held sway.

By the time Bill got to his office that Monday there were just two bioterrorists left at large: one known, one unknown. It seemed that America got lucky this time. But there were a million more bugs out there and millions more fanatics willing to infect themselves as bioterrorists in a slow-motion version of suicide bombing.

The news that Janice was pregnant made that normally worrisome prospect utterly terrifying to Bill now. Is that what impending fatherhood does to a person: magnify all the sharp edges and pointy things in the world? he pondered as he signed on to his SCIAD net. The top three messages were about Edward Ensiling, a scientist found dead in Vienna. He was a member of many teams that brought about a good deal of innovation and discovery. As the science advisor to the President, Bill sent a memo to the Office of Protocol for the appropriate response or letter to be issued from the President. The office would first run an FBI and CIA background check, because Ensiling was a foreign national, Hungarian, if Bill remembered correctly.

In the afternoon, Bill came back from a meeting to find an older staffer awaiting him in his office.

“Mr. Hiccock, Dave Dwyer from the Office of Protocol. Nice to meet you.”?“Nice to meet you too, Mr. Dwyer. What can I do for you?”

“You alerted this office to the demise of one Professor Ensiling and suggested a presidential commendation or letter of sympathy. Your request has been denied.”

“Really? Why?”

“It seems during the ’60s, the good professor made some enemies within the Air Force and NASA. Those letters in his file are a red flag against any presidential recognition. I am sure you understand.”

“Certainly, although I am amazed. He was a top scientific mind of the last century. But if it’s red flagged it’s red flagged. Thank you for coming over to tell me personally.”

“No problem, really. I actually wanted to meet you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. I followed your college career and, well, let’s just say it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hiccock.”

“It’s Bill, please, and the pleasure’s all mine, Dave.”

“Your two-minute shootouts, well, they were the most exciting thing in college ball. Still, to this day.”

“Well, thanks, Dave. But you know I had an excellent offensive line. I could have washed my socks, trimmed my nails, and still had time to throw.”

“Well, I’ll be going. Again, a thrill to meet you.”

“Have a good day,” Bill said as Dwyer left.

Twenty minutes later, Bill was sitting at his desk, deep in analysis of how to defend against the next bio-terror plot. As he sat, he absentmindedly spun and caught a football in one hand, something that he first perfected on the sidelines, as a backup quarterback his sophomore year at Cardinal Spellman High School in the Bronx. Using his thumb to pivot the ball in his palm, at regular intervals he would swoop his 3x-size hand over the top and catch the ball in a perfect fingertips-on-the-laces grip. Eight out of ten times, he got it without looking. So inured was his muscle memory and acuity at finding the laces that he actually was able to focus his mind on something else, while performing this mindless feat.

Ray Reynolds, the President’s chief of staff stood in the doorway hypnotically watching Bill perform this one-handed trick. Eventually, he knocked on the jamb. “Got a minute, Bill?”

Bill caught the ball mid-twirl and placed it back on the wooden stand on the credenza behind his desk.

Ray sat down in the chair across from him. “Bill, the boss was very pleased with the way you moved things along up in New York.”

“We got lucky because Kronos didn’t get lucky, so he was home Saturday night to wire the patch up.”

“All the same, it’s your team. We’ve got bio-med crash units in the two Muslim communities where we found two of the infected men. So far it’s contained, but we are losing people. Almost 3,000 innocent folks are dead because they were first to get infected by the bastards hiding in their neighborhoods. They were already dying long before we got to them.”

“But those 3,000 could have in turn exposed 90,000. Both communities could have been wiped out,” Bill said.

“Of course, those 90,000 could have infected millions before this thing burnt out,” Ray said closing the briefing folder on his lap. “Again, you don’t wire up the fast patch thing and we don’t get facial recognition on these animals. Then untold millions would be dead or dying now, Bill.”

“The cop didn’t make it…” Bill said without moving his head or eyes.

“Which cop?”

“At the motel. An NYPD cop found a jar cracked open on the asphalt. As far as we can tell, he didn’t touch it, but he inhaled a full dose. He was quarantined but slipped away yesterday.”

“I hope those sons of bitches, rot in hell for bringing that shit to America.”

“Nationally, the Center for Disease Control says we are talking 26,000 additional deaths this flu season. And that’s with 21 of them caught or killed before they could infect anyone.” Bill had just read that report a few minutes earlier.

“Even so, I’d say we dodged a bullet.”

Both men uncharacteristically sat in silence, each dwelling on what could have been.

“Well, I better be getting back to my office.” Ray got up and looked at the game ball behind Bill’s desk and noticed what was written on it in white paint. “Stanford 27, Penn State 3? Bill, I watched you on three consecutive New Year’s Days win all kinds of bowls. What was so special about this mid-season snorer?”

“That was the best game of my life, Ray.”

The quizzical look on Ray’s face begged for more clarity.

“That was the first game that Janice came to. I got in trouble talking to her on the sidelines during the game, but I didn’t care. Right in the middle of the third quarter, I knew she was the one, and that I loved her.”

“So that solves a mystery that’s bugged me for a while.”

“What’s that?”

“How, with all the awards trophies and souvenirs you’ve collected in your football career, the only trace in this office that you even threw a pass was this one game ball. I though scientists were supposed to be cold and unsentimental.”

“Only the ones who never meet Janice, Ray.”

“Touche, my friend.” And with that he was off.

Bill picked up the phone. He scribbled something on a pad as he dialed home. “Janice, let’s stay in tonight. I don’t know. Just hang a little… maybe get to bed early. Yes and get to sleep late… you got it!”