Anthony DeCosmo - Schism

Evan answered, "I'm going out to mingle with the press."

"I thought this thing didn't start for fifteen minutes?"

Godfrey laughed, "Oh Ray, you just don't know how to play the game, do you? Rumor has been that the President has been locked up in a bunker here at the White House for the last few weeks. Nothing to clear that air like some friendly, off the record chit-chats."

Evan left Roos behind to tend to the security arrangements and exited the building for the southwest grounds. There three rows of chairs sat gazing at a Presidential podium standing in front of the saplings he had planted upon his move to the White House. Several reporters waited among those rows of folding chairs along with two cameras and a technician wrestling with sound equipment.

Evan felt that electricity intensify. He saw the podium as his piano, the press as his audience, and today a grand concert playing out under perfect July weather: sunny, but not too hot. It seemed as if even the heavens blessed the day.

The President strode casually across the well-manicured lawn with a friendly smile and settled into the character of an approachable populist. As important the press conferences and news releases, Evan found that reporters responded well-and in a favorable manner-when you connected with them on a personal level.

"Angela, I hear you just had a birthday? You must be thirty-five now, is that right?"

Evan knew darned well that the broadcast reporter had passed forty a few years ago. And while she usually responded well to flattery, today her mood appeared less friendly.

"Yes, Mr. President. Tell me sir, what is the status of General Shepherd? Why hasn't he been charged yet? And I hear he has not been granted access to counsel. Is this true?"

Evan's smiled wavered. "Angela, why don't we save those questions for the conference. I thought I'd take this time to-"

"Mr. President," called a skinny black reporter from the Atlanta Times. "Senator Trimble is attempting to establish a Constitution Committee without your input, citing your lack of action as justification. Do you care to comment?"

The smile faltered further. "Doug, I was hoping to have a more informal discussion before the conference began. The representatives of the military are only just arriving. Tell me, are things as hot back home in Atlanta as they have been here in D.C.?"

Evan heard how forced his reply sounded even before it left his lips. He realized he had misjudged the situation. Evan decided to retreat but he could not leave. If he did, he would cede control of the upcoming press conference to the reporters as if throwing red meat to a pack of sharks.

"Mr. President, there are reports that General Brewer has taken a dreadnought beyond the treaty borders. Do you know why and has this action been undertaken with your blessing?"

Evan grew quite warm inside the dark suit he wore.

"Mr. President, do you have plans to introduce a time schedule for the formation of a Constitutional Convention?"

President Godfrey waved his hand in a calming manner toward the growing crowd of media and assured, "I'll get to that in a bit. Just give me a few moments to get set here."

He turned his attention to his binder, buying time under the guise of reviewing notes…

…Nina's keys jingled as she slipped one into the lock. The motion pushed open the busted door; no key required.

She moved inside with one hand instinctively resting on the butt of her rifle but quickly relaxed as she saw no further sign of intrusion. Satisfied no threat loomed, she closed the broken door as well as she could and stepped forward.

Her boot kicked something.

Nina looked to the floor. She saw a square package wrapped in brown paper, secured lengthwise with plain white string.

She stooped, grabbed the package, and stood again so as to better examine it. The delivery address listed Nina Forest, but no information in regards to sender…

…Ashley entered the lake side mansion through the front door walking in rigid but slow strides, feeling the eyes of the world upon her even though only a cleaning crew and a handful of bored staff watched.

That had been her way, of course. Ever since they had pulled her from the green goo through which she had rode time, Ashley's life had been one of appearances, of duty, of responsibility.

As she returned home she tried to find sanctuary in that role. She focused every muscle of her being on remaining in control; on maintaining the front of the elegant, proud first lady no matter how empty and alone she felt inside.

She climbed the stairs keeping her eyes forward. Her son followed.

The staff stared at her, surprised to see her return and amazed at the dignity she projected; not realizing how much strength she burned to project that image over a bleeding heart…

…Dante Jones stood on the White House roof gazing off at the Washington skyline. He did not know exactly why he came there each time the President held one of his press conferences. He also knew that this time he would be forced to leave his perch and stand alongside Godfrey, flashing smiles and shaking hands to show how splendidly they all got along.

He peeked over the side and saw the gathering reporters that seemed more a gathering storm. Evan stood at the podium with his eyes locked on a binder while ignoring sporadic questions. Apparently the President had walked in on an unexpected hornets nest.

Dante sympathized. At least Godfrey could block out the questions and the doubt with his politician's armor of arrogance. He wondered if Evan ever regretted anything.

Yet no matter what doubts bubbled in Jones' belly, he knew he had cast his lot. There could be no turning back. He could never undo what he had done, no matter how badly he wished he had not chosen so poorly.

The sound of an approaching transport diverted Dante's introspection. The sight of a landing Eagle did not surprise him, several such transports and helicopters had arrived and departed today. He wondered if it might do him some good to go downstairs and mingle with old friends. Or would facing those people only make his guilt more acute?

The Eagle flew in toward the northeast gate and descended.

A voice crackled from the radio attached to the holster strap around Dante's waist.

Tucker sounded somewhat unnerved, "I've got a transport landing over here, and you will not believe its call sign."

Far below Dante's rooftop perch, Ray Roos hustled through the West Wing in a fast walk with his sport jacket fluttering behind like bat wings. He replied on his radio, "I'm on it…"

…Inside the passenger compartment of Eagle One stood a rack of weapons. One shelf offered a plasma rifle captured from the Platypus-like aliens known as the Duass, another presented a Colt M-4, Trevor's weapon of choice.

But he chose another weapon for the day's work. A weapon on the top rung of the rack: a shiny Civil War era sword once wielded by Stonewall McAllister and bequeathed to the Emperor in that man's dying breathe.

An angry hand took hold of the blade, swiveled about, and opened the port side door. In rushed a blast of sunshine.

Trevor jumped from the compartment onto a makeshift receiving line complete with red carpet. To one side stood a small gathering of military officers. He noticed Cassy Simms and Benny Duda, as well as General Phillip Rhodes, Captain Carl Dunston, and others. In turn they saw a thin man with hair longer than they remembered, razor stubble on his cheeks, and energy-the energy of rage-radiating from his eyes.

Trevor ignored their gasps and shouts, keeping his attention straight forward as he stepped toward the entrance to the White House. In his way stood the short gray haired I.S. agent named Tucker.

Whether Tucker was too shocked to act or cowed into obedience did not matter; Trevor recognized the traitor's face. The sword drove into the man's belly, spearing him straight through. Tyr's killer crumbled over. Trevor yanked the blade free and the dead body fell to the ground.