Warren Murphy: Target of Opportunity

"I am asking you to save your own life. This conspiracy is deep, broad and well capitalized. It will stop at nothing to unseat you. We cannot unravel it if we are spending all our energy trying to preserve your life."

The First Lady said, "What does the Committee on Urban Refugee Empowerment have to do with any of this?"

She was ignored.

Smith went on, "This conspiracy has a definite goal in mind. Some thing or some aim that can only be achieved by your death. Let's give them what they want and see who steps from the shadows to claim victory."

"Then we will harvest their heads and display them as a warning to any who would contemplate similar perfidy," cried Chiun.

The First Lady regarded the Master of Sinanju with horrified eyes, so he added, "And insure universal health care for one and all!"

The First Lady grabbed the President's sleeve. "Do what he says," she hissed. "He makes perfect sense."

Remo rolled his eyes skyward.

Finally the President of the United States said, "I'm in your capable hands, Smith."

PEPSI DOBBINS was beside herself.

Hunkering down in an ANC broadcast van parked on Pennsylvania Avenue near the White House, she found herself a witness to history with no clue as to what was going on.

She grabbed her walkie-talkie. "Buck. Talk to me. What's happening out there?"

"I got it all on tape," Buck said excitedly.

"What did you get?"

"The Secret Service just shot the shit out of Santa Claus."

"What?"

"But it wasn't really Santa. It was Thrush Limburger in disguise."

"Oh, my God. Did he try to kill the President?"

"That's how it looked."

"The conspiracy thickens."

"That's not all. You remember the old Oriental and the guy with thick wrists from the airport?"

"Yeah."

"They were here. They helped hustle the President off as the shooting started."

"Where did he go? The President, I mean."

"Did you hear that dull thump a moment ago?"

"I did."

"No one's saying, but we think it was Marine One. It blew up."

"I'm shooting toward the Washington Monument right now. I think I was the only guy smart enough to sneak off. Everyone else started taping Thrush Limburger's corpse and asking idiot questions."

"There's no such thing as an idiot question in the pursuit of a story," Pepsie snapped.

"I caught Marine One flying off," Buck said breathlessly. "Then it blew apart and dropped straight down like a flaming sack of potatoes. I'm filming the wreck right now."

"Was the President aboard?"

"He was supposed to be."

"Then he's dead," Pepsie breathed. "He's really dead this time. We've got to go on the air with this."

"They'll never let us. Not after the last time you said he was dead over the air."

"Hold on," Pepsie said. Turning to a technician in the cramped broadcast van, she said, "Can you snoop in on the Secret Service transmission frequency?"

"We're not supposed to."

"That's not what I asked," said Pepsie.

The technician handed Pepsie a set of earphones.

Clapping one earphone to her head, she heard an ominous white noise. There were absolutely no Secret Service transmissions. All was static.

"Buck, what's going on?" Pepsie said into her walkie-talkie.

"White House staffers are booting us off the grounds. They look kinda scared."

"Okay. Meet me at the van."

"You got it."

Grabbing her cellular phone, Pepsie dialed ANC News. "Greg. I'm at the White House. Something big just happened."

"I though you were barred from the ceremony."

"That's why I'm hiding out in the news van. But my camera guy slipped in. Get this, Thrush Limburger just tried to kill the President. But the Secret Service got him first."

"That's what CNN is reporting. Do we have film?"

"Do we ever. But there's more. Marine One lifted off from the South Lawn not two minutes ago and blew up. Isn't that great?"

"CNN didn't report that."

Pepsie burbled excitedly, "I think we have an exclusive."

"Was the President aboard?"

"He was supposed to be," Pepsie said evasively.

"Supposed to be doesn't cut it, Pepsie. You know that."

"Look, we can do a live remote on the crash while the competition is still stuck on the 'cased Santa' angle. This is my big chance."

"This is career suicide if you go out on another limb."

"Trust me on this one. I have film."

"Start feeding the raw tape, and we'll see."

"You won't regret this," said Pepsie, hanging up.

She came out of her seat at the first knock on the van door.

"Hand it here," she said, grabbing the tape out of Buck Featherstone's fingers. She loaded it, hit Rewind, then told the technician, "Start feeding this as soon as it's racked."

Then she clapped the headphones over her ears, telling Buck, "We can't go on the air until we have proof the President's dead."

"From where I stood, it looked like the Secret Service snipers might have been trying to shoot the President."

"Are you sure?"

"No."

"What the hell," said Pepsie. "It'll make a better story that way. We can always air a retraction later. It's all coming together." Pepsie pushed one earphone tighter to her head. "Wait a minute. Something's happening."

A thin voice over the Secret Service frequency said, "Tin Woodman enroute to Crown. Repeat, Tin Woodman enroute to Crown."

"They just said the Tin Woodman is coming here. That's the Vice President. Maybe they're going to swear him in!"

FIVE MINUTES LATER a black Lincoln Continental limousine slithered through the West Gate and stopped before the diplomatic entrance in the South Portico of the White House.

The press continued to pour out of the East Gate, oblivious.

Then the hearses arrived. There were three. They remained in the White House garage less than a dozen minutes and then wound back out in a sedate line.

"Three hearses," Pepsie whispered. "Three bodies."

"The President, the First Lady and maybe Thrush Limburger," said Buck.

"Or the First Daughter." Pepsie dialed ANC again. "Greg. The Vice President just went in. Then three hearses left."

"We're still reviewing film," Greg told her tensely. "The other networks are still sorting out the shooting. They report the President has left for Andrews Air Force Base and Air Force One."

"The hearse traffic has been coming in and out of the West Gate. I think we're the only ones to spot it. We own this story."

"Hang on, Pepsie."

"By my fingernails."

AT THE NORTH PORTICO diplomatic entrance, the Vice President of the United States was greeted by the White House usher.

"What the hell is going on?" he hissed.

"Come this way, sir," the usher said solemnly.

The Vice President allowed himself to be escorted to the Oval Office. He had been dining with his family when word came that his presence was urgently required at the White House.

They were intercepted in the Oval Office reception area by the President's chief of staff. "ANC has just declared the President dead."

For the Vice President of the United States, it was as if an anvil had landed on his head. A million hectic thoughts raced through his reeling brain. His vision actually dimmed. There was a roaring in his ears.

Then the grim face of the President himself poked out of the Oval Office door.

"Don't believe everything you see on TV," he said. "But for the forseeable future, you're confined to the White House."

"What's going on? A coup?"

"We're trying to tree a possum."

"Come again?"

"I'm dead, and you don't know any different. Got that?"

"Yes, Mr. President," said a very confused and only slightly disappointed Vice President of the United States.

BEHIND THE CLOSED DOORS of the Oval Office, the President of the United States faced Harold W. Smith.