“Man, oh man,” Mike said. “So you’re telling us that we won’t be able to talk during this whole?”
“ Outside that fifty-foot zone, even the Secret Service headsets only work about half the time. Same with our FBI radios — best we can do. Local police are out of luck.”
“Can't we just not run the jammer?” Hilde asked with a tone of exasperated sarcasm.
“Nope,” Tomer said. “President's security chief insists we use it. Said that since the Secret Service can mostly hear each other, they can just speak slower and it should be all right.”
“That makes no sense.” Mike shook his head, a look of disbelief on his face. “Speak slower? Are you serious? That's like shouting so a deaf person can hear you.”
“Yeah, I know, but there's nothing I can do. The president's personal security chief insists we keep the jammer on. By the way, the city is giving away free breakfast burritos over by the rose garden. Anyone hungry?”
“Damn right I’m hungry,” Tonia said. “Let’s go, big guy.”
“You guys?” Tony motioned to Mike and Hilde.
“You two go ahead,” Hilde said, then mumbled, “We’ll grab something later.”
The couple moved toward the food stand on the far end of the park. Tonia stopped even trying to look like the hard Secret Service agent and morphed into a thirty-five-year-old love-struck teenager as she walked beside Tomer.
“This is insanity,” Mike said. “What if this doesn’t involve a bomb or radio waves?”
“I'm a technology person,” Hilde replied, “and I hate it when people rely on technology to do the detailed work.”
Mike pointed across the field to the corner of 9th and L. Marcus moved past a group of police officers. Hilde had gotten security badges for both him and Lonnie so they could move freely prior to the crowd’s arrival. Mike waved his arm, and Marcus jogged the distance toward them.
“Morning,” Mike said. “How’s Lonnie?”
“Grumpy,” Marcus replied. “She didn’t want to stay behind. She was coming this way, but her back was hurting so bad, I convinced her to take a spot in the hotel across the street.”
Marcus pointed to the Hawthorne Suites Hotel across 9th.
“There’s a sitting room in the second story on the corner looking over the park and the mountains. She’s my overwatch. If she sees anything, she’ll call my cell phone’s two-way radio.”
“Good. I’d hate for her to be down here if a mess starts,” Hilde said, “but her cell phone may not work. They're running a jammer that covers all but the area around the stage.”
“Do your radios at least work?” Marcus asked.
“According to Tomer, only half the time,” Hilde said.
“What?” Marcus face displayed stark disbelief.
“Yeah,” Mike muttered, “It’s a wonder this president has lived this long with a security detail that thinks like his.”
“Anything else new about Farrah or Kharzai?” Marcus asked.
“The lovebirds were both here a few minutes ago and had nothing to add. Warner is roaming around, looking very conspicuously like a government undercover agent. Other than that, two hundred National Guard soldiers, a hundred police officers and state troopers, and a few dozen other Secret Service and FBI personnel are watching very closely for our men.”
“I would be very surprised if they show up here,” Mike said.
“I don’t know,” Marcus replied. “They're both here for revenge. They may want to be on the front row when it happens.”
“We’ll find out soon enough,” Mike pointed to the first groups of spectators entering the park grounds and heading toward the stage area.
“The Secret Service has screening booths set up on the streets,” Hilde said, “funneling folks in through a limited number of access points. They've also locked the entrances to the underground tunnels and we've got plenty sets of eyes that'll be mixed in with the crowd. I can't imagine them getting too close — especially Kharzai, with all that hair.”
“Let's just pray you're right,” Mike said.
A voice called out from nearby. “Hey! Mojo Johnson!”
Marcus turned around, eyes scanning the slowly increasing stream of people milling about the park. A short, wiry man waved his arms to get Marcus's attention, a wide smile on his face as he approached.
“Jim Walters,” Marcus said, his expression stretching in a smile as memories of the past drifted to the front of his mind. “What in the world are you doing here?”
“I heard you were in town and figured you'd freakin' need someone to haul your ass around somewhere.”
They clasped each other in a back-slapping man-hug, both talking over each other at once.
“It's been nearly six years since I saw you in Iraq,” Marcus said. “Good to see you made it out of there.”
“Yeah, no thanks to you and Wazzy,” Jim replied turning to Mike and Hilde. “Mojo and that Seal Wasner put me in spots that got four boats shot out from under me. Twice I found myself swimming the Euphrates ducking Republican Guard lead. Good thing they weren't as motivated to kill me as I was to stay alive.”
“Yeah,” Marcus said, “those were some hairy ops we went on.” Turning to the Farris's, he said, “This is Mike Farris, former recon officer, and his wife Hilde.”
“We met at the airport last week when they came in, actually,” Jim said. He pointed at Farris. “You didn't mention you were an officer. If I'd known that, I wouldn't have been so cordial.” He grinned mischievously.
“So what are you doing here so early?” Marcus asked.
“Wife wanted to come see the president. Said I needed to come too, since I worked for the past several Oval Office tenants for so long.”
“What time did you get here to be on the ground so soon?” Hilde asked.
“Three a.m.,” Jim replied. “Can you believe it? Waking up at one in the freakin' morning to drive an hour into the city, then stand in line for an hour just so I could find a front row seat for my lovely bride to watch a speech by a president I didn't even vote for.”
“As I recall,” Marcus said, “you're not in to politics that much.”
“I wasn't,” he replied, “but since retirement, I somehow got into listening to those knuckle-headed talk radio hosts on the squawk-box and they got me all riled up with their nonsense crap talk and started me into following politics. Nowadays, would you believe I actually fill in on the radio for the local guys sometimes?”
“Seriously?” Marcus said, truly shocked. Jim Walters was the last person he expected to be a talk radio host, especially in a conservative town like Anchorage. While in the Navy, Jim never took sides in a political conversation, even going so far as to walk away if the talk was headed that direction. He usually spouted off about the military oath meaning serving the office of the president, not the man in the chair.
“So, you're like the local Rush Limbaugh?” Mike asked.
“Hell, no!” Jim replied. “I'm on the other side for the most part, Libertarian style. Definitely not a whiny-assed, limp-dick, tweed-jacket-with-elbow-patches rammed-in-the-ass liberal dweeb, but not a stuffed-shirt, hypocritical, blow- hard, fat-ass, giving-blow-jobs-to-big-business conservative butt-head, either. I've got my own agenda, and if they ever put me in office, I'll fire the whole lot of the good-for-nothing pecker-woods.” Turning to Hilde he, added, “Please excuse my French.”
“That's not any French I know,” she said. “I imagine that’s why they call it talking like a sailor.”
“Sounds like you haven't changed much,” Marcus said.
“Wife says I have,” Jim said, “but I think she just never knew me all that well for the first fifteen years while she was second wife to the Navy. Now that I'm at home all the time, she says I talk too much and need to get a job somewhere other than in the garage makin' freakin' things outta wood.”