They looked at each other before tentatively proceeding. Marshall walked along the walls of the office with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. There were portraits of his predecessors. He’d never studied the artwork before. There had always seemed like there’d be time later.
‘No, put that one on top. The ones with the red labels go on top.’
Marshall looked back around at them and smiled. ‘You boys aren’t out at the parties?’
The one giving the orders and doing the talking shrugged. ‘We’ve been spending all our time down in the Situation Room.’
‘Oh, you’re national security?’ Marshall asked. The man nodded. ‘I didn’t know…’ he began. He stopped himself. He didn’t know the national security staffs had already made the transition. He turned away. ‘I didn’t know there was anybody down in the Situation Room tonight.’ He moved on to the portrait of Washington.
‘There was a crisis action team convened, Mr President,’ the man said. When Marshall looked up at him, the man stood there awkwardly. He didn’t know what to say. ‘It’s a joint team. Some of… of the outgoing staff is down there too.’
Marshall nodded, resuming his inventory of the dead presidents. ‘What’s the topic du jour?’ he asked.
‘Oh… China, sir.’
‘Anything new?’
The man cleared his throat ‘Some more troop movements. Closer to the border. And… and some patriotic broadcasts have replaced normal programming. Old documentaries about the Long March on TV. Classical music on the radio. That sort of thing. We thought at first that somebody in the leadership had died.’
‘Wouldn’t be surprised,’ Marshall said. His hands were now clasped behind his back. His eyes roamed the walls. ‘The youngest one of ’em must be in his nineties.’ The two men laughed more loudly than was appropriate. They were excited. This was a beginning for them.
‘Oh!’ the staffer added. ‘And there was a… an order that came down last night from Beijing. Every single soldier from general to private was ordered to shave his head.’ Marshall turned to look at the man, who was smiling at the humor of it. ‘Almost three million haircuts. Imagine all that hair.’ The man wilted under Marshall’s worried gaze. ‘They… they have had problems with head lice, NSA said. They think. In the army. The Chinese Army.’
Marshall headed for the door. He intended to go directly down to the Situation Room. But he stopped. He looked at the two junior aides standing behind his desk. Bristol’s desk, Marshall thought. He left the Oval Office for the last time and headed off to a guest bedroom. His late-night snack awaited him… as usual.
Kartsev had awoken early to watch the coverage of the Inaugural Eve gala on C-SPAN. He sat in his office in front of the television. It was the night of his experiment’s final catalyst. The last brisk stir of the sociopolitical pot. His few remaining assets had been lying low. Most, in fact, had perished during the extended period of inactivity. Drug overdoses. Violent accidents. Men condemned to Schedule A for risking operational security. Plus suicide was already ten percent a month.
The television cast the room’s only light. On it, a great hall had been turned into a crowded ballroom floor. Kartsev had muted the announcers’ running commentary. Only the occasional close-up drew his passing attention. The party-goers were obscure political dignitaries. Kartsev didn’t recognize any of the names shown as the camera zoomed in.
When the scene switched to the motorcade pulling into an underground garage, Kartsev turned the volume back up. With it rose his excitement.
‘… have just arrived under heavy police and Secret Service protection. This Inauguration will be marked by the tightest security in history after the wave of political terror that flashed across this country last year.’
‘Excuse me, Tim,’ another voice interrupted as the President-elect emerged from a limousine. ‘Governor Bristol is just now arriving.’ They went on to identify each of the other passengers as they gathered. They all smiled and waved to the cameras campaign-style. When the Bristol and Davis families were assembled, they headed through the cordon of security officers toward the service elevator. Kartsev watched and listened now with rapt attention. His heart pounded in his chest.
The air that rushed through the sheet-metal duct was hot. He was sweating profusely from the exertion of crawling a painstaking pace of a meter or two per minute. Every point of contact with the ducting had to be planned. A hand there — by the jagged rivet he could feel in the darkness. A knee where he estimated the last strap support to be. The noise now poured in through the grating at the end. He inched his way toward it.
The sheet metal had already given three times. Each time it made a loud bang like he’d slammed his fist down. The duct was a meter wide and high. It was suspended above the grand ballroom by black fabric belts looped around it that hung from the ceiling. He could feel the entire thing swaying gently with each movement he made. Each time his weight tested the metal, he cringed in anticipation. Not that he feared death. He would die that night regardless. And he wasn’t indifferent to death. He was sickened by the prospect of it. It had been a long run, however. Most of the others from his class were dead already. Siberia, The Bronx, Wembley Stadium, and No. 10 Downing Street — he should by all rights be dead. He had faced the void before… just never with quite the same certainty.
The metal enclosure resounded again with a bang. It was so loud it sounded like a gunshot. There was none. It was the duct’s floor popping back into position after he’d moved on. But the noise of the band and the buzz of the room were too loud. Once again they’d missed a sound for which four dozen pairs of ears were intently listening.
He tried to imagine whether he’d left dents that might tip his opponents off. Each time the swinging of the duct became excessive, he froze in place and waited for the motion to dampen. It took an hour and a half to crawl sixty feet.
Finally, he reached the grate. He rubbed his eyes clear of the sweat and peered through. He couldn’t see the stage! Enormous nets filled with red, white and blue balloons hung just in front.
But the balloons will come down, he decided. He took a vise grip and went to work on two neighboring slats. He pried and twisted the thin metal until a hole opened up. That would do for the muzzle. He spread another space several inches above. The bands had stopped and the speeches had begun. He’d barely finished in time.
He replaced the tools in their pouches on his vest. He pulled the rifle off his back where it had been securely strapped. The magazine was already loaded. A bullet was already chambered. The scope was even focused correctly for the range.
The band played ‘America the Beautiful’ as he shouldered the rifle. The muzzle protruded slightly through the hole in the bottom slat. And when he looked into the eyepiece he could see blurry balloons. The upper hole in the slats had been made for the scope. He rested his thumb on the power switch to the laser sight.
Now he waited. The cheers of the throng rose several decibels, and then rose again to a sustained roar. The nets opened up. The balloons began to drop past his scope. His field of view at high magnification was very narrow. All he could see was a falling mass of colorful spheres. All at once, the net was empty and the podium came into focus. He flicked on the laser aimpoint.
Like circus performers Bristol held Gordon’s hand aloft. It was clenched in his own as the adoring mass of black ties and sequins cheered. Fifteen, twenty minutes here, tops, before they moved on to the next gathering. Each party was a step up the ladder. At the last stop were the largest contributors.