He found a parking space on the campus, already buzzing with activity, but something odd was happening. Some people were bringing metal chairs out of the gymnasium, and others were bringing metal chairs in.
“What’s going on?” he asked one of the volunteers.
“They’re putting in smaller chairs and taking out the larger ones. They’re going to seat nearly three thousand people, shoehorn them in.”
Good, he thought.
The shift gave him a greater opportunity to get lost in the increased activity. Yesterday, he had spotted the truck with rolls of bunting. It was gone now, but at the side of the building, he noted a pile of unused bunting. He lifted one of the rolls and put it on his shoulder and walked to his car. His luck was holding. No one paid him any attention.
He put the chain and the lock in his pocket, and then opening the trunk of his car, he removed the loaded rifle. He inserted the rifle in the roll of bunting, then closed the trunk and put the bunting roll back on his shoulder. He carried it to the rear of the building where the entrance to the locker room was located.
Two policemen manned the entrance. On the door was a sign with a red cross, indicating that it was designated as the first aid station, which the map in the newspaper had indicated. The policemen were chatting and disinterested and let him by with a smile and a friendly salute. The locker room was empty, although the door to the main gym was open, and he could see the people working frantically to rearrange the metal chairs.
He found the narrow door to the scorecard site and, slowly and carefully, ignoring the pain in his leg, climbed the metal stairs to the little platform where the scorekeeper would normally sit. Having scoped the site earlier, he lodged the rifle in its bunting in one of the containers that held the scorecards, arranging it for easy access.
He widened the opening in the bunting roll, and slid out the rifle to determine the timing and smoothness of the action. He did this a number of times. Then he pulled it out, aimed carefully at the approximate place where Churchill’s head would be on the podium, and tested the telescopic sight. From this vantage, he could not miss.
If only the bastard were in the crosshairs now, he thought.
By standing two steps down from the platform, he was able to render himself invisible to those on the floor of the gymnasium, although there was a small risk that the tip of the barrel might be seen from the raised speaker’s platform. A quick test determined that the risk would be minimal, depending on how fast he could sight the scope and get off the crucial shot. Besides, all eyes would be on Churchill. He discounted any potential observation. After all, there was no game in progress. Why would anyone be looking up?
He knew that he had to be quick, steady-handed, and precise. He had enough confidence in his marksmanship to do the deed on the first shot. If he were forced into a second shot, it would considerably lessen his odds of escape. There could be no third shot. The issue of timing was crucial. He would have to pull the trigger at the exact moment when the applause level was highest and could mask the rifle report. He expected a great deal of loud applause. After all, the speaker was Churchill, the great Churchill.
Fat bastard, he croaked.
Getting down the winding staircase would take seconds, although the condition of his ankle was worrisome. He would prime himself well with aspirin. His hope was that the ensuing shock of seeing Churchill collapse would create enough commotion — perhaps, a panic — to give him more cover.
The aftermath would be the most difficult part. The medical team that would be stationed in the locker room would be springing into action. His plan called for him to take advantage of these events.
He left the rifle encased in its bunting disguise. Moving carefully down the winding staircase, he reached the door and looked around. A number of volunteers were milling about, apparently using the area as a smoking lounge and getting respite from the work of moving the chairs. No one paid any attention to him.
Closing the door behind him, he leaned against it and unscrewed one of the metal loops embedded on either side of the door, leaving it within two threaded turns, then pulled the chain through the loops and clamped the links together with the lock. He tested the looseness of the loop, which came out easily, then screwed it back in just to the point where it held. Then he stood around, a casual observer taking a brief respite from his chores.
“Gonna be one great day tomorrow,” a man said, directing his attention to Miller.
“Greatest,” he commented, enjoying the irony. He chuckled.
It will be the shot heard round the world, he thought, remembering the reference to the assassination of the Habsburg archduke in Sarajevo, which set off World War I. This, he decided, would be the first shot of World War III.
He knew issues still needed to be resolved. As for the crucial shot, he felt certain he could do it, but the aftermath concerned him. Anticipation and alternative solutions had been the hallmark of his military training. In matters of combat, the original battle plan, however carefully worked out in advance, was sure to change in the first few minutes of combat. He related this lesson to the mission at hand.
He expected the crowd to surge, and he was certain that the president’s security detail had considered the possibility and had planned for some form of crowd control in case of emergency. Of course, he was probably overestimating their efficiency, but over anticipating was another hallmark of his military training.
The detail would quickly spring into action to protect the president and concentrate on getting him out of the hall, probably using a route through the girls’ locker room at the other end of the gym.
He had already determined that the girls’ locker room would be the logical place through which Churchill and the president would enter and the area that would receive the president’s Secret Service detail’s most careful inspection.
The body of Churchill on the other hand would be speedily moved through the locker room in which he was currently standing. Medical personnel would obviously have priority here. But while he was certain that a number of alternative protective strategies had been considered by the security detail, the immediate aftermath would be confusion and bewilderment. In that moment of chaos was his window of opportunity.
But getting out of the gymnasium — although important — would not be his most crucial challenge. Once they had determined the reality of the situation, they would begin the manhunt for the assassin. A cordon would be established, roadblocks set up. All transportation for miles around would be monitored. With luck, he would find a parking space close enough for a fast getaway, but he doubted he would try to leave town. He would need to find a safe place to hide nearby until the initial surveillance ended.
He left the locker room, saluted the policeman guarding the door, and limped his way to the car and drove off. He stopped by a grocery store, bought a loaf of bread, cheese slices, a bottle of milk, and a large bottle of aspirin. The pain in his leg had intensified, and the ankle swelling was increasing. Again, he forced himself to ignore the pain.
He reviewed the scenario in his mind repeatedly. Had he missed something?
At a gas station, a boy came out to fill up the car.
“How are things in D.C.?” the boy asked.
He was startled by the assertion. Then he remembered that the car had D.C. plates, a missed detail that had to be corrected. Parking the car at the edge of town, he made cheese sandwiches, ate them, and washed them down with milk. Then he dozed until dark.