Jonathan stripped the covers from one side of the king bed and climbed under. JoeDog read the signs and curled up on the spread at the foot of the bed on the opposite side. Jonathan stacked his pillows just so against the leather headboard, lay back, and closed his eyes.
Three minutes later, Jonathan realized that while exhausted, he was too spun up to sleep, so he lifted the television remote from the nightstand and thumbed the ON button. The thirty-inch TV mounted on the opposite wall jumped to life immediately, set, as always on his favorite cable news station.
He wasn’t so much interested in the content of what was on as he was in the white noise of droning voices that rarely failed to lull him into unconsciousness. The current top story dealt with another machine-gun attack in middle America, this one killing over a dozen people at holiday street festival in Davenport, Iowa. The squeaky tenor newsreader reported that experts were considering the possibility that this incident might be linked to recent similar incidents in Washington and Kansas City, and the school bombing in Detroit.
“Gee, ya think?” Jonathan asked aloud.
“On a related story,” the anchor continued, “administration officials are questioning the legitimacy of a sensational Web video that purported to show the execution of a young man by Islamic terrorists last night.”
Jonathan shot upright, causing JoeDog to leap for cover on the floor. The television showed grainy images of Ryan Nasbe being prepared for execution. The images were blurry enough that faces were hard to discern.
“We warn you that this next part is rather graphic.”
This by way of introducing Jonathan’s nick-of-time marksmanship. Actually, there wasn’t much graphic about it at all, just the sound of gunshots and the images of people falling down. An instant later, the webcam went black.
“That’s all there was of the video,” the anchor continued, “leading experts to suspect that the transmission was a prank intended to raise concerns among independent voters that the current administration is not up to the task of protecting the American people.”
From there, they cut away to an interview with some K Street pundit who said exactly the words that were necessary to get him on television to prove the network’s thesis.
Jonathan took that as his cue to lay back against his pillows again. “Okay, Joe,” he said with his eyes closed. “It’s safe now. You can come to bed.”
Seconds later, the whole mattress shook as she resumed her spot.
The anchor closed his story with, “Despite increased violence across the country, Secret Service and administration spokesmen say that no extraordinary security measures are necessary to protect the president and other elected officials.”
The screen switched to Presidential Press Secretary Rachel Pollack, who was speaking from the White House Press Room. “Come on, people,” she said. “The president is the most carefully guarded human being on the planet. The Secret Service takes every precaution every day. If we start altering the president’s schedule in response to random acts of violence, then the violent offenders win. The Marine Corps Anniversary celebration will go on as planned at the Iwo Jima Memorial. Be sure to dress warmly, because tomorrow’s supposed to be even colder than today.”
And so the newscast went, deeper and deeper into the possible ramifications of the ongoing terror killings across the country. Muslim clerics expressed outrage that Americans were so willing and ready to assign any acts of terrorism to them. Then there were the ongoing Jonathan’s eyes snapped open. “Shit,” he said aloud. The head of the snake was scheduled to speak at Iwo Jima Memorial tomorrow.
Venice already had the information he’d requested up on the big War Room screen when he arrived.
“This is everything I could find on the president’s schedule,” she said as he crossed the threshold. “At least what they make public. I could try to dig into the White House system, but that’s a terminal course.”
“The public schedule will be fine,” Jonathan said. He took his usual seat at the head of the teak conference table. “Michael Copley won’t know what’s not on the public schedule.”
Venice froze. “What’s going on, Digger?”
“I think that asshole is planning to assassinate the president.”
“You say that as if it’s easy to do.”
“It is, if you plan well enough and you have the right weapon.” He read through the list of scheduled appearances. The president would be attending a number of events over the next few days, including a lunch at the Capitol, a show at the Kennedy Center, and various bits of ceremonial bullshit at different federal building auditoriums.
“I was right,” he said triumphantly, pointing with his finger to the second listing on the page. “The Marine Corps anniversary celebration is the only outdoor ceremony.”
“Why is that important?” Venice asked. She was getting progressively more agitated with every moment.
Jonathan wasn’t in the mood to explain just yet. “I need you to pull up everything you can find on Appalachian Acoustics again and tell me if the Secret Service is one of their customers.”
“It doesn’t work like that,” she said. “For something like acoustic reflectors or whatever they call those things they make, the General Services Administration would make the purchase.”
Jonathan shot her an impatient look. “Fine. Then go to the GSA site and see if the Secret Service is one of their customers.”
“But I already know-” She saw the look. “Fine.”
In his heart, Jonathan knew he was right-he felt it-but a little confirmation wouldn’t hurt. It was just too on-the-nose not to be true.
Cut off the head of the snake.
That deathbed phrase, combined with Appalachian Acoustics’ celebration of its government contracts, was just too convenient not to be connected. Something about those panels.
Jonathan pulled on a drawer just under his spot at the table and slid out a keyboard for the computer that controlled the War Room’s main screen. He Googled Appalachian Acoustics and navigated to their website. The breadth and variety of their products was truly impressive. It took him a minute to find exactly the line of products he thought was applicable-“Major Outdoor Venues”-but once there, he took his time studying the photographs.
The common arrangement of the acoustic shells formed a semicircle around the speaker or performer. According to the specifications list, they could be designed as tall as twenty-five feet, or they could be as short as a standard office cubicle wall. Jonathan wondered what they’d use for a presidential speech. He imagined that taller was better.
In fact, he was certain that taller was better. He remembered from his early days in the Unit, back when their mission and capabilities hadn’t quite settled out and they did a lot of executive protection for dignitaries in war zones overseas, that anything you could use to block vision from potential bad guys was a good thing. Protectees are routinely transferred from one place to another-say, from the front door of a building to a waiting limousine-under cover of tarpaulins of some sort.
He clicked deeper into the information on the taller models of acoustic shells. The Model 9000 Symphonic Reflector seemed to show the most versatility. It was modular in design and could be built in four-foot segments. Plus, it had an angled reflector at the top that would provide “the greatest degree of sound reflection available anywhere.” If Jonathan were selecting the reflectors as a shield for his own protectee, that’s the one he would use, and he’d max it out in height to block out any target that a sniper might try to scope.
They had access to Barrett rifles. Would aim even matter?
Aim always mattered. If you’re going to risk everything on a shot at the most powerful human on the planet, you want to make sure it works. Or you name yourself Squeaky and become a punch line among your fellow terrorists for decades to come.
What about explosives? If Copley designed the panels with explosives embedded, an initiation in this configuration would create one hell of a blast wave. Explosions and sound were both mere variations in pressure, after all, so a configuration designed to focus sound would likewise focus a detonation. But how would that work?