This is all Katherine's fault. She started this thing over at the Raven's Nest. Go by and check it out.
We're moving this weekend so if I don't get by to read your stories right away, please forgive me. I did my best to bring a bit of closure to this ongoing story and have at least one last chapter to add.
This week's Ten Word Challenge will be: posthumous, flagrant, seven days a week, cheese and crackers, pyramid, civil war, clarinet, microwave, absent without leave, blue jeans
Mini Challenge: sugar-coated, thermometer, tractor pull, evangelical, masquerade
Consequences and Actions
The ambulance siren screamed a continuing message as it made its way from the White House to Walter Reed Medical Center. Sgt Johnson rode in the back with Zan. She had been struck twice by flying pieces of the exploding limo. One fragment had hit her in the head and the other had lodged in her lung. She was on the verge of dying when the medics took over in the driveway near the guard gate. Fortunately they were able to stabilize her, though the digital thermometer currently showed her losing body temperature and going into shock. The paramedics had placed what looked like some sort of funky medical blue jeans on her legs in an attempt to keep her body temperature and blood pressure up.
McCool and Jean followed the ambulance in the FBI's standard black Tahoe, its siren screaming in a terrible harmony with that of the ambulance. Jean was visibly shaken by the attack and Zan's injuries. "What just happened Thomas?" Jean asked. "How did an award ceremony at the white house turn into civil war?" "Weren't those men that were fighting at the gate Blackwater civilian troops" she finished, "I thought I saw the logo on their SUVs." "We don't know who they were at this point honey" he answered. "The investigators will find out who they were and who was behind the attack."
Jean slumped into his arms and cried gently. "What about Zan, she looked like she was hurt badly?" "We'll be at Walter Reed soon baby and they'll fix her up." "It's going to be OK Jean, I promise" he replied.
Many miles east of DC, Claude and Justine were turning onto highway 16 towards Philly. There would be a chartered jet at the airport to take them to Fiji, then on to Indonesia. Claude was done with America and its corrupt politicians and corporations. He would follow the repercussions from a private island in a remote Indonesian region. And Justine would have a life of ease and luxury. He planned to teach her to play chess, speak French and cook; three things he considered necessary to become truly civilized. Later they would travel the world.
Claude looked forward to showing her the pyramid at Giza, the Great Wall of China and Ayers rock in Australia. There was so much they would be able to do together in the future. All they had to do was make it out of the country.
She would say goodbye forever to her former world of flagrant redneckdom, tractor pulls, microwave hamburger helper, tricking, evangelical tent revivals and the sugar-coated intolerance of Fox News. "Maybe she'd even take up the clarinet again" he thought to himself. That little bit of trivia had finally came out in a conversation. He was glad she'd starting opening up. She would be free to end her masquerade as a bimbo and be the smart, talented and intelligent young woman he knew her to be. It dawned on him that he was really starting to have serious feelings for this woman.
Mike Dorgan was the head of the special investigations unit for Homeland Security. The only good thing about the situation he found himself in charge of was the lack of need for posthumous citations for Secret Service men. It looked like all the wounded good guys would survive. And they were very fortunate there was only one wounded civilian, though he’d heard she was the girl friend of an FBI profiler there at the White House to receive an award.
Mike knew he would be at this investigation seven days a week till he had suspects in custody or more likely till he initiated extradition orders for the people who had planned and funded this historic attack on the home of the American president. What he also knew was that the dead attackers were all Blackwater mercs attached to the state department. Why and how they could have been recruited to attack the president was inconceivable. He was experienced enough to know the money trail would give him the answers.
In several cities around the world, hedge fund managers, CEOs and assorted captains of industry were waking up to a very different world. In one massive and unbelievable stroke their fortunes had disappeared or been altered drastically. Among these men and women would come several suicides, a few auto accidents, some mysterious disappearances and the suspicion by all that more bad things were to come.
Jim Wilson with the incoming transition team had been alerted concerning the White House incident and was in route via a charter that would meet him at Philadelphia National Airport. He was the transition team’s security chief and responsible to the president elect to report on the situation.
Several members of the RNC and the PNAC received information that the FBI was in route to question them. All stayed put and waited on the FBI because they knew they had nothing to do with the attack. All were mistaken.
The president and officers of Blackwater in North Carolina were brought in for questioning within 90 minutes of the attack. A few of the Blackwater contractors were absent without leave and these were immediately moved to the head of the list of planners. The secretary of state was questioned by the secret service about an alleged emergency call that would have brought the Blackwater teams to the White House prepared to battle the secret service. It was beginning to look like a terrible and tragic friendly fire incident as the best case scenario and an attempted coup or assassination at its worst.
Dorgan was not willing to bet on this all just being a big mistake and the evidence uncovered in the next few days would suggest a conspiracy of great magnitude that included foreign ministers, friends and business associates of the president and vice-president as well as members of the administration and the RNC. What Dorgan didn’t know or couldn’t begin to imagine was that all this could be orchestrated by one man with motivation, money, opportunity and years to plan the operation.
The sleek Lear charter jet carrying Claude and Justine taxied onto the runway. The pilot opened the cockpit door and explained they would have to wait for another plane to take-off ahead of them. “Sorry sir, they have priority status, seems the guy on board is with the new administration and has to get to Washington in a hurry.”
Claude looked up from the cheese and crackers that he and Justine were enjoying with a pretty good French wine and replied “Don’t worry about it; we’re going on vacation and we’re not going to sweat the small stuff.” The pilot closed the door and looked to the co-pilot. “How about that?” “The guy didn’t even bitch about waiting in line to take off.”