Alan Jacobson
Hard Target
Dedication
For my uncle, Leonard RudnickAt first I thought that the Leonard Rudnick of my childhood bore little resemblance to the Leonard Rudnick of Hard Target. But then I realized that both are doctors who care deeply about their patients, and both are good souls who would do anything for a person in need. Moreover, both overcame substantial adversities as youngsters to lead rewarding lives.On a personal level, my uncle has had a profound effect on me, starting with my earliest childhood memories when we went fishing in Bay Shore, New York and caught a large… boot. That taught me that fishing was not the sport for me.My uncle also introduced me to chiropractic. Chiropractic treatment not only cured my blinding migraine headaches, but it brought me across the country to California, where I started a rewarding career and met the most important person of my life. There have been other influences, too numerous to record here, but suffice it to say that my uncle’s smile, humor, warmth, and wisdom have helped me become the person that I am today.Unk, this one’s for you.
“… Whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive… it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government… it is their Right, it is their Duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future Security.”
“Our death is not an end if we can live on in our children and the younger generation. For they are us, our bodies are only wilted leaves on the tree of life.”
ELECTION NIGHT
Everyone dies, it’s just a matter of when. But Glendon Rusch, vice president of the United States, had always figured it would be a distant occurrence — three or four decades in the future. He had no way of knowing the events that would prove godlike in their finality were a mere three or four minutes away.
The Sikorsky VH-3 helicopter, one of only a dozen in the executive transport fleet out of Quantico, chopped its way through Virginia air space. Inside, in the relative quiet of the custom outfitted cabin, Rusch tapped his right foot, staring ahead at his wife, Macy, wanting the time to dissolve away like grains of sugar in hot coffee. Because the sooner the minutes passed, the sooner he’d know if his grueling two-year run for president would be the crown jewel in his career ring, or a nine hundred million dollar faux diamond.
“Too close to call,” Rusch was told as they lifted off. But what the hell did that mean? He needed to talk with his campaign director. Just how close was “too close to call”? Was that statistical jargon for “It doesn’t look good, but we’re not mathematically eliminated”?
Rusch stole a glance at Macy’s watch: could the last forty minutes have made a difference? He looked at the cabin phone ten feet away, willing it to ring. But would it bring good news or bad? He closed his eyes and let his head rest against the seatback. Stop obsessing.
Fatigue was dragging at every body part, trying to pull him into defeat. Like gravity, he fought it unconsciously, not permitting the lack of sleep and his weary mind to darken his thoughts. He needed to shift his attention elsewhere, if only for a moment or two.
Rusch looked at his daughter, Kelsey, who was strapped into seat number three to her mother’s left along the cabin wall. She was staring with longing eyes at Sam Washburn, the Special Agent-in-Charge of the vice president’s Secret Service detail. Washburn was a hunk, or so sixteen year-old Kelsey had said, and she had a crush on him. Rusch cleared his throat and caught his daughter’s attention. He raised a disapproving eyebrow and tilted his head. She rolled her eyes in response, her face shading red as she turned away.
Rusch shared a smile with Macy. He remembered when Kelsey was only a newborn bundle wrapped in a drawstring nightgown, sleeping in his arms. Time passed much too quickly.
And yet, in times like these, it passed much too slowly.
The cabin phone rang. Rusch’s heart rate surged.
Sam Washburn, a veteran of the executive detail and several election cycles, knew the importance of the call. He unbuckled and snatched up the handset, listened a moment, then handed the receiver to Rusch’s senior campaign aide, Chris Sawyer.
Sawyer nodded and grunted, his eyes darting around as he digested the information being relayed to him over the phone. His gaze found Rusch, the aide’s poker face giving away nothing— but his shoulders slumping slightly. Finally, he hung up the phone and said, “The polls are just about closed in Washington, Arizona, and California. And CNN’s calling it.” He waited a beat, then said, “We’re in!”
Rusch closed his eyes and sighed relief. Macy took his hands in hers and squeezed. Rusch knew that of everyone on board, his wife was the most proud of him… with Kelsey a close second. He absorbed the moment, surrounded by those he loved dearly and who loved him, and he realized it didn’t get any better than this. He blinked away the tears and found his voice.
“How long till touch down?” Rusch said, forcing the hoarse words from his throat.
“Five or six minutes,” Sawyer said. “Big crowd waiting for us.”
“Then where’s that champagne? Pop the damn cork.”
Sawyer snapped his heels together and sprung into a mock salute. “Yes sir, Mr. President.”
Macy, seated across from her husband, leaned forward and wiped at his tears with a thumb. She spoke close to his ear: “I guess I’ll find out tonight what it’s like to sleep with the President of the United States. Not many women can make that claim.”
“Probably more than you know,” Rusch deadpanned, then planted a kiss on her hand. He leaned back, then blew a kiss to Kelsey as Sawyer ripped the foil from the Dom Perignon. With an audible pop, the cork exploded upward, frothy suds fizzling out of the bottle and crawling over Sawyer’s hands like ocean foam. He stepped back to keep the champagne off his Allen Edmonds wingtips, then lifted the bubbly for everyone to see. “To Glendon Rusch, President of the United States!”
Sawyer reached forward to pour Rusch’s glass, but the helicopter lurched hard to the right and the bottle flew from his hand. It shattered against a bulkhead, shards and spilled champagne showering the floor.
“What the hell was that?” Rusch shouted, his hands gripping the thick armrests.
But before anyone could venture a guess, a thunderous explosion blew the armored chopper aside like a plastic toy. Sawyer slammed into Washburn and the two men fell in tandem. The Secret Service agent tried to push Sawyer aside, but their tangled legs kept him buried beneath the man’s weight.
A bright flash caught the edge of Rusch’s peripheral vision. Through the window to his left, the blinding flare of the pulverized escort helicopter’s flaming debris accelerated toward him.
“Sweet Jesus!” Rusch instinctively recoiled, bracing for impact.
The wreckage slammed against the VH-3, ripping a hole in the cabin’s metal skin. The helicopter rotated out of control in a dizzying elliptical orbit, whipping its occupants about like an amusement park ride. The force dislodged the sprawled Sawyer and flung him into the wall like a rag doll — along with everything else that was not secured.
Glass from the demolished window littered Macy’s bleeding face, her head flopping from side to side against the firm, upholstered seatback. “Macy… honey!” Rusch grabbed her wrist and gave a gentle tug. “Macy!”