Hale drove around for a while before locating a parking spot three blocks away. After walking back he had to show his military ID before being allowed onto the capitol grounds. The man in charge of security was a Secret Service agent named Mack Stoly. He was a natty little man who was dressed in a gray snap-brim hat, blue topcoat, and pin-striped suit. He was at the center of a discussion that involved two other men and Hale noticed Stoly was wearing shiny street shoes. As if the agent was unwilling to compromise with the elements.
Hale, who was dressed in a winter uniform plus overcoat and combat boots, paused a few feet away and stuck his hands in his pockets while he waited for the conversation to end. That gave him a chance to conduct a slow 360-degree inspection of the surrounding terrain. As he turned he saw the capitol, a variety of structures off to the right, the portion of Lincoln Street which had been temporarily blocked off, the Ridley Hotel, the Civic Center, a cluster of public buildings, and then back to the capitol. Hale was looking up at the golden dome, and blinking snowflakes away, when someone spoke to him. “Impressive, isn’t it?” It was the man he’d been waiting for. “My name’s Stoly. Are you Lieutenant Hale?”
“Yes I am,” Hale replied, as he shook the other man’s hand. Stoly had blue eyes, even features, and a cleft chin. If he thought the Sentinel’s golden yellow eyes were strange, he gave no sign.
“Thanks for coming over,” Stoly said. “With so many people involved in security, it’s critical that we coordinate things properly. This is a good opportunity to agree on where your men will be placed—and what they will be responsible for.”
“Sounds good,” Hale agreed, as he stuck his hands back into his pockets. “From what I was told, our job is to deal with the stinks should some of them drop out of the sky.”
“True,” Stoly acknowledged soberly. “It’s damned unlikely, but after what happened at the Lincoln Memorial, anything seems possible. So we’ve got to be ready. But you’ll have a secondary mission as well—and that’s crowd control. I’m told that the President’s Chief of Staff wants a big crowd. So, contrary to our advice, he decided to bus people in from the nearest Protection Camps. The problem is that a lot of the people who live in the camps aren’t very happy with the Grace administration. They aren’t allowed to own guns, thank God… But that doesn’t mean some whacko with a knife won’t try to rush the platform, or worse yet, twenty whackos with knives! So you and your men will be a welcome addition to our security team.”
Hale spent the next hour accompanying Stoly from place to place, chatting with various agents and police officials, and discussing how to best position his Sentinels. He remembered to ask about air support, and was relieved to learn that it had been arranged. Finally, once the tour was over, Hale was free to depart. Which was great, because Cassie was about to get off work, and he had promised to take her to dinner.
Hale was whistling as he crossed 14th and began the walk back to the Lynx. Maybe, had he been thinking about work, Hale might have noticed the young woman in the blue headscarf who passed not thirty feet away from him. Her name was Susan Farley—and she was there to kill the President.
God must have been listening to William Dentweiler’s prayers—because the day dawned bright and clear. It was also cold.
Very cold.
Which would have made things difficult had it been necessary to draw a Denver crowd. But thanks to busloads of citizens from the Protection Camps, all equipped with identical overcoats, box lunches, and “Noah Grace” signs, a sizable audience was guaranteed.
Meanwhile, Hale had men stationed on the capitol’s roof, to either side of the speaker’s platform, and on top of the barriers that had been used to block off part of Lincoln Street. Above, carving white lines across the sky, two flights of Sabre Jets could be seen ready to respond should Chimeran aircraft venture from the north.
So the stage was set as a cheer went up and the Army band played “Hail to the Chief.”
The Governor of the state of Colorado gave him a nice introduction, and President Grace was in an ebullient mood as he left the warmth of the capitol. He crossed the plaza and made his way down four short flights of steps to the platform below. He liked giving speeches, being at the center of attention, and hearing the applause. So even though his administration was beset by problems, here was a moment he could actually enjoy. As Grace stepped up to the bunting-draped podium, flashbulbs went off, the last strains of “Hail to the Chief” died away, and the applause began to fade.
“My fellow Americans,” Grace said, mindful of the fact that millions would hear his words over the radio. “Darkness continues to gather all around us, but here in the heartland of our country the sun is shining, and we have reason to rejoice!”
It was an applause line, and thanks to the twenty shills Dentweiler had positioned in the audience there was applause, which Grace acknowledged with a nod as he waited for the noise to die down.
What followed was a stirring list of victories, accomplishments, and positive trends all strung together to lift the cloud of gloom that hovered above so much of the nation. As Hale listened, even he began to feel better, in spite of the fact that he’d been to Chicago and seen firsthand what life was like in that city.
But Hale wasn’t there to listen. He was there to help provide security, which was why he kept his head on a swivel, his eyes scanning for any sign of a threat. There was nothing to see, however, not until he turned his gaze to the Ridley Hotel, and the dozens of windows that stared out onto the capitol grounds.
One of them was open, and that in spite of air so cold he could see his breath, and feel his fingers starting to grow numb. A guest perhaps? Determined to get a better view of the speech? Or something more sinister?
As Grace gave the crowd a somewhat embellished account of Operation Iron Fist, Hale brought his binoculars up to examine the front of the hotel. Try as he might Hale couldn’t see into the room. But as he continued to stare Hale saw a momentary flash of light which served to backlight both the person at the window and the familiar shape that was angled his way.
A Fareye! But then the image was gone, leaving Hale to wonder.
He blinked, hoping to somehow restore what he’d seen, but the room remained dark. Assuming he was correct, and not hallucinating, it was as if a light had been turned on behind the rifleman. Or a door had been opened into a well-lit space.
But what to do? Evacuate the President from the platform? That would be prudent, perhaps… But if the marksman was a Secret Service agent, or a photographer with a long lens, or a maid with a mop, a lot of people were going to be very angry.
But he couldn’t just let it drop.
Hale glanced around for Stoly, and saw him on the far side of the platform. The handheld radio he’d been given was for emergencies only, and therefore silent, as he brought it up to his lips.
“Hale to Stoly… Front of the hotel, third floor, open window… At least one person inside. Yours?”
There was a brief pause, followed by an emphatic reply.
“Hell no!”
Hale felt a sudden surge of adrenaline as he took three steps forward to the point where one of his soldiers was stationed. “Give me your rifle,” he ordered harshly, as he took the Fareye out of the man’s hands. “And stand perfectly still. I’m going to use you as a rest.”
As Hale laid the rifle across the Sentinel’s shoulder, and put his eye to the scope, Stoly hit Grace from the side. And when the President went down a projectile hit the Governor of Colorado—who had the painful misfortune to be standing directly behind Grace when the projectile was fired. The Governor made a grab for his shoulder as he fell, and the rest of the dignitaries scattered in every direction as the sound of the shot echoed between the surrounding buildings.