“It was a gut call. I expected him to snow ’em.”
“I don’t snow people, Ray.”
“Grow up.”
“‘White House leaves terrorism question open in Intellichip blast,’” the press secretary read from a headline. She continued, “‘Science geek number one scares nation … Arabs protest accusation they planted bomb.’ Sweet Jesus, what a mess.” She threw the copy down.
“I asked you what they were working on,” Reynolds said angrily to Hiccock.
“And I told you.”
“Gentlemen, please,” the press secretary said. She turned to Hiccock. “Mr. Hiccock, please don’t ever talk to the press directly again, and any releases are to be cleared through my office first.” Without looking, she held a finger out in the chief of staff’s direction, “Do I have your support on this, Ray?”
“Of course.”
“Does this mean you don’t want me to accept the request to go on Geraldo?” The vicious looks he received in response to that quip dissolved Hiccock’s little smile.
Carly Simone made it to the press briefing room just after the briefing ended. It took her 30 minutes to get through White House security and obtain her press pass. Her original papers were back at the hotel by now, the airline having lost them with the rest of her check-in baggage. So there she stood outside the empty pressroom in the same clothes she wore last night. She also didn’t have a clue where you went after a briefing was finished. But she didn’t panic; after all it was only her first day as White House correspondent for Scientific American. Suddenly she saw him, William Hiccock, the reason she got this new assignment. If things had gone as planned last night, she would have introduced herself at the A.I. Convention, and this morning would not be the first time, but the explosion ruined everyone’s night.
She pitched her story angle to the editors, on the basis that never before had anyone in the American public even known there was a science advisor to the president. This guy was a an ex-football hero, and that meant that the science-minded Americans who read their magazine might be interested in who he was, what he would and what he could do to advance the cause of science in America today. Last night her premise was proven when the technocratic elite warmly embraced Hiccock.
She had already written 300 words on last night alone. She promised her editor 2500. With 700 more going to background, she only had 1500 or so more to write. Might as well get this over with, she thought as she steeled up for her introduction, attempting to smooth a night’s worth of wrinkles from the dress she wore at the dinner. She walked towards Hiccock. He looked like he had something on his mind. She turned on the smile.
As for Hiccock, he was running through a whole bunch of scenarios in his mind about any future encounters with the press. All at once he was looking into a vaguely familiar face, a really pretty face framed with blonde hair.
“William Hiccock, I’d like to introduce myself;, Carly Simone, from Scientific American.” She extended her hand.
“Pleasure to meet you.” A real pleasure. What brings you to the White House?”
“Actually, you.”
“Me?”
“Well, your story.”
“I wasn’t aware that I had a story.”
“Wait until you read it in Sci-Am.”
“Oh I get it; you are going to do a story on me for Scientific American.”
“Hopefully with your cooperation.”
I don’t think you’ll have any trouble getting anything out of me. “Sure, whatever I can do to help.”
Wow, that was easy. “Thank you. Can we sit somewhere for a while and talk?”
“That sounds nice… er fine.”
“I think three times would do it.”
“Excuse me?”
“Three interviews. I think that’s all it would take. The third would probably just be a follow up to clarify.”
“What are you writing, a novel?” I hope it ends with me getting the girl. Stop that, William, she’s serious.
She doesn’t know how to read the little smile that just rippled across his face. Is he taking me seriously? Has it just hit him that I am in the same dress? “I assure you, I only offer that as a measure of ensuring accuracy. Our readers demand it, as do my bosses.”
“I completely understand.” What a great dress… Oh crap! I can’t do this.
“Of course you’ll just have to clear everything through the Press Secretary.” Sorry babe.
“Well, of course; how do you think I got this pass?” She said, holding up the pass dangling on a strap between her décolleté covered breasts.
“Well, that’s very impressive,” My God you are healthy, “but I think you should really review that with her one more time, especially after today.”
“What happened today?” Oh shit, I should have been here.
“You really are new around here. Cover that with her; she’s nice in a mean sort of way. Good to have met you. I’ve really gotta run.” If I talk to you any longer we are going to be picking out china patterns and registering at Macys, he thought as he walked off in a deliberately more self-important rush than was necessary.
Leaving Carly to say to his back, “And nice meeting you, too. I look forward to working together.” Nice butt, she thought as he turned and walked down the corridor. She was pleased having just had her first encounter with her subject.
On the way back to his office something about her was nagging at him. She looked familiar, although he couldn’t place from where. As soon as he reached his office, the pile of memos, press releases, and position papers nudged any further thoughts of… Was it Carly Simon? Wasn’t that the name of a singer? Like I should talk, thought Wild Bill Hiccock. He dove right into a position paper on “The Health Issues of Power Line Proximity in Niagara County.” Somewhere between “effective radiated power coefficients” and “the field effect of electromagnetism on cellular membranes”, it hit him. Aunt Mary! She was the blonde from last night. The one sitting up front! Damn, why didn’t I remember her? I hope she wasn’t offended. “…the fluxivity of the domain within the nucleus alternates between two…” So she followed me here? He read the next four dry, technically precise pages with a smile.
CHAPTER FOUR
There was a soft, early fall breeze blowing into his face. That was good; he wanted to be downwind of his target. Dennis Mallory’s eyebrows knitted as he strained to listen for any crack of a twig or brush-by of a bush that would reveal the position of his prey. Not wishing to betray his location by the slightest move, he didn’t dare check his watch. Instead he judged by the position of the sun that he’d been waiting for at least two hours. The only movement he did risk was the rippling of his fingers over the main part of the weapon that hung comfortably in his lowered hands. An eagle circled above, catching a thermal with outstretched wings. The hot sun baked the valley and created huge heated updrafts upon which a bird of prey could hitchhike. Two hunters, he thought. Only the bird doesn’t need contacts.
The quiet rustle of the forest was soothing. A few years back, at just about this time of day, he would be traipsing through some god-awful neighborhood. Suddenly, a movement caught his attention. As he had been trained to do with so many other weapons, his mind was immediately flushed of any and all thought save one: lining up his shot. The antlers and head of a magnificent eight-point buck peeked over the bramble about thirty yards ahead. Having long ago gotten over buck fever, he exhaled, eliminating even the remotest possibility that the holding of a breath could affect his body mechanics when he released the arrow. He silently coaxed the “venison on hoof” a little more out into the open, where he would be able to get a good shot. He slowly brought his arms up and lined up the “peep site” with green fiber-optic pin of his Titan site. The eagle above suddenly started flapping his wings in an almost silent flurry of whooshes. It didn’t faze the buck, which lazily strode out another two feet into the clearing. Dennis pulled back the remaining tension of the 70-pound draw, Bowtech Guardian Compound bow, making them one single, deadly weapon system and was waiting for the next foot of revealed buck to cross his sights when a cry came from above them.