Two days later, the lead story of every major news show focused on Arlington, Virginia.
One particular network delivered the news in unusually high dudgeon. “The vandal forces of the so-called Fascist Fighters are on the march once more. These veiled communist thugs are trying desperately to take all that is great in American history, all that has made us the nation we are today, and grind it into the dirt.”
Shane Vanity loved being a guest on morning news shows. He found them to be a perfect proving ground, where he could test which lines worked and which did not, in order to further refine his opening monologue for his eponymous nightly show. “If it wasn’t bad enough that these — and let’s just call them what they are, domestic terrorists — these domestic terrorists have destroyed some of our nation’s most beloved relics all over the country, now they want to bring their vile, violent fervor to some of America’s most sacred ground — Arlington National Cemetery.”
“One would think that protest marches wouldn’t be allowed on the premises,” the blonde-haired co-lead in the tight black dress opined, repeating the prompt coming from her producer through her earpiece.
“Hey, it’s government property,” Shane said. “Which makes it the people’s property, so it’s fair game. They got the permits approved, every ‘i’ dotted, every ‘t’ crossed, so there’s nothing to stand in their way, at least not legally.”
“You sound like you know something there, Shane,” she replied with a sly smile.
Shane Vanity’s grin spread across his broad face. “Well, I don’t mean that they should be stopped illegally, either,” he said. “Let me be very clear about that. But if they can get a permit to protest, then it creates a precedent to get a permit for a counter-protest. And that’s exactly what a brave group of patriots have planned to save our country’s heritage.”
“Brave indeed,” she said. “The Fascist Fighters have been known to be a very violent crowd.”
· · ·
“These Nazis have been known to be a very violent crowd, and it’s all because of this bastard white supremacist in the White House!”
Sitting before a cardboard backdrop of a brick wall, Kirk Ehrlichman shouted into his computer, his live-stream broadcast going out over the Internet to tens of listeners. Hundreds more would catch the video on replays, and then social media sharing would take it from there. “If not for these heroic Fascist Fighters, we’d all be wearing flashes on our lapels and marched toward the ovens. Make no mistake, that’s what this xenophobic, homophobic, afrophobic, Islamophobic, Hispanophobic President wants for you — mark my words! He’s a fear peddler!” Kirk sputtered into his microphone, popping the ‘p’ in ‘peddler’ so that it his sound levels spiked. Not that he ever checked his sound levels — he never had to. It was someone else’s job. All he had to do was come in, sit down, and talk. Now that he was no longer employed in the sports industry, he could now wax eloquent about his true passion: hating the current President.
“And now, as real patriots take to the streets to protest the symbols of hatred and oppression and systemic racism that pervade every darkened corner of this administration, the emboldened racists and misogynists have risen from the ash heap of history to once again normalize their hatred and bigotry and overall whiteness.” Ehrlichman glared into the webcam over his glasses, pushing his bushy eyebrows together until they became one. “This patriot can only hope that the eyes of justice look down upon our brothers and sisters as they put their lives on the line — literally, as Marissa Meyer would tell you — to protect this country from the fascists we’ve found ourselves resisting.”
· · ·
Smith was fed all the interviews via automated transcriptions generated by the CURE computer. It was faster for him to read ahead than to pick out the information between the layers of bloviating and posturing, to glean the ten percent of fact from the ninety percent of opinion.
The facts about the permits were correct. They were legally obtained. But absent from the broadcasts was the permits’ timing: for both parties involved, the papers were turned around with unbelievable speed. Furthermore, the permits were issued within hours of each other. An investigative reporter worth his salt might have taken this as a clue that the two sides were colluding together for a media show, Smith thought.
Smith knew for certain this was the case, and was busily programming new parameters into the CURE systems, to determine any further intersections between the persons of interest — anything that might reveal the nexus that united them all.
Suddenly, a report came through that set Smith’s teeth on edge. He read the report again, then a third time. Making sure the dates and places were correct, he opened the desk drawer and picked up the phone.
It answered on the first ring.
“Tell me you’ve fixed this thing, Smith.”
“Mister President,” Smith responded. “You cannot attend this memorial service.”
“What? Are you kidding me?” the President asked. “Of course I’m going. I have to go.”
Smith expected resistance to his entreaty. “Mister President, we believe an assassination attempt is likely.”
“What?” bellowed the voice on the other end. “On who?”
“On you, sir.”
A long moment of silence passed before the President spoke again. “My God, you’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Always, Mister President.”
“What makes you think someone’s going to try to kill me?”
“I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the dinner is happening the same day as the Arlington protests,” Smith said. “The fact that it is less than a mile away cannot be ignored.”
“Well, that’s what I have Secret Service for,” the President responded. “Do you have any idea who the potential killer might be?”
Smith struggled to answer. Though CURE’s computers were coming up with leads, he still could not state with certainty who was manipulating events.
He knew that it had to be someone powerful — someone who could pull strings with permits, fund protests, and direct media attention. But even if he knew who that person was, it was almost certain that he would not be the man on site to harm the President.
Now Smith had at least two people to find — and possibly more.
“Not at this time, Mister President,” Smith replied ruefully.
“Then we really don’t know there’s any chance of an attack at all,” the President said.
“I think it’s a near-certainty there will be an attempt, sir,” Smith said with surety.
The President gave it some thought. “Okay, Smith,” he said. “You’ve been a solid guy before, so I’ll believe you.”
“Thank you, Mister President.”
“I’ll double the security detail.”
“Sir, that is not what I was hoping for.”
“I’m going to the dinner,” the President assured him. “The country needs this. Hell, I need this! If I don’t do something to course correct, I can forget a second term. Shoot, if I don’t go, they won’t even let me finish this one.”
“I just want to see you survive your term, Mister President,” Smith replied.
“That makes two of us,” the President said. “So you know what you have to do.”
“Sir?”
“Don’t let me get killed.”
The call terminated, and Smith closed the drawer.
· · ·
“An assassin,” Remo said quietly into the phone. “You’re sure?”
“No, I am not sure, Remo,” Smith replied. In fact, uncertainty gnawed at his gut, flooding him with indigestion. Smith absently reached for his ever-reliable bottle of Pepto Bismol.
Remo had never let him down in the field before, but this time he was up against an idea, one that was being weaponized in order to bring America to its knees.
How could one man fight against an idea?
“But I also do not believe in coincidence,” Smith continued, wiping his slightly pink lips with a handkerchief.
“I’m not big on that either,” Remo said. “Okay. I’ll go mingle and see what I can suss out. Oh, crap.”
Through the phone, Smith heard the high-octave squeal of a woman’s voice. “Remo! Oh. My. God. I missed you sooo much! What happened to you?”
“Smitty, I have to go,” Remo said.
“Remo, what is going on?”
“Let’s just say the mingling got a lot more minglier,” he replied. “The other team just pulled into town.”