The Curse of Medusa

CHAPTER FOUR

President Charles Grant waved cheerily at the crowds lining the route of the motorcade as it swept along the boulevard and pulled up outside the university. Today he was going to deliver a speech at the Xavier University of Louisiana to pledge more federal funds to the city in the on-going plan to rebuild after Hurricane Katrina.

He glanced at his watch and saw the motorcade was already running six minutes late. Outside he saw those who thought his administration wasn’t doing enough to help. They were lining up outside the university entrance with their placards and chanting slogans. It was all part of his job, he thought.

Grant stepped out of the car and waved once again as his Secret Service detail ushered him up along the entrance walkway. As he went, thousands of camera shutters clicked in his face from the press pack, and then he was inside. The president of the university greeted him and shook his hand. Moments later they were moving toward the main hall — the Secret Service were anxious to get the President’s schedule back on time.

Grant got to the podium and did what he did best — charm people. He threw out a couple of well-timed jokes to relax the audience and flashed them his world-famous smile before launching into his speech. It wasn’t his grandest speech — that was next month in Florida when he planned to deliver what was already being called the greatest speech of his career. Florida was the third worst state in the country for gun murders, and Grant wanted to bring it under control. He knew he had opposition — in both the House and the Senate not to mention the NRA. Even the Constitution was against him, but a spate of recent shootings had pushed many people over to his side of the argument.

But today’s speech was important for the people of New Orleans, and that’s what mattered to him right now.

As the room settled down, he leaned closer to the microphone and began to read off the autocue. Like most presidents, all his speeches were written for him by professional speech-writers and projected on a screen which he then read. His previous career as an actor helped him not only to deliver the jokes on time but to read the speeches and make it look like he was dreaming the stuff up as he went along. Today was no exception, and he weaved his way into the speech with his usual exceptional ease and professional acumen.

At the end of the speech, he was whisked from the room in a hail of applause and walked back out along the path toward the Beast. Earlier in the day, Scott Anderson, his Chief-of-Staff had joked that the enormous seven-ton Presidential limo was probably one of the safest places in Louisiana. Grant had smiled, but not laughed. He had been lucky so far, but previous presidents had not only been attacked while in office — four had been assassinated, and the President’s safety was no laughing matter.

He moved steadily toward the limo, once again recalling Anderson’s words about its safety, and reassured by their veracity however they had been delivered. The Beast was actually one of twelve identical limos in constant rotation. The ones not in use were secured in the basement garage of the Secret Service HQ back in DC.

Grant made one final wave as Dirk Partridge, his senior USSS agent swung open the rear door of the Caddy. The senior secret service agent fired a string of words into his radio palm mic and glanced at his watch. Grant was scheduled to tour the rest of the city as well as make a special visit to the levee system before flying back to the capital before dusk. Time was short.

And that’s when it happened.

From an unknown location, someone fired a series of gunshots into the air and total panic ensued. The people lining the President’s route from Xavier to the limo screamed and scattered, raising their hands over their heads to protect themselves, more from instinct than judgement.

Agent Partridge reacted in a half-second. In a textbook manoeuvre of professionalism and bravery, and without a second thought about his own personal safety, the secret service man leaped forward and grabbed the President, moving around him like a human shield and forcing him into the back of the Beast.

Grant was in the back of the car before he had time to take a breath.

Partridge followed, throwing himself in after the President and slamming the heavy door shut behind them. He barked a series of orders into the palm mic and the driver of the Presidential limo floored the accelerator, sending the massive armored vehicle lurching forward.

In a cloud of burnout smoke from the spinning tires, the limo raced away from the university and hit Drexel Drive a few seconds later.

“Sir, are you hit?”

Grant took a second to focus on his surroundings. “No, I don’t think so… What the hell just happened?”

“Someone tried to take a shot at you, Mr President. We have to get you back to Air Force One immediately.”

Grant agreed. They’d had chatter about a serious attack, but latest intel had suggested it was going to be overseas and not in the United States. This changed things in a big way, and he had to get back to the White House. That was the best place to control things.

But then things got much more out of control.

He watched with horror as the driver slumped over in the front seat of the Presidential limo.

He and Partridge shared a glance. “What the hell..?”

Grant looked closer the through the glass partition and saw a gas emanating from somewhere in the footwell.

“He’s been knocked out!” Partridge said. “We’re going to crash!”

The President shook his head. “He’s out cold all right but I don’t think we’re going to crash — look!”

Partridge watched with undisguised terror as the massive seven-ton Cadillac screeched along Drexel with no one at the wheel. Instead, just over the shoulders of the knocked-out driver, he saw the steering wheel jerking eerily to the left and right as someone controlled the vehicle remotely.

“What the hell is this?” President Grant muttered.

“It’s the Boston Brakes! Someone’s hacked the car, sir!” Dirk Partridge pulled at the door release but with no luck. “The locks are disabled!”

“We might not be able to get them open, but we can make sure whoever’s behind this can’t get them open either. This button locks them from the inside, so that’s something in our favour…” Grant didn’t look like he had reassured himself much.

Partridge slapped on the windows in panic. “We’ve got to get out of here, Mr President!”

Grant heard the growl of the General Motors V8 as it speeded up to power out of a corner. Normally a comforting sound, it now terrified him. “This car is completely sealed in the event of a biochemical attack, Partridge! What keeps me safe in here is now what’s keeping me prisoner — these doors are as heavy as those on a 757 jet plane, and the only window that opens is the driver’s, and then only by three inches. If you can think of a way out of here with the door locks disabled then I’m ready to hear it.”

Behind them three Cadillac Escalades rushed into view.

“Don’t worry, sir — the Secret Service is right behind us!” Partridge said.

He’d barely finished his sentence when they heard the sound of hydraulics.

“Oh no…”

The Beast fired smoke and tear-gas grenades out the rear fender. Installed as a protection device to assist the President in case of enemy pursuit, they were now being used against him.

Grant looked back and saw the Escalades skidding through the grenades’ smoke, out of control. Two of them had a collision and smashed into a bank on the side of the street, while the third maintained its pursuit.

A police helicopter appeared overhead and began to follow them, hovering just above the remaining Escalade.

They raced into an underpass where a slow-moving Pepsi truck was trundling along in the slow lane. The two captive men watched in horror as the rear of the truck lowered to the ground and an identical presidential limousine reversed out the back and skidded forward out of view along the underpass. Moments later, their own limo was controlled into the rear of the truck and the back closed up.

In total darkness, they heard the Escalade race past the truck in pursuit of the dummy limo and knew it was over. Whoever was doing this had just kidnapped the President of the United States.