The Patriots' Club

29

Ellington Fiske walked up the stairs leading to the United States Capitol. “What’s wrong here?” he asked the horde of men surrounding him.

“Mike’s on the fritz,” said one.

“Something’s gone south with the wiring,” said another.

“Where’s my chief electrician?”

“On the dais,” someone else answered.

Fiske pushed his way through them, counting members of the Capitol Police, Park Police, a member of the Presidential Inaugural Committee, and a pair of full-bird colonels attached to the Military District of Washington. He stopped when he reached the spot where the President would be sworn in and deliver the inaugural address.

Behind him, risers had been set on the stairs leading up to the Capitol esplanade. Rows of chairs, all of them numbered, were neatly in place. There was room for approximately one thousand invited guests. Each had to present a ticket and identification. That went for the chief justice of the Supreme Court on down to Senator McCoy’s four-year-old nephew.

“Who’s looking for me?” A stout, unshaven man in blue overalls and a ratty parka presented himself. “Mike Rizzo,” he said, holding up his credentials. “You’re here about the microphone?”

“That’s correct,” said Fiske. “If it’s broken, why don’t you just replace it? Unscrew the damn thing and stick on a new one.”

“Doesn’t work that way,” said Rizzo. “The microphone’s built into the podium. It’s integrated into the body of the lectern itself. Actually, there are four directional mikes built into it, each the size of a postage stamp.” He shrugged to show he wasn’t too impressed. “The latest and greatest.”

Fiske ran a hand around the edges of the podium. It was impossible to even see the mike.

Jesus… for want of a nail…

The rain was falling harder now, fat little bombs that exploded on his cheeks. The forecast called for it to worsen during the night, and possibly turn to snow. He made a mental note to double-check with D.C. traffic authority and have all snowplow drivers on call. “Will somebody please get the protective canopy in place?” he shouted.

Planning for the inauguration had begun in earnest twelve months earlier. Fiske had broken down the security work into nine operational areas: intelligence; explosives and hazardous materials; legal; emergency response; credentialing; site-specific; multiagency communications, or MACC; transportation; and aviation. The problem of the podium fell into the site-specific committee’s purview. “Site-specific,” as the name implied, was tasked with physically outfitting the Capitol for the event. That meant installing all seating, supervising placement and construction of the television tower, setting up an area for the press pool, and making sure all electrical fixtures functioned properly.

A dead mike when the President was swearing her Oath of Office was the second worst thing that could happen tomorrow morning.

Fiske circled the lectern. It was no different from the one the President used at any outdoor function. A wood base led to a navy blue lectern with the presidential seal attached by magnets. It was manufactured in Virginia from Georgia maple, Chinese fiberboard, and Indian plastic. That was as close to American-made as anything came these days. He looked around him. Giant American flags hung from the walls of the Capitol. A blue carpet ran from the podium up the stairs. He was happy to note that it was still covered with plastic. Ballistic glass ran the perimeter of the balcony and on either side of the reviewing stand. His eye darted to the strategic spots on the Capitol roof where his snipers would take up position. Out of public sight behind them, batteries of “Avenger” antiaircraft guns had been installed. TelePrompTer reflectors stood to either side of the lectern. He had no doubt that they worked.

Fiske turned and looked out toward the Washington Monument. Twenty yards away, the skeleton of the TV tower rose, partially blocking his view of the Mall. The long promenade was a splotchy brown, the dormant grass patched with melting snow. The Mall was utterly vacant, except for pairs of policemen (some his own men) patrolling the fences set up to regulate the crowds. In twenty-four hours, rain or shine, over three hundred thousand people would crowd the area. Americans eager to witness the most solemn rite in their country’s historical pageant. The swearing in of the forty-fourth President of the United States.

“Isn’t there any way we can change out the mike?” Fiske asked Rizzo.

“Only one,” volunteered a new voice. It belonged to a young man, white, clean-cut, bland. “Bill Donohue. Triton Aerospace. We built the podium. The only way to get around using that mike is to go into the repair panel and cut the wires. Then put an external unit on top.”

“An external unit?” asked Fiske.

“Yes sir, you know, a regular microphone. We can drill a hole and run the cable inside the podium and hook it up to the PR system.”

Fiske smiled and shook his head, as if this young pup Donohue were trying to pull a fast one on him. An external mike. A big black banana that would stick up in the middle of Senator McCoy’s face as she spoke to 250 million Americans and billions of others around the world. Senator McCoy standing all of five feet four inches tall with heels. That was not a solution. Not unless Ellington Fiske wished for an immediate transfer to the Sierra Leone field office.

“Anything new from intel?” Fiske asked Larry Kennedy, his assistant.

Intelligence was charged with monitoring any leads from the CIA, FBI, DIA, or any credible law-enforcement agency pertaining to any and all possible threats. Anything from a concerted terrorist action to a lone gunman. For two hours tomorrow, the front steps of the Capitol would be the world’s biggest bull’s-eye. It would also be the world’s hardest target.

“Negative,” said Kennedy.

“Mr. Donohue,” barked Fiske.

“Yes sir.”

“Do you have another podium ready for us?”

“Yes, Mr. Fiske. It’s being prepped at the warehouse in McClean right now. Should be here at four o’clock. They’re just applying the presidential seal.”

“Get it here by two.” Fiske stomped away from the podium. “And be sure you test it first. I want to make sure the thing is working before we install it. Call me when it arrives.”

Fiske stared up at the sky. Policing three hundred thousand people in a pouring rain would make things decidedly more difficult. If the podium was his only problem, he’d get away easy. A sudden burst of rain drenched his face. “Where’s the canopy?” he asked no one in particular. “The first female President of the United States is going to be sworn in within twenty-four hours and she will not have a lousy hairdo. That woman is going to look good.”