Politics & Patriotism: Blood of Heroes
By Justin Oldham

"It is from numberless diverse acts of courage and belief that human history is shaped. Each time a man stands up for an ideal, or acts to improve the lot of others, or strikes out against injustice, he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope, and crossing each other from a million different centers of energy and daring, those ripples build a current that can sweep down the mightiest walls of oppression and resistance."

Foreword

I met Preston Fisk for the first time in the summer of 2007. A friend had given me some tickets to an exclusive political fundraiser, so I went. I worked for a high-profile financial firm on Wall Street at that time. Investment banking isn't that much different from politics. It's not always what you know, but more who you know.

The event wasn't that memorable. There was a lot of talk about the fallout from the 2006 Congressional races, and some speculation about the '08 fight for the White House. I may have spoken to Madeline Hill, but I don't recall. I don't think anyone in the room except Fisk himself knew what lay in her future.

I certainly didn't know what he had planned for me. My marriage wasn't going well, and I had a lot of very large contracts pending at work when Fisk introduced himself. I remember having a fistful of business cards in my pocket. I was almost to the door when he caught me. The exchange was brief--a smile and a handshake. He didn't ask for my card, nor did he offer me one. As I departed, he said something like, "I'll be seeing you."

My marriage crashed in early 2009. The details aren't important. I loved her, but she didn't care for me anymore. We had a prenup, so it wasn't that hard to go our separate ways. I didn't actually think I was at a low point in my life when Fisk showed up in my office on the 40th floor of the new Freedom Center. The F.C. had been built on the site of the former World Trade Center. The firm liked my work, and I would have had a shot at the board in another five years. What's not good about that?

The conspiracy took me by surprise. Preston Fisk could be shockingly honest at times--brutal with the truth. That's how he was with me that afternoon. At the time, I simply couldn't believe that anyone could have that much nerve. He lounged in my office like he was a senior partner. He talked about manipulating the federal government like it was a simple academic exercise. He left before I lost my cool.

Like everything else he did, Fisk's plan was bold in approach and simple in execution. Insidiously elegant. Beginning in 2004, the conspirators offered financial support to corrupt senators and representatives. The plan limited its scope to federal-level career politicians and certain agency bureaucrats inside the Beltway.

By the time of my involvement in 2009, Fisk's effort had changed the balance of power in Congress. The minority party was now truly in the minority. Many traditional roles and long-time rivalries had been reversed. The only remaining logical step seemed to be the making of a president.

As Fisk explained to me at the time, he'd been grooming Madeline Hill for a presidential run since late 2003. He helped her become a more "effective" state legislator. Then he directed her 2004 Senate campaign. By the summer of 2008, there was no doubt in his mind that she'd be the country's first female president.

If Machiavelli were alive today, he'd be a banker, like his Medici benefactors before him. Modern financiers are still ruthless tacticians. A loss can still be a win if properly exploited. You really can trick your competitors into accepting bad loans. In some cases, you can manipulate them into buying failing businesses. The whole point is to make them choke on their bad decisions.

That's really what Fisk's conspiracy was all about. He reasoned that political reform in the 21st century wouldn't happen until the reformers themselves changed their tactics. "Send a thief to catch a thief."

Using money like heroin to feed the needs of corrupt legislators, he played liberals and conservatives off against each other. When Madeline competed for the presidency in 2012, she really thought it was her own idea. Nobody suspected that she and her Congress had been set up to choke on their own bad decisions.

Anyone who knows me can testify to my nature. I am an optimistic patriot. Politics and money are closely linked, and I know it. There are some people in the financial world who don't get that, but I do. The more I thought about Fisk's plan, the more it appealed to me.

With his help, I joined the National Rifleman's Association in late 2009. Standing by while the organization was sabotaged by its opponents was the hardest thing I've ever done. Fisk told me I was there to monitor the situation. He didn't want me to do anything else. This directive didn't sit well with me. At one point, I had the phone in my hand. I was that close to turning Fisk over to Homeland Security. I didn't disagree with what he was trying to do. I did take issue with how he was doing it. It goes without saying that I didn't follow through. Looking back on it now, I'm glad I didn't.

Shortly before his death, Fisk asked me to take control of what he called "Phase Two" of his conspiracy. In spite of what the author has portrayed, I was not so resolute. I was afraid. I should have known better, but I really didn't expect to be pressed into further service. I certainly didn't expect to be put in charge of a quasi-military "option" that might never be used.

Fisk believed the voters would eventually tire of the corruption in D.C. He thought it would only be a matter of time. In the end, he reasoned, voters would favor reformers as candidates and "things would change."

I was shocked to learn that Phase Two had been in the works since 2005. Borrowing heavily from the doctrines of various militia movements, the conspirators sought to recruit, train, and place small units that could become pro-U.S. guerilla cells later on. Fisk, the inveterate gambler, had bet against himself.

Being the conscience of a rebel network that might never be used is not what I had in mind for myself. The network is too decentralized to be led in the traditional sense. My highest priority is to ensure that it is never used. Please don't confuse my reluctance with indecision. The America of my childhood may be a thing of the past, but I still hold high hopes for our future.

As I write this, three presidents have remained committed to the global "War on Terror." The international political scene has changed a lot since September 11, 2001. Old allies have become new enemies. The federal government has accrued debts that it cannot pay. Our social and political elites have gone out of their way to ensure the growth of federal power at the expense of the individual states that make up the Union.

I'm familiar with the author's previous work. His portrayals made for good reading. Some of them were quite revealing. In spite of what I learned from The Fisk Conspiracy, I didn't like the way my private life was dramatized. With so many verifiable facts available, I am at a loss. I don't understand why the author has chosen to present this as fiction.

Blood of Heroes isn't very kind to me. It certainly doesn't complement my current public image. Even so, I think it serves a purpose. With so much at stake, it's important to provide the reader with some sense of what we went through at that time. One person, in the right place and at the right time, can make a difference...even if they do make it up as they go.

Monday September 8, 2014
Adkins Clinic
Alexandria, Virginia
1:00 PM EDT

Alone in the shower room, Doris examined her unclothed body in a full-length mirror. Stark white tiles provided a sterile background as multispectrum lights quietly brightened the room. Ignoring the pastel cotton robe crumpled at her feet, she pulled her long blond hair aside. In spite of its excellent cosmetic camouflage, the neural interface jack below her right ear stood out in the harsh light.

Firm skin with the merest hint of sun exposure followed the muscle-defined curves of her arms and legs. Only her practiced eye could find any trace of the oldest scars. She fingered the recent bullet-strikes to her abdomen--two large red welts, each closed with a tiny network of dissolving stitches. Sore muscles told her just how close she'd come to permanent injury.

Through a hidden intercom, the voice of Dr. George Adkins filled the room. "Doris? Shouldn't you be at the funeral?"

She got into the nearest shower without answering and turned on the water. Lathering up, she wrinkled her nose at the smell of the surgical soap. From his office, George pressed his point. "Come on, Doris. You need closure. I'm a doctor. I know a thing or two about grief."

Doris leaned into the hot water. "I'll get my closure when I find out who killed him."

From behind his desk, Adkins shook his head and sighed. "Revenge is not the answer."

"Ever tried it?" Doris sniffed as she wrung water from her hair.

"No," He admitted through steepled fingers.

The tall woman turned off the water and reached for a towel. "Don't lecture me about things you haven't tried, Doctor. Justice and revenge are not the same thing. The best kind of satisfaction comes from knowing which one of those you really need. I don't know which one I need, but I intend to find out. When I do, I'll have my closure."

George shook his head as Doris dried off. "People tell me things. I know Jason Cutter meant a lot to you. Even before he volunteered to be rebuilt as Preston Fisk, you were close. You weren't at his wedding, and now you're not at his funeral. That's not healthy."

She flung the used towel aside and reached for another. "You're out of line. You're also misinformed. I'm here for the treatment, and nothing else."

Adkins turned on a pair of desktop monitors. "Step into the next room."

Doris left the shower room and crossed the hall. A waiting nurse handed her a pill probe and a ten-ounce plastic cup of electrolytes. Swallowing the tiny medical sensor, she washed it down with the fluid. Entering the clean room, she waited for the door seals to activate. Overhead lights cycled through a series of sterilizing illuminations. She ignored the itches that sprang up all over her body.

From his office, the doctor examined her. "How's the stomach?"

Doris shrugged. "Could have been a lot worse."

The doctor laughed as he changed camera angles. "You took a coastal speedboat out into deep water where you could have drowned. You killed Treasury Secretary Brown and sank his boat with an old grenade launcher that could have blown up in your face. Then you took three rounds from Brown's bodyguard. Yeah, it could have been a lot worse."

She glared down at her wounds. "I wasn't quick enough. Brown's protection was on the ball, too. If I had been a few yards closer, his armor-piercing rounds would have gone right through me."

George made a chiding sound as the sterilization routine ended. "A few yards closer, indeed. The first-generation kevlar inside that ratty old leather trenchcoat you insist on wearing didn't do you any favors. I know, because I spent half an hour picking the pieces out of you."

When the door to the tank room slid open, she stepped in. Adkins followed by changing video channels. When she paused to take in the new setup, he explained. "Welcome to the very latest in multi-programmable anti-aging facilities. Everything in this room serves a purpose. The blue-toned lighting and green tiles aren't an accident."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Doris muttered as she walked up to the rim of the tank.

The doctor ignored her joke. "We had to make room for more of these, so the room is just ten meters by ten. The tank is four meters deep. And yes, you'll have to go all the way to the bottom. We've installed a Velcro harness to keep you down there."

She sat on a small bench and began to stick tiny medical sensors on her body. "Nothing new here. Where's the respirator?"

Adkins nodded when he started receiving her vitals. "You'll find a standard diving respirator at the bottom. Use it until the pain makes you pass out. In addition to being chemically precise to your DNA, we've charged the solution with oxygen and nitrogen...and a little more electricity than we used last time."

Doris glanced at the dark pool as she put on the last sensor. "Will I end up breathing in the solution like a deep sea diving mixture after I pass out?"

The doctor sounded pleased. "So, you did read the instructions. Good. Yes, after you pass out, we'll use a remote control to pull the respirator out of your mouth. The 'drowning' actually improves toxic purge and lung tissue regeneration."

Doris rolled her eyes as she sat on the edge of the tank. "Any more good news?"

Adkins sobered. "Chronologically, you're 64 years old. If you want the biology of somebody half your age, you've got to stay fully submerged for two hours this time."

She dangled her long legs in the warm liquid. "Why so long?"

George knew that Doris wouldn't tolerate diplomacy. "We're not turning the clock back, we're just slowing it down. Thanks to some of the refinements I've been able to make, we can slow it down quite a bit. Even so, you're still aging. The older you get, the harder it becomes to flush the pollution from your cells. It's that apoptosis that makes you get older. That's why you have to be in for two hours."

She cringed very slightly. "What about the electroshock?"

Adkins turned to look at a different set of readouts. "We're hitting you with just a few more microamps this time. The interval stays the same, too. Everyone else passes out in the first thirty minutes. We've had a few people go into cardiac arrest. That's why we added the oxy-nitro. You...you'll pass out sometime in the first hour. When you come out of it, there may be some blood. That'll actually be dead stuff coming out of your stomach and lungs. When it's time for you to get out, release the harness and come to the surface. You'll be met by a nurse who will help you purge your system."

Doris leaned over to touch the surface of the liquid. "She's going to help me throw up?"

The doctor nodded. "Puke like you mean it."

She held her nose and plunged in.

[http:/www.wnn.com/news/society01a.obituary=2121.html]
Headline: FISK FUNERAL DRAWS CELEBRITY CROWD
(09-08-14/09:00 AM EDT) Text: Preston Duquesne Fisk (age 44) will be laid to rest today in a private plot near Fredericksburg, Virginia. As a paid consultant, he is credited with the successful elections of five senators and sixteen representatives. Those who knew him recall his fondness for social flamboyance. He is also remembered for his aggressive attitude toward politics.

The President of the United States is scheduled to attend the event, which is closed to the public. Other notable attendees include six nationally recognized politicians and two well-known radio talk show hosts. More than a dozen media celebrities have been invited to attend. To read more about this event, click HERE.

Monday September 8, 2014
Peaceful Rest Cemetery
Fredericksburg, Virginia
1:45 PM EDT

The funeral was over. The mourners had gone. Storm clouds hung low in the afternoon sky, pushed by autumn winds that promised rain. Alone with her entourage at the gravesite, Madeline Hill scrutinized Fisk's burial marker in grim silence as her chief of staff approached.

Larry Hodgekiss had to speak up to be heard over the rising wind that made the big tent vibrate. "Madame President, it's time to go. You have a lot to do before tonight's interview."

The huge blue pavilion that shielded the funeral attendees from the elements also served as a security device to defend the leader of the Free World from a host of very real threats.

Madeline brushed at her simple black dress. "I never knew he had so many friends."

Larry fidgeted and tried not to push. "Somehow, I think you've got more friends than he does...did. After today's appearance and eulogy, tonight's chat with Anne Carroll and the other reporters should be the perfect topper--"

The President was unmoved. "Who was that bald man who gave the short speech?"

Hodgekiss sneered. "Bill Garrison? He's a washed-up nobody. You're the President of the United States. You could have talked about what you had for breakfast. Please, we've really got to get going."

"It's just not right," She insisted.

Turning to make a 'stand back' signal, Larry checked his watch. His ebony features wrinkled with a scowl. "Come on. We don't have time for this. Not here."

Madeline's fair skin reddened with anger. "We buried a casket full of sand. I don't know how he did it and frankly, I don't care. It boils my blood to know he's tucked away somewhere, laughing at me."

Larry bowed his head. Grey hair glinted under fluorescent lighting. He folded both hands across his middle. "Get a grip. Nobody will know the truth until we decide to leak it. You can't let this get to you."

"That's just the sort of thing he would say," Madeline fumed.

Hodgekiss struggled with his frustration. "There are a hundred people just like him on K Street. I never understood your fascination with him. If you want another political strategist, let's go back to the White House and make some calls."

She walked up to the dais. Placing one hand on the cold marble, she brushed aside a stray blond curl with the other. Turning her back to Hodgekiss, she gave voice to her fears in an effort to banish them. "He's not dead. He was the only person who could say no to me and make it stick. He's probably the only person who really knows me."

The Chief of Staff closed his eyes again, searching for a way to reason past her mania. "It was never personal. You know that. People in his line of work don't get attached. He's also not the first political fixer to go underground. Why do you think he never gave you the satisfaction of a rant? Co-opting the Secret Service was a brilliant move on your part, but you've gone too far with Metz. How many times did he try to kill Fisk before he finally got it right? Four? Five? I never could stand that man. I hated the way he walked into the Oval Office like he owned the place and you were his favorite renter. Let's be glad he's gone. You've got to move on to other things."

President Hill stepped away from the marble slab. "Don't ever pretend to lecture me about politics. Fisk is the only man I've ever met who understood that what we do is not a game. There are no time-outs. Anyone who thinks there's a code of conduct in this business is only kidding themselves, or trying to make everyone else think that way so they can get ahead."

Larry's temper slipped again. "So get ahead, already! He's been trumped. He's been beaten. You won. If he's not dead, he's on a beach somewhere and you got six points in the polls for boohooing over his box. Let him be dead. We have a country to run."

Madeline stepped forward resolutely. "I wouldn't let it go, and neither would he. I want him found, and I don't care what it costs."

Hodgekiss walked with her out to the isolated motorcade. "I'm not in the habit of being stalked by dead people. Fisk wanted out. He knew he wouldn't get out. You wouldn't let him go, so he fixed it. What you're asking for could take years."

The President thought about that as she got into her designated limo. "I don't care if it takes the rest of the decade. I want him found."

Larry followed her into the big car as rain began to fall. "Now that Carl runs the White House protection unit, he should have no trouble putting out feelers. Untraceable money is going to be a problem. The taxpayers don't like funding that sort of thing. We'll have to do it off the books. Do you really want to spend--"

Madeline glared at him. "We have twenty million dollars tucked away. All I care about is plausible deniability. Use anyone or anything that will get the job done. If he isn't found while I'm still in office, so be it. Do I make myself clear?"

He shook his head in despair as the motorcade began to roll. "If I can't talk you out of this, let's at least get somebody private. Carl Metz has outlived his...we should have this discussion later."

Madeline covered her mouth and snickered. Slower than usual, but still on track. "Didn't you think it was strange that Fisk's consultancy was shut down so quickly?"

Hodgekiss glanced around the interior of the car as he collected his thoughts. "Strange? Not really. You gave him too much access. You always did. Homeland Security warned you about that even before you were sworn in. National Intelligence and the FBI both agreed with me while we were putting the lid on this mess. He probably never had the good stuff on site to begin with. If he has dirt on you, it's probably not even in the country."

The President got comfortable as her convoy reached the freeway. "One more reason why I can't let him go. I can just imagine what he might have on paper and compact disc."

"Don't preach to the choir," Larry muttered and turned to question an aide.

Madeline waited for him finish. "How much longer can we capitalize on his death?"

Hodgekiss read from his personal data device. The small computer masqueraded as a wristwatch. "Let's see. Your flamboyant high-profile political strategist has been dead for two weeks. I figure we've got another seventy-five days before it starts looking like we're milking it. Still looking for ghostwriters to help us bang out a movie. Got some of my best people on it. Seems that no one in the party leadership can see beyond the politics to the money just now. If we're quick, we can saturate the market in time for Christmas. Factor in all the legitimate books that will come out at nearly the same time, and you'll have yourself a cult following by the first of January. The conspiracy kooks should start in with the Fisk sightings any time after the beginning of February."

"Movies?" Madeline asked as she drank from a Presidential mug.

Larry scowled at his PDD. "Our friends in Hollywood are still casting. Half the screenwriters on the West Coast are burning the midnight oil. I just hope the people who run my blind trust know what to invest in."

She snorted. "At least you can collect speaking fees without looking like a carpetbagger. I've got six more interviews on my schedule tonight, and I can't take a dime without tipping my hand. Josephine, bless her, is doing a lot to keep it real. We should do something nice for her."

Hodgekiss stared at his President. "Why so generous?"

"Never forget to pay for loyalty."

[http:/www.talktvonline.com/news/homeland08r.terror=9221.html]

"EPS, based out of the United Arab Emirates, has been under surveillance by the Department of Homeland Security for eight years. Three previous investigations failed to turn up certain proof that the company was involved in terrorist activities. Hard copy files and electronic data storage, all captured in a predawn raid on a New Jersey location, now provide federal and state officials with enough evidence to prove the charges."

Arrest warrants sworn out for the company's 129 New York based employees allege that EPS has been smuggling anti-American terrorists and explosives into the U.S. since 2007, when the company first took over local security operations for five major East Coast ports. Sources willing to confide in Talk TV have expressed concern over the fact that no other EPS offices have been visited by the special police division of the Secret Service.

One source connected to the Mayor's office said, "We're still trying to figure out why federal DHS didn't dragnet every EPS facility in the country at the same time. There's no doubt that hundreds of bad guys just ran for cover. We'll know who they are when they don't show up for work tomorrow. But come on. Somebody in D.C. was asleep at the switch. This is one mistake that didn't have to happen." To see a complete list of the U.S. ports now under threat, click HERE.

Monday September 8, 2014
Peaceful Rest Cemetery
Fredericksburg, Virginia
1:50 PM EDT

Angel Cutter raised her umbrella as a dense mist began to fall. Standing close to her mother's grave, she watched the presidential motorcade leave the cemetery. The humidity made her blond curls droop. Surveying the approaching storm, she tugged at her trendy raincoat.

Behind her, Harry Oswald waited patiently. With an umbrella gripped in one gnarled hand, he stood with the other deep in a side pocket of his old-fashioned canvas trenchcoat. Framed by grey receding hair, his expression remained calm in spite of his worries. Two darkly dressed men flanked him with their own umbrellas. A light blue luxury sedan idled at the curb. The driver of the car remained in constant radio contact with the bodyguards.

Angel turned to face her godfather. "What did you think of Bill Garrison's speech?"

Harry shrugged. "You zeroed in on him, too? Yeah. He seemed a little confused, like he was out of his depth. According to Billy, he and Fisk were business partners."

Angel stepped away from her mother's headstone. Harry followed. Wiping the rain from her face with a handkerchief, the White House Press Secretary ignored the guards as they shifted position. "Do you think he knew?"

Oswald shook his head. "Angel, please. Enough of that. They had to bury something. A casket full of sand was...necessary. I've been there. I know. Car bombs are unpredictable. There wasn't enough of Fisk left to fill a shot glass, and that's the truth. You need to accept it. There is no Fisk conspiracy. The facts will leak soon enough. They always do."

She remained politely stubborn as they started back to the car. "Nobody in government should be allowed to get away with this sort of thing."

Harry couldn't help himself. "Politics and patriotism. Your father used to say they were two sides of the same coin. Spend it wisely because you'll get what you pay for."

"Yeah, well. Somebody still needs to pay," she complained as they reached the car.

Wet umbrellas went quickly into the trunk. Inside the car, the old spy swallowed his regrets. Still grinding that axe, kiddo? I didn't want to accept it, either. Your father was a casualty. Missions go bad. If I could have done anything at all to save you this pain...

As they drove to the Secret Service checkpoint, she said, "President Hill isn't just symptomatic of the things that bother me. She's a living manifestation of them. She had that man killed for selfish political reasons. Now she's milking it. Did my father's bosses give him up for a political advantage?"

Harry placed a firm hand on her lower arm. "Stop it. You're about to cross a line. You know better than to shoot your mouth off like this. My sphere of influence is small, and getting smaller all the time. Don't let hatred for things you don't understand tear you up. Your father drilled that into me long before he went missing. It's past time for you to learn the same lesson."

Angel glared without remorse. "Madeline's going on TV tonight to talk about Fisk like he was her one true love. Uncle Harry, I'm telling you she hated that man--"

Oswald tried to sooth her. "I know. Really, I do. Don't dwell on it. This is why I never brought you into your father's business."

She bowed her head for just a moment. "I would have made a good spy."

Harry groaned. "You would've turned out like Doris."

"I liked her." The young woman snapped.

"She was always too serious." Harry sighed.

After a moment of introspection, Angel insisted, "I’m just being honest about how I feel."

Harry leaned in close. "Too much honesty is bad for you."

Monday September 8, 2014
Golden Hinde
Chesapeake Bay, Maryland
1:55 PM EDT

Bill Garrison exited the sleek black executive helicopter. Followed by his entourage, he rushed off the big yacht's fantail. Handing his briefcase to a departing aide, he watched the chopper climb back into the troubled sky.

Jasmine approached. Her long black hair accented her well-proportioned Polynesian features. "Looks like you were being chased by the rain."

He looked up at the boiling clouds. A single raindrop struck the top of his nearly bald head. He frowned as he tried to shake the wrinkles out of his suit coat and tie. "Griff called while I was on the way back. Some kind of problem."

Jasmine nodded and motioned for him to follow. Her dress ruffled in the wind as she headed for the aft salon. "I'm going to let him tell you all about it. Before you see him, the attorneys left some letters and contracts you need to read and sign. I'm sorry things are moving so fast, but we need to wade through Fisk's probate quickly. Because you were one of his business partners, we can expedite certain things. The rest will be messy."

Bill stopped to hold a door open for his chief administrator. "You still haven't told me who his other business partners were."

"And I won't," She stated firmly as she breezed through the door into the salon.

"Need to know?" Garrison stepped in and shut the door.

"Yes," Griff said from across the wide room. Although well-rested for the moment, his craggy features, silver-grey hair, and wrinkled suit made him appear run down.

Jasmine stepped forward. "Hey, he's mine for another ten minutes."

Griff pointed at the bar and then to the glass of juice in his hand. "Going."

Garrison paused to look around the well-appointed lounge before pulling off his tie. Slumping onto a long couch, he leaned over a coffee table and reached for one of the many folders in a neat stack. "I read the image upgrade on the way out here. Seems a little over the top."

Jasmine took a seat nearby. "You're about to be repackaged. It's only natural that you'd be a little nervous about something you've never tasted before."

Bill reached for a pen. "Excuse me? I worked on Wall Street before I met Preston Fisk. I made six figures a year after taxes. As a deputy VP for the National Rifleman's Association, I still made good money. What is it about this rich-and-famous thing you think I don't get?"

She waited for him to skim and sign the documents in the folder. "You're working off a common misconception. Most people underestimate the real wealth levels in this country. A million dollars isn't what it used to be. The major political players, even the lobbyists, can put 10 million dollars on the table and afford to lose it. Your personal wealth of just two-and-a-half million isn't going to cut it. To be a Second Amendment lobbyist by day and a conspiracy leader by night, you'll need a lot more juice than you have."

Garrison's expression soured as he put down the folder and reached for another. "I get the point. Like I said, I read the outline of the profile you want to project. This guy you want me to be is a rolling freak show. Repackaging is fine and well, but I'm just a little worried that I can't pull it off."

Jasmine nodded. "You'll grow into it. Think of it as a role you'll learn to play. Just one thing. Please don't talk to me or about me like this is all my fault. This is a team effort. It's only natural that you should vent, but don't take it out on me and expect to draw blood. I didn't take it from Fisk, and I won't take it from you."

He stopped, placing the pen and folder on the table. He wiped angrily at his chin and shook his head. "I've been a jerk since before the funeral, haven't I?"

"You've been pulling my chain for the last week," She confirmed.

Garrison snatched the pen back and fidgeted. "Does this get easier?"

The administrator grew solemn. "It did for Fisk, but there were...reasons....for that."

Bill dropped the pen. "Seemed like he was made for this kind of work."

"He was." She said after a moment of hesitation.

Garrison took off his coat and laid it on the couch. He rolled his broad shoulders, "You get no more trouble from me. I'll play my part and try to grow into it. Let's get this done. I can't wait to see what Griff wants from me this time."

When he was finished with the paperwork, he excused himself. Going to his cabin, he changed into leisure clothes. Stopping by the galley, he took half a sandwich and a can of soda from the refrigerator. Eating as he walked, he finished his snack and tossed the empty can into a trash bin before reaching Griff's improvised operations room.

He rapped lightly on the door. "Hey."

Griff handed his PDA to an aide. "Give us a minute."

Bill waited for the man to leave. Griff reached out to shut the door. "Have a seat."

Garrison glanced around at the stacked electronics. "What did you want?"

Griff's chair squeaked as he tried to get comfortable. "Before we get started, I want you to know there's nothing personal in what I'm about to say. This is all business."

Bill sat down. "What rule did I break this time?"

"Anne Carroll," Griff said flatly.

Garrison threw up his hands. "Oh, come on! I already got this from Doris."

"She's right." Griff smiled at himself for the admission.

Bill shook his head. "No. You're both wrong. While I was out in the woods learning how to play soldier, I had plenty of time to think about this. I am not Preston Fisk. I'm not going to be anything like him if I can help it. I know this puts you in a tough spot, and I'm sorry for that. I won't deny my feelings for her. Look, I haven't felt this way about anyone since my divorce. I love her. Can you relate to that at all?"

Griff tossed his pen onto the desk. "Everybody loves somebody."

"So, what's the big deal?" The angry man demanded.

Griff looked Bill right in the eye. "The big deal is that you can't be seen in public with her. Not with all that hand-holding, smacky-face, and googly-eyes. You're being repackaged to run with the big dogs. That means powerful enemies--people she'd be vulnerable to. Speaking up for the Second Amendment isn't very popular with the D.C. politicos just now. They wouldn't hesitate to use her against you."

Garrison raised an eyebrow. "Can't we protect her?"

Griff shook his head. "We couldn't protect Fisk. We may not be able to protect you."

Bill sobered at the thought. "Doris thought--"

Griff raised one hand in a 'stop' motion. "I'm all for true love, but stop and think. Do you really want to sneak around like that? You've already spilled your guts to this woman. Thanks to you, she knows more about this operation than some of the people in it."

Garrison bristled. "Don't give me that inscrutable spy baloney. Haven't you ever felt the need to confide in anyone? I've been at this just long enough to know that loyalty and trust are not the same thing. She trusts me."

Griff was unmoved. "Does she believe in your mission?"

Bill hesitated. "She...I don't know. We're still talking about that. In spite of what you might think, there's still a lot I haven't told her."

The old spy feigned mild surprise. "I'm shocked. That still doesn't change the facts."

"Give me some time to work it out," Bill pleaded.

"You do know what'll happen if you can't work it out?" Griff asked mercilessly.

Bill paused, collecting his thoughts. "I can see how you get hooked on leading the double life. This country is in bad shape, and I hope to heaven that what we're doing never gets put to use. In the meantime, I don't want to be alone anymore. This whole conspiracy thing is going to drive me around the bend if I don't have somebody to share it with."

Griff remained silent for a long moment. When Jason wanted to marry Sophie, he gave me a similar speech. Same sentiment, different motives. I know what you're thinking. You see me as a threat, but I'm not. If you can't justify this to me, it'll never work. I can't let you get involved with this woman unless you're willing to acknowledge the risks.

Garrison misunderstood Griff's pause. "You could have her ruined professionally. You could have her killed. I'm sure you have somebody on speed-dial who could make it look like an accident. I might suspect, but I'd never know. What's it going to take to make you trust me?"

Griff scratched the stubble on his chin. "If you really want my trust, put your cards on the table, and give her the choice."

Garrison sat up in his chair. "I like that. The truth seems to be in short supply these days. Can you get me some vacation time?"

Griff reached for his keyboard. Several monitors came to life as he typed. "If you're up for some long work days, we can squeeze it in early next month. Secured Site 9."

"Where's that?" Bill turned in his seat to read the small screens.

Griff pointed to a map. "Vermont. Nice little farm with a very large bunker."

He laughed. "She ought to love that."

Griff laid his keyboard aside. "You're about to assume leadership of the country's largest decentralized patriotic constituency. Big bunkers are just one of many job perks. You should remember to tell her that."

Bill snapped his fingers. "Hey. Tonight would be perfect. She's interviewing the President for WNN, and Jasmine has me booked for something-or-other on Talk TV."

Griff tapped at his keyboard again, reading off the master schedule. "Ooh, bad news, Casanova. You're going from Talk TV to a Senate fundraiser. The Prez is on an hour before you are, too. That's going to tank your ratings. Is your lady friend a night owl?"

Garrison smirked. "I'm surprised you don't already know that from one of your computer generated profiles."

"Hey, I'm just trying to be polite," Griff joked.

Bill thought about that. "She does like the night life, and she'll want to celebrate. We can't possibly get together before midnight. I can approach her about some time in the country while we're out on the town."

Griff scowled. "What were we just talking about?"

Garrison spread his hands. "Sorry. If we can't go out--"

Griff rapped on his desk. "This isn't a bathtub, you know. Take her for a late night cruise. I have yet to meet the woman who didn't like the Chesapeake skyline after dark. Security won't be an issue, and the two of you can talk without fear of paparazzi."

Bill thought about what Jasmine had said earlier. "Right. What about dinner?"

Griff handed Garrison a cordless phone. "Not my department. Take this with you and go make it happen."

Garrison ambled out of the cabin to the starboard deck where he could see the slowly approaching shoreline. Checking his watch, he dialed Anne's personal wireless number.

She answered on the third ring. "So, are you ready to get killed in the ratings?"

Bill paced as he talked. "Aren't journalists supposed to be known for their humility?"

"Objectivity," She corrected.

Garrison stopped to sit when he reached a deck chair. "Duly noted. Congratulations, by the way. I hear President Hill is usually a tough interview. How'd you get so lucky?"

Anne frowned. "I'm a team player, or hadn't you heard?"

Bill leaned back and tried to get comfortable. "Is it that bad?"

The reporter hesitated for a long moment. "It's harder than I thought. You know?"

Garrison did know. "You're trying to score points with the Press Secretary. If you don't, you won't stay in the White House press pool. You can't fault them for trying to use that on you. They want positive spin, and they'll do anything to get it. At least they're paying off."

Anne sighed. "I keep telling myself that. This is also a test. I know that, too. I just got out of a meeting with my producer. WNN doesn't get a lot of camera time with the President. I have a green light to throw low and slow for the whole 10 minutes."

He sat up. "I thought you had a one hour special?"

Anne's bitterness carried through the digital connection. "Now you know why I was in that meeting. Remember the intern who worked for me while I was at Channel 6? Somehow she got me bumped."

"Nope. Doesn't ring a bell," Garrison replied with a shrug.

"Lenora Casey?" Anne prodded.

"Sorry." Bill got to his feet.

"She's going to drive a stake through your heart tonight, buddy."

Garrison flinched. "Ease up, I’m not that easy to kill. What’s the deal with her?”

Anne laughed. "Talk TV's latest pit bull. I know I've mentioned her before."

Bill walked past a silent bodyguard and started walking toward the bow of the large yacht. "Somebody'll brief me on her later. You know, I did actually call for a good reason."

"Something personal?" She asked hopefully.

"Yes." Garrison had to speak up as the wind hit him in the face.

"Something indecent?" She encouraged with a lewd drawl.

"Very." Bill found himself unable to elaborate.

Anne paused to find her day planner. "I didn't think they'd let you out again for a while."

He blushed. "Yeah, well. I run the show now, or hadn't you heard?"

She couldn't help the laugh. "News to me. October is out of the question. Can you do the weekend of the 16th? This month?"

Bill checked the calendar on his watch. "I'll make it happen. I was kind of hoping we could connect this evening."

Anne looked at her planner. "Can't. Soonest I'm free is the 16th. Take care of yourself. Lenny knows how to stick and move. Don't look at the ceiling while you're trying to think. It'll only egg her on. It also looks bad on camera. Try to avoid--"

"Hey..." He mumbled as their moment faded.

She rushed through the last of her counsel. "Congress is due to vote on suspending the Second Amendment. They're going to do that any day now. She'll try to get a negative sound bite out of you. Stake through the heart, just like I said. How long is your segment?"

Bill headed for the rear of the yacht, and protection from the Chesapeake wind. "Five or ten minutes, something like that. Look, I know to expect an ambush. Lenora what's-her-name won't get the best of me. I'm ready for Congress, too. It kills me to see them suspend gun ownership rights, but it's not something I can do anything about...at the moment."

Monday September 8, 2014
Adkins Clinic
Alexandria, Virginia
2:24 PM EDT

"Do you need anything else?" The nurse asked with a kind smile.

Doris looked around the empty locker room, "I'm fine."

The woman left through a side door. Doris fidgeted with the drawstrings of her pastel robe. Taking longer for the shakes to go away this time. Rising from the plain wooden bench, she quickly sat again as the room began to spin. Expelling the electrically-charged solution from her stomach and lungs had taken a lot out of her. Her skin crawled uncomfortably as she struggled to wait out the effects of the anti-aging treatment. Still worth it.

When the clinic's internal warning alarm went off, she flinched and fell off the bench. The overhead lights changed from fluorescent white to soft red. She scrambled to her feet, coughing as the bile in her stomach attempted to reach her lips.

The intercom came alive with Colby's calm but urgent voice. "Intrusion alert. Condition Red Two. Hostiles in the building. All teams are cleared to fire. Staff, remain where you are and lock your doors."

The muscles in her bruised abdomen protested as Doris reacted to the sound of automatic weapons fire in the corridor. Fumbling with her thumb-coded locker door, she wrenched it open and searched for her gun. A series of pistol shots rang out near the locker room door. Return fire came in two precise bursts. Doris recognized the distinctive sounds of a submachine gun.

Using one hand to prop herself up, she growled over her frustration. No panic. I am not helpless. Snatching her weapon from its nylon holster, she fell back onto the bench and worked the safety and slide of the custom-built stainless steel automatic. Patterned after a Soviet-style Tokarev, the modern gun felt good in her hand.

Voices in the hallway caught her attention. Raising the pistol, she activated the integral laser sight and aimed at the door as it was pushed open.

The invader was clad from head to toe in gray tactical armor. Seeing a half-naked woman didn't throw him. He shot from the hip as he noticed her gun.

Forcing her numbed body to act, Doris dropped to one knee and fired. The attacker's raking fire sprayed 9-millimeter steel-jacketed bullets across the entire width the room. Three rounds tore through the fabric of her robe as she squeezed her own trigger. Fired wildly, each of her six 7.62-millimeter armor-piercing rounds struck the man high in the chest. The hypervelocity rounds failed to penetrate his protection. The force of her assault threw him to the far wall of the corridor. He slumped to his knees as he became breathless.

Seeing that her assailant wasn't dead, she raised her shaking hands to improve her grip and took careful aim. Struggling for air, the man tried to get out of her line of fire. Tapping off the last four rounds in her magazine, Doris watched grimly as two of her shots found their way through the his carbon-fiber face plate. She collapsed as his helmeted head struck the carpeted floor.

Getting to her feet, she dropped her pistol and pulled free of the ruined robe. She went for the dead man's submachine gun. Sounds of fighting came from far away, suggesting the battle had moved on. Struggling to turn his body over, she went through the pockets of the man's utility harness until she found another magazine for his weapon.

Her vision cleared as adrenaline flowed. What do we have that somebody would want? The question nagged at Doris as she prowled the length of the corridor.

Pausing at the intersection, she took note of battle damage that suggested a running gunfight. If this was a terrorist attack, we'd all be dead from a car bomb or some stupid thing like that. These guys are going room-to-room. They're looking for something. Pulling the used magazine from the weapon, she tossed it aside and fed in the new clip. Not something--someone.

She made her way to Adkins' office. Along the way, she passed the corpses of two more invaders. Colby and his boys are getting a workout today. A blast of stray gunfire forced her to ground behind a desk near the doctor's office.

Slithering across the littered floor, she moved past dropped papers and coffee cups. She popped up in time to see one enemy spraying suppression fire while another slapped a breaching charge onto what appeared to be a normal wooden door labelled 'employees only.' The sentry saw her, and adjusted his aim.

Plunging back to the floor, she skittered frantically as 5.56-millimeter bullets chewed through the office furniture around her. Thirty caseless rounds destroyed everything in their path. Tiny bits of plastic nipped at her exposed skin from all directions. Waiting for the man to duck out of sight and reload, Doris reached for an unbroken coffee mug that lay on the floor. With her weapon in one hand and the mug in the other, she stood up. Throwing the mug at the door which the invaders were trying to breach, she braced as it struck the sapper in the back. When he turned to look, she blew his helmeted head off his shoulders with a long burst from the stubby submachine gun. Dropping to the floor, she scuttled away as the dead man's backup reacted.

Suppression turned to probing fire as the man began to hunt. Short bursts ripped through office partitions as he scoured the area. Darting from one work space to the next, she evaded the shooter's pattern. Her bare feet allowed her the luxury of near-silence. When he paused to reload, she moved in as fast as she could. When he did not resume fire, she popped up with her weapon at the ready.

The shaped charge on the door exploded, sending debris fanning out into the room. Doris lunged for the floor and cursed as she fell on something sharp. What had looked like a wooden office door was, in fact, lined with steel. The breach charge had severed the locking mechanism and shattered the door into dozens of pieces.

Doris got to her feet, sweeping the room with both her weapon and an angry gaze. Crossing the room, she peered down the corridor. Inside the blown door, she could see George Adkins crouching behind a piece of diagnostic equipment. The doctor held a small automatic pistol in one hand.

The double doors at the far end of the corridor flew open. She held her fire as Colby charged through. Coming to a halt, he wiped sweat from his brow. Dressed in black BDUs, he adjusted his armor and combat harness before looking in on Adkins.

He acknowledged Doris. "Somehow, I just knew it would be you."

The serious woman moved in. "Looks like you had fun."

Colby stepped into the room to speak with Adkins. "How are you?"

George stood up and coughed. "I'll live."

Doris glanced down the hallway again. A side exit door was open. "Who hit us?"

Colby waited for Adkins to put away his gun. "Identity unknown. Nine man team, three by three, in through the loading dock. We lost three, but we capped three. As soon as they passed up the pharmacy, I knew something was out of line. The survivors bugged out in good order, too. Griff is going to chew my butt for this."

She handed him her weapon. "I'd bust your nuggets for letting them get this far, too. See this? Caseless. Very illegal. First rate stuff. I got two of them--one in the locker room, and the other one here. Would have had a third, but he didn't want to play."

Walking up to Doris from behind, Adkins quietly took off his suit jacket and slid it over her bare shoulders. As she pulled the warm fabric around her, Colby reacted to her nakedness.

"Grow up," She told him.

He seemed genuinely embarrassed. "You really got two of these guys?"

Without another word, she went back to the locker room.

Watching her go, the doctor pointed at the headless body. "Don't make a big deal out of what you just didn't see, or you'll end up like him."

"Only to the people she doesn't like," The doctor replied while walking away.