BACK PRESIDENT, Chapter 60. Iranian nuke threat, more death threats for President Little--Was there any way to protect her son from a terrible 'JFK end,' wondered Sarah?

SPYCRAFT/video preview/review...(about protecting the President, etc.): https://www.pcgamer.com/saturday-crapshoot-spycraft-the-great-game/

CHAPTER SIXTY

A week before Jackson Little’s inauguration as President of the United States, he was given a top-secret briefing by the Director of Central Intelligence, John Manners. In the report, information was presented that pointed to a plot by Iran to bomb Israel with nuclear weapons. The director told Present-Elect Little that Farsi-speaking US agents had infiltrated the Iranian terrorists, members of the intelligence sector there. Their evil plan, the Director explained, was to detonate a small- kiloton weapon in the heart of the country, letting radiation from the dirty bomb finish the job, ultimately killing millions of survivors of the initial blast. Manners was emphatic in his briefing, stating that the report was accurate and timely. It was a clear and present danger to the Western World – the entire planet – and this activity must be stopped at all costs.

So there it was, on the table. The future Little administration had to decide to either neutralize the Iranian location where the plot was supposedly hatching, take out the nuclear capability once and for all, or accept the collateral damage of such a catastrophic event. There was no easy answer for the future Commander-in-Chief. One way or another, Iran had to be neutralized.

Another crucial area of concern, explained Manners, was the present Pakistani stance of ‘no cooperation,’ blocking US forays into districts where known terrorists were purported to be hiding, basically harboring terrorists dangerous to the US. As Manners elaborated on the problem of dealing with a third-world nuclear power, Jackson remembered a recent TV commentator talking about Pakistani cab drivers in New York City; more than 2,000 of those foreigners operating vehicles daily in downtown Manhattan. What were the odds, he wondered, of some of those cabbies being agents or black-op ‘sleepers,’ who could be activated at a moment’s notice? Some unsuspecting cab driver could be in the process of importing a nuclear device, one tiny piece at a time, like Little had read about in the book The Fourth Protocol by Frederick Forsyth. The President-Elect couldn’t help bringing it up.

“Do you think there is potential for Pakistani terrorist threats in New York and elsewhere?” asked Jackson, the moment Manners took a break in his daily findings.

“No, not really,” answered Manners, somewhat surprised by Little’s seemingly random question.. “We closely monitor all Middle-East immigrants and haven’t really noticed any appreciable increase in chatter between Pakistanis in The City. I’m wondering why you are specifically concerned with that country?”

Risking embarrassment, Little laid out his case for judicious paranoia.

“I’ve heard that a couple thousand Pakistanis drive cabs in New York. Perhaps I have too vivid an imagination, but when I heard that fact I imagined how those vehicles could bring any evacuation plan to a dead halt by, say, tying up hundreds of intersections in Manhattan and the nearby boroughs. What if a good portion of those drivers were being monitored by terrorists back in their country? Terrorist organizations there could threaten harm to relatives if certain demands weren't met.

What if a small nuclear bomb has already been smuggled into the US, one tiny part at a time? Just the threat of one in Manhattan, with the potential of making inhabitants ‘fish in the barrel,’ could bring New York to a standstill.”

“That’s Right!” exclaimed Manners, as the future President completed his fantasy of destruction. It took a moment for Manners to recover his professional demeanor.

“Actually, we have consultants who constantly run such end-game scenarios. But this is the first time a 'Pakistani cabdriver’ conspiracy has been aired in my presence. I'll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll mention it to Carter when I report in, later today.”

President-Elect Little was surprised that he had momentarily confounded his intelligence officer. It wasn’t exactly a confidence-building moment, but he tried to withhold his full response. Certainly Central Homeland Intelligence (CHI) chief officer Bob Carter would look into it. As the meeting wrapped, the DOCI Director apologized for being the harbinger of bad news and promised to report back soon about the ‘cab driver’ question. Before he exited, Manners cautioned that the secret information contained in the report, especially that of nuclear threat, should not be shared with anyone – no family members – because the smallest leak could result in worldwide panic.

***

The plans for the inauguration party were ramping up, with top acts from the Black community joining the roster. But the President-Elect couldn’t deal with it at all. Aside from being burdened with numerous practical and immediate concerns – moving into the White House with his family, selecting his cabinet, selecting a Vice President within the week – the chore of picking which song-and-dance acts should follow his oath of office seemed impossible. Iran was set to begin WW3 and he was supposed to program a TV show? The utmost seriousness of the situation was undermining his ability to perform, now disturbing his sleep and making his interaction with others a chore. Finally, he called John to help pick the entertainment, a job with which his brother was happy to assist.

“How to you feel about Justin Bieber?” was John Little’s sly response to the job. But Jackson was too smart to be drawn in by the teasing.

“Fine, of course. Whoever you want is acceptable. I know you enjoyed some good music while you were in art school smoking those funny cigarettes and fornicating. I have the utmost faith that the White House will rock out with you in charge of the biggest party of 2013.” The President-Elect gave a laugh into the phone before signing off with his brother. It would be one of the few light moments he would get.

Getting back to his inauguration speech, Jackson prepared to give a face and some heart to the new administration. It was clear that he would need to address the present tensions with Iran, including the secret activity of which he’d been apprised by the senior Intelligence Chief. Some sort of threat of retaliation cloaked in strong foreign policy rhetoric would be required. After several hours of toiling alone in his study, he reviewed the latest draft, to get a feel for the content and cadence of language

“The United States will stand by its allies and all that that represents. No county, however separate from our belief system and common goals, should believe that we will sit idly by if an unprovoked attack is made on one of our partner nations. Any terrorist or state sponsored military action, directed toward friends of the United States, should expect an immediate and equal response."

Well...that’s a start, thought Jackson Little. But it wasn’t quite right. He’d try again later, he told himself, after running the paragraph by his brother sometime during their next day's meeting.

***

Within a week of the inauguration, just a day before the first round of parties leading up to the swearing in, another devastating article came out in The New York Times, again detailing the extremely high numbers of death threats President-Elect Little was receiving.

“Honey, they’re talking again about death threats toward Jackson,” said Sarah, holding up the second article to appear in just a week. “And he isn’t even sworn in yet!” After she had placed the paper in Rudy’s lap, she waited impatiently for a response. But he just sat there on the bed, not speaking.

“Well?”

Sarah needed to hear something from her husband, but his mind was elsewhere. To Rudy, the idea of someone killing someone else brought an unexpected flashback to his time in Vietnam, and the memory of his killing people who were trying to kill him. And sometimes, his unit had stretched the line to include killing people who were just remotely threats to him and his men. They had killed unarmed citizens rather than be subjected to the possibility that some small child or emaciated woman might deliver a grenade to their group inside a bouquet of flowers or something. So how could he answer his wife, someone so naïve in matters of real killing? Rudy could detect her impatience and figured he’d better say something sooner than later, anything that might help offer her some measure of relief .

“Sweetheart. As you know, I was involved in military activity myself – got my leg blown off – and so I know a lot about the subject. I spent a year during which there was a ‘threat of bodily harm’ to me and my squad each and every minute of every day. And in our circumstance we had no other recourse but to keep moving and sharpen our focus and intel, making sure that we knew the positions of our enemies and their strengths. With Jackson being President-Elect, he has the most talented and well-trained Secret Service protection available to anyone in the world. Armed with the very latest electronic surveillance and weaponry, these men and women will form a physical – and virtual – shield for your son, protecting him against any of the nutcases you're hearing about.”

Rudy hoped that would be enough, but it wasn’t. His wife answered with one word, “Kennedy.”

“Jack Kennedy had all that, and so did his brother. So terrible things can happen, even with all you’re talking about!”

Rudy remained silent. What could he say?

“They’re both dead. How can I be sure my son – our sons – will survive all the hate these people are putting out? It just hurts my heart to learn how much racism still exists in this country. Will it ever be over?” Rudy embraced Sarah as the tears began to flow. He knew the topic was nowhere near exhausted.

As soon as everyone had been seated at the weekly Sunday brunch at the Sheraton Hotel’s private dining area, had exchanged pleasantries, spread napkins neatly on laps and ordered food, Sarah couldn’t help breaching the topic of death threats. Her fear had grown exponentially over several days, after concluding that her son’s presidency offered not one but two targets. Both her boys were identical-looking, which meant either one could be caught in the crosshairs.

“Jackson, honey, those numbers of death threats are frightening me. Sorry to bring this up at our pretty meal, but there isn’t really any other opportunity to talk, given your hectic schedule. What can we do about this?”

Jackson wasn't able to give an instant response because his mother had caught him mid-bite, a forkful of Eggs Benedict still being chewed. He set down his fork, but all he could do was to mumble – Mummm, mummm – adding a few winks from his eyes and nods of his head. All at the table seemed to slow down their eating process in anticipation of what he’d say. Not surprisingly, John broke in to temporarily cover for his brother.

“Mom, it just comes with the territory. Political figures... always get death threats. We can't take them all seriously. Plus, it’s those Republicans doing their typical spins through their republican-owned news services. Especially bad are the TV shows where the station managers encourage any type of story that can slander or do damage to the Demos. You can see how they try to make the inference: Democrats are disliked/unpopular with constituents = death threats. So they inflate the numbers with every kook-call they can find. I guess we’ve just got to get used to such political shenanigans perpetrated on Jackson.”

“John is right about this, mom,” added Jackson, now that his mouth was clear of food. “From my daily briefs – what I'm told by the intelligence advisors – these numbers are basically inaccurate. That’s all I can tell you, I'm afraid, national security and all that.” Jackson didn’t add that the real numbers were actually much, much higher. No one could have possibly imagined just how high.

Rudy decided to speak up, saving Sarah the trouble of mentioning the two-for-one threat she’d been worried about.

“It affects John as well,” said Rudy, glancing over as he continued, “though I know he'd be the last person to say it.” Fran looked up from her plate of food as her husband was drawn into the discussion.

“He looks identical to you, Mr. President, and therefore we must consider that his safety is at risk as well. So I’m afraid your mother and I will be doubly concerned. Of course, we know that there’s no way to control the nuts who make these calls or write hateful letters.”

Soon to become First Lady, Cissy sat there in a gloomy mood. Not only was she reeling from the stories that had been aired in the last days, but she genuinely feared for their children’s lives as well. She recognized that there were many in America who still refused to recognize a mixed-race couple. She worried that some of the hate-mail was focused on their marriage and kids. She wondered if there would ever be a safe place again for her family, either during the four (eight?) year service in the White House, or afterwards.

As John listened to his brother doing a fair job of playing down the threat, trying to reduce it to a manageable size in his family’s eyes, his mind shifted to right-brain thinking – his ‘artist’ brain – and he suddenly had access to out-of-the-box solutions. He knew that the most deadly assassinations in history had targeted the skull of a President. JFK was a prime example, as was his brother. A bullet to the brain was irreversible. Maybe there was a way to protect that weak spot. He could imagined Jackson wearing a face mask capable of stopping a bullet, something made out of the same bulletproof kevlar fibers that protected police and soldiers in the field. John took a chance to air his weird idea.

“A mask, super-thin and lifelike, could be molded from a life- mask of an individual, and worn at public events where the President was seen from a distance. The super-strong material would intercept a bullet in its fibers and hold off any penetration to human tissue. Of course the basic shock to the head would be severe, like a blow from a baseball bat, but there would still be a chance...a chance of survival.”

As his small group digested the information most, including the President himself, felt it was pretty hopeless to try to beat the odds. In any case, John pledged to look into recently invented materials, like the nano-technological protective threads being developed at MIT that replicate the strongest substances found in nature. He’d heard that such lightweight military uniforms were being developed, but there had been a downside to using strings of nano to grow the new substances. Scientists had detected brain damage in rats when brought in contact over time with the chains of atoms that were woven into protective gear. It had reminded him of the image of the evil industrialist in the Spiderman movie, who went insane inside his green, scaly suit. Before anyone could respond, Sarah had the last word on the threats.

“Dear boys. You've worked so hard for this moment...to do some good for disenfranchised Americans. I know it would be impossible to step away from the job...the Presidency. I do realize that that just isn’t an option. But please, watch yourselves in public situations. And please John, keep looking into that bullet-proof gear!”

John laughed to himself. His mother wasn’t so old-fashioned after all.

—————

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