BLACK PRESIDENT-Chapter 73. Another blast destroys the Oval Office, the kind that changes history.

White House defenses: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mj4q-qOFXGs

CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

Back in the White House the next morning, both the twins could sense that the other one had experienced some emotional backlash over the idea of switching identities. Once they were alone, in a secure place with no video cameras, Jackson wrote a note and passed it silently to his brother. It read, “Could we try a switch right now?” Jackson wanted to continue to test the idea a few more times before giving it up entirely. He wanted to prove to himself that it wasn’t so farfetched before discarding it. As crazy as that sounded, John understood completely. Prove it works so it can be discarded. OK, bro!

Within minutes of entering the men’s room off the Presidential bedroom on the second floor of the White House, the two men emerged. Nothing looked any different. The Secret Service personnel they then approached down the hall gave the same high-fives to their President, and acknowledged brother John tagging along. The disguise held up well.

As the morning progressed, the two brothers remained together, giving support to each other. After lunch they sat together in the rebuilt Oval Office, now equipped with the latest shield technology: steel walls and reinforced flooring, anti-armor-piercing technology on all sides. Once alone again, they couldn’t help smiling in acknowledgement of all those who had bought into their deception. John whispered that he was “playing JFK” as he reclined on one of the couches and put his feet up on the armrest like he’d seen in an old White House photo. Jackson, pretending to be his twin brother, sat in the black leather recliner chair, situated between the Resolute desk and the outside windows, naughtily testing the throne of power.

There was the President where he belonged – as sitting President – but acting as goofy as he could, portraying his “John” character in very loose terms; fingering the blotter, fondling the paperweights, then placing his left hand on the red phone and lifting the receiver. And right on cue, John-as-President immediately chimed in with some feigned annoyance; Stop John! Do you want to start World War Three? Put that down! It was in the midst of this brotherly banter that the deadliest and most sustained terrorist attack on a U.S. President took place.

Suddenly the entire room erupted, contents flying in all directions. Somehow a tremendously powerful bomb had been detonated either inside or directly underneath the Oval office, shattering everything in its path. The last image John saw before being knocked unconscious was that of his brother and the Resolute desk blasted upwards, lifting several feet off the floor as floorboards and drawers became airborne. The blow back from ten pounds of C-4 explosive packed into the bottom drawers of the desk had punched out walls and launched the steel-reinforced sides of the Oval Office into the Rose garden.

When John started to become conscious in the hospital it just seemed another part of the horrible dream. He relived the sensation of rising into the air, then being knocked sideways by a hot wind. All objects around him had filled the space (later he likened it to the famous Salvador Dali photograph, where a cat and stream of water are caught in midair). What had saved John from instant death were two things. First, the couch he’d been reclining on had cushioned some of the initial blast and protected him from direct contact with the hardest surfaces; floor, ceiling and walls, which could easily have proved fatal. And secondly, the thick planks out of which the desk front was constructed had forced the explosion backwards, towards whoever was seated there. Jackson had had no chance to survive the blast.

When John Little felt a light tugging at his extremities his first thought was, Stop that, Jackson!

“Mr. President!” called a voice from somewhere. “Are you OK?”

At first John didn’t answer. They wanted his brother. But the person kept at it, rephrasing the question, repeating it louder and louder.

“Mr. President? MR. PRESIDENT! ARE YOU OK?”

Chief of Staff MacDonald needed to know. “He’s over there,” is all that John Little said before passing out again. Rudy was the one who got the call. It was for the President’s mother, informing her that another attempt on the President’s life had been thwarted. Rudy watched her face smile and saw her mouth the words, Praise the Lord. He hardly had time to be relieved before she dropped to the floor in a hysterical crying fit. He grabbed the phone out of her hands. MacDonald apologized as he repeated the horrible news; that the President’s brother, John, was dead. He’d been killed by a terrorist bomb meant for his brother.

When Fran heard her cell phone ringing she expected it to be John, informing her of their dinner plans. MacDonald repeated the horrible news, explaining that he didn’t want her to hear it first from the media. There was no other adult in the house except for Dotty, the housekeeper – 16-year-old John Jr. and sister Donna were still at school. At the loud crying, Dotty came running and shyly laid a hand on Fran’s shoulder. Fran’s voice cracked with sobs as she tried to thank MacDonald for the call.

Cissy had been in the upstairs White House living quarters when the bomb detonated and had been blown into a corner of the room, just below the double windows facing Pennsylvania Avenue. Aside from a bump on the head, and breathing in some dust, she was OK. The children had fortunately been blocks away at kindergarten, with the youngest still asleep in an undisrupted, second-floor bedroom.

After emergency workers and staff dug Cissy out of the rubble – she could see blue sky where a portion of the roof had been – she made inquiries about her husband and was assured he was OK, currently being treated for injuries at the Washington Memorial Hospital. But it was with great regret that they informed her of John’s death.

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