BLACK PRESIDENT- Chapter 89. An assassination attempt is foiled, but John's secret now has a following in the darkest places.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE

After the Presidential phone was returned to the security agent, John Little made a quick comment about the situation to Kissinger, Merkel, the other heads of state in near vicinity, and hurriedly walked back to his room with his security team. Shedding his clothes, he entered the bathroom for a second shower of the day. It was only when he started to soap up that he realized that Cissy had called him “John,”not Jackson. What did that mean? Was it a signal that she knew and was OK with it? Or had she just slipped up, called him by his brother’s name under duress, given the twin’s mother was in bad health and Cissy’d been thinking of John’s death – and now this. Whatever it was, he would avoid bringing up the mistake, instead, wait to see what she called him next. 

*** 

Rudy was in a panicked state. His wife had fallen right out of her chair at dinner and hit the floor hard, temporarily knocking herself out. When doctors arrived and diagnosed a stroke, they tried in vain to return her to consciousness. When she finally awoke for a few seconds before the ambulance arrived, she had mumbled just two words to Rudy before passing out again. 

They know.

“They know...who knows? About what?” But for Rudy’s response there was no answer. His mind raced. What else could it be, but that they knew President Jackson Little was really John? Who was they? And if that was it, then Sarah knew it too. But she had never voiced her suspicions directly to him–to John. They. Who had she been talking to, or who had she overheard? They represented a very scary scenario. They could disgrace the Little family. They could bring down the current administration, or, at least try to blackmail John into bending to their agenda. 

When – if – Sarah ever awoke from her stroke, and could still form words, he’d try to get a clear answer. They had to be identified, and quickly. Especially while John was out of the country. 

*** 

John alerted Air Force One to prepare for an emergency flight back to D.C. He excused himself from the Bilderberg proceedings and hurriedly packed. 

“Good luck, Jack,” called in Kissinger, making the final contact via cellphone. “We pray your mother will improve.” Henry's European accent seemed particularly empathetic under the circumstances, and John gave a thank you back as he covered the short distance to the elevator. It was clear how Henry had navigated so many corridors of power. The man was attentive, charming, and punctual. Was that all it really took to change the history of the world? 

Security, in the form of six top U.S. Secret Service agents, accompanied the President from the entrance of the Hotel President Wilson, and escorted him down the few steps to a waiting Cadillac. Within minutes the Chief Executive was airborne, his plane getting priority-one takeoff and flight-plan across the Atlantic. 

At the very same time, wheels in the bowels of the CIA and its underground and secret counterpart, BlackWing (BW), were spinning. Somehow, offhand comments made by the President’s mother to a certain waiter on the kitchen staff (a BW mole) regarding her Presidential son’s identity, had been tagged and investigated. That, combined with some profiling on John Little’s speech patterns and facial characteristics, as compared to his brother’s, had led to a shocking conclusion. There was some probability that the President of the United States may not be who he seemed.  To the joy of a small squad of devoted operatives – Commander and Ex-Marine Bic Evans, and his skilled staff – this result signaled new prestige and perhaps even accommodations and raises. They, most certainly, had uncovered one of the greatest conspiracies in American history. But, to the Commander of BW, this potential knowledge, once it was proven indisputable, meant that with a bit of finesse, all their political objectives were now within reach. The Pentagon budget could get doubled, threats to NRA erased. The imposter, John Little, would have little choice but to do their bidding. Or what? Face arrest? Imprisonment? Disgrace? His entire family incarcerated? No – he would play ball. They would see to it! 

The flight across the Atlantic ran into some turbulence and staff and crew members were cautioned to keep themselves seated and strapped in tight. A few strong jolts put the fear of God in everyone aboard. Conversations halted. Eyes veered out the small portholes. President Little watched as the wings vibrated with each new hit, as if they could quite literally snap off. It always seemed improbable that an airplane could withstand such punishment. 

As the conditions of flying made him think of his mortality, John remembered some of the dangerous games he and his brother had played as kids. At summer camp they had once found a hanging rope dangling near the edge of a swift-moving river. About ten feet past the shoreline there was a tiny island of sorts. One of them had come up with the brainy notion of swinging out on the rope, back and forth to get farther out. Then, with eyes closed, they’d let go, aiming to land on the tiny spit, instead of water. Both twins had accomplished the task, but out of the bunch of four or five fellow campers who followed, only one other had duplicated the complicated maneuver. One poor soul had gone too far, dropped himself into the drink and been whisked away by the current, only to be retrieved downstream by a semi-hysterical camp counselor. The twins were famous for inventing such dangerous games, that challenged everyone to the edge of their physical coordination. 

As the turbulence increased, the pilot spoke by intercom to the President and his staff, explaining that they’d be climbing to a higher elevation to escape the bad currents. But dying from a failed airplane at 38,000 feet instead of 32,000 still seemed like a possibility to John.  What would he be thinking during a free-fall to earth over the ocean, he wondered? There would be several minutes left before he slammed into the water below at 150 miles-per-hour. The speed of descent – air pressure against the body and face – would be disorienting. And horrible sights of other passengers and debris falling besides him (worth closing one’s eyes?) would also be alarming. He’d need to get past all that – the fear of dying – to enjoy the last few moments of existence. He hoped he could.  Anyway, after the initial struggle to regain his wits while airborne, what then? First he’d have to realize that his death would be an end of all progressive reforms he was trying to institute into American government. Just like what had happened to his blood father, all progressive, anti-military advances would be reversed. No matter how his death occurred, without a Little in the Presidency it would be as if his adversaries had won. 

*** 

Cissy heard her mother-in-law’s last words and she shuttered. Rudy tried to sidestep the “they know” pronouncement as he embraced her after her mother-in-law’s last breath. Her death had occurred while John was still over the Atlantic Ocean somewhere and Rudy decided it was best to let him know things before he was back stateside.

Rudy had believed he could withstand the inevitable, but when Sarah’s death finally came it cracked him in a manner that left him defenseless. In his mind - Cissy had heard the words too – he tried to act as if Sarah’s utterance was just some random thought. The “They” could have meant a million things– anything. They – the doctors. They – her nurses. They – her friends. But only Rudy (he hoped…) suspected the worst. But Cissy also felt the words were referring to her present husband, the President of the United States. It was a warning of the highest order, and she would heed it. If Cissy ever opened up to Rudy regarding his wife’s recent conversations – Sarah and her had met for tea the previous afternoon and heard her mother-in-law’s doubts about Jackson’s identity - made it too easily to see her ‘White House’ husband might actually be John instead. 

Air Force One touched down at Reagan airport, to the relief of all aboard. Immediately there was a roll-out of the Secret Service’s de-planing procedures, including ground services, limos in place, security on all perimeters where the Chief Executive would cover forty feet from jet to his armored vehicle. For this operation, twenty D.C. agents had descended on the tarmac, investigating all 360 degree sightlines. With the vast distances on the runway, it was imperative that a sweep of the buildings within three-quarters of a mile reveal no snipers or other operatives set on terminating their boss. What was unknown was that one of the squad, Jefferson Peters, a mid-career security guard, was untrustworthy. As Peters scoped out his sector, he walked past the kneeling BW sniper as if she were invisible. He knew ahead of time what he would find, and she’d been alerted as well.  All of the White House details reported in, giving Air Force One the go-ahead for deplaning. Just business as usual.

All was good with the world, thought President Little – no plane crash. As deplaning proceeded, his mind went to Stage Two. He would need to talk to Rudy as soon as he could, to try and decipher his mother’s words, determine the meaning and also the timing so that he could contain damage if that was even possible. It was hard to discount the words, especially from as public a figure as the President’s mother. Of course, John hadn't as yet received the news from Rudy (or Cissy) that his mother had died and that “They know” had been set in stone for all eternity, as the last words of the Little President’s mother. 

What had been Rose Kennedy’s last words? Eleanor Roosevelt’s? Mamie Eisenhower’s? Grieving later, John would use Google to find the answers. Eleanor had said, “Utter Nonsense,” to a nurse who told her “God’s plan would decide when.” And Leonardo Da Vinci was supposed to have said, “I have offended God,” believing his work had not reached the necessary perfection. For Mamie Eisenhower and Rose Kennedy no words are recorded. At any rate, nothing he found would offer him any solace, any relief from the ominous tone of his mother’s final pronouncement. 

When the ground crew announced that the air-stairs were in place, agents exited first. After giving a perfunctory visual sweep of the surrounding tarmac – a mostly ineffectual exercise given the range of modern firearms – they descended and headed toward the President’s limo. Eight hundred feet away, a sniper trained her scope on the entrance of the aircraft, waiting for the President to emerge. But for some reason, he didn't appear.  Still inside Air Force One, John Little was making a final trip to the bathroom. He had drunk too much Coca Cola and saw no reason to be pressured by the timing of the landing and swift trip to the gate. After all, he was The President. So he had entered the tiny facility and had unzipped his pants when an even greater urge had befallen him. 

“Mr. President,” aide John Keefer called from outside the thin door. “We’re about to deplane. Will you be exiting soon?” 

“Can’t tell, John,” Little shot back, “In the middle of some business here. Others can leave. Hopefully, just need 10 minutes more here.” 

While the long pause was tolerated by all the President’s men and women, each had to, in turn, explain to someone else why the President was “preoccupied.” He was not coming out on schedule.  A “bathroom break.” The change weighed most heavily on the assassin, Dory Linsky, Russian born and raised, trained in Siberian camps against all manner of hardships and deprivations. She had won various marksman championships as a precocious child and had caught the eye of the military, who paid her family well to let them take over her schooling. Instead of being stuck in a classroom, she had been trained on survivalist battlefields from the age of eleven, stuck face down in mud, snow, rain, left for days in outer reaches of deserts and plains, mountains and forests. She had learned to parachute in after free-falling thousands of feet through the air, directing her descent to avoid trees and high-tension wires. She and her bundle of rifle gear had been delivered by that same method, both covered in black cloth from head to toe and dropped at 10,000 feet the night before, the fabric made specially to pass the radar detection of the Washington D.C. facilities. 

Linsky’s supervisors were privy to the President’s flight plan from a spy aboard Air Force One, who communicated easily to her superiors with his laptop. Linsky had received her orders and coordinates by Smartphone. Modern conveniences had continued to make things easier, but still, the present job – killing a sitting U.S. President – was the biggest she’d ever been assigned. So, as the schedule stalled, she had become unusually antsy. She removed her eye from the scope after five minutes, just to refresh her sight as she’d been trained to do. 

Sitting on the toilet in a very small bathroom wasn’t John Little’s idea of fun, especially while 40+ people waited for him to have a bowel movement. He guessed he had to blame the constipation on the series of rich foods served at Bilderberg. He’d tried just about everything offered the famous guests, enjoying, as he always did, new experiences. The rare Beluga caviar, consumed with cream cheese and chives (at Putin’s urging), was particularly rich. Also, the beef bourguignon was the best John had ever tasted, and he had definitely overindulged. The French Premiere had explained that it was the bacon rashers and fresh thyme that gave the dish such distinct flavor. All well and good, thought John, as he continued to await the event that would free him from his tiny on-board cell.  Just as he again found himself again worrying about his mother’s medical condition his cell phone vibrated and he saw it was Rudy. He put it to his ear. and answered “Hi Rudy!”Rudy didn’t bother with formalities.

“I don’t think you should leave the plane.” John detected the obvious strain in his step-father’s voice. “Why? What’s up?” 

“Can’t say, exactly,” said Rudy, quickly adding, “but this whole thing – Sarah’s words, other vibes I’ve been getting – is bothering me. I’d just be relieved if you could take off again and land someplace completely secure, like Camp David. For now. Just until–”  Before John could respond, ask about his mother, another voice was apparent, coming through the bathroom door. 

“Mr. President, how are you doing?” It was his Chief of Security, Don Meadows. 

“Hold on Don, for just a second.” Rudy? Just a second.” The President was still constipated, still in limbo in the infuriatingly small space, and now overloaded by annoyances. 

“Don, I’ll tell you what. Please instruct the pilot to take us to David. And I realize this is out of the ordinary, but you can dismiss all unessential personnel–just keep yourself and your couple of agents aboard for the ride.” 

“To double check, Mr. President, you want to take off immediately for Camp David, with no deplaning here in D.C.?” 

“That’s right. Thanks, Don.”

Back on the phone, he continued with Rudy, “OK, as you probably heard I’m flying back to David. Don’t exactly know why you’re thinking this, but I’m going along with it. Maybe because a part of me hasn’t acclimatized to the jet lag yet, while another part has got me stuck on the damn toilet. Anyway, can you meet me there? I need to talk to you some more. And obviously, need an update on Mom.” 

“OK, son. I'll see you at David.” Rudy experienced a sudden moment of despair. Should he quickly tell his son about Sarah’s death while he had the chance? If he didn't, the risk was that John could possibly hear about it from some outside source, a leak that made the newspapers and other media. While hospital staff had been warned that no news should be released until the President was home, no one could be trusted one-hundred percent. 

“Son, I have to share bad news..” John could hear the sadness.
“Mom?”
“Yes, I'm so sorry. They did everything they could. I wanted to tell you in person, but–”
”No, Rudy. You were right to let me know. Thank you. I’ll see you in a couple hours. Love you.”
“Love you too. Bye,” was all Rudy got in before the call was ended.

After Air Force One was reloaded and cleared for takeoff, Don returned to the President’s vicinity and spoke through the door again. “Sir, we’re ready for takeoff, and the pilot says he’ll need you in your seat.” He added with a bit of a stutter, “OK?” 

“Don, I am in a seat, though a not too-cushy one. This is where I must continue to be situated. Please tell the Captain that the President is holding down the lid and that he can still get this crate airborne. Please instruct him to go!” 

Less than a minute after the order, John Little experienced his cramped world angling up toward the heavens, hisses and air pressure changes, and his body swaying back and forth. It was twenty more minutes before he experienced some blessed relief.  As soon as the sniper had seen the plane button up and taxi back to the runway she had quickly dismantled her 50 cal. rifle, reloaded the suitcase, shed her camouflaged jumpsuit for office apparel and a belt-fastened fake ID, and walked spritely to the nearest exit of the terminal. 

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