The Hammer of God

It was uncomfortable for Bill to have a gun in the White House. He held it dead at his side so no one would notice it and take a shot at him, especially no one in this room — the target range beneath the portico of the West Wing. Brent returned after signing out the ammo.

“The last time I fired a gun was up at my uncle’s cabin.” Hiccock said.

“Handgun?”

“No, mostly.22s rifles.”

“I bet there wasn’t a safe Coke bottle or old toy within a mile.”

“Bathroom tiles! Uncle Jack was a plumber. They shattered like you hit ‘em with a bazooka.”

“Was Jack former military?”

“Hunter. He actually hunted for his winter meals. Mostly venison.”

Brent reached down and took the gun from Hiccock’s hand. He threw off the safety, pulled back the slide, and popped the clip. “My little rule is approach every gun as loaded and every time for the first time.”

“Yeah, you look more cautious than me.”

“Every firearm accident happens because overconfidence makes you get sloppy. Every gun is loaded, even the one you just put down.” He placed the unloaded gun on the cleaning table next to his own identical automatic then intentionally picked up his. “Until you know that this time it isn’t.” He hit the slide hard and ejected the live round from the twin gun.

It was a bit of obvious sleight-of-hand, but it made the point to Hiccock. “Got it.”

“So since you just want to be proficient, we’ll start on the basics.”

And so Hiccock’s Introduction to Firearms 101 course started with Brent Moscowitz, the Secret Service agent from Queens. This was all happening because Bill confided to the agent, who was assigned to protect him, that he didn’t want to be seen as a weenie by the men and women of the various law enforcement agencies over which he now held sway.

By the time Bill got to his office that Monday there were just two bioterrorists left at large: one known, one unknown. It seemed that America got lucky this time. But there were a million more bugs out there and millions more fanatics willing to infect themselves as bioterrorists in a slow-motion version of suicide bombing.

The news that Janice was pregnant made that normally worrisome prospect utterly terrifying to Bill now. Is that what impending fatherhood does to a person: magnify all the sharp edges and pointy things in the world? he pondered as he signed on to his SCIAD net. The top three messages were about Edward Ensiling, a scientist found dead in Vienna. He was a member of many teams that brought about a good deal of innovation and discovery. As the science advisor to the President, Bill sent a memo to the Office of Protocol for the appropriate response or letter to be issued from the President. The office would first run an FBI and CIA background check, because Ensiling was a foreign national, Hungarian, if Bill remembered correctly.

In the afternoon, Bill came back from a meeting to find an older staffer awaiting him in his office.

“Mr. Hiccock, Dave Dwyer from the Office of Protocol. Nice to meet you.”?“Nice to meet you too, Mr. Dwyer. What can I do for you?”

“You alerted this office to the demise of one Professor Ensiling and suggested a presidential commendation or letter of sympathy. Your request has been denied.”

“Really? Why?”

“It seems during the ’60s, the good professor made some enemies within the Air Force and NASA. Those letters in his file are a red flag against any presidential recognition. I am sure you understand.”

“Certainly, although I am amazed. He was a top scientific mind of the last century. But if it’s red flagged it’s red flagged. Thank you for coming over to tell me personally.”

“No problem, really. I actually wanted to meet you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. I followed your college career and, well, let’s just say it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hiccock.”

“It’s Bill, please, and the pleasure’s all mine, Dave.”

“Your two-minute shootouts, well, they were the most exciting thing in college ball. Still, to this day.”

“Well, thanks, Dave. But you know I had an excellent offensive line. I could have washed my socks, trimmed my nails, and still had time to throw.”

“Well, I’ll be going. Again, a thrill to meet you.”

“Have a good day,” Bill said as Dwyer left.

Twenty minutes later, Bill was sitting at his desk, deep in analysis of how to defend against the next bio-terror plot. As he sat, he absentmindedly spun and caught a football in one hand, something that he first perfected on the sidelines, as a backup quarterback his sophomore year at Cardinal Spellman High School in the Bronx. Using his thumb to pivot the ball in his palm, at regular intervals he would swoop his 3x-size hand over the top and catch the ball in a perfect fingertips-on-the-laces grip. Eight out of ten times, he got it without looking. So inured was his muscle memory and acuity at finding the laces that he actually was able to focus his mind on something else, while performing this mindless feat.