True Allegiance

Using the military for the backdrop would force the militarists to back down—he’d already planned to talk about how he would no longer send Americans to die in foreign lands. He’d retaliate against aggression, and his retaliation would be uncompromising and powerful. But there would be no invasions, no military occupations. America needed to rebuild, and these men and women were just the heroes to do it.

The speech poll tested well. The aesthetics had been planned to the most minute detail.

Preparations for the event had begun nearly a day in advance. The military set up bleachers to hold thousands of troops from across the country. Prescott insisted that the most racially diverse troops be placed directly behind him for the cameras, and had them all prescreened for political sensibilities. He didn’t want any frowning faces to take away from this victory.

Security was heavy, of course. The bomb squads were out, and all the surrounding buildings were covered by sniper teams. The president’s security team did worry about the massive crowd expected at the event—the president would be greeted by thousands of cheering New Yorkers. He knew how well waves of applause played on television. Plainclothes officers would be patrolling the crowd to check for a Taxi Driver–type lone wolf attacker.

The forecast for the weather: mid-sixties, clear, not a cloud in the sky. Mark Prescott couldn’t have planned it better.

Today, Mark Prescott would finally change America.

Brett and Ellen sat together at the president’s hotel. They sat close, their foreheads touching, their hands clasping desperately, so hard the knuckles hurt. Ellen had sobbed quietly into Brett’s shoulder after Prescott left for a few moments. Now they simply held each other.

“Brett,” she finally said, “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“Well, I’m sure you’re not too happy to smell me again.”

In spite of herself, she laughed. Brett always could make her laugh. “Seriously, honey, you know I want you to be with me more than anything, that I can’t stand more of this separation, more of this chaos. I want to take Prescott’s offer too. But we just can’t.”

He laughed softly. “I know.”

“So why did you tell him you’d think about it?”

“You’re too damn honest, sweetheart. You always were.” He leaned forward and whispered into her ear, his voice deadly earnest. “Ellen, we need to get you out of here. We need to get you out of the city. Prescott is a damn fool. Omari had Hassan killed. He had Mohammed killed. They’re planning something big, I know that. I saw one of their men run out of Mohammed’s apartment with a bag. It took some prodding, but Omari’s man told me they were planning something at the harbor.”

“But Brett, why just me? Why can’t you come with me?”

He shook his head. “Like you said, sweetheart, I just can’t. I can’t just abandon things. I can’t.”

She took his chin in her hands. “Honey,” she said, “I never thought you would. It’s why I love you.” She leaned forward and kissed him. Then they stood, hand in hand. Brett knocked on the door. Tommy Bradley opened it.

“We’re ready to talk to the president,” he said.

“We’ll meet him at the airport,” said Bradley. “He’s scheduled to leave from there as soon as his speech ends. Right this way.”

The crowd began filing into the streets near the harbor two hours in advance. The security team had expected anywhere between five and ten thousand New Yorkers to turn out—but as the minutes passed, it became clear that double or triple that number had turned out. They needed something: a feeling of unity, a feeling of togetherness, a feeling of being a part of something optimistic again.

They came from all backgrounds: black, white, Hispanic, Asian. They were all ages: the elderly came in their wheelchairs, the young pushing strollers. They came bearing American flags and signs: “GOD BLESS THE USA” and “STAND STRONG” and the takeaway line from Prescott’s moment, “TOGETHER WE WILL RISE.” They stood in the heat, sweating, vendors moving through the crowds, tossing bottles of water and popcorn and dirty water dogs. The whole day had the feel of a mass picnic.

The throng grew, and then grew again. It poured out from the harbor area into the streets. It filled blocks.

Soledad casually slipped her way through the crowd.

Being dead certainly helped her escape scrutiny, she observed wryly. Aiden would have appreciated the irony. A few blocks away, she knew, Ricky O’Sullivan waited with the car. Her chances of escape were slim, of course. But she also knew that assassination attempts rarely ended with the assassin immediately detained: Oswald had made it to a theater; Booth had run for days. They’d catch her eventually, she figured, but they’d have to revise their estimate of her death first to identify her.