Interface. Part 56

Ogle kept watching the TV. There was nothing else to do. Eventually the phalanx reached the Capitol and converged on a small entrance on the northern end. No one had been expecting this particular entrance to be used; no camera crew was anywhere near it. But one intrepid minicam operator from CNN managed to get close enough to zoom in on the doorway, just as William A. Cozzano himself entered the building. There was no mistaking him.

Ogle tried the radio link again. Nothing.

The phones in the truck were ringing like mad. He had turned off the ringers a long time ago, but he could tell they were ringing by all the flashing lights. The people at the Network were paranoid: they were into micromanagement, they wanted Cozzano monitored twenty-four hours a day. Which was totally unnecessary.

Cozzano was a good politician. He knew how to handle this.

There was nothing more Ogle could do today. In the breast pocket of his suit was a personal invitation, and a pa.s.s that would get him a seat on the inaugural platform - the hottest ticket in town. He had been dreading the idea of spending all day sitting in the Eye of Cy. Now he had an excuse to go out there and sit a few chairs away from the Cozzanos and bask in their glory. He grabbed his coat, said goodbye to the guards and to the twenty-four-hour on-site lawyer, and headed into Taft Park, aimed at the West Front of the White House.

It did not take a genius to figure out that the entire Inauguration had been set up for the benefit of a tiny minority of rich people. Floyd Wayne Vishniak had arrived well ahead of time and made one complete circuit of the Capitol grounds, strolling down the west bank of the Capitol Reflecting Pool, east on Independence, north on First Street between the Capitol and the Library of Congress, and now westward again on Const.i.tution.

Up to certain point, an ordinary citizen could walk anywhere he felt like walking, especially if he got all gussied up in nice fancy-looking clothes as Vishniak had. If you wanted to watch the Inauguration from two miles away at the far end of the Mall, that was no problem at all. But if you wanted to actually stand close enough to make out the figure of the new President with the naked eye, you had to enter special zones that were cordoned off and patrolled by cops.

Vishniak had traveled to many parts of the United States, seen many different types of police officers, and even been arrested by a few of them. But he had never seen anything like the variety of cops that were running around this place. It was like a cop zoo or something. Some of the cops had uniforms and some didn't. Some of them looked like souped-up Park Rangers. Some of them looked like glorified mall cops. They had all staked out different parts of different border zones whose sole function was to separate the common people from the rich and powerful sc.u.m.

It did not look like there was any way to get within a quarter mile of the inaugural platform without shooting a whole lot of those different cops. This was bound to attract attention, bring in even more cops, and scare away his intended victims. So Vishniak had himself something of a conundrum here. The closest he could get to the platform was on the north side, in a little park north of Const.i.tution. He spent a while reconnoitering this area, looking for gaps in the security, and found none.

Instead he found something even better: a G.o.dS truck. Just like the one he'd glimpsed under the stage at McCormick Place - except this one was practically right across the street from the Capitol. Vishniak began to walk across the park, and even as he did, the door in the back opened and a man climbed out of it.

Something about the man with the close-cropped hair and the neatly trimmed beard seemed vaguely familiar to Cy Ogle. He fit the profile for a Secret Service agent. But this man did not behave like Secret Service. He was not scanning the crowd. He was looking straight at Cy Ogle.

Ogle had already reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his engraved invitation. The man in the trench coat was reaching into his breast pocket too. But he hadn't pulled anything out yet.

"Hey," the man said.

"Morning," Ogle said, "excuse me, but I got a party to attend."

"Hold on a sec," the man said, "I recognize you from that article they did about you in The New York Times Magazine in 1991. And also from the little article in Time magazine last year. They both ran photos of you."

"That's nice," Ogle said. By now he had realized that the man could not possibly be Secret Service.

"Don't you recognize me?" the man asked. "You should. I'm a very important person in your life."

Ogle took a good look at the man's face.

At the face of Floyd Wayne Vishniak.

His lips parted and he felt stunned and weak in the legs, as if he had been struck on the head.

Vishniak grinned and turned sideways to Ogle. He moved his hand inside his trench coat and Ogle could see the barrel of the gun pressing on the fabric from the inside. "I'm covering you with the same gun I used before," he said, "and if you say anything, I'll pull the trigger."

"What do you want?" Ogle said.

"I want your truck," Vishniak said, nodding towards the park. "You know us farmboys. We're just crazy about big ol' trucks."

Ogle turned his back on the Capitol and started walking back across Taft Park. Every few paces he would look back behind himself hoping that Vishniak would have disappeared. But he was always rightthere. Almost as bad, he never shut up. "I figured you had to have some kind of secret transmitter to control Cozzano's brain. Because when I busted up your control room at the shopping mall over there, it didn't make any difference at all. Let's go on over there and take a look around."

Ogle crossed Louisiana, climbed up the temporary steps behind the truck, and opened the door to the Eye of Cy. He was thinking of trying to slam it in Vishniak's face, but Vishniak shoved him through and closed the door behind him.

The security men and the lawyer were climbing to their feet.

Ogle saw a white light flashing in the corner of his eye and felt, did not hear, a quick series of explosions pounding him on the side of his head. The three men in front of him jerked, crumbled, and collapsed to the floor; behind them, blood was showering all over the equipment.

Ogle couldn't hear anything except a pure tone in his ear. He sagged against a wall and closed his eyes, feeling faint.

Vishniak cuffed Ogle's hands behind his back, stepped over the corpses, and proceeded to the Eye of Cy.

Ogle could see his lips moving as he commented upon it, but couldn't hear what he was saying.

Vishniak looked around the trailer. His eyes landed on a fire extinguisher mounted to a wall. Vishniak holstered his gun, picked up the fire extinguisher, and then used it as a blunt object to smash all of the screens in the Eye of Cy. At first he worked slowly and methodically, but after a few minutes he really got into it and began to pound away at them in a frenzy. Finally he threw the extinguisher on the floor, battered and sc.r.a.ped.

He turned to Ogle with a triumphant look on his face and said something else. Then he approach. He reached into Ogle's pocket and pulled out the personal invitation. He shoved it into his own pocket. Then Floyd Wayne Vishniak walked out of Cy Ogle's life.

61.

WILLIAM A. COZZANO TOOK THE OATH OF OFFICE AT TWELVE NOON. Holding the Bible was Mary Catherine.

Administering the oath was the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. After a very intense quarter of an hour running and subwaying across D.C., the Cozzanos had reached the Rotunda in plenty of time and been able to hit the bathrooms and freshen up a little. They looked great and showed little trace of the earlier excitement; television viewers who had heard rumors of wild goings-on up and down the length of Pennsylvania Avenue were comforted to see the Cozzanos looking calm, relaxed, and happy.

Only one detail seemed out of place: as Cozzano had emerged from the West Front of the Capitol and walked through the pa.s.sageway in the center of the stands, he had moved slowly and with a limp. He moved like an old man, not the spry athlete who had become so famous during the campaign. And then he raised his hand and recited the oath of office, his voice sounded different: deeper, slower, not as distinct. He tripped over a few words, something he had never done during the campaign.

But it didn't matter. He looked great. He smiled confidently through the oath, presenting a strong profile for the cameras, towering over the Chief Justice. His daughter was facing directly into the cameras and her face was suffused with joy and pride. She wasn't bothered by her father's gait, or his voice; why should America be?

It was over. President Cozzano shook hands with the Chief Justice and bent down to kiss Mary Catherine on the cheek.

Then he stepped up to the Presidential lectern, still moving slowly and carefully. Before him, the Mall was covered with people, all the way to the Lincoln Memorial, and all of them were applauding. Theapplause from the invited guests on the platform, and from the lucky few just below, around the Capitol Reflecting Pool, was distinct. Beyond that it merged into a generalized hissing roar, coming from the horizon.

President Cozzano reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a few typewritten sheets folded in half down the middle and flattened them out on the lectern. He waited for a few moments, smiling to the crowd, as the applause died down.

"Thank you," he said, "thank you." That brought the applause to a close. Then he began to read from the notes on the lectern, calmly, p.r.o.nouncing the words with conspicuous precision, like a drunken man who is trying not to sound drunk.

"My first act as President is to declare martial law in the District of Columbia and to suspend the following const.i.tuted bodies: the Secret Service, the Drug Enforcement Administration, the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, the U.S. Marshals Service, the Park Police, and the Capitol Police. The CIA is reminded that their activities begin at the water's edge. Any violation of martial law may be penalized by summary execution. In their place, to maintain order among executive branch and the government, I federalize the police force of the District of Columbia for a period of one week and place it at the disposal of the Department of Justice."

At this moment, half of the men on and around the platform stood up and stripped off their jackets and dress shirts to reveal black T-shirts emblazoned with white stars on the front and "Dept. of JUSTICE" across the back.

As Cozzano continued his address, these men converged on all of the uniformed Capitol police officers in the area, and on anyone who looked like a Secret Service agent.

The men in the black T-shirts - the Justice Posse - looked as though they were ready for a fight, and they were. Some of them actually got into fights. But most of them didn't. The President's words could not have been any clearer.

The Posse men were not very discriminating. They went after anyone in a uniform and anyone who looked like Secret Service: that, is, men with earplugs. Unfortunately that included one or two journalists. The journalists put up a scuffle. The scuffles ended pretty quickly.

All of these movements took place against a backdrop of dead silence. Everyone else, within a quarter-mile radius of President Cozzano, was utterly motionless and perfectly silent. Everyone was in shock. Beyond that, out on the Mall, it was possible to hear murmuring from the crowd, and even a few screams. But most of the people in the vicinity of the President were directly, personally, ma.s.sively affected by the words coming out of his mouth.

They didn't want to miss anything. Especially since a misinterpretation could lead to summary execution.

Cozzano continued without pause. "The FBI, one of the few federal agencies to live up to its oath to protect, defend, and uphold the Const.i.tution and laws of the United States, will coordinate all security arrangements at all levels during the period of martial law. I hereby designate Melvin Israel Meyer the acting Attorney General and place the FBI and the D.C. Police under his direct authority. In my capacity as Commander in Chief of the Armed Forces, I hereby suspend the authority of the Joint Chiefs of Staff for a period of one week and place all military forces under my direct command. I order the Air Force and all other military aircraft in the continental U.S. grounded immediately and until further notice. I order the Federal Aviation Administration to ban all air traffic over the District of Columbia, effective immediately, and to close National Airport until further notice.

This air traffic moratorium is to be enforced by the new Attorney General."

Men had already begun to appear on the roof of the Capitol and atop other buildings around the Mall, carrying long, bulky equipment cases. They nipped the cases open and pulled out four-foot-long, tubular objects with flat, slotted antennas that unfolded on their tops: Stinger missile launchers.

"I a.s.sure our allies and promise our adversaries around the world that this is a purely domestic affair and that the global balance of military power will not be affected."

"I declare a one-week holiday on all banks and stock exchanges. I call upon our financial leaders to cooperate with me so that calm can be restored to the markets as soon as possible."

"Finally, I ask the indulgence of the American people in this time of crisis. While the steps I have just taken are unprecedented and severe, I can a.s.sure you all that the peak of the crisis has pa.s.sed, and that within hours, or at the most days, the government will be returned to an even keel."

"A complete explanation of what has happened to me, my family, and the electoral process of this country would fill a lengthy book. I cannot give you a full account here. But the people deserve anexplanation, and so, at this moment, a summary of these events is being transmitted over all wire services worldwide. The same information is being provided to all governmental offices and major military bases.

Videotape ca.s.settes are arriving at all major networks and television stations."

Cozzano finally paused for a moment, to draw a breath and to shuffle his notes around. Finally, the silence broke, and a murmur began to sweep through the crowd.

People began to move. The in-crowd on the inaugural platform included a number of high-ranking military officers; several of them got to their feet and strode to the pa.s.sageway leading back into the Capitol. As soon as they thought they were out of sight of the TV cameras, they broke into a run. A number of nonuniformed officials did the same thing.

Members of the Justice Posse now entered the front row of chairs and converged on four men: the secretaries-designate of Defense, State, Commerce, and Treasury. Each of the four men was strongly encouraged to rise to his feet and then hustled out. Their family members were not allowed to come along; some of them were too stunned to move, some burst into tears, and some tried to get physical. An initial tremor of panic propagated down the Mall.

Floyd Wayne Vishniak was watching Cozzano from the crowd below. Ogle's special invitation had gotten him through several layers of security. But he had not actually climbed up on to the inaugural platform itself. His invite supposedly would have gotten him through the final cordon. But he had watched a few of the bigwigs and seen that the final layer of security was especially stringent. He didn't want to take a chance on that, and it wasn't even necessary. From down below, he had a clear view of the entire platform.

He could have picked off any of the bigwigs sitting up there. Any of the people who were controlling Cozzano's mind. It would have been easy. But it would have been pointless. Vishniak had come to an astonishing realization as he had listened to Cozzano's speech: he was too late. Cozzano was lost.

Vishniak had personally demolished the computer control room where Ogle and the other media manipulators were controlling Cozzano's mind. He had set Cozzano free. But Cozzano had started his term as President by declaring martial law and threatening to execute people in the streets. Cozzano was staging a coup d'etat. He was turning America's great democratic system into a dictatorship. Right before Vishniak's eyes.

"My fellow Americans, I come to you at a moment of great peril," Cozzano said, trying to use the authority of his voice to quiet the rising anxiety - the ugly fights going on behind him, the murmuring that had grown into a low roar. "We have narrowly averted a disaster. I am speaking to you, now, as a free man, for the first time in a year. Exactly one year ago, as you may know, I was struck down by a stroke. I have been away for a while. Today, I am here to tell you that I am back!"

It was the first thing Cozzano had said, all day long, that sounded like what a triumphant new president should say. The crowd was enormously relieved. The shrill chattering and nervous buzzing was overwhelmed by a cheer that started in the throats of the Justice Posse and grew explosively until it rang up and down the length of the Mall.

And it did not die down; it grew into an ovation. Those listening to Cozzano had experienced more anxiety during the last couple of minutes than they had since the Cuban Missile Crisis or the Kennedy a.s.sa.s.sination. Now, Cozzano was telling them that everything was going to be fine. He told them this, not just with his words, but with the deep resonant tone of his voice and with his posture, his facial expression.

No one really knew what was going on. But hearing his words and watching his face, they came to know one thing beyond question: President Cozzano was doing what he had been elected to do. Finally, a leader was in the White House, and he was leading.

The people on the inaugural platform were the last ones to rise to their feet and join in the ovation.

Cozzano was about to resume his speech, but he realized that there was no way to talk over the voices of half a million people. He paused, smiled at the crowd, waited for a couple of moments. The cheering continued. He stepped back away from the lectern, now just a couple of paces in front of his daughter and Eleanor Richmond and her family, and raised both of his arms in the air as if he had just scored a touchdown.The first bullet did just what it was supposed to do. Its teflon coating took it smoothly through the seven layers of bullet-proof-fabric making up President Cozzano's bulletproof vest. After that, momentum and plain old-fashioned lead did the rest. It pa.s.sed into his thorax a couple of inches below the right nipple and exploded against a rib, spraying fragments of lead, bone, and teflon through Cozzano's chest cavity. Most of his right lung was turned into hash. Numerous holes were blown through the heart and a major vessel pierced in his left lung.

Nothing emerged from the other side of Cozzano's body; the bullet, which was specifically designed to kill human beings wearing bulletproof vests, had been totally efficient in transferring all of its energy into Cozzano's flesh.

Vishniak saw a jet of steam and blood spurt from the entrance wound and knew that Cozzano was dead. He angled the weapon a couple of degrees to the right and took aim at Eleanor Richmond. But just as he was pulling the trigger, a bulky man in a black T-shirt jumped in front of her.

Darryl Garfield, an offensive linesman for the Skins, took the second bullet in his ma.s.sive upper arm, which was nearly as big as Eleanor's waist. The bullet ricocheted off his humerus and ended up shattering a window in the Rayburn Building, a thousand feet due south, whence it was later recovered. As the bullet exited Garfield's arm it drove before it a shock wave of blood and pulverized muscle tissue that burst out of his body in a crudely hemispherical pattern, spraying Eleanor Richmond with blood.

Vishniak lowered his weapon a bit, surprised by Garfield's sudden intervention, and did not see the precipitous approach of Rufus Bell. Bell threw all of this momentum behind the heel of his right hand, which impacted on the bridge of Vishniak's nose and collapsed the bone structure of his entire face, driving a number of small bone fragments all the way into Vishniak's brain. Vishniak was a vegetable before he hit the ground. Ten minutes later he was dead.

Most of the people on the platform knew only that Darryl Garfield had been shot, because his wound had been so spectacular. In the ensuing confusion, Mary Catherine was the first person to notice that President Cozzano was sitting down behind the lectern, looking stunned and pale.

At first they thought he was just stunned by the near miss. But a look at his face proved otherwise. Pink foam had collected at the corners of his mouth. Mary Catherine, James Cozzano, and Mel all converged on Cozzano at the same moment and helped him to lie on his back. Within a few moments they were surrounded by the Posse.

A few moments after the shooting, Eleanor Richmond had vanished, completely surrounded by huge Posse members who practically encased her in bulletproof vests. The guests on the inaugural platform drained back into the Capitol as though a plug had been pulled and they were being sucked back into the building. Eleanor and her escort were swept along.

Mary Catherine ripped Cozzano's shirt open down the middle and discovered the entrance wound on his thorax. Her eyes met his.

"I'll be okay," Cozzano said.

"One of the guys has called for a chopper," Mel said. "Hang in there, buddy."

Cozzano didn't pay any attention to Mel. He was looking at James and Mary Catherine, kneeling next to him side by side.

"Listen, peanut," the President said. "James will stay with you. You stay with Eleanor."

"No!" Mary Catherine said.

"They have no choice but to kill Eleanor," Cozzano said. "They'll try to do it now. Natural causes. Go! By order of the President."

Tears burst over the rims of Mary Catherine's eyes and cascaded down her face. "I love you more than anything, peanut," Cozzano said.

"I love you too, Dad," Mary Catherine said.

"Now go and do your job," Cozzano said.

Mary Catherine bent down and kissed her father's cheek. Then she stood up, turned, and ran into the Capitol.

The Rotunda had gone nuts. Several dozen Capitol Police had been herded into one corner and were being guarded by a couple of Posse members carrying M-16s with fixed bayonets. More justice men, and several men wearing FBI windbreakers, were stationing themselves around the entrances, trying to establish some control overwho came in and who left. A couple of media crews were here, unable to make up their minds what they should be pointing their cameras at; several radio and television reporters were running around seemingly at random, shouting a stream-of-consciousness narration into their microphones. It didn't matter what they said as long as they said it with authority.

But most of the people in the Rotunda were invited guests who had been seated in the rows of chairs on the inaugural platform. It was easy to tell them apart. The men were all wearing intensely formal garb and the women were dressed, coiffed, and bejeweled to the nines. These people had gathered into knots scattered around the floor of the Rotunda. Each knot consisted of a few people turned inward, slack-faced with shock, jabbering at one another, and a few people, mostly men, constantly craning their necks in all directions, eyes wide and staring, trying to get some sense of what was going on. One or two men were jabbing at cellular phones with stiff index fingers, screaming into them, getting nothing but static. A man in black tie and morning coat slammed his cellular phone on to the floor in frustration and it slid across the polished stone like a hockey puck.

Mary Catherine couldn't see Eleanor anywhere. A Posse member walked in front of her in his black Justice shirt. Mary Catherine jumped forward and put her hand on his shoulder. "Where's Eleanor?" she said.

As soon as he recognized her, he told her: "She went to the ladies' room to clean up. She's got blood on her." "Who's with her?"

"I dunno," the man said, "we don't have any female deputies in this outfit."

"Where's that bathroom?" Mary Catherine said kicking off her shoes.

The man pointed. Mary Catherine headed across the floor of the Rotunda, building up to a full sprint.

It wasn't hard to find the bathroom where Eleanor was holed up: the entrance was almost obscured by a knot of black-shirted Posse members. Mary Catherine just aimed at the door and relied on them to recognize her, and to get out of the way.

They did, but she had to slow down to a brisk walk. She entered the women's lounge. The first thing she saw was Eleanor's dress spread out across a couch near the entrance, spattered with blood. She rounded a corner and saw a row of sinks. Eleanor was bent over one of the sinks, hot water blasting. She had stripped down to a camisole and panties. Her arms were wet up to the shoulders and she was bent over the sink splashing water on her face; flecks of blood were still visible in her hair.

One other woman was in the bathroom: from her appearance, obviously one of the invited guests. Mary Catherine had spent enough time with people of the advanced upper crust to know one when she saw one.

She even recognized this woman. It was Althea Coover. DeWayne Coover's granddaughter. She and Mary Catherine had gone to Stanford together and attended a lot of the same parties. Because of Coover's support of the Radhakrishnan Inst.i.tute, his family had gotten several invitations to the Inauguration.