A warning message was already in the system, which patrolled all open news and data feeds in the nation.
Smith read the first bulletin, and a chill climbed his curved-with-age-and-work spine.
PRESIDENT OF U.S. SHOT EXITING OFFICIAL CAR AT KENNEDY LIBRARY IN BOSTON, MASS. RUSHED TO MASS GENERAL HOSPITAL. NO WORD ON CONDITION.
In the spare, stark prose of the wire services lay a world of horror.
Smith swallowed hard, his bony Adam's apple sliding from sight.
"It's happening again," he said.
IN THE MAIN TRAM BAY of Mass General Hospital, Chief of Surgery Kevin Powers was scrubbing for a scheduled colostomy when the hospital's chief administrator burst in and started to say something.
"The President-"
A phalanx of men in business suits and impenetrable sunglasses pushed the man and the half-open swinging doors in and, without stopping, seized Dr. Powers by his blue surgical scrubs and walked him out of the scrub room to the OR.
A gold badge was flashed in his face. "Secret Service," a man said, tight-upped.
It hit Powers with the clarity only dire emergency brought to the brain. "The President?" he blurted.
"It's a head wound."
"Christ."
They continued walking him down to the OR and marched him like a white-faced automaton through the double doors.
Dr. Powers started to protest. "You're not scrubbed."
"There's no time," the agent said. "There he is. Save him, please."
The patient already lay on the operating-room table. Other agents were finishing stripping off the expensive suit and undergarments. They tore at the clothing with gritted teeth and tears of rage and frustration in their eyes.
The body lay utterly inert, moving only when the jerking rips made it jiggle.
"What is it-gunshot?"
"One shot to the head," the Secret Service agent told him.
Dr. Powers found himself being impelled toward the head. When his eyes fell on the wound, he knew there was no hope. Not for a thinking recovery anyway.
The bullet had exposed the pinkish gray mass of the brain. It throbbed lazily as the electrocardiogram machine began emitting jittery pulses and beeps.
"It's bad, isn't it?" an agent said tearfully.
"Let's get to work," Dr. Powers said grimly as his gloved hands picked up a scalpel.
Carefully he smoothed the matter-spattered hair away from the area of the wound. Gasps all around. Under his mask, he winced. The wound was larger than it seemed.
Then the EKG machine began emitting a low, frightening beep, and a nurse said, "Flatline."
"Resuscitate," someone shouted. It was a Secret Service man.
"Don't bother," Powers said.
"We can't lose him!"
"I'm sorry. He's gone."
Strong hands came at Dr. Powers from both sides, grabbing him roughly by his gowned shoulders.
"You save that man," a voice said with rough violence.
"He's beyond saving, damn it. A third of his brain is pulp. I bring him back, and he'll be a withered vegetable. Is that what you want?"
No one said anything. Slowly the hands released his gown. The agents began weeping openly. One turned and, with a steady rhythm, pounded the white tile wall with his fist until blood appeared.
As he did the decent thing and drew a clean sheet over the strong clean body defiled by violence, Dr. Kevin Powers could only reflect dully that he had been a participant to history.
But he wanted to pound his trembling fists on the wall in frustration, too.
FOR NEARLY two more hours, the press and the people stood vigil in the crisp December air outside of Mass General Hospital. No word came. In the absence of facts, rumors abounded. They grew in the telling, and across the nation hope for the President's survival began to die.
A unshaven man wearing aviator sunglasses and a blue L.A. Dodgers baseball cap kept saying, "I'm ashamed to be an American today. I'm ashamed to be an American." A video camera hung from his dead fingers. From time to time he filmed the stunned faces of the crowd.
At the top of the third hour, Pepsie Dobbins leapt from a cab and forced her way through the crowd. They stood about like sheep, eyes turned up to the top of the building. A few hung their heads in sorrow or prayer.
Pepsie wormed her way through the crowd, fighting toward the hospital entrance, which was guarded by stony-faced state troopers at stiff attention. An ANC cameraman followed, lugging his Minicam.
"Let me in. I'm Pepsie Dobbins."
"No admittance."
Pepsie started to argue.
The clatter of a helicopter rotor began bouncing off the buildings. All eyes looked upward. Pepsie took a step back in order to see.
The big olive-green-and-black shape floated majestically to the hospital roof and disappeared from view. It was out of sight in less than forty seconds. It lifted off again, lumbering majestically in the direction of Logan Airport.
"That's Marine One," someone whispered. "The President's helicopter."
"Maybe he's all right," someone else said.
A third person said in a dead tone, "Maybe they're taking the body back to Washington."
Pepsie whirled on the state troopers and demanded, "Where are they taking the President?"