As the flight of two Raptors began to climb away from the scene of the carnage, Lieutenant Simmons watched as Dutch suddenly rolled his aircraft inverted and pulled back down toward the water. Rocky pursued, trying to maintain formation with his flight lead.
“Bird Dog Nine One, this is Bird Dog Nine Two. Dutch, are you okay?”
Silence filled the air for several long seconds before Bird Dog Nine One, Major Harrison “Dutch” Witherspoon, heir apparent to Virginia’s 1 ^st congressional seat, made his final radio call.
“Rocky, tell my family I love them… and I’m sorry.”
Lieutenant Simmons stopped his pursuit and leveled off, watching in horror as Bird Dog Nine One knifed into the cold grayish water, a half-mile short of the deserted Delaware beach.
White House
Washington D.C.
January
At the moment Bird Dog Nine One entered the ocean, Roger Turnbill, the president’s personal physician for nearly a dozen years and the man who had repeatedly warned him-privately, of course-that his heart would not stand the stress of the presidency, rose from beside the chair which held the remains of the former president of the United States. Four Secret Service agents were now also in the room.
“There is nothing further to be done,” Dr. Turnbill said, placing his stethoscope back in his bag. “This time it was just too massive.”
“Resuscitate him. Put him on life support,” Marilyn Cosgrove demanded.
Dr. Turnbill shook his head. “It’s no use, Marilyn.”
Several staff members had gathered in the room. Secretary Designee Tiarks motioned to one of them, a young woman. “Find the vice president.” Rendered speechless by this moment of history, she just nodded and left the room.
Admiral Barrington, thinking along the same lines as Secretary Tiarks but not confident the young staffer would hold herself together long enough to perform her task, nodded toward one of the Secret Service agents. “Clear the room except for Ms. Cosgrove, Secretary Tiarks, Dr. Turnbill, your security detail, and myself. Then see that the vice president is informed. Also, see if you can locate the chief justice and escort him here.”
Under Secret Service control, three paramedics entered, pushing a gurney. They began to work with the president, unwrapping a blood pressure cuff and feeling his neck for a pulse. “That won’t be necessary,” Dr. Turnbill said. “Please place the president on the gurney.” The three medics hesitated for a moment, uncertain of their next action. Again, Admiral Barrington spoke.
“Gentlemen, please follow Dr. Turnbill’s instructions. The president has been pronounced dead. Let’s all follow procedure here and do this with the proper degree of respect.”
The three men gently lifted President Clay Cumberland’s limp body from the chair, placing him on the gurney and covering him with a green sheet. Tears were now streaming down Marilyn Cosgrove’s face as she leaned against the wall, her well-known, unflappable, take-charge demeanor suddenly subdued.
Secretary designee Tiarks stepped close to Admiral Barrington and the senior Secret Service agent. “When the body is removed, I think we should gather in the Oval Office and meet the VP there.”
“Agreed,” Barrington said. “Shall we try to reassemble the congressional leadership? They can’t be far.”
“Yes,” Tiarks said, nodding his head, “but first we should speak with Vice President Snow. He may have a preference or some concerns that will need to be addressed before we take the next step.”
“What about the media?” Barrington asked.
“Let’s speak with Vice… uh, President Snow first,” Tiarks said, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes over the next forty-eight hours. He’s about to reap the whirlwind and he had no part in the decision. What a state of affairs. Two dead presidents in four months. For better or worse, we’ve got yet another president. God help us!”
“And God help him,” Barrington added.