In Big's Left Ear

121.

Under normal conditions I would review the known and the unknown and then assess again. These conditions however, are about as far as one can get from normal. Still I make the attempt. 

The known: Tomorrow afternoon and evening, the POTUS will make four appearances, stump speeches to rally his base. In a follow-up show we learned that here in Omaha he will be joined by Republican Governor Pete Ricketts at the newly re-named TD Ameritrade Field, interestingly named after the company for which he once acted as CEO. Known to thousands as Rosenblatt Field, home of the College World Series, it has a capacity of thirty-five thousand. First pitch scheduled for 1000.

In Tucson, the rally will be held at Arizona Stadium home of the University of Arizona Wildcats along with Doug Ducey, the incumbent Republican Governor. Capacity is fifty-thousand. Kick-off at 1300.

Las Vegas will host his third appearance of the day at T-Mobile Arena where another twenty-thousand rabid red-hats will be entertained by their Independent Mayor Carolyn Goodman as the Nevada governor is a Democrat and unwelcome. Curtains rise at 1600.

The nightcap in Portland will be staged at the Moda Center, formerly known as the Rose Palace and again be co-hosted by the ranking state Republican, Herman Baerschinger. The home of the NBA Trailblazers seats a few less than twenty-thousand.  Encore slated for 1900.

The Democratic contender, the former VP will speak on the same bill with DC Mayor Muriel Bowser and, it is rumored — and we are attempting verification - the former first lady Michelle Obama gets underway at 1900 EST. 

The unknown: Everything else. We are in scramble mode as the clock agonizingly ticks away. 

Re-assessment: It is less than clear what the actual end-game motivation is of the MBI. Although I feel that we have done everything we can to be prepared, we are still in the dark about any specifics. I am hoping that Her Majesty will continue to provide critical intel, even of the coded variety like the last one. It does appear as if the four cities involved in the tour could possibly be decoys, after all, why would a terrorist organization snuff its primary asset? Has he outstayed his welcome, grown over-confident, betrayed his benefactors, decided that he can do better without the strings attached? Forced by oversight to re-sanction the Russians? 

I call TOM for the latest intel. Michelle Obama has been confirmed as featured guest speaker tomorrow night in Georgetown. It seems to me that this is the play. Any catastrophic violence involving these headliners would spell chaos for the DNC and virtually guarantee another four years for the incumbent. Or would the populace rally as political backlash and miraculously oust him by popular vote? 

I decide that I am going to bank on the latter, which means that I need to be in DC and not here. I call Frenchy and arrange an Omaha to Anderson AFB trip with a 2000 departure. 

Drysdale remains glued to the news in order to stay current with the rapid-fire flow of events. I officially put him in charge of the local operation and prepare similar assignments for Davis and Saunders in the Arizona desert, Callahan in Vegas and Bromden in Portland. They are to update me in real-time of any and all developments. Drysdale has the additional duty of ensuring the safety of the Queen of Hearts. 

On the short two-hour flight I review assignments with the team and re-connect with TOM. As is typical in these situations he confirms we are in the eye of the hurricane, a calm before the storm pattern. I get a text from Drysdale that the QoH is on the move, heading for what appears to be the private airstrip where they landed two days ago. I ask him to keep me apprised of coordinates and their direction of travel.  He texts back in twenty minutes saying they are airborne with an eastern heading. 

‘They are coming to DC to supervise the end-game,’ I consider, trying to keep my prognostication ego in check.

TOM reports that the presidential party is loaded on Air Force One with a flight-plan departure of 2300 confirmed. We have a secret service liaison in the security entourage providing real-time intel. 

Satisfied with the current level of detail, I decide to grab an hour of sleep and recline to horizontal plus ten. 

My anxiety dreams of disaster narrowly averted are violently interrupted by Frenchy’s announcement of our descent into Andrews AFB. I run to the head for a cold-water face splash. It is midnight in the Nation’s Capitol and it is going to be another long day at the office. Without further intel from Her Majesty we wait. The team reports all normal in Arizona, Nebraska, Nevada and Oregon. We are met at Andrews by Julie. I salute Frenchy and hop in.

“Any latest?’ I ask before a proper hello.

“Strangely quiet,” she says, “did you sleep?”

I shrug. She gets it.

“Where to?” 

“Georgetown.” 

We drive for thirty minutes on the interstate and another fifteen through the streets of DC and Foggy Bottom. Security has already begun preparations for the big show. Julie hands me the official ID which I put around my neck. We arrive and walk towards the campus media center where TV and security are engaged with set up. Immediately my internal sensors detect something odd. We are greeted by the head of security and briefed on procedures. I ask a few questions, take a critical walk-through of the facility and establish the communication protocols. A command center has been established with sleeping quarters for senior staff, so I take full advantage and claim a cot near the door. I dismiss Julie and ask for a conference call with the team at 0900. She nods agreement and turns to go. Abruptly she stops, turns back and whispers a, “glad you’re here, get some rest,” good night. 

The four cities are business as usual. I feel that he target almost is certain to be the Democratic candidate, with the mayor and the former first lady as a three for one package deal. Any sniper worth their weight could make the hundred yard shot with a rusted out Daisy BB gun. I inspect the guest list for abnormalities, and set up my computer in the command center for the conference call. A staffer brings in a cardboard carafe of Starbucks coffee and a dozen assorted from Crispy Cremes. We review the current situation and simulate the highest probability scenarios. Our communications will be critical as we are operating in three time zones. There are no questions as I finish the final brief and for once find myself searching for the appropriate rhetoric to close the session finally settling on a ‘keep your eyes and ears open and watch the shadows and periphery’ advisory. 

I take a walk backstage. Cameras and crew remain active, tuning up for the live broadcast. I check the sight-lines to and from the media center and stage. I cannot shake the nagging feeling that there is something out of the ordinary, slightly off, about the arrangement of lights, ENG cameras on their massive dollies, the crew all wearing headsets and the producers and grips scurrying about like busy ants working overtime. Drysdale texts me with updates on the Omaha rally and location of Q. The former is normal and the latter local. After a short flight on AF1 Tucson is about to begin. Saunders updates with an all-clear text. Vegas is about to begin and so are we. Tuxedoed men with lavishly accessorized escorts slowly fill the auditorium as the house audio softly plays Gershwin and Brubeck. I get another text from Drysdale saying that Q’s position is less than fifty feet from where I currently stand. I reach for my phone and pull up the PDF guest list once again. How I missed it the first time is a mystery but there it reads; VIP section, a V. Hayes and guest. I look towards the VIP seating and see Big and Q, both in formal attire and looking every bit the part of a sophisticated DC socialites. Big seems to be preoccupied with his cell phone as Q demurely sits and leafs through the program. I am behind the curtain on stage left and Julie is opposite. We have enough security here, I think, to safeguard just about anything. I am concerned with the ‘just about’ part and conduct another radio check with the various on-site security personnel.

Calahan reports a minor disturbance in Vegas at the T-Mobile Arena. It appears to be a counter demonstration by protestors carrying signage about kids in cages and Gestapo-like ICE agents raiding hotels for undocumented workers. He relays that security is forcefully removing them from the venue as the red-hats taunt and hiss their disapproval. Bromden in Portland repeats the trend as perhaps a thousand people have gathered outside the Moda Center to voice their first amendment rights to free speech. He says that they do not seem too happy about the overall agenda of the right-wingers about to celebrate hatred and fear-mongering in their backyard. 

Lights dim. I feel a surge of adrenaline as the Mayor is first up and gracefully walks towards the decorated podium and its elevated lectern. There is a disturbance behind me and I turn to see a stage director admonish a sound man carrying a telescoping boom microphone for unknown reasons. The Mayor is a dynamic speaker, extolling the myriad administrative success’ enjoyed by the diverse demographic of her city. Julie uses her com to inform me that local news is reporting that tensions are escalating in Vegas and Portland. I look at Big and Q. The Mayor concludes her speech and introduces the former first lady to uproarious applause. Every alarm from my thirty years of front-line experience is ringing in my head. 

The audience begins to reseat themselves and I look to see Q sitting alone. Drysdale texts to say that The Queen has just engaged the SOS sensor embedded in her GPS. Before I can order a lock down, the house lights go out and what sounds like the silenced firing of a high-powered rifle fills the hall with terror. The emergency fire alarm is engaged adding to the pandemonium as I rush towards the podium in the midst of total chaos and panic as the four-thousand attendees are suddenly pouring towards the exits. The security detail assigned to the speakers have them physically covered on the stage awaiting some type of direction, I can see with my penlight that the Mayor and First Lady are safe and instruct the agents to quickly get them to the motorcade waiting just outside the south exit. Another snuffled pop, unmistakably now I recognize it as a modified Remington 700 rifle. I get a barely audible com message. It is Julie screaming NOT to use the motorcade. 

I run to the room adjacent to the stage where the former VP was to wait for his introduction and see the two special agents assigned to the location both laying in separate pools of blood. The door is closed, but the emergency lights are now on. I hear a terrific explosion from outside. I kick open the door and stand ten feet from Big and the VP. Big holds a small caliber handgun to the temple of the VP. 

“Put the gun on the floor right now or your guy takes one to the brain.” 

I comply and raise my hands above my head anticipating his next command. Another outside explosion rattles the floor. I also hear the sounds of a chopper landing. 

“What do you want?” I ask.

“I want the same things you want, justice, truth, peace, prosperity.” Big says. 

“This isn’t the way to do that,” I desperately try. 

“Perhaps it is the only way,” Big concedes. “Now, you are going to escort us outside to the chopper that just landed. Lead the way and if there is any interference, even the slightest attempt to impede our progress, the VP dies with you right behind him.” 

“And then you,” I warn. 

His shrug of shoulders indicates the courage of his convictions. “Drop your radio and let’s go,” he instructs. 

I obey and slowly turn to lead the way out. 

We are one step outside the room when I hear a “Drop the gun motherfucker.” 

I turn to see Julie with her Glock nine pressing into Big’s left ear. "NOW."