Chapter 3

 

Perfect – that’s what the Secret Service has to be. But, on the Tuesday night of February 26, 2023, the men and women charged with the safety of President Stephanie Roosevelt-Hill were helpless as the perfect murder plan was acted out on a world stage by a deranged member of the Saudi Royal family.

 

Since the Secret Service began guarding presidents in 1901, after the assassination of President William McKinley in Buffalo, New York, it has almost always been perfect. As one of the most efficient organizations in the world – rivaled only by the Israeli Mossad and Federal Express, the Secret Service had failed twice. It dropped the ball with Kennedy in Dallas, Texas on November 23, 1963 and it fumbled again with Reagan on March 30, 1981 in Washington, D.C. It broke America’s heart when it let Stephanie Roosevelt-Hill go down, and the dagger that ended here life also cut out the heart of Vice President William Wyckoff.

 

Now, as his lover lay dying, Wyckoff was jerked away from her side by the same Secret Service personnel who failed to protect President Roosevelt-Hill. Her warm blood stained his suit and hands.

 

“Clear a path to that small office up the hall,” the lead of the Secret Service detail shouted to the point of the detail.  He turned to Wyckoff. “Sir, we’ve got the Chief Justice in that office waiting for you. You’ve got to be sworn in as the new President.”

 

“But what about President Roosevelt-Hill?” asked Wyckoff, turning his head to look back to the House chamber? He was trying to go in one direction, but two younger and stronger men, each with a vice grip on his arms, forced Wyckoff to keep moving forward with his new bodyguards.

 

“We mean no disrespect, Sir, but you are the President. President Roosevelt-Hill is dead. We’ve got to swear you in as quickly as possible. It’s a matter of national security, Sir.”

 

As soon as he was shoved into the small office, the Chief Justice of the United States Supreme Court, R.J.W. Hobbs of Alabama, started the ceremony which is usually reserved for happier times. He pulled out a pair of reading glasses, the half kind that rest low on the nose and took out a piece of paper from his jacket pocket. “It is with a heavy heart that I perform this duty,” Hobbs said in a solemn, southern accent. He looked at William Wyckoff and said, “Vice-President Wyckoff, are you ready?”

 

Wyckoff looked detached and shaken by the events of the assassination. His mind was still on Roosevelt-Hill.

 

“Sir,” Hobbs raised his voice getting Wyckoff’s full attention. “By God snap out of it, man. The country needs you now.”

 

That was all that Wyckoff needed to regain his focus. “Sorry your honor, the country does need strong leadership. Please proceed.”

 

An aid standing beside Wyckoff and Hobbs held a bible in front of Wyckoff. Hobbs then asked the new president to place his left hand on the book that symbolizes everything that should be good and decent in the world. “Raise your right hand and repeat after me.”

 

The Chief Justice started the oath.

 

“I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States.”

 

Wyckoff repeated the worlds without a hitch and then suddenly he was the President of the United States of America.

 

“Godspeed,” Was all Hobbs said and the two men shook hands.

 

A white house staff videographer, who always travels with the President, was the only media in the room, recording the swearing in of the new President. In a matter of minutes, the video he recorded was fed to the world media.

 

“Sir, let’s get you to a safer place,” the head of the security detail said, but he was cut off by Wyckoff, who had suddenly regained the steely edge he was known for in both war and politics.

 

“Am I the President of the United States?” Wyckoff pointedly asked the detail lead.

 

“Yes Sir, you are  . . .”

 

“Then, goddamn it, take me to wherever they have taken President Roosevelt-Hill.”

 

The lead of the Secret Service detail keyed his radio on his coat lapel. “This is Bird Dog. Where has Park Avenue been taken?”

 

Park Avenue was the code name the Secret Service used for President Roosevelt-Hill.

 

“Roger, Bird Dog. Park Avenue is en route to Walter Reed Army Hospital on Marine Two with a medical team,” the voice on the other end of the radio transmission replied.

 

“Lightning Bolt wants to go there.”

 

“Negative, Bird Dog. Too much of a security risk.”

 

“Give me that Goddamned com,” Wyckoff shouted at the detail lead, and snatched the radio from his lapel.

 

Wyckoff took the hand set and shouted into the microphone. “This is President William Wyckoff. If you want a job ten minutes from now, get me a goddamned helicopter. I’m going to see President Roosevelt-Hill.”

 

“Yes sir,” was all the voice on the other end of the communication said before Wyckoff handed the radio back to the detail lead.

 

“Which way do we go?” Wyckoff barked at the lead.

 

“This way sir,” Bird Dog pointed left to the office door.

 

Before the group could lead the new President, Wyckoff took the lead and marched in front of the group, forcing the security detail to match his quick pace.

 

. . .

 

Abdul-Ahad Assahd sat in the back seat of a black FBI Ford sedan. His hands were tied behind his back with a plastic electric wire tie. The plastic was cutting into the thin flesh around his dark, sun-tanned wrists. The Secret Serviceman who tied his hands when Assahd was wrestled down in the House aisle had purposely tightened the tie so that it would inflict pain on the murderer.

 

“We should just kill that son-of-a-bitch now and save the taxpayers a lot of fucking pain and agony,” one of the younger members of the security team with Assahd shouted into the car at the Arab.

 

Assahd just raised his bloody head and smiled at the man. His once pristine white robe was spotted with blood – most of it from Roosevelt-Hill. He had lost his keffiyeh during the scuffle, revealing his male pattern baldness amidst jet black hair.

 

The Secret Service, extremely embarrassed by the murder of the President, took out it’s aggression on Assahd as he was exuberantly taken into custody. When he was wrestled to the floor immediately after he stabbed Roosevelt-Hill, he was smothered by several men. The 165-pound Assahd was no match for the highly trained bodyguards. He offered little resistance, hoping the infidels would beat him to death in the process on live T.V. While under the pile on the House floor, he absorbed several punches and some well-placed knees from the Secret Service. Both areas around his eyes were swollen – the right eye nearly shut. His nose was broken and he was bleeding from his mouth. It would later be discovered in a post-arrest examination that three of his ribs on the left side were broken and his right shoulder was separated – the result of a couple of kicks he received while face down on the floor, while he was being read his Miranda rights.

 

“Shitcan the vigilante talk. No one is touching the guy as long as I’m in charge of this detail,” Jeff Salter, a bear of a man, growled at the younger member of the security team. “We’re professional here, and we’re going to successfully escort his highness to the fucking federal courthouse so he can get his fucking due process. If you’ve got a problem with that, then I suggest you get the hell outta here right now.”

 

“Yeah, I got a problem with the motherfucker,” the younger guard said, angrily pointing his finger at the face his superior and moving to close to Salter.

 

Before he knew what hit him, Salter punched the younger man in the chest with an open palm. The swift blow to the solar plexus dropped the younger man in his tracks.

 

As the younger agent gasped for breath, Salter quickly turned and looked at each of the six other men assigned to his detail. “Anyone else got a problem with escorting his highness to the courthouse?” Although every man in the detail – even Salter – personally wanted to kill Assahd, no one said a word.

 

“Now let’s get this piece of pig shit out of here before this mob ties to kill us all.”

 

Just at that moment, a Coke bottle thrown by someone in the crowd smashed into the windshield of the Ford. The local police were having a hard time holding back a lynch mob that was starting to form at the Capitol building. Salter and two other men quickly got in the car with Assahd. The other four men got into a second car and the two unmarked vehicles sped off into the dark, blue lights flashing. The young service man decked by Salter, sat motionless on his knees and watched in disbelief as the two cars disappeared.

 

. . .

 

In the rear of the Capitol next to the large steps that led into the House of Representatives wing, Bird Dog ran out to meet the Marine helicopter that had just landed near the large steps. Police had been positioned on each side of the chopper to form a corridor, so that Wyckoff could safely move from the building to the helicopter. Satisfied that the security was as good as it would get on such short notice, Bird dog waved to the men of the detail, who were keeping Wyckoff just inside a small doorway under the large steps.

 

“This way sir,” a second Secret Serviceman said to the President. “I suggest we double-time it sir, just to be safe.

 

“Listen son,” Wyckoff said and put his large right hand on the serviceman’s shoulder, “I’ve ridden on top of a tank into battle and I’m not about to start running from buildings to helicopters like I’m in some third-world country. We’ll walk to the helicopter.”

 

With that, Wyckoff left the House and started moving toward the newly designated Marine One. This would be his first official act as the new President. A couple of flashes from cameras strobed the darkness, as he made his way to the transport. Although most of the media and the nation did not know what was taking place at the moment – no official press releases or briefings had been issued since the assassination – there always seems to be a camera and a reporter around the Capitol.

 

“Welcome aboard Sir,” a Marine dressed in flight gear said with a salute as Wyckoff entered the copter, returning his salute.

 

Bird Dog was the last to get on the helicopter and it quickly lifted into the night air, making a bee-line to Walter Reed.

 

. . .

 

His highness, Al Fiad Akman Assahd was taking his morning shower when he was interrupted by his closest personal aid, Kaseem Al-Karachi.

 

“Your Highness, Your Highness,” the aid shouted into the bathroom. “We have a situation with your brother in America.”

 

The King quickly turned off the water and placed a plush bathrobe around his wet body. He moved from the shower chamber to the outer room of the living-room sized bathroom, where the aid was waiting.

 

“What is it Kaseem. What has my beloved brother Abdul-Ahad done now?” were the first words out of Akman’s mouth. The aid was setting the channel of the 60-inch high definition plasma television in the bathroom dressing area to the Al-Jazeera news network.

 

Akman sat in a large chair in front of the television and watched the newscast of his brother murdering President Roosevelt-Hill without uttering a word.

 

When the talking heads on the news casts had shown, and re-shown, commented and re-commented on the assassination, the King finally spoke.

 

“Praise be to Allah. I can’t believe he really did it.”

 

“You knew of this barbaric act?” the aid abruptly interrupted His Highness.

 

“He spoke to me on many occasions of wanting her dead, seeing her dead,” the king answered the aid matter-of-factly, with no touch of emotion in his voice. “Thinking about her out of the picture was one of his favorite fantasies. He blamed her for our falling oil profits. I knew he wanted Roosevelt-Hill dead, but I did not think he would do it himself.”

 

Suddenly the King’s non-emotional mood changed to one of pride and great joy. He rose from the chair and smiled broadly, placing his hands together under his chin in a prayerful pose. “Glory to Allah and glory to Abdul-Ahad. Today, he will become the new hero of the Muslim world.”

 

“But Your Highness, this is tantamount to an act of war against the United States . . . murdering the head of state of the most powerful nation in the world.”

 

“Wrong, Brother in Allah,” the King calmly said to the aid. “We are the most powerful nation in the world. The King rose from the chair, and strode back toward the shower room before he stopped and turned back toward his aid. “You will speak to no more of this,” Akman ordered.  “Call my legal advisors and have them in my office in one hour.”

 

He then removed his robe and disappeared back into the steam of the hot shower.

 

. . .

 

Jeff Salter keyed the microphone clipped to his coat lapel. “Roger that, we’re headed for the Marine Barracks. We have Assahd in custody. He’s O.K. A few bruises and cuts, but nothing major. If I can keep my men from killing him on the way, he should be fine for an immediate arraignment.”

 

The Marine Barracks on the corner of 8th and I Streets in downtown Washington, D.C. is the oldest Marine post in the history of the United States. The Justice Department decided to send Assahd there because of security reasons.

 

“How much longer?” Salter asked the driver of the car.

 

“Just around the corner to the left,” was all the driver said.

 

The two Fords had turned off their emergency lights and sirens after they were a few blocks from the Capitol, not wanting the extra attention. As they approached the Marine Barracks, they turned the lights back on.

 

“Let the Marines know we are here,” Salter told the driver. He then keyed his microphone again and called the Marines.

 

“Security detail to Marine Barracks. You copy?”

 

“Marine Barracks, sir. We copy.”

 

“We’ve got the package. Do you have secure holding cell ready?”

 

“Ready sir. We’ll escort you in when you reach the front gate.”

 

A marine Hummer with a machine gun mounted in the back sat in front of the barracks’ gate. Several Marines dressed in combat camouflage and full battle gear stood guard both inside and outside the gate.

 

When the two Fords arrived, the Marines opened the gate to let the motorcade pass through with the Hummer leading the way. The red and blue flashing lights gave the only appearance of anything unusual happening on the base.

 

Inside, the emergency lights were again turned off and the three vehicles disappeared into the night.

 

. . .

 

Marine One landed at Walter Reed Army Hospital about 30 minutes after the body of Roosevelt-Hill arrived. When on the ground, Wyckoff bolted from the helicopter and immediately headed into the building. His security detail had to run to beat him to the door.

 

Two fully-armed soldiers flanked the glass doors of the main entrance of the hospital. They snapped off a salute to the new president as he entered.

 

Bird Dog keyed his microphone as the detail entered the building. “Lightning Bolt has arrived. Where is Park Avenue’s body?”

 

“She’s in the emergency operating room,” a voice crackled back through the radio with the information. “Turn right at the front desk and go down the hall to the right. Secret Service personnel will meet you at the emergency room doors.”

 

“Roger that,” Bird Dog ended the conversation.

 

“Sir, we need to go right down the hall to the emergency room,” Bird Dog pointed as he relayed the information to Wyckoff.

 

The detail made its way down the wide, green painted hall until it was stopped by the secret servicemen at the emergency room doors.

 

“Where is she?” were Wyckoff’s first words to the man guarding the door.

 

“Sir, the doctors are still working on her in O.R. 1. They wanted to clean up the body before you see her.”

 

“Clean her up,” Wyckoff almost shouted at the man, echoing the guard’s statement. “My God son, I held her head in my hands as she died. Do you see this blood all over me? It’s her blood.” Wyckoff’s suit, shirt and tie were stained with red. It looked like he had been shot several times in the chest.

 

“I’m sorry sir,” the guard tried to apologize. “The doctors . . . they just thought . . .”

 

Wyckoff waved his hand to stop the apology.  “I understand son,” he said, his voice becoming suddenly calm. He then placed his hand on the man’s shoulder. Wyckoff paused for a second before he spoke again. He then looked straight into the secret servicemen eyes. “Will you just take me to her?”

 

“Eye, eye Sir.”

 

The guard led Wyckoff into the operating room. When the doors flew open, the doctors were stunned to see Wyckoff standing there. They thought they would have more time to wash the blood off the ex President’s body, and try to make her look decent, but there she lay naked from the waist up, blood covering her upper torso. Her head was turned all the way to the right. Her hair was covered with blood. This was not the picture history or the American public wanted to see of Stephanie Roosevelt-Hill.

 

“Sir, we haven’t finished examining President Hill’s body . . .”

 

“Doctors,” Wyckoff said in a booming voice, immediately stopping the doctor’s speech. “You all need to clear the room. I need some time alone with President Roosevelt-Hill.”

 

The secret service men escorted the three doctors and two nurses from the operating room and closed the doors.

 

Wyckoff stood alone with the body. He moved close to the table on which she lay and he gently touched her hair, and stoked her smooth face.

 

“I don’t . . .  I don’t know what to say Steph,” Wyckoff tried to speak to his dead lover, holding her limp hand that had hung over the edge of the table before he cradled it in his own. He tried to speak again, but he couldn’t get the words to come from his mouth. He felt like he was choking as he tried to speak. Then he started to cry. When the tears started freely flowing down his tan cheeks, the words came a little easier.

 

“What am I going to do without you?” he asked her. “You know how much I love you.” As he spoke, the tears rolled down his face. He reached into his front coat pocket for his handkerchief, but it was soggy with blood. As he held her hand, he knelt down beside the table and placed his head on the table padding beside hers. He put his arm around the dead woman and continued to cry.

 

He remained in this position for about 15 minutes before rising. He took the bed sheet and covered her up to the neck. He straightened her head and tried to fix her hair. Then he leaned down and gently kissed her on the lips and spoke to her for the last time.

 

“Don’t you worry, Steph. I’ll get the bastards who did this to you. The world has never seen the likes of the horror I can unleash on these murderers. Only God Almighty can help them now.”

 

. . .

 

Less than one hour after Abdul-Ahad Assahd arrived at the Marine Barracks, he stood with a lawyer who was appointed to represent him by the United Stated Justice Department. Two heavily armed Marine guards flanked the murderer and his counsel, in front of the makeshift court room in a small building near a helicopter landing pad. There were 14 other uniformed Marines in the room – all heavily armed. Jeff Salter also sat in a chair at the back of the room.

 

A U.S. Federal Judge sat behind a desk in front of the accused. A court stenographer sat behind a smaller table to the right of the judge to record the actions of the court.

 

“The Federal District Court of the District of Columbia is now in session,” the honorable Judge Sylvester Garrett announced.”

 

He then turned his attention toward the accused.

 

“Mr. Assahd, you have been charged with the murder of the President of the United State of America, Stephanie Roosevelt-Hill. How do you plea?”

 

“I killed the President in cold blood for the whole world to see, but I am guilty of no crime in the eyes of Allah,” he shouted, raising his bandaged head in defiance. His right arm was in a sling.

 

“Control your client,” the judge shouted back at Assahd and his makeshift legal representative, slamming his gavel three times into the desk.

 

“Your honor, Van Wilkins for the defense.  Mr. Assahd pleads not guilty to the charges of murder by reason of insanity.”

 

“Insanity,” Assahd shouted again and was physically restrained by the two Marines. “Is it insane to take the life of an infidel . . . someone who has caused much suffering to my people and to Allah’s chosen ones? You are all infidels.”

 

“It appears you will not cooperate, Mr. Assahd, so I’ll talk with your counsel. Mr. Wilkins, will you approach the bench,” the judge spoke calmly after Assahd’s outburst. Wilkins left his client and walked to the table where the judge sat as the Marines used some physical influence to keep Assahd quiet.

 

“Mr. Wilkins, we cannot afford another Jack Ruby-Lee Harvey Oswald situation to develop here,” the judge softly spoke so that only the attorney could hear. “I have personal instructions from the Attorney General to let the Marines guard Mr. Assahd until his legal counsel can be arranged. Do you have any problem with that?”

 

“No your honor,” the attorney said and walked back to the side of Assahd.

 

“Mr. Assahd,” the judge continued with the process, “It is the judgment of this court that because of the heinous nature of the crime with which you are charged, and knowing the mood of the American people after witnessing such a barbaric act, to ensure your safety, I must remand you to the custody of the United States Marine Corps at Quantico Marine Base on the charge of Capital Murder. A formal hearing will be set on these charges at a later date. And may God help you, Mr. Assahd.”

 

With that, the judge stood and spoke to the head of the guard detail, a veteran Gunnery Sergeant. “Get this man out of my sight.”

 

He then slammed the gavel into the table top again. “This court is adjourned.”

 

With that, Abdul-Ahad Assahd and his attorney were led out of the room and to a Marine helicopter that was waiting outside the building. The two men and four Marines and Jeff Salter boarded the chopper and it quickly flew off into the darkness headed south to Quantico.