CHAPTER 4

Speaker of the House Lucinda Ebersole watched in horror as President Stephanie Roosevelt-Hill was murdered in her House – but then a thought burst into her head like a bolt of lightning – she could possibly become the next Vice-President of the United States.

For years, Lucinda Elizabeth Ebersole had reconciled her lifelong dream of becoming President of the United States with the reality that she probably never would. But now, as the last life blood squirted from President Roosevelt-Hill, the dream was off the back burner.

“Game on,” she told herself. “I might not be the first woman president, but I sure as hell can be the second one. Anyway,” she rationalized her thoughts, “someone’s got to keep that demagogue Wyckoff in check.”

Her fantasy ended as abruptly as it had started when a Secret Serviceman grabbed her hard by the arm.

“We’ve got to get you to a safe place, Madame Speaker,” the young black civil servant bluntly told her.

“But the President . . . ,” Ebersole squawked, her voice cracking, her throat dry. She ended her half sentence with terror splashed across her face and a helpless look down to the House floor where medical personnel were feverishly working on the fallen President. Her mind was immediately shifted from the dream of a political power play back into the political business as usual mode. The Vice-Presidential thoughts were pushed back to the back burner again – but only temporarily this time.

Without another word, she left quickly with the secret serviceman and immediately disappeared from the podium into a secret back door that opened to a corridor leading to the back side of the House of Representatives.

At the limousine that would drive her away from the Capitol, she was met by her chief aid, Eric Moody, who almost got lost in the shuffle to get the Speaker out of danger. She and Moody sat in the back seat, while the driver and one secret serviceman sat in the front. After the car started moving, she asked the driver to raise the privacy wall between the front seat and the back seat where she sat.

“Eric, this may seem a little cold to you, so just hear me out. I have always thought that there is no time like the present,” she started the conversation. “If we play our cards right, this can be my time. Someone’s got to keep a close watch on Wyckoff. As the new vice-president, I can make a run for the Presidency when that Neanderthal screws up everything in a few years.”

“But Lucinda, aren’t you being a little hasty to make such a bold move so fast? Roosevelt-Hill’s body is still warm. The public outcry on such a move could damn your career . . .”

“I don’t give a damn about what the public thinks,” she shut him off, waving her hand as she talked. “The public will believe anything you sell them. Set up a meeting for tomorrow morning at 11 . . . in my office,” she continued.

“But what about the funeral for President Roosevelt-Hill?”

“We won’t be needed until the after the body lies in state,” the Speaker continued. “I want the democratic leaders of the Senate and the House there. Make sure Adams, Bice and Hemmingway are there.”

“But Lucinda, Wyckoff gets to nominate whomever he, or the Republicans, want for his vice-president,” Moody interjected, skeptical that Ebersole could influence Wyckoff’s decision on a vice-president.

“We can’t make the selection for him, but we can surely keep anyone he nominates from getting approved by Congress. We have more than a majority in each chamber of Congress. With the votes, we can apply pressure on him to nominate me. We’ve got the votes. We can force his hand, or we can drag this process out for months. With the memory of Roosevelt-Hill still fresh on the minds of the public, the country doesn’t need a long, drawn-out confirmation hearing.”

. . .

In a dark apartment room lit only by the flicker of an old, worn out color television in old down town Del Rio, Texas, Cisco King watched the assignation of President Stephanie Roosevelt-Hill in disbelief, just like most of the nation.

“That god-damned sand nigger,” he cursed the television as he finished off a cold can of Budweiser. “We’ll, at least now we’ve got someone in charge who won’t take any shit off the fucking Arabs.”

King thought about calling Wyckoff, but he realized his army buddy and former commander was in the middle of the most chaotic fight anyone could imagine.

“I’ll give him a few days before I call,” King thought as the images of the assassination were replayed countless times. “I’d cut off my right arm for Bill Wyckoff.”

He crushed the empty beer cam with his right hand and threw it at the TV, missing it wide right, hitting the stained, yellow sheetrock wall. He was never any good at baseball. “Fuck,” he said and punched the power button on the remote control. He sat quietly in the dark for two more hours before alcohol and fatigue forced him to fall asleep.