The West Wing
FIRST STRIKE
(by W.H.A.C.L.O.B.)
CHAPTER 2
It would not be realistic to expect dead silence from forty-eight thousand people who had just witnessed such a massacre. Even so, the very horror of it, the total unexpectedness, the earth-shaking repercussions to come, and certainly the savage mercilessness of this sudden conflagration engulfing their national leader, overwhelmed almost every individual present. The crowd entity, which began with the cheers of exuberance, which then gave way to the yells of astonishment, which in turn were supplanted by the murderous rattle of gunfire, which were further augmented by the shrieks of terror, reached its final expression with the harsh dawn of knowledge – a brutal understanding that froze the heart and paralyzed the brain.
In situations such as this, the mob rules. Individuality, already compromised by team loyalty, a near-fanaticism for the game and the sheer spectacle of the modern, bloodless combat it represents, becomes totally supplanted and replaced by an almost mindless group consciousness that follows no rules but its own. In an instant, forty-eight thousand stunned minds became one frightened, cornered animal.
When the overt motion and deafening noise on the field finally ceased, the spectators collectively seemed to accept that as permission for them to be still also – for a moment to give in to the stupor of shock. Then the screaming began: one long ululation of fear that continued despite the need for breath, a multitude of voices fused into one, roar building upon roar until there was neither beginning nor end to it.
Horror begets terror.
Terror begets panic.
With panic comes the need for survival. Any animal will flee the predator when it hunts, escape the trap if it can, sacrifice a limb if need be to complete what instinct had begun. There is no thinking cruelty in the act: only the driving compulsion to escape. To live.
This new animal surged as one for the exits. Personal belongings were dropped; strangers were shoved aside. Family members and friends spun and shouted, bucking the tide to locate each other in this living, surging ocean… but to the vast majority it was every man for himself. The sacrifice of its myriad limbs had no relevance to the Darwinian equation for simple survival. Escape became paramount.
Mounted at various locations throughout the complex, the cameras – so integral a part of the stadium and the news machine that not using them never entered into consideration – panned across the execution field and threw their images up on the giant screen for the witnesses, the TV stations, and all the world to see. Nine men lay flat upon the brilliantly lit grass like broken and abandoned puppets.
Only a few figures shifted, and those few in obvious pain. The body of the mound was not one of them.
"Someone… just gunned down the President's entire security team." June's shaky whisper skittered across the wires and confirmed what everyone else either knew or guessed.
"And that can only mean that he was shot as well." Harry's hoarse agreement destroyed all hope of any other possibility.
Whether at work or play, people around the country and in a lot of other nations as well dropped everything. They gathered around the bar, drinks forgotten; they abandoned dinner plates and newspapers and computers and reports; they phoned family members and told them to turn the TV on; they phoned friends and confirmed with each other that what they were seeing was real. This was a national event that touched every last one of them – in different ways, to be sure, but none escaped unscathed.
Leo barely noticed the iron grasp on both arms that refused to let him go to his friend.
Charlie lunged forward in a silent frenzy, and was just as efficiently restrained.
In the West Wing, C.J. squeezed both eyes shut to blot out the unthinkable.
Toby's hands opened convulsively, dropping his ball.
Debbie shook her head slowly, trying to deny the evidence.
Margaret clapped a hand over her mouth.
The Communications bullpen was tremblingly still.
The halls of the entire White House complex came alive with running agents.
In the OEOB, Will clenched his teeth, bracing for the inevitable.
In his medical waiting room, Josh just stood there with eyes and mouth wide open, staring at the coverage, actually forgetting about Donna for a minute.
In the Residence, all of these emotions were embodied and distilled in one person. Abbey forced air into her lungs somehow. It came right back out again, in a protest from the deepest reserves of her soul. "No…"
On the playing field, the lifting of Ron's head was such a slow movement that only the sharpest watchers noticed. Sprawled on his side, grass in his hair, gasping from exertion, one arm trapped underneath his torso, he struggled to re-evaluate the situation. Automatically, his free hand reached downwards to investigate the strange white-hot burning in his right thigh, while his eyes swept as much of the area as his twisted posture permitted.
The resultant stab of flame, plus the stomach-constricting sight of his fallen comrades littering the cheerful green turf, jabbed him instantly back to full alertness with a hiss of anguish both physical and emotional. In the next fragment of time, the rumble of the crowd sharpened into the staccato drumbeat of fresh gunfire, the impact of bullets on earth and concrete, and the even uglier sound of a screaming humanity.
Back in the direction Ron had come, other dark-suited figures bobbed and ducked in the wide maw of the Grand Entrance. They couldn't seriously be expected to charge out into that hell with no hope of survival or success, but they tried anyway – only to be driven back by a curtain of fire that tore up the ground in front of them, a barrier of death through which no one could pass. The threshold was choked by a cohort of grim agents, desperate to break through that blistering wall and reach…
So quickly that his leg yelped in protest, Ron wrenched his entire upper body around and squinted forward through the blinding floodlights towards the pitcher's mound.
President Josiah Bartlet remained where he had dropped. The bullet that hit him must have struck from the front, since a high-speed slug to the back would've propelled him onto his face. It also must have struck in the instant after the baseball left his hand. Ron could see his head, though not his features. There was still no motion at all.
Two yards to one side lay another body: the agent who had so nearly reached their Chief Executive – and would have, but for an extremely skillful killer. The same killer.
Ron lowered his head, eyes flaming. He still had a duty to perform. His own wound would not be allowed to stop him, nor would the shame at his failure and the loss of his colleagues. And once he reached his all-important destination, the assassins could shoot all they want; at least they wouldn't be able to hurt The Man any further. He carefully shifted until both hands were planted under his shoulders and his left leg was bent, ready to push off. He waited one more protracted heartbeat, expecting gunfire and quite likely sudden death in the next second… took a deep breath… and shoved upwards, planning a fast scramble and a frantic dive across that intervening space.
The answering fusillade attacked at once, as feared. Surprisingly, though, it was not aimed at him. Also, it wasn't the automatic fire, fast and widespread and indiscriminating – but the sniperfire, slow and deliberate and aimed to perfection.
It ripped into grass and dirt less than ten feet from the leader of the free world.
Ron got the message and flattened back down, his rush aborted almost before it had begun.
He didn't just stay still, however, and he had no thought of giving up. In the same motion, he whipped out his handgun and scanned the nearest bleachers for the muzzle-flash that would pinpoint the enemy's location. Tremors of pain rippling up his nerves, making his aim quiver; still, if he could spot anything to shoot at he'd chance it –
He saw no flash at all, but he was promptly splattered by flying bits of earth and lawn as the invisible weapon continued to speak. One precise shot after another, with a brief yet distinct pause of deadly intent and cool calculation between, its bullets danced their lethal way even closer to the body of his principle protectee. His unmoving protectee.
Again Ron took the hint, loud and clear. He lowered his gun, then tossed it gently to one side, beyond easy reach. He had been given no possible alternative. Sure enough, the pointed single shots ceased to fly.
The message was unmistakable: this close and no closer. Or else.
Even if he couldn't fight with his own two hands at this furious moment, he could still lead the battle with strategy. Keeping his head low, Ron spoke urgently into the microphone up his sleeve, transmitting to every agent on the payroll. "All units, stay off the field!"
No answer. Only indistinguishable shouting on every side. The crowds continued to swirl and scream… but nothing came over the Secret Service's two-way lifeline.
That couldn't be! The shooters couldn't have killed every single bodyguard in the entire stadium! But why else would they be silent?
Ice slithered through him. Was he really alone, not only trapped in this war zone but without any backup at all?
Just like the President?
No – he could see a few of his colleagues hovering in the door of the tunnel. So why couldn't he hear them?
Then Ron checked his earpiece, and that chilling unease gave way to a dash of relief. The tiny device had fallen out, most likely after his collision with the ground. Re-inserting it put him back in touch with the greatest security organization in the world. Physically he was still separated from them, but the really crucial link had been restored.
He overrode the instant bombardment of multiple demands for information. "Everyone stay back! One more move forward from anybody and they'll chop him right up!"
In the Grand Entrance, that order truncated all such attempts to reach their chief or their national leader. Every inch of the baseball field was spot-lit and devoid of any conceivable cover. Anyone who dared take a step into the open had no chance of being missed by a professional marksman – but more to the point, such an effort would unleash a final assault upon the central target.
That target bore a hideous resemblance to a paper image tacked to a wall… or a firing squad victim bound to a post. Completely unable to duck.
The worst question of all was: even if he could dodge, how could he still be alive to even try? The first assault had already done its job!
The sports announcers, who provided commentary and play-by-play over the wires, needed an excellent vantage point, hence their glass-fronted booth high in the stands above home plate. The stadium media producer, who controlled the mechanics of both TV and radio coverage, ran everything from an electronics-crammed office buried deep in the lower recesses of the complex. His safety at least was never in doubt.
"One – stay on Bartlet no matter what! Two – wide-angle on the diamond and behind! Three and Four – pan the crowds! All of you, hold your positions if at all possible!"
He adjusted his headset and flipped switches nonstop, eyes flicking constantly over the bank of monitors before him, rotating the different camera views that would appear both on the jumbo screen and on the TV broadcast, striving to include every bit of action and information possible. He embodied the pragmatism of all people involved in public media: no matter who got hurt, he had a job to get the news out.
Two cameras he did not include in this essential loop: the one inside the commentators' booth itself… and the one lying flat on the outfield, aimed at a blank wall.
The abandoned still camera almost certainly contained the last photos of Jed Bartlet's life. The discarded video camera had already transmitted its live feed of the same… could it really be less than two minutes ago? The producer did not pause to roll the playback; things were happening far too quickly out there right now. Later would come time to examine the trajectory information. That – and the emotional impact – would have to wait for the President's inquest.
The TV viewers had an enormous advantage tonight: they could follow the action visually as well. The radio listeners had only sound: just the announcers' voices, plus whatever the stadium's sound system picked up as well. As a rule this was enough – a swift and concise play-by-play, punctuated by umpire calls and overlaid by the cheering crowds, can often be even more exciting when one has to picture the action oneself. But now… with the official commentary sporadic and terse and far less descriptive than normal, interspersed with teeth-grinding silence and echoes of gunfire…
Not too surprisingly, cars and trucks in almost every state of the Union pulled over to the side of the road, no matter where they were. So what if a driver was en route to an appointment or in the midst of a tightly-scheduled transport haul? How could a delay matter when their President lay dying? Besides, human nature being what it is, tragedy can be riveting. This way they could cling to the action and follow the history without risking their own lives – unlike the spectators who had bought tickets to the game.
Right now, the action was still on the field and in play. One player in particular was far from being out.
"Seal the exits!" His partners had probably already begun that step, but Ron took no chances. "Get a police ring around the whole stadium! We need more manpower inside, too!"
"Proceeding," came the prompt, reassuring confirmation.
Sweating, breathing hard and trying not to wince at every pulse of pain, Ron concentrated next on clearing the field of the wounded. He had to coordinate everything else as well, but this task could hardly be delegated; he was closest. He pivoted away from his President, towards his fellow casualties. "Any of you who can move, hitch yourselves back towards the exit. You –" he pointed at the ashen-faced catcher, who clutched the turf in both fists that still shook "– do the same. They have no reason to go after you."
The only ballplayer in the game scuttled backwards faster than a crab, drew no fire, leapt to his feet and sprang for cover. He launched himself head-first into the nearer dugout, careless of his landing, and his huddled teammates made room for him at once.
"Okay, at least the catcher is off the field and safe!" In the broadcast booth, Harry fought to keep his voice level and concise. He couldn't preserve total calm, but he did find some sanctuary in doing his job: reporting the details to the public. "All other players have taken cover as well. Some of the agents who were shot are now crawling towards shelter. They're obviously badly hit, but at least the gunmen in the stands are permitting this retreat. And that way they'll get treatment for their injuries."
"Some aren't retreating." June followed her partner's lead. Both commentators worked in TV and radio media; they knew how to give brief yet descriptive explanations, and the radio listeners out there had no link to events except through this channel. The pair also knew that every word they said was being picked up. "Some aren't moving at all. They have to be dead." Now she wavered. "Just like him…"
One figure was moving, ever so carefully, as he watched his comrades creep off the field of battle. However, Ron didn't observe this orderly if painful withdrawal for long. Nor did he take part in it. He had no intention whatsoever of getting further away from the man he would give his life to defend, and at the moment his proximity was being tolerated. He kept raking the stands with narrowed eyes for the merest clue to where that lethal fire had originated, and issuing orders with impressive focus. It was the only chance they had.
"Two shooters: one sniper, one fully auto. I don't see any muzzle-flashes, but they have to be in the stands. Can't anyone else spot them? A surge in the crowd – anything!"
"Nothing yet," came the transmitted reply.
"Well, hurry up! This guy has already proven that he's good enough to take a head shot on a moving target! Plus, he's got a buddy to back him up!"
The Secret Service was in a horrid predicament: damned if they did try to help the President, and damned if they didn't. He was just too far away and too exposed for them to prevent any of this. Their worst-case scenario had become inescapable reality.
"The vest!" an agent exclaimed over the security frequency, professionalism understandably jarred. The President had strapped tightly-woven layers of bulletproof Kevlar under his sports jacket before leaving the tunnel; they'd never have let him out here otherwise.
"Two words," Ron grated back, as though the two words he was about to utter burned in his gut like acid. "Armor piercing."
The general public knew about such devastating ammunition – commonly referred to as cop killers. No sniper of any appreciable skill would fail to stock up on it. No "bulletproof" vest could withstand it.
No sniper victim would survive it.
"Signs of life from Eagle?" another voice inquired, with admirable self-control. Even so, the prayer could not be missed: please say yes.
For one long, uncharacteristic pause, Ron couldn't answer.
"No."
It was the hardest word he'd ever had to say.
Leo couldn't hear that single word over a channel to which he did not have access, but the short headshake of the agent who still held his arm said it all. The Chief of Staff swayed on his feet, broadsided by a pain beyond description. All of this was made many times worse by the memory of the heated argument with his best friend mere seconds before that best friend stepped out into the field and the gun sights. He had wasted their very last minutes together with anger. He had openly opposed the leader and the man who always relied so heavily upon him. He had been afraid that if he didn't counsel Bartlet correctly, it would be the end of Bartlet's political life – never dreaming that instead he would behold the end of Bartlet's physical life. His breath released in a spiraling grief, and he reverted to a form of address that no one other than the First Couple had heard him use in over five years before today. A name, transformed into a piteous lament. "Jed…"
Charlie's mocha skin had paled to an alarming gray. Again he charged forward, crazed with the horror, blind to the danger, conscious only of the need of the leader he not only knew personally but idolized. He had often been instructed about not losing his head in a crisis, not for loyalty or anything else, but his dedication remained too strong for training and procedures to mean much at a time like this. He had forced his way through a wall of agents when someone fired upon the White House the previous spring, because he couldn't bear to be other than absolutely positive that his boss was okay. Surely he could do no less now, when he knew damned well that his boss wasn't okay. But tonight they weren't in the already-secured bastion of the West Wing; this time the agents had no intention of letting anyone pass. Not only would the President's personal aide die for certain if he did obey his howling instincts, but the President was already far beyond any aid his body man could provide.
C.J. couldn't stand it any longer; if her heart shriveled one more micron it would cease to function altogether. She had arranged this public event. She had sent her boss, her leader, her friend out there to be slaughtered. Logic had no sway here; she felt almost as responsible for his death as whoever pulled the trigger. She whirled from the heart-rending TV scene and the mind-crushing guilt, tore out of her office and raced for another office two doors down – to the friend whom she knew was the closest, the most solid, the most reliable.
Toby was already on his feet, as though expecting her… or as though on the verge of a similar rush in the opposite direction. All the fury he'd felt for those who would gamble with world instability and foul up an international peace initiative was transferred to the monster who had just shattered his leader's existence. Yet even that bone-deep rage could not overcome the soul-destroying loss, the irreparable damage already done. He said nothing, just met her agonized look with his own, and in that silence shared all the fear, all the pain, all the sorrow.
From Leo McGarry's office, Margaret dashed straight through the empty Oval Office, taking the shortest distance regardless of the sanctity of the route – and pulled up hard in front of Debbie's desk. All she'd had, up until this moment, was her radio, with no visual accompaniment at all. The stomach-twisting scene on Debbie's TV slammed into her brain and jammed her to a halt. The secretary to the President rose at once, came over to the assistant to the Chief of Staff, and put a gentle arm around her shaking shoulders.
No one in the Communications bullpen thought about leaving, or even about moving. It was as if their minds had fused, so that they could share thoughts and strength, for only together could they hope to live through this greatest of calamities. Nothing but the knowledge that all of them were together, that all of them felt exactly the same, kept them from going to pieces on the spot. They would cling to each other, support each other, guide and be guided through the utter destruction of their world.
Across the street and in a separate political world, his attention never leaving the sports coverage that had just become world history, Will absently picked up his phone… and then he put it back down unused. No Secret Service agents had run into his office or his boss's office next door, or anywhere else in the OEOB. The Vice President was out of town. His bodyguards would already know what had happened, and would be taking all the steps needed to protect the heir to the American Presidency. No phone call was necessary. This administration would have a new leader yet again – so soon after the last upheaval, too – and for an even more horrible reason. However much Will regretted that reason, he would shortly be working for the President of the United States once more. But until Russell returned, Will was of no earthly use. He might as well sit still and watch, and suffer through undistracted, along with everyone else he'd come to know and like.
Josh was almost literally drowning in the nightmare unleashed on another continent. No matter how far away, it had reached out and seized him by the throat in an unbreakable grip. He could turn from the TV's display, but not from the terrifying truth. He took two staggering steps towards the exit, his instincts screeching at him to return now. Then he braked, a different set of instincts ordering him to stay. He'd never get to Washington in time to make any conceivable difference… but he could make a big difference to Donna. She was still alive, and in the skilled hands of first-rate surgeons. When she awoke afterwards, she would urgently need a friend: to be there for her, and to break the tragedy to her before she heard it from the removed German staff or the emotionless talking heads. His colleagues needed him, sure – but his assistant would need him even more.
In a crisis, Secret Service agents could not afford to think about modesty or privacy. They blasted into the First Family's private sitting-room, constrained to safeguard the wife of the President. Once they arrived, however, they all stopped short. They could protect her from physical attack, but not from spiritual desolation. Abbey sat motionless, oblivious to everything in the world save the vivid broadcast before her. She didn't blink; she barely breathed. Her face was paper-white and her petite stature seemed genuinely shrunken. If she did somehow endure through the events of tonight, it would be only as a shadow of her former vibrant being – a shadow cruelly separated from the one she loved as part of herself. These past two minutes had leeched away her very life.
On her television – on all televisions – the omnipresent cameras focused on that dead-still figure stretched across the pitcher's mound. Barely a handful of yards to one side, another figure slumped face down, every bit as lifeless.
Just past home plate lay a third body… and this one was not.
"Ron, your status?" asked a voice in his ear.
For the first time, Ron thought to examine his own condition, though it required almost a physical effort to drag his attention from the motionless form less than fifty-five feet away. He probed cautiously, finding one deceptively-small tear in trouser material almost dead-center to the quadriceps muscle, and a large patch of warm dampness spreading slowly out from it. He kept that leg still, to avoid increasing a guaranteed blood loss and compounding a possible fracture, much less aggravating the agony… A moment later he discovered the exit wound, bleeding nicely as well. The bullet had passed clean through, sparing the femur itself.
That meant he could walk on it if he really had to.
"I'm great. Toss me a couple of Band-Aids." His anger, hardly damped by either the natural concern or the relief of this self-diagnosis, returned tenfold. The only thing worse than failure was powerlessness to prevent more failure.
"So get yourself out of there!"
"Forget that." Two words, three syllables, one absolutely inflexible will. "Will you find those killers and take them out!"
"No luck so far. The stands are too dark. Still no muzzle-flashes."
"In a crowd like this a short burst of powder might be hard to spot. If we get them to start firing again, any chance you can home in on the sound?"
None of the listeners commented on the glaring problem behind this proposal. Stimulating fresh gunfire would cost even more lives among their ranks, since it would be their job to leave the shelter of the Grand Entrance… and it wouldn't offer the slightest help to their Chief Executive, whose existence was already a thing of the past.
Even so, they had to do something!
"Not likely," came the blunt reply. "The echoes bounce all over this park. Lousy acoustics. All the yelling doesn't help, either –"
Before that thought could even be completed, there was a new battery of automatic weapons fire. But the agents hadn't stirred it up, intentionally or unintentionally. And this time there was no frightful chewing up of clods of earth across the lawn. Yet where else on earth could the bullets be aimed?
The response from the broadcast booth was instantaneous and heartfelt.
"Holy Toledo!" Harry exclaimed first, his voice climbing.
June's was right behind him. "The gunman is shooting into the crowd!"
That stark announcement electrified the TV viewers, but mercifully it was not shunted through the stadium's public address system. Otherwise, the panic, already boiling over, would have multiplied exponentially. When a crush of several thousand in close quarters starts to stampede, it can't be stopped, and there is no control and no safety. By definition, a stampede is the joint reaction of a large number united into a single entity by a common impulse… for example, to escape the predator. Push that entity past its limits, and the equation becomes far more dire and far more dangerous.
Some spectators had not yet realized the supreme danger created by the stampede itself, and others had managed to keep their heads with the desperate hope that they were not being personally shot at. Then again, most had begun to flee as soon as the first barrage had decimated the Secret Service, and mob mentality is every bit as contagious as panic. Granted, in so massive a crowd no one could really know if there were any casualties or how many; still, each person would assume instinctively that he or she was in danger and react accordingly. Survival on this level belonged to the fittest, and fit meant leaving the slower behind to placate the hunter.
There was enough light in the bleachers to pick one's way to one's seat; presumably that would also be enough to spot a large black rifle in the immediate vicinity.
"Find them!" Ron shouted into his microphone. He knew he shouldn't do anything to draw attention to himself, or else the gunmen might guess that he was taking an active role in combating this act of war – or, God forbid, actually in charge of the opposition – but his blood was well and truly up now. As awful as assault to his protectee always was, and the deaths of his partners to boot, he raged at the suffering of the innocents just because they happened to be in the way. "Watch for where the people are scattering!"
"They're ALL scattering!" came the harried reply, almost drowned out by another spate of rapid fire overhead.
"They're not stupid," he muttered. "The scatter-gun isn't in the quadrant closest to home plate, since it can shoot straight down the tunnel. But that's where the sniper has to be, because Eagle was facing that way when he was hit!"
That left pretty much the entire ballpark, but Ron had nothing more specific to offer. He also had no other option to pursue at this critical moment. The shooters' lethalness had drastically shifted the Secret Service's avowed priorities: from protection to arrest. It had also guaranteed that anyone who stepped over the tunnel threshold would be dead.
And The Man was dead.
"Get the police to evac the people!" Ron tried hard to look in all directions at once, despite his low profile, despite the flames that gripped his leg with merciless teeth. He didn't bother to comment on the technical challenge of moving almost fifty thousand people in a disorderly rush; his colleagues already knew.
"Ambulances are en route –" one agent reported.
"We can't screen every single person before we let them go," a second pointed out. "That'd cause even more of a crush!"
So they had to risk letting the killers escape for the sake of a relatively swift and safe evacuation, or else be thorough and vastly increase the danger to the civilians. One dilemma on top of another.
"Can you tell if he's shooting above the crowd, or into it?" Ron demanded.
"Not one hundred per cent sure…"
If the gunman was that heartless, then the casualty count would be staggering. There was sure to be a legion of injuries regardless, if only the usual contusions inevitable in a panic. If one had to add bullet wounds to the tally…
"No flash anywhere!" said yet another voice. "Could they have flash suppressors?"
"Anything's possible by now; these guys are pros." Ron ground his teeth, further infuriated by his inability to leap up and lead the search himself – or, vastly more important, get the President to safety ten minutes ago!
"Why are they sticking around in the first place? They nailed their mark – they should be running for the hills!"
Ron already had an answer for that: the only one that made any modicum of sense… and the one that scared them all the most. "Fanatics. Would-be martyrs. Madmen."
The assassins hadn't finished their bloody mission just yet. They must've known that their chances of escape were already non-existent. They wanted to make a public scene and a public statement, and they were willing to kill indiscriminately to do both – as if striking down the President wasn't enough to guarantee the undivided attention of the whole world.
They wanted him dead and on display. And they wanted the credit.
"Wait – I think I see a crowd surge! Section H-23!"
"You'll be fighting the surge yourselves," Ron reminded his partners. "But then, so will the gunman!"
"Right on both counts; this is panic city!"
Glancing about, Ron saw a mass movement of similar proportion in several other sections as well. Those echoing thunderclaps of gunfire not only played havoc with the Service's homing efforts, but they also made it a whole lot easier for every spectator to believe that the weapon was very close to his or her location. More and more people were trying to run, and would be trampling each other in the process.
The one good piece of news for Jed Bartlet himself was that, in terms of the panic only, he happened to be in the safest spot around. Lying lifelessly in the center of the almost-deserted diamond, he ran little risk of being crushed.
Ron strained to spot his own operatives among the dimly-lit masses, no matter how useless the exercise. They were up there somewhere, over thirty in number, well-armed and thoroughly motivated. "Concentrate on the upper decks," he advised. "They offer the best line of fire!"
More gunfire – this time accompanied by the eerie whine of lead ricocheting off stone. Ron jerked about, just in time to see dark shapes in the mouth of the Grand Entrance drop flat and chips of concrete fly heavenward. Some of his colleagues must have decided on a rush in the hope that the killer with the assault weapon was too busy shooting elsewhere to notice. They were right in that the retaliation hadn't been machine-gun fire, but wrong in that they might have gone unnoticed: this single shot had come from the sniper instead. Both killers were on the job full-time, sharing the targets, and experts at their trade. And they were moving, slipping through the stands and the crowds to adjust their lines of fire and dodge their pursuers.
One saving grace was that sniper fire, for all its pinpoint precision, still meant fewer bullets per second. Also, whichever shots hit a cement wall missed a human target. That provided rather cold comfort, though. The only direction from which direct assistance could come was the tunnel, and everyone there remained pinned down.
Ron did catch another mote of good news: the three agents who had followed him into this No-Man's Land, and who had so far survived, and who had undertaken to creep away and get their wounds attended to, were no longer in sight. They, at least, had made it to safety.
Safety being relative, even the reporters cowering behind their window far above the battlefield couldn't help but be caught up in the growing mindset of the group animal they observed below. Panic is contagious, and the herding instinct of fellow creatures striving to survive will overrun any and all pretense towards sentience.
"Bullets are still flying all over the place. Why doesn't the Secret Service do something?" Harry complained, oblivious to the fact that his mike was still hot and transmitting.
"You said it – bullets are flying. I doubt they can see much; we sure can't! The people are stampeding! Some of them will be trampled for sure!" More aware than her colleague that they were still on the air, June attempted to maintain some professional decorum.
"Good Lord – there are women and children in that chaos!"
June pressed her face against the glass to get a better field of view. "And walkers! And wheelchairs! This is insanity!"
Harry spun on her sharply. "Hey, keep down!"
"What? We owe it to the public to report what's going on! You don't think we're at least a bit protected up here?"
"You bet your life?"
"Okay, fair point! But still, why would they want to shoot at us or anyone else now?" Horror choked her up anew. "They've accomplished their goal!"
A pair of riflemen appeared briefly on the roof of the commentators' booth, silhouetted against the silver moon, helmeted and goggled, scanning the bleachers below. The Service always had its own sharpshooters on duty whenever the President so much as stepped outside. However, even their super-sophisticated scopes would have a hell of a time finding two small targets in a panic-stricken sea of humanity at night, and they would naturally hesitate to shoot too fast with such a huge risk of hitting a bystander.
Surely there could not be a worse combination of factors: a security breach, an assassination attempt, crowd control in a place with few exits, the shooters still at large… and they couldn't even get to their leader to protect him!
In fact, they had already failed him. Spectacularly.
TBC…