FIRESTORM: The State of the Union

            Suddenly every element of the scene before him went into slow-motion and every sense A.J. Smith had became hyper-sensitive.  He was aware of every aspect of his surroundings.  He heard all of the little background noises that added to the drama and danger of the moment.  From beyond the bulletproof window behind him he heard the chanting of Americans in the street engaging in angry but lawful protest.  He heard the shouts and warning shots of the men of the uniformed division who were defending the grounds from those bold enough, furious enough, or just crazy enough to hurl themselves over the wrought iron fence, and other more substantial barriers, to protest unlawfully.  He heard the soft explosion of the tear gas shells and the startled outrage in reply.

Occasionally he could hear a chinking sound against the window.  He was no coward, but in his heart of hearts he hoped it was the sound of rocks and not bullets.  If the truth were known, he had little faith in the concept of “bulletproof glass”.   To A.J. it seemed like a contradiction in terms.

            Inside he heard labored breathing coming from the crumpled form of James Weldon in the corner.  He corrected himself.  Jimmy couldn''t be slumped in the corner.  An oval office didn''t have any corners.  A.J. was still getting used to the geography.  Suffice it to say that his breathing was coming from somewhere on the floor off to Smith''s left, behind the couch that had been moved closer to the wall to make room for the TV camera and other broadcasting gear.  In any case, the Secret Service agent who served as his bodyguard and personal aide could be of little use or help.

            He could hear the muted sounds coming from the TV monitor brought in by the ABC remote crew.  They were supposed to be supplying pool coverage of the presidential address that the nation was expecting to begin in a minute and a half.  However, at the moment the three technicians were standing as still as statues.  Behind them, the droning of White House correspondent Alex Whitcomb, broadcasting from an ice covered rose garden turned battlefield, continued to pour from the speaker next to the monitor.

The tone of concern in his voice seemed to be born as much out of the fear of getting hit by a brick or shot by a stray bullet as it did from fears for President Smith or his crumbling White House.

“Peter, the President of the United States is under siege tonight.  I''m coming to you live from the middle of what can only be described as a pitched battle on the south lawn of the White House.  We have just been informed that the Secret Service uniformed division is calling in Marine reinforcements.  Our viewers should know that the Secret Service uniformed division is not a bunch of security guards running around with Smith & Wesson 38’s.  They are a highly trained Special Weapons and Tactics force equipped with high velocity weapons and the latest in protective body armor.  The fact that they had to call in back-up tells you what kind of serious opposition they''re facing out here.”

A.J. had a fleeting thought.  He wished that he was outside...where it was safe.

He also heard the sound of the aged ventilators attempting to circulate the air.  They were fighting a losing battle.  A.J. was aware of the different smells in the room: coffee that had been at the bottom of the pot for too long, the freshly painted walls, the noxious but friendly odor from Thomas Kidd’s ever present cigar, the distinctive smell of high-voltage electronics coming from the broadcast equipment, but most of all he could smell the fear.

It emanated from all around the Oval Office.  Not everyone in the room was afraid, but those who were scared were paralyzed with terror.  It was the kind of terror A.J. had felt in nightmares when he would take a step and find nothing solid beneath his foot.