The Curse of Medusa

President Charles Grant waved cheerily at the crowds lining the route of the motorcade as it swept along the boulevard and pulled up outside the university. Today he was going to deliver a speech at the Xavier University of Louisiana to pledge more federal funds to the city in the on-going plan to rebuild after Hurricane Katrina.

He glanced at his watch and saw the motorcade was already running six minutes late. Outside he saw those who thought his administration wasn’t doing enough to help. They were lining up outside the university entrance with their placards and chanting slogans. It was all part of his job, he thought.

Grant stepped out of the car and waved once again as his Secret Service detail ushered him up along the entrance walkway. As he went, thousands of camera shutters clicked in his face from the press pack, and then he was inside. The president of the university greeted him and shook his hand. Moments later they were moving toward the main hall — the Secret Service were anxious to get the President’s schedule back on time.

Grant got to the podium and did what he did best — charm people. He threw out a couple of well-timed jokes to relax the audience and flashed them his world-famous smile before launching into his speech. It wasn’t his grandest speech — that was next month in Florida when he planned to deliver what was already being called the greatest speech of his career. Florida was the third worst state in the country for gun murders, and Grant wanted to bring it under control. He knew he had opposition — in both the House and the Senate not to mention the NRA. Even the Constitution was against him, but a spate of recent shootings had pushed many people over to his side of the argument.

But today’s speech was important for the people of New Orleans, and that’s what mattered to him right now.

As the room settled down, he leaned closer to the microphone and began to read off the autocue. Like most presidents, all his speeches were written for him by professional speech-writers and projected on a screen which he then read. His previous career as an actor helped him not only to deliver the jokes on time but to read the speeches and make it look like he was dreaming the stuff up as he went along. Today was no exception, and he weaved his way into the speech with his usual exceptional ease and professional acumen.

At the end of the speech, he was whisked from the room in a hail of applause and walked back out along the path toward the Beast. Earlier in the day, Scott Anderson, his Chief-of-Staff had joked that the enormous seven-ton Presidential limo was probably one of the safest places in Louisiana. Grant had smiled, but not laughed. He had been lucky so far, but previous presidents had not only been attacked while in office — four had been assassinated, and the President’s safety was no laughing matter.

He moved steadily toward the limo, once again recalling Anderson’s words about its safety, and reassured by their veracity however they had been delivered. The Beast was actually one of twelve identical limos in constant rotation. The ones not in use were secured in the basement garage of the Secret Service HQ back in DC.

Grant made one final wave as Dirk Partridge, his senior USSS agent swung open the rear door of the Caddy. The senior secret service agent fired a string of words into his radio palm mic and glanced at his watch. Grant was scheduled to tour the rest of the city as well as make a special visit to the levee system before flying back to the capital before dusk. Time was short.

And that’s when it happened.

From an unknown location, someone fired a series of gunshots into the air and total panic ensued. The people lining the President’s route from Xavier to the limo screamed and scattered, raising their hands over their heads to protect themselves, more from instinct than judgement.

Agent Partridge reacted in a half-second. In a textbook manoeuvre of professionalism and bravery, and without a second thought about his own personal safety, the secret service man leaped forward and grabbed the President, moving around him like a human shield and forcing him into the back of the Beast.

Grant was in the back of the car before he had time to take a breath.

Partridge followed, throwing himself in after the President and slamming the heavy door shut behind them. He barked a series of orders into the palm mic and the driver of the Presidential limo floored the accelerator, sending the massive armored vehicle lurching forward.

In a cloud of burnout smoke from the spinning tires, the limo raced away from the university and hit Drexel Drive a few seconds later.

“Sir, are you hit?”

Grant took a second to focus on his surroundings. “No, I don’t think so… What the hell just happened?”

“Someone tried to take a shot at you, Mr President. We have to get you back to Air Force One immediately.”