RobertM
New Member
PROLOGUE
A cold and miserable rain had been falling on Washington D.C. for a week, casting a damp and oppressive pall over the city. Ashen clouds rolled overhead in an endless parade, dumping their heavy loads of moisture like worshippers filing past a shrine to throw pennies at its feet. A sharp wind snapped through the streets, tormenting any pedestrians unlucky enough to be out in the weather. Water spilled from gutters and potholes filled. Sewers in several parts of the city had flooded, retreated, and then flooded again.
President-elect Graham Richardson watched the pounding rainstorm from the rear seat of the limousine as it cruised slowly up the sodden streets. Richardson was dressed in a conservative blue suit with a gray tie. A driver and a single Secret Service agent rode up front.
The glass partition between the front and back seats rolled down with a soft hum.
A young black man in the front turned around in his seat and spoke politely. “Mr President?”
“Yes?”
“It just came over the radio, sir. The First Lady has arrived from Boston and is addressing the crowd.”
“She’s stalling them until we arrive, Agent Davis. I think they enjoy Sarah’s speeches more than my own.”
“We’re only two minutes away, Mr President. She won’t have to stall them very long.”
“And we are late. My fault, I know.”
“I’m sure everything will be fine, sir.”
“My apologies for the delay.” Richardson held up a large, steaming paper cup. “I’ve never liked hotel coffee. This is real coffee.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ve been a great help today, Davis. I appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome, Mr President.” The window hummed back into place and it was suddenly quiet again.
Richardson was late to his own inauguration due to an unscheduled stop at a local coffee shop. After ordering the limo to pull over, he had walked boldly into the little bistro. To the extreme shock of the early-bird patrons, he had ordered a double latte with skim, tipped the waitress five dollars, and headed back to the limo.
A crowd of well-wishers had quickly gathered around the car.
After he allowed a discreet amount of glad-handing by his new boss, Agent Davis gently reminded the President-elect of the time. The limousine and its entourage of motorcycle cops rolled away into the rainstorm and toward the Capitol building. That had been five minutes ago.
Richardson found the paper copy of his speech and opened it for a last quick look. They will probably say it’s too Kennedy, or too idealistic, or too something, he thought. He tucked the paper back into his pocket.
The limo braked to a sudden halt. Secret Service agents flocked around the car and took assigned positions. One of them opened the door.
Graham Richardson, the formerly obscure junior senator from Colorado, stepped from the car and waved to the roaring crowd.
They were a sea of umbrellas in the pouring rain, people with wet faces and smiles and cameras flashing without end. Richardson began a slow walk past the crowds; stepping to the restraining ropes occasionally to shake hands and wave. He noticed the Secret Service agents were professionally scanning the spectators for possible trouble, but at that moment, Richardson was unafraid. He had a strange thought. No one hates me today. I haven’t had enough time to screw things up. When he smiled at his private joke, the crowd cheered even more. They thought he was smiling at them.
Richardson headed toward the stage and took the paper copy of the speech from his pocket. He was barely thirty-seven, only two years older than the Constitution allowed, and about to become the youngest-ever President of the United States. He made eye contact with his wife, already waiting near the podium. She smiled.
Sarah Richardson’s expression was one of tearful pride and disbelief. Suddenly, her face split in a huge grin and she clapped loudly. The new First Lady looked toward the crowd and encouraged them to do the same. They erupted with even more applause and cheers.
Richardson shook hands with the Vice President-elect, and then waved to the clamoring assemblage who stood waiting under a massive ocean of umbrellas. The rain continued to beat down on those umbrellas, but it had no effect on the fire of the crowd’s exhilaration. The sound was like a thousand Zulu warriors pounding on their leather shields, celebrating the coming new era. They shouted his name and waved their arms, each trying desperately to elicit some response, or perhaps a bit of eye contact.
He felt a kinship with them because he understood the reason for their excitement. He had won the election on a very simple platform. He had promised to restore hope to America, and to mend the country’s image abroad. Now it was time to make good on those promises. He had the will and the desire to succeed. He wondered if he had the strength.
As he stepped to the podium, he hoped he did.
A cold and miserable rain had been falling on Washington D.C. for a week, casting a damp and oppressive pall over the city. Ashen clouds rolled overhead in an endless parade, dumping their heavy loads of moisture like worshippers filing past a shrine to throw pennies at its feet. A sharp wind snapped through the streets, tormenting any pedestrians unlucky enough to be out in the weather. Water spilled from gutters and potholes filled. Sewers in several parts of the city had flooded, retreated, and then flooded again.
President-elect Graham Richardson watched the pounding rainstorm from the rear seat of the limousine as it cruised slowly up the sodden streets. Richardson was dressed in a conservative blue suit with a gray tie. A driver and a single Secret Service agent rode up front.
The glass partition between the front and back seats rolled down with a soft hum.
A young black man in the front turned around in his seat and spoke politely. “Mr President?”
“Yes?”
“It just came over the radio, sir. The First Lady has arrived from Boston and is addressing the crowd.”
“She’s stalling them until we arrive, Agent Davis. I think they enjoy Sarah’s speeches more than my own.”
“We’re only two minutes away, Mr President. She won’t have to stall them very long.”
“And we are late. My fault, I know.”
“I’m sure everything will be fine, sir.”
“My apologies for the delay.” Richardson held up a large, steaming paper cup. “I’ve never liked hotel coffee. This is real coffee.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ve been a great help today, Davis. I appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome, Mr President.” The window hummed back into place and it was suddenly quiet again.
Richardson was late to his own inauguration due to an unscheduled stop at a local coffee shop. After ordering the limo to pull over, he had walked boldly into the little bistro. To the extreme shock of the early-bird patrons, he had ordered a double latte with skim, tipped the waitress five dollars, and headed back to the limo.
A crowd of well-wishers had quickly gathered around the car.
After he allowed a discreet amount of glad-handing by his new boss, Agent Davis gently reminded the President-elect of the time. The limousine and its entourage of motorcycle cops rolled away into the rainstorm and toward the Capitol building. That had been five minutes ago.
Richardson found the paper copy of his speech and opened it for a last quick look. They will probably say it’s too Kennedy, or too idealistic, or too something, he thought. He tucked the paper back into his pocket.
The limo braked to a sudden halt. Secret Service agents flocked around the car and took assigned positions. One of them opened the door.
Graham Richardson, the formerly obscure junior senator from Colorado, stepped from the car and waved to the roaring crowd.
They were a sea of umbrellas in the pouring rain, people with wet faces and smiles and cameras flashing without end. Richardson began a slow walk past the crowds; stepping to the restraining ropes occasionally to shake hands and wave. He noticed the Secret Service agents were professionally scanning the spectators for possible trouble, but at that moment, Richardson was unafraid. He had a strange thought. No one hates me today. I haven’t had enough time to screw things up. When he smiled at his private joke, the crowd cheered even more. They thought he was smiling at them.
Richardson headed toward the stage and took the paper copy of the speech from his pocket. He was barely thirty-seven, only two years older than the Constitution allowed, and about to become the youngest-ever President of the United States. He made eye contact with his wife, already waiting near the podium. She smiled.
Sarah Richardson’s expression was one of tearful pride and disbelief. Suddenly, her face split in a huge grin and she clapped loudly. The new First Lady looked toward the crowd and encouraged them to do the same. They erupted with even more applause and cheers.
Richardson shook hands with the Vice President-elect, and then waved to the clamoring assemblage who stood waiting under a massive ocean of umbrellas. The rain continued to beat down on those umbrellas, but it had no effect on the fire of the crowd’s exhilaration. The sound was like a thousand Zulu warriors pounding on their leather shields, celebrating the coming new era. They shouted his name and waved their arms, each trying desperately to elicit some response, or perhaps a bit of eye contact.
He felt a kinship with them because he understood the reason for their excitement. He had won the election on a very simple platform. He had promised to restore hope to America, and to mend the country’s image abroad. Now it was time to make good on those promises. He had the will and the desire to succeed. He wondered if he had the strength.
As he stepped to the podium, he hoped he did.