Empire by Orson Scott Card Page B

“Wherever their sniper is, he could kill us anytime.”
    â€œJust trying to pin us down,” agreed Coleman.
    â€œShoot for the launchers themselves,” said Reuben.
    â€œI’m left,” said Coleman.
    But by the time he said that, Reuben was already firing at the lefthand launcher. Which their bullets knocked over. And by the time they corrected to aim for the other, the rocket had launched.
    Reuben guessed that their sniper would be unable to resist watching for the explosion when the rocket hit. So he got up and ran to a different position and Coleman followed him, and there would be no last stand in the Holocaust Museum because they got all three of the remaining wet-suit guys . . . as they watched the column of flame and the plume of smoke rise above the grassy hill of the Washington Monument.
    â€œEither they hit the White House or they didn’t,” said Reuben. “We’ve got that sniper to catch.”
    â€œHe was shooting from over to the left of the World War II Memorial,” said Coleman.
    â€œAnd you can bet he’s got a car.”
    Their pursuit of him ended quickly.
Now
the choppers were coming in and military vehicles were jouncing over the lawns and here was Reuben in civilian clothes carrying a rifle and so he had to stop for a conversation. It wasn’t long—Coleman’s uniform helped—and soon there were soldiers and choppers in pursuit of the sniper. But what kind of pursuit was it when nobody knew what he looked like, what he was driving, or where he might be going next?
    â€œDid any of those clowns from the ranger station get a message to you, or did you just come when somebody reported shooting?” said Reuben.
    â€œThe choppers went up,” said the lieutenant, “when the cellphones started jamming.”
    â€œAnd you didn’t send them to the Tidal Basin?” asked Reuben.
    â€œWhy would we do that?” asked the lieutenant.
    Which meant that indeed, no one knew about the plans that Reuben had drawn up. Except, of course, the terrorists who had followed them.
    There was nothing useful to do now except get to the top of the hill and see where the rocket had landed.
    It had taken out half the south façade of the West Wing.
    â€œWhere was the President?” asked Reuben. He was talking to himself, but by now the lieutenant, who had climbed the hill with them, was talking over a military wavelength.
    â€œAt least twenty,” the lieutenant repeated. “Including the President, SecDef, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs.”
    How strange. For the death of a village wise man, Reuben had been able to keen and wail in grief. For the death of a President he respected and admired, he didn’t have a tear or even a word. Maybe because he knew the old man in that village, and he didn’t know the President, not personally.
    Or maybe because Reuben hadn’t drawn up the plans that killed the old man in the village.
    Not that Reuben didn’t feel
anything
. He felt so much that he wasalmost gasping. But it wasn’t grief. It was resolve. Gnawing at him. He would
do
something. There must be something he could do.
    The lieutenant turned to them with a face like death. “They got the Vice President, too.”
    â€œHe was in the same meeting?” said Reuben, incredulous. “They’re never supposed to be in the same place.”
    â€œHis car was broadsided by a dump truck and pushed into a wall. He was crushed.”
    â€œLet me guess,” said Coleman. “The Secret Service killed the truck driver.”
    â€œThe truck driver blew himself up.”
    Reuben turned to Coleman. “They’ve got a source inside the White House,” he said. “How else would they know what room the President would be in?”
    Coleman touched his elbow and Reuben allowed him to lead them away from the lieutenant. “At least you know it wasn’t timed solely to coincide with your