The Ascendant Read online

  There was a good reason for that, of course. It simply gave him the shivers, even on hot days like this. In fact, he was shivering at that very moment as he gazed out over the happy crowd.

  Why were they so happy?

  He had forced himself to make the trip downtown today, back to the scene of the crime. Back to Quincy Market. He did it because he was asked to. He did it because he felt it was the patriotic thing to do, the right thing to do. An obligation.

  At first, the event had been scheduled to be held in March, at Arlington, Virginia, where all of these award ceremonies took place. But, for some reason it became political, or perhaps intended to be sensational. Someone changed the agenda and went outside the bounds of tradition.

  So, it was decided that it would instead take place right in Boston, right where the tragedy happened.

  And not just in Boston. But, in Quincy Market itself.

  Some government marketing genius must have convinced everyone that the optics would be perfect if the ceremony were held in this place, the actual site of the bloodbath. No one thought to ask Sandy how he felt about this, even though the ceremony was supposed to be honoring him.

  All of the major news networks were there. Sandy noticed the CNN, FOX, ABC, and NBC logos on the predator vans, and recognized several prominent anchor faces hanging around with their video teams close by.

  Yes, news loved tragedy, and everyone loved a hero. In fact, politicians and news networks worked hard to create heroes sometimes—sometimes when they didn’t even exist.

  Today Sandy was being presented with the highest honor that a citizen of the United States of America was allowed to receive for bravery—the Citizen Honors Medal, awarded by The Congressional Medal of Honor Society.

  Up on the dais there were eight chairs. Sandy was sitting in the second one to the left of the podium. Next to him, on his right, was a four-star general whose name Sandy had already forgotten. The man had greeted him in military fashion, held his left hand over his heart while he shook Sandy’s hand. Then he sat down and hadn’t said a word since. He was holding a mahogany case, which Sandy presumed contained his medal.

  The remaining chairs were occupied by a couple of senators and congressmen who Sandy recognized, as well as the mayor of Boston and a couple of other people who he assumed were aides. The mayor was the official master of ceremonies today, and the crowd was waiting for him to begin.

  And, begin he did.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome,” said the mayor, pausing as he let his gaze scan across the crowd. “Just over two years ago, our great city suffered a tragedy that will never be forgotten. Two hundred innocent people lost their lives on that horrible day, a day that began with laughter and song and ended with tears and prayers. And, lest we forget, back in 2013 Boston suffered another terrible tragedy to the evil of terrorists, at the finish line of the Boston Marathon.

  “This time they hit us on Memorial Day, a day that our country dedicates in honor of those who bravely served and gave their lives in military service.

  “Islamic radical terrorists chose that day to hurt us; to once again try to turn freedom into fear, good into evil, happiness into sadness. Of those two hundred souls who were lost that day, more than half of them were children. Lives that were just beginning their quest for the full and happy futures offered by the greatest democracy in the world.

  “We will never be defeated by the forces of evil, and that unassailable fact is borne out by the many examples of bravery that we witnessed that day.

  “Today, we are honoring one of our citizens,” the mayor said, turning to look directly at Sandy, “Dr. Sandford Beech, for acts of valor that went above and beyond the responsibility of a normal civilian. He is being presented with the Citizen Honors Award, the highest such award that any citizen of our country can achieve for acts of bravery. And he is fully deserving of our respect and love on this day of dedication for his selfless acts of courage.”

  The mayor paused for a few seconds as the crowd erupted in applause. He nodded and smiled at several people in the front row. Once things settled down, the mayor continued.

  “As means of introduction, Dr. Beech is a Professor at MIT, and one of our chief researchers at the Lincoln Laboratory, a specialized division of MIT. He has a PhD in experimental nuclear and particle physics, and is also a graduate of West Point, the world’s foremost military academy. That fact alone may explain his bravery on the field of battle two years ago.

  “Before I introduce General John Huntsman to present the award, we have a special guest who will speak to you. Her name is Lynne Mansfield, a mother of three and a resident of Boston. Ms. Mansfield was one of many witnesses who came forward with descriptions of what happened that day. She told us her story, and has agreed to share it with all of you. Please welcome Lynne Mansfield to the podium.”

  A tall, long-haired brunette rose from her seat at the far end of the dais and strode confidently to the microphone. The crowd applauded, and Sandy even heard a few insensitive wolf whistles. Lynne Mansfield was a striking woman, no doubt, but classy in her demeanor and in the way she was dressed.

  “Thank you for allowing me to speak today,” she began, her hand shaking as she adjusted the microphone. “I’ll be brief, because I’m a little bit nervous. But, I do need to share my story with all of you. It is painful to relive it, indeed, and I’m fortunate that I personally didn’t lose any loved ones that day.

  “I was sitting at the table next to Dr. Beech and his family,” she said, turning as the mayor had done, to acknowledge Sandy, who sat stony-faced, staring at the crowd. “My children ran over to one of the ice cream carriages when they arrived. I was quite surprised to see horse-drawn carriages coming down the promenade—my immediate thought was that it was a dangerous thing to do with so many children around. But, the kids were so happy and the carriages were brightly painted in rainbow colors—it all seemed so harmless.

  “Suddenly, the side doors of the three carriages swung open—I was stunned to see men standing in the open doorways holding machine guns. Then they just started firing, swinging their guns from side to side, and mowing down children and adults—anyone unlucky enough to be standing or sitting in the wrong spots on the promenade.

  “I dove to the ground, screaming for my children. I noticed Doctor Beech turn his table over onto its side, throwing the umbrella out onto the ground. Then he ran towards one of the carriages, holding the heavy table in front of him like a shield. He didn’t stop—he just kept running until he reached the first carriage. I could see bullets ricocheting off the table top, but that didn’t stop him. He reached the carriage and rammed the table up against the opening, striking the shooter in the head. The gunman fell forward onto the ground and Dr. Beech pummelled him several times in the head with his fists, then lifted the table up high in the air and smashed it down onto the man’s face. I think he was dead then.

  “I was in awe as I watched Dr. Beech pick up the terrorist’s machine gun and run over to the horse that had been pulling the carriage. It was lying on its side, on top of two children. Somehow, the horse had become disconnected from the harness of the carriage, and it appeared to be dead—possibly hit by bullets.

  “While this was going on, the shooters in the other two carriages were still firing into the crowd. The street was littered with bodies, and thankfully my three children had already rejoined me on the ground underneath our table.

  “But, I couldn’t take my eyes off Dr. Beech. He slung the gun over his shoulder and dragged the two children out from underneath. He then carried them, one under each arm, over to the empty carriage and left them inside.

  “He could have stayed there in the safety of the carriage with them, but he didn’t. With the machine gun in his hand, he raced back to the dead horse. Diving to the ground, he shoved his body up against the back of the animal. From that vantage point, he began firing upon the men in
the two other carriages. Within seconds there was silence. The terrorists didn’t stand a chance, and it appeared as if they couldn’t even see where the shots were coming from. That silence was only a brief respite, however, because the sounds of crying and screaming quickly replaced the noise of the gunfire.

  “I was astonished—to this day, I’m still astonished. I’ve never seen such a heroic act in my entire life. He could have hid inside the carriage, but, he didn’t. He sacrificed his own safety to bring an end to a massacre. I will always remember that day; the noise of the machine guns, the screams, the blood, the bodies. I’ll always remember being afraid for myself and for my children. I’ve never been so afraid before, and I don’t think anything will ever compare to that again. I believe that I’m a stronger person now than I was before that horror.”

  She paused and turned her head to look back at Sandy. It was a nice touch and a wonderful photo-op.

  “But, what I’ll remember most is that brave man, that hero, stopping a slaughter.”

  The audience erupted in applause. Lynne Mansfield smiled warmly at Sandy as she headed back to her seat. The applause continued as the Mayor started to introduce the general to the crowd. But, he quickly abandoned the idea, and waited a respectful few minutes before trying again. Somewhere in the din he managed to recite the credentials of the soldier and his war record, but no one was listening. They were still applauding the movie scene that had just been painted by the very visual Lynne Mansfield. Sandy thought that of all the witnesses who must have had stories about that day, Ms. Mansfield was carefully selected for some very specific reasons.

  As General Huntsman began to speak, a swirl of emotions began to make their presence known in Sandy’s stomach. He felt the burn, sensed that this was going to be one of those moments. Moments that had come upon him once in a while over the last two years, but usually just in the privacy of his own home. Today it would be public.

  Somewhere in the recesses of his brain Sandy heard his name being called. He stood and walked to the podium amid thunderous applause. The loudest yet.

  He stared into the cold, official, emotionless eyes of the four-star general and lowered his head slightly as the man draped the medal around his neck. Huntsman took his seat and left Sandy alone with the microphone.

  The crowd fell silent as Sandy adjusted the height of the instrument. Then he glanced down and examined the medal. The sash was red, white and blue—naturally. And the medal itself was bronze colored, with the words Above and Beyond engraved in a separate little plaque just over the disc. On the face of the medal were three figures holding hands. Sandy had no idea who these people were supposed to be. And, he didn’t care, either.

  He shifted his feet forward, tilted the mic towards his mouth and began to speak.

  “I’ve listened to all of the words that have been shared with you folks today. And I have to admit that I’m stunned by the glaring omissions. I’ll be even briefer than Ms. Mansfield was, because I really just want to go home. And while this medal is nice, and is supposed to be one of the highest honors in the land, I don’t want it.”

  There was a hush in the crowd as Sandy withdrew the medal from around his neck, turned around—and threw it at the general.

  “Put that back in its box, General. And, give it to someone who cares about your propaganda stunts. I’m not your boy.”

  Sandy turned his attention back to the audience. The shocked murmurs from the crowd were reaching decibels that challenged applause.

  “No one over the last two years has questioned why there were horse-drawn carriages on the promenade that day. This hasn’t been investigated, and I want to know why. There’s been nothing but silence. There were supposed to have been barricades, and security personnel restricting access to the pedestrian mall. Where were they?

  “And, the comments pertaining to how the killers in those carriages were Islamic terrorists? That just isn’t true. They were American citizens, home grown terrorists with names like John, George, and Bill. I don’t recall that an Islamic terror connection was ever made.

  “No one has questioned why individuals like these were allowed to possess AK-47 machine rifles. Why is there always such a focus on propaganda after tragedies happen, but no action on prevention beforehand?

  “Why was this event today scheduled to be held in this place? At the scene of a slaughter? Why wasn’t I asked?

  “I’ve refused to talk to the media since that fateful day two years ago. I’ve heard words today recounting what happened, yet no officials on this stage bothered to vet their comments with me in advance, or show any interest in my own words. Why is that? Would my story perhaps be less hero-worthy? Was that what they were worried about?

  “I’m being honored today purportedly for heroic acts to save others. I’m sorry, folks, but that wasn’t what motivated me that day to use my skills. I wasn’t trying to save the people of Boston. I was simply trying to save my own family.

  “I’m astounded that no one on this venerable stage even mentioned that I lost my entire family that day. Instead, they have tried their utmost to paint me as a selfless citizen acting for everyone else with no fear for my own safety. How is it possible that amongst three speakers, not one of them paid homage to my family, my loss?

  “My lovely wife, Sarah, was one of the very first victims—shot through the head right where she sat. But, I couldn’t even spend the time to tend to her, to see if perhaps there was a chance to save her. Because I knew she would have wanted me to rescue our kids first. So, I didn’t even check for a pulse, didn’t even kiss her goodbye. Yet…I adored her.

  “Those two children that you were told I pulled out from under the horse? They were my own children, not someone else’s. Liam and Whitney. I loved them with all my heart. I carried them to the carriage for safety, but they were probably already dead. Their chests were crushed and the backs of their soft little skulls were flattened. I didn’t check for their pulses, nor did I have time to give them goodbye kisses. All I could hope for was that perhaps they were still alive and could be tended to later.

  “Yes, I graduated from West Point, and one of the things they teach you at a school like that is to eliminate the threat before trying to save a life. So, that’s what I did. I was on auto-pilot, and perhaps if I hadn’t been I might have been able to tend to my family and save their lives. That has haunted me for two years, but, I’ve found consolation, oddly enough, by remembering how horrific their injuries were and how hopeless it probably was.

  “Horror has brought me solace. Isn’t that ironic?

  “And isn’t it ironic that in this spectacle you were invited to attend here today, no one thought to pay homage to the family of the selfless hero they chose to put on stage? I’m sure it wasn’t deliberate; I’m sure they didn’t mean to dishonor my loss. They just got caught up in the moment, the propaganda, and the example of yet one more hero to motivate the American people to support an agenda. To get them fired up, angry, patriotic.

  “I, for one, don’t want any part of it. Find another hero.”

  With that, Sandy turned and began to walk off the dais. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that all of the esteemed guests on stage were sitting as stiff as boards, shocked into paralysis.

  He passed by all of them without a second glance and began to walk down the stairs onto the promenade. A promenade that had been covered in blood not so long ago.

  That’s when Sandy saw him. Walking directly towards him, confident head held erect, jaw clenched, a sneer on his mouth, and fire in his steel blue eyes.

  It was a face he’d seen on television many times over the last few years, but not in person since West Point. A face that never failed to summon a myriad of emotions in Sandy. First in line was always the sickening sensation of overwhelming revulsion.

  3

  Sandy’s stomach was doing flip-flops by the time he reached the botto
m of the stairs. All he wanted to do was head home, but that simple desire was going to have to wait for a bit now. A face that he truly hated from deep in the depths of his soul was assaulting his space for the first time in about twenty years.

  Sandy stopped and waited, studying the man as he approached. He hadn’t really changed all that much—sure, he was a lot older now, but so was Sandy. His hair was still blonde, his eyes were the same sinister blue, and he still had that cleft chin that Sandy had punched more than once.

  Strangely, they’d always kind of looked a bit alike—as if they were brothers. And for a while, back at West Point, they’d even behaved like brothers. Close, but also distant. Friendly, but also competitive. Protective, but also jealous.

  Just like brothers.

  Then, gradually, it all went to hell.

  “Hello, Sandy,” said the man, coming to a stop directly in Sandy’s path. “I see you’re making a name for yourself once again.”

  Sandy nodded. “Lincoln, you’re looking well.”

  Lincoln chuckled, a cruelness curling around the edges of his mouth like it always had. “Oh, let’s not be so formal. Call me Senator.”

  “No, I think I’ll just stick with Lincoln. Or, do your friends and enemies still call you Linc?”

  Lincoln sneered at him, then turned around for a second and motioned to three burly men standing a discrete distance behind him. He pointed at several members of the media that were headed quickly in their direction. The security detail responded quickly—whirling around and holding their arms out wide, effectively keeping the reporters at bay just by their menacing presence.

  Lincoln turned his attention back to Sandy. “You still have a tough time showing respect, don’t you? Just like the old days, and just like up there on stage today. I’m a U.S. senator now, as you well know, so people know me that way. I was even asked to sit up there today, but, out of respect for you, I passed on that honor. I figured it might upset you. And it’s a good thing I refrained. I would have had to sit through watching you make a spectacle of yourself. Those photo-ops aren’t the type I would want my face showing up in.”