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John Altman
he would use the gun against the very man who had ultimately dealt Hitler’s minions a death blow. He went through a final checklist. Escape routes and line of fire remained unobstructed. A yellow leaf tumbling straight down confirmed that the breeze remained negligible. This time, he thought again, success was guaranteed. In the next instant, the hum of approaching engines reached his ears. The leading edge of the motorcade eased into view. Sunlight heliographed off polished fenders and white helmets. Out front rode an unmarked pilot vehicle, followed by a phalanx of motorcycles with sidecars. The sniper moved the cross hairs down the line, seeking his target. He felt extraordinarily calm. A Chrysler sedan followed the motorcycles: glistening black, covered by a bullet-proofed dark bubble-top. Fluttering American flags and a presidential seal on the front grille identified this as Eisenhower’s vehicle – but Ike had never before ridden in a covered car. The sniper’s calm faltered, dissolved. Beneath his breath, he cursed bitterly. What had happened to the brave soldier who had been chosen over Marshall, against all odds, to serve as the architect of D-Day? That man would never have cringed in a closed car as he made his triumphant return to Washington after a hospital stay in Denver. Ike the Soldier, insisting on projecting strength, health, and authority, would have shown himself to the cheering crowd of civilians and servicemen awaiting him just over the bridge. But this was the President’s vehicle, beyond doubt; Ike’s jovial, balding countenance was visible through a sliver of open window. Thanks to the sniper’s elevation, however, the shot was impossible. Cursing again, he took his eye from the scope. Seconds later, the pilot car achieved Arlington Memorial Bridge. Scowling, the sniper gained his feet. Taking a plaid handkerchief from a pocket, he wiped his lips compulsively. Already his frustration was fading, replaced by prickly apprehension. Did the bubble-top indicate that the previous failure had put Eisenhower on his guard? Grimly, he spent a last moment gazing down at the parkway. Then he used a foot to scatter some brush, covering the traces he’d left in the fallen pine needles. He turned, strapping the rifle over one shoulder, and vanished into the trees, leaving only a vague depression hidden beneath the bramble to show that he had ever been there at all.
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PART ONE Whatever America hopes to bring to pass in the world must first come to pass in the heart of America. Dwight D. Eisenhower
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