Capital Offense

Warner nodded as they walked into a private conference room with a large oval mahogany table, plush leather chairs, and aerial photographs of the corporate campus lining the walls.

He had insisted that his tour include a state-of-the-art chemical recycling facility because he knew it was the wave of the future. Visiting this high-profile plant at the end of his trip had been a brilliant move, he thought. The polls showed a public outcry for political support of environmental issues. The hell with Carolyn’s war on drugs. He intended to be the poster-boy for the environment.

Dailey approached Lane. “It’s all set up. Mr. President. After the guided tour, you’ll address the employees with full media coverage. Are you ready, Sir?”

“I am. Let’s get this show on the road.” Lane’s voice rose in excitement. Taking on environmental issues would ensure his place in history. He stood taller, enjoying the feel of control and power.

After a brief presentation, given by the corporate executives, about the facility that Lane was about to visit, the tour began in the main offices.

The president was photographed shaking hands with workers.

Media representatives lined the walls with cameras, microphones, and tape recorders.

Warner smiled when an Asian woman with long dark hair stepped forward to present him with a single red rose.

“Thank you, it’s beautiful.” he said. “Just like you.”

She bowed.

Progressing into the manufacturing portion of the plant, they all put on hard hats and goggles. Four Secret Service agents, three corporate executives, and two media people accompanied Dailey and the president.

They advanced through an inventory area and up onto a walkway in order to view the entire facility from above. As they stood over large tanks containing volatile chemicals, the plant engineer explained how the processes worked and most important, how the chemicals were treated and recycled after use.

As they stood above the vaults, the journalist and cameraman recorded the presentation on air circulation. The plant engineer explained that most of the chemicals were toxic and that fresh air had to be constantly replenished in the facility to protect the workers.

“How fast does the air circulate?” the president asked.

“The air in this room is completely turned over every three minutes.”

“And when you say ‘toxic,’ will these chemicals make you ill or worse?”

“After a matter of mere seconds of exposure, disorientation takes place and then rapid death. That is why compliance with OSHA is critical.”

When they moved to the next room, where the reprocessing was done, the engineer said. “At this time we ask that the media stop filming, because this process is a proprietary trade secret.” The engineer pointed to the next walkway. “Step right this way, and we’ll move on to a filmable portion of the tour.”

As President Lane reached the middle of the pathway, a small beeping alarm sounded.

The Secret Service agents looked around, trying to determine the origin of the beep.

Wide-eyed, the plant engineer spun to face them.

Warner took a hesitant step unsure of whether to continue. Then, he regained his confidence. He was Warner “Fucking” Lane, President of the United States. What did he have to fear? Nothing.

“What’s wrong?” Dailey asked.

“My vapor sensor’s going off. Get the president out of here.”

Immediately, Warner felt his eyes begin to water and his chest grow tight. His pulse throbbed in his neck.

“Mr. Pres-” The plant engineer tried to speak, but a coughing fit choked off his words.

Two Secret Service agents grabbed the president under the arms, knocking the hardhat from his head, as they pulled him backward toward an exit.

A few steps later, they dropped him. Hands to their mouths, the agents collapsed, coughing blood.

Dailey folded to the ground, curling into a ball at the president’s feet.

Warner tried to scream, but lacked the oxygen to form the sound.

He tore the goggles from his face. A vacuum devoured the oxygen from every pore in his body. His muscles jumped and twitched.

Throat aflame, he reached for the railing. He clung to the metal, mouthing a silent plea. Then he slid to the deck of the catwalk. He seized convulsively.

Warner sucked desperately for air, fully aware that he was suffocating. He clawed at his face and throat, frantic to relieve the pressure building in his head. His eyes bulged, feeling as if they were going to explode. Noxious fumes seared his nostrils and dehydrated his lungs, prohibiting the oxygen from penetrating the delicate mucous membrane tissue.

He writhed in agony. Blood trickled from his nose, and ran down the back of his throat.

Next to him, a third Secret Service agent dropped to his knees, then fell forward in a spasm.

A high-pitched ringing began in Warner’s ears. It escalated to a thunder in his head.

He felt a pull on his arm. Someone dragged him toward the exit.

Blackness obscured his vision. His body burned for oxygen. His mind begged for relief. Even death. Anything to stop the pain.

Suddenly alarms pierced the air.