Local time – 4:45pm, Sunday 17th June, 2011.
London, England.
Gerome’s mobile rang, just as he walked in the front door of his house. It was Peter in Washington.
‘Is there any footage of the protests on your TV?’ Gerome turned it on to check, flicking through his numerous American stations to find a news channel.
‘Yeah. Got one. Geez, that crowd is massive. How many do you think it is now?’
‘I’m right on the edge of it, so if you can see an aerial shot you’ll probably have a better idea than me, but it feels like forty thousand, maybe even fifty.’ Gerome could hear the buzz of commotion through the phone, and the same sound was coming from his TV as the news cameras scanned the crowd. The pro gun protest was still outnumbering the President’s supporters, and was even more colourfully represented by huge placards, banners and even guns waving in the air. Gerome noticed a giant billboard-sized banner being thrust into the air by a possie of angry men. It displayed the predictable NRA message: ‘From My Cold Dead Hands’. He wondered if those particular gun enthusiasts thought it at all out of taste to be promoting such a message when their President might be the one at that very moment with cold dead hands. But he brushed this idea aside, reminding himself that they were probably quite proud of that piece of symmetry.
The gathering of supporters for the President, waiting to hear news of his condition, was nearing the size of the gun rally. They were a much more sombre crowd, though some were chanting in unison, their message intermingling with the cries and shouts of the gun rally. Many wore President Joe T-shirts and someone must have been handing out posters, as the smiling face of the President at his inauguration showed everywhere above the crowd. Gerome could no longer make out the small gathering of world government protesters, as their numbers were now completely overwhelmed by the thousands still arriving at the Monument. Both sides of the Reflecting Pool were filled up and crowds spilled into the adjacent field.
‘Is there any more news on the President?’
‘No. That’s not why I was calling. There’s something odd happening here that I can’t quite work out. I’m down the Lincoln Memorial end and there’s definitely a stage being set up to address the crowd.’
‘That’s unsurprising. Someone needs to let them know what’s going on with the President…’
‘I know, that’s not what is strange. The roads surrounding the park are closed. I’ve managed to get as close to the building as I can, considering there’s a police cordon. But I’ve just seen about fifty coaches turn up behind the Lincoln Memorial. They all look exactly the same – white with black tinted windows so you can’t see who’s in them. And they are just sitting there, lining up in rows. More are arriving all the time, I reckon there’s maybe five arriving each minute.’ Gerome flicked through the news channels.
‘So no one is getting off the buses? They’re just sitting there?’
‘Yep. And I haven’t told you the weirdest part yet. They’ve got an army escort. And also police. There’re maybe three trucks with soldiers and five armoured personnel carriers. Also a police car for every few buses. Something’s going on here, man.’
‘I’m not seeing that on the news stations. Their aerial shots aren’t picking up that area.’
‘Why aren’t the press noticing this? I’ve got my camera, I’ve got some pho… ’ Peter’s voice went quiet, as if he had dropped the phone. But the call was still connected, and Gerome could hear someone else speaking.
‘You’re not allowed to be here sir. You’ll have to give me that camera. Come with me. You’re in a restricted area.’ The voice had an authoritative ring. There was some crackling in the phone as if a scuffle had broken out and then it went dead. Gerome called back, but the phone was switched off. He stood staring at the TV, trying to work out what to do next. Why on earth had his journalist just been kicked out of an area at the Lincoln Monument where army personnel and police were escorting busloads of people towards a protest site? Why was Peter’s camera taken from him? And even more worryingly, why on earth weren’t the rest of the press noticing this happen?