The Measure(39)

Hank threw his phone across the couch.



The next morning, June 10, around 9 a.m., approximately three months after the boxes first appeared, a short-stringer detonated a homemade bomb just outside the Capitol, killing multiple bystanders. And Hank knew that somewhere, in some bland hotel room in some midwestern state, Anthony Rollins must be pleased.





Summer





Anthony




The suspect in the June 10 bombing was killed in the blast—taking several other short-stringers along with him—but he left a message for the authorities to find upon searching his apartment later: The people suffer and die while our leaders do nothing.

An elite emergency task force, convened by the president to deal with the fallout, agreed rather quickly that there was nothing the government could do to stop short-stringers from suffering and dying. What the committee did decide was that something needed to be done to keep rogue short-stringers from causing any additional damage.



A week after the bombing, Anthony Rollins flew home to D.C., leaving his wife to sip cups of Earl Grey and eat cranberry-walnut scones at an afternoon tea with prominent donors in Charleston.

The next day, the president’s emergency task force prepared to welcome its newest member.

The team already comprised three senior senators, two top officials from both the FBI and the DHS, and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

“We know it’s a bit unprecedented to bring in a representative on something this high-profile, and especially a primary candidate,” Anthony was informed by the chairman. “But these are unprecedented times. And the president won’t hold office for much longer. He needs to think about the long game, who’s going to hold the nation’s hand through the next four years of this nightmare. Apparently your performance at the debate really lit a fire in some segments of the party.”

“And I’m sure you’ve seen that my numbers are spiking fast,” Anthony added. He knew that some pundits had already dubbed him a fad, predicting his imminent burnout, but this assignment could cement his rise. “It seems that the whole country is listening to me.”

By the afternoon, the task force was listening, too.



The following morning, the nine members of the committee gathered in the Oval Office to offer their thoughts on the so-called “short-stringer situation” to the president himself.

String disclosures should be required for high-ranking government posts, they argued. It should be treated the same as a background check or a physical fitness exam. If you’re going to hold a position of power, you need to prove that you’re committed, that you’re physically and mentally capable. Frankly, a short-stringer is a liability, they claimed. You never know if they’re going to snap, like the bomber and the shooters before him.

Agent Breslin of the FBI was the only woman in the room, and for most of the meeting, she stayed quiet, letting the men continue to think aloud while she processed her thoughts internally.

“There’s something else that we haven’t thought of yet,” she finally interjected. “If we can check the strings of every applicant for field agent positions or active military duty, and only send those with longer strings into the field or into combat, then we can effectively eliminate all risk of death. They’re guaranteed to survive.”

The agent looked around the room of men, who were nodding in bewildered agreement, and she smiled.

“Except survival is just that,” said an older senator. “It doesn’t mean we won’t be sending our boys home in a coma, or missing their arms and legs.”

“That’s better than a body bag,” she countered.

“Are we limiting this to military and federal positions?” asked another. “I imagine police departments and other high-risk jobs will want to follow suit.”

The president had been listening intently in silence, but his task force seemed to be hurtling toward a powerful consensus. He needed to weigh in.

“All right,” he said, raising a cautious hand. “I agree with what you’re saying, but there need to be limitations. We’re the United States, not China or North Korea. We’d never get away with requiring everyone to open their boxes and tell us what’s inside. Plus, if we allow this to spill over into every industry, I’m afraid there’ll be no jobs left for short-stringers.”

“What do you propose, sir?”

“A compromise,” said the president. “We require string disclosures for active-duty military personnel, FBI field agents, and government officials with the highest security clearances. But everything else stays the same. At least for now.”



A few days later, Katherine rejoined her husband in suburban McLean, where they had purchased a relatively modest four-bedroom house after Anthony’s election to Congress.

“I still can’t believe the president himself called you in,” Katherine said breathlessly. “He must think you’re going to win.”

“Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves,” said Anthony. “We’ve still got a long way to go. The president simply recognized the truth, that I was the only one brave enough to say publicly what a lot of others have been thinking already.”

Safely inside their living room walls, Anthony divulged what he could to his curious wife, without sharing too many specifics.