Prep

Prep
by
Raman Jalota

    Even though he wasn’t playing tonight, he really didn’t need a pass or a ticket. Besides, the play had already started. The young ticket-taker had the door barred with his back. He pried his hand from the door and asked him if he wanted a ticket from him. The ticket-taker looked at him for a split second before smiling with recognition and waving a half salute as he entered the theater.
    He wore his dark glasses as usual when out on the streets. His long flowing hair was tied with a dark ribbon at the back in a ponytail ... a look that only a few models and actors like him could carry. He went up the stairs to the balcony humming a song and walked behind the dress-circle seats. He stepped into the short passageway leading to the presidential box. The guard was sitting down with the valet-messenger. He whispered, “This is an extremely important message, from General Grant, and it is for the president only.”
    He flashed his fake papers and confidently opened the door. No one stopped him or said anything. He jammed the door with the plastic doorjamb he was carrying in his long coat. He walked slowly to the box. The tall, thin president was sitting with an amused look on his face. As the punch line was delivered, Patrick Nurev opened his coat, withdrew the semiautomatic from under his shoulder, extended the gun and squeezed the trigger three inches from the left temple of the president.
    A split second after the bang, the president’s wife and the other couple stood, screaming in horror. Someone shouted, “Stop him! He has just shot the president.”
    Mary Lincoln stared at him screaming in terror. Patrick leaped to the edge of the balcony to jump to the stage. He saw the look in her eyes, stumbled and fell on the stage. He stood up with a forest fire of pain streaming down his right leg. He knew it was broken. He pushed his way through the stage hands and stumbled on to the street.
    The pain was shooting through his leg incapacitating him. He tried but could not mount the horse his accomplice held for him. Finally, he pushed him up on the horse. With his hands holding on tightly and his legs barely feeling the stirrups he pushed off into the darkness.

.....

    “Good. That was quite good, but not perfect.”
    “But that’s so simple. Any one can shoot the president. This holoplay is too easy.”
    “Maybe you are right, Pat. But even the original assassin stumbled as he jumped over the balcony, breaking his foot which made it impossible for him to escape.”
    “But he did kill the president, didn’t he?”
    “Yes, but not a perfect execution in our book. And of course the first one has to be easy for you to work on. But you must remember ... You must learn to kill well. A target is not enough, accuracy is not enough, sometimes even killing is not enough. You must get into the character of the killer, only then you will succeed. Next time, I want to see that look in your eyes.”
    “What look?”
    “The look of a real killer. A true assassin.”
    “What else do I need to work on?”
    “Remember never to look in their eyes. Not the president’s, nor his wife’s. And this time you have to shout, ‘The revenge is mine’. ”
    “Damn, I forgot my line.”
    The gray haired man with the white lab coat walked to the instrument panel and reloaded the Lincoln assassination. He reached for his keypad and noted, “Hesitation when confronted with the wife of the target. Lost balance and broke his leg in the fall. Maybe a potential weakness.”

.....

    He pushed up the gull door of his Erika and stepped out. He had his trademark dark glasses and the ponytail under a Yamata baseball cap. He took the antique Uzi from the trunk and slung it across his right shoulder. He unlocked the door to the book depository and quickly climbed the staircase to the sixth floor.
    Moving rapidly through the construction debris, he picked three hardbound books and placed them on the ledge of the window facing the Dealey plaza. He sat on the floor and fitted the telescope to the Uzi. He placed the Uzi on the books, focused on the plaza and slid one book out from under the gun.
    Good, that’s better ... everything’s ready to go.
    The presidential motorcade entered the plaza slowly. The cheering crowd was held in check by the barricades and the police. The open air limousine carrying the president, his wife and the Texas governor slowly snaked its way to its predestined target.
    Patrick stared hard and pursed his lips in concentration. He moved the barrel to keep the target in his cross-wires, “Now.” He squeezed the trigger slowly.
   A single bullet whizzed past the president’s right ear and hit the back of the limousine. The sound made the motorcycle cop riding behind the limousine stop and look over the car. At first the people across the road and then slowly at the book depository.
    Oh fuck, I missed him!
    Patrick stood up and started spraying the limousine in the back. He guided the spray to the president’s head. President Kennedy’s skull blew open as a train of bullets found their mark. Brain fragments splattered on the road. Jacqueline crawled to the back of the limousine and stared at the window in which he stood. He froze for a moment as he looked at her then moved the barrel of the Uzi to the front killing both the governor and the driver. He swung the gun back, pointed it at Jacqueline and hesitated.
    “Fuck!” He threw the Uzi without firing and rushed down the stairs. He had his keys ready in his hand. He jumped into his Erika and turned the key.
    The motorcycle cop had already reached the parking lot of the depository by driving over the pavement and saw him rushing out of the building. He jumped onto the hood of his car. Before Patrick could disengage his hand from the steering, two shots hit him square in the face. He screamed in pain and covered his mouth to stop the blood and feel his fragmented face.

.....

    Dr. Dushman wrung his hands in disbelief, “That’s the worst session I have ever seen. How the hell did you make it so far? You couldn’t even kill the wife of the president! What the hell was that? You missed his head by a foot. You gave up your position too easily. This is a complete failure. Not only that, you left your weapon at the scene and you got caught by a motorcycle cop. He killed you. He killed you so damned easily!”
    “I don’t know how I could miss Kennedy. That’s what threw me off. And then when I saw that terrible look in her eyes ...”
    “You idiot, never, never, never look them in the eyes. You have to learn that lesson, if you want to be an assassin for Schlenz Enterprise.”
    “I ... I was so rattled at missing him. It’s not my fault. I hate that stupid Uzi. I want a Stazer. I can handle a Stazer while asleep. I would never have missed him if I had a Stazer.”
    “O.K. I’ll have a Stazer ready for you in twenty minutes. I’ll also reload the Kennedy holoplay. This time, you must score above 95 to continue in your quest for a career with Schlenz enterprise.”

....

    He pushed up the gull door of his Erika and stepped out. He had his trademark dark glasses and the pony tail under a Yamata baseball cap. He took the shining new Stazer from the passenger seat and slung it across his right shoulder. He unlocked the door to the book depository and quickly climbed the staircase to the sixth floor.
    Moving rapidly through the construction debris, he dragged a chair to the window facing the Dealey plaza. He extended the legs of the Stazer and rested it on the chair at a comfortable angle to the road. He picked it up and while sitting on the floor fitted the telescope to the Stazer. He focused on the plaza and slowly moved the barrel, mimicking the execution.
    Good, that’s better ... everything’s ready to go.
    The presidential motorcade entered the plaza slowly. The cheering crowd was held in check by the barricades and the police. The open air limousine carrying the president, his wife and the Texas governor slowly snaked its way to its predestined target.
    Patrick stared hard and pursed his lips in concentration. He moved the barrel to keep the target in his cross-wires. He flexed his trigger finger till the motorcade was square to his window, “Now.” He squeezed the trigger slowly.
    A single bullet hit the president’s skull an inch and a half over his right ear. He slumped forward in his seat, blood gushing over his face and shirt. Patrick pulled the barrel down and shot the driver between the eyes. The limousine lurched forward, then stopped moving. The governor stared towards the back as Jacqueline tried to climb back.
    Not this time. He shot her in the back of the head. She screamed in terror. Her flowing blood was mixing with the president’s on the floor.
    Next. He moved the barrel down and shot the governor over his left eye.
    He picked up the Stazer and rushed down the stairs. The motorcycle cop had climber over the limousine unsure of what was happening and what to do. He looked around and spotted the window where Patrick had been just a few seconds ago. He pointed to the window and started shouting.
By the time another cop understood what may have happened, Patrick’s Erika had slid away from the Dealey plaza and onto the freeway.

.....

    “That was very good, Pat. You scored a perfect 100!”
    “Wow. That felt good. I tell you, the Stazer made all the difference.”
    They shook hands. He studied the monitor. “How did I get a 100?”
    “The original assassin needed three bullets just to kill the president. You hit a bull’s eye. Plus, you got extra credit for finishing off everyone.”
    “Didn’t the original guy?”
    “No. He spared both the driver and Jacqueline.”
    “Great, what next?”
    “I want you to repeat it till you have it down perfectly every time. No mistakes. Then we will move you to the final assignment.”
    “And what would that be?”
    “A real, living target that you have to hit in order to finish your prep and move into the exclusive world of Schlenz’s Assassins.”

.....

    “What do you need from me Dave?”
    “General Schlenz, we have an extremely promising new recruit for the assassination pool.”
    “Yes?”
    “His name is Patrick Nurev.”
    “A Ruski?”
    “Yes. But he’s been excellent at all his preliminary trials and he really wants to work for us.”
    “Is he ready for his finals, Dr. Dushman?”
    “Well yes, General. His profile has a single weakness. He has problems shooting females. He has a tendency to lose his concentration when a female victim is involved.”
    “I assume you ran him through the Kennedy exercise.”
    “Yes, several times.”
    “And?”
    “He hit Jacqueline only twice. His scores have been extremely high otherwise. And this one exception has been profiled as the only negative by the training computer. I observed it with his first holoplay too, when he lost his balance and broke his leg after the target’s wife looked at him.”
    “Well then we will have to test him with a final exam where he has to execute a vulnerable female with an extreme degree of complexity. Send me his profile and I will see if I can pick a valid target.”
    Dr. Dushman extracted the blue personnel folder from his desk and started reading it again.
Patrick Nurev, 23; Bachelor of Behavioral Science, University of Santa Fe; Navy pilot ... Hobbie: Rugby and target shooting; Living relatives: mother, 46, widow; Sexual Partners: Five, all females, none permanent, no current attachments.
   I wonder if any of his female love interests would make a valid target.
   He shook his head as he read the details of Patrick Nurev’s private life. It’s not up to me. It’s up to the General. What a terrible decision. Thank God I don’t have to make these final exams!
    Three days and several thousand miles away General Schlenz filled his pipe and lit it. He removed the seal from the blue folder and started reading it. He extracted the glossy photographs and laid them side by side on the glass table-top. “The man and his women.” He picked up the pictures one by one looked closely at them and laid them back. “One of you holds the key,” he whispered.

.....

   Patrick smiled broadly. “I am ready for my finals, Dr. Dushman.”
“Good. You will fly down to the old country for this.”
    “Russia?”
    “Yes, to Moscow where you will be given your assignment. Are you ready to proceed?”
    “Damn right I am.”
    Sitting in the Gates Airlines 8847, he sipped an orange juice. I wonder if I can visit uncle Boris and mom? Probably, I can’t. I wonder if I can even call them? No, it would end all chances of my graduating. She will be surprised when I do call her to tell her I made it.

.....

   A dark limousine driven by a grim faced young Greek took him to his hotel. He ate, showered and got ready for his scheduled appointment. He walked out of the cab into the Solzhenitsyn restaurant. Two oversized gentlemen guided him to a back table.
    “Well, here we are. Are you both from the Enterprise?”
    They nodded. One of them extended a thin envelope. “Here are the details of your assignment. Remember, you don’t know us. You don’t know anybody in Moscow.”
    He took the envelope and put it in his inside pocket. The waiter brought them three Vodkas which they drank in silence. They shook hands and departed.
    What the hell? He ordered a salmon dinner and an orange juice. This is good. He ate heartily. He was itching to find out his assignments but knew he couldn’t do it here, in public.
    It was just before ten when he reached his hotel. He locked the door behind him and threw his jacket on one of the chairs. He placed the envelope on the side table and found his knife. He carefully slit it open and let the map and the picture slide out. He closed his eyes in silent prayer and looked at the picture.
“Mother!” He screamed and covered his mouth with both hands. He turned out the lights and sat in the darkness shivering.

The End 2485 words

Copyright © 2004 Raman Jalota. All rights reserved. No part of this electronic publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the author.

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