“Look,” said Molly, “it’s your sister!”
Indeed it was, on the television. The strikingly pretty girl’s face filled the screen over a network insignia and she earnestly reported, “The president today appointed Colonel Douglas Obobo”—and a cutaway showed the handsome police executive shaking hands with the president in the White House media room—“superintendent of the Minnesota State Police, as the new, and first black, director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The colonel received nationwide attention on Black Friday last November when he led the response to the terrorist attack at America, the Mall, in suburban Minneapolis”—and the camera showed footage that Nikki’s cameraman had actually shot, the vast America-shaped building bleeding smoke and fire into the night as an ocean of ambulances and other emergency vehicles blinked lights around it—“and devised a daring secret assault plan that was credited with minimizing casualties in that horrible event. Only thirty-seven died and fewer than two hundred were wounded, against figures that could have been vastly higher.”
Then the president spoke.
“I know of no American who has served his country better in time of crisis—and in time without crisis, in the ordinary ebb and flow of law enforcement duties—than Doug Obobo. He is one of the finest police officials in the nation, without a doubt, and I fully expect him to bring those attributes of courage, intelligence, and creativity—but most of all, empathy and compassion—to our premier federal law enforcement agency.”
The two men shook hands as flashbulbs popped.
“That’s not quite the way I heard it,” said Ray.
“Well, gosh,” she said, “what do you know? I mean it’s not like you were there or anything,” and they both laughed richly, not the first laugh they had shared by any means but far, far from the last.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Most readers will know that there is a mall in Bloomington, MN, similar to the one described here. I indeed visited it for a few days but made no attempt to investigate it and did no actual research there. No inferences should be made regarding that entity’s ability to handle a terrorist crisis. Soft Target is meant as apocalyptic allegory, not journalism.
Now on to thanks. The biggest share goes to Gary Goldberg, who’s become the majordomo of the Steve Hunter empire. Gary has one of those technical brains and an indefatigable gift for figuring out systems, mechanics, programs, the whole gestalt of the machine world that is utterly baffling to me. He was super on this one, and I told him he had done so much work, he deserved some of the royalties, but I wasn’t going to give him a cent because it would tarnish the friendship. Hmm, he seemed to swallow that.
Gary thanks Grant Kissel for computer savvy and Dave Bickel for keeping everything plausible.
I have a core of other readers whose responses are always valuable: my friends Lenne P. Miller, Jay Carr, Bill Smart, and Jeff Weber, all of whom pitched in with enthusiasm and suggestions. Needless to say, all failures of nerve, taste, and decorum and all excesses of symbolism, violence, and gore rest with me, not them.
My sister-in-law, Annie Marbella, clued me in on the girl side of the vid game world, for which I am grateful, and my brother-in-law Ken Haas explained the boy side of it to me. BTW, I don’t want this to be taken as an anti–vid game screed. Kids, play all you want, blow up shit left and right; as long as your imaginations are working, you’re part of the human race and you’re not out on the streets robbing old bald guys. Ed De Carlo, the manager of the On Target shooting range and gun shop, talked me through the various intricacies of the trade.
My professional team—superagent Esther Newberg, editor Sarah Knight, and publisher Jon Karp—were as usual supportive and helpful, and Sarah was terrific with her right-on suggestions. Without her, this would be a far dimmer story.
And finally the wife, Jean Marbella: Jeannie, Jeannie, queenie of the martini (once a week, dammit!), brewer of coffee, confidante, laugher (as long as we stay off politics), and reigning zeitgeist of Baltimore journalism, thanks for being there.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Stephen Hunter has written seventeen novels. The retired chief film critic for the Washington Post, where he won the 2003 Pulitzer Prize for Distinguished Criticism, he has also published two collections of film criticism and a nonfiction work. He lives in Maryland.
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Stephen Hunter, Soft Target
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