Page 36 of Edge of Honor

Bill Blackwood was the epitome of aging gracefully. When his jet-black hair went white, he didn’t fight it, he embraced it. He traded the vanity of contact lenses for glasses with heavy, accetate frames, which drew even more attention to the white of his hair.

Tall and distinguished, he was an impeccable dresser and had often been referred to as the Cary Grant of the United States Senate.

Like the Hollywood icon, Blackwood was not only possessed of humble origins and a deeply cleft chin, but the sixty-five-year-old senior senator from Missouri had been married and divorced four times and was currently on his fifth wife, Katherine, who spent most of her time back in St. Louis—something many D.C. insiders whispered might actually help this marriage work.

Having survived decades in Washington, Blackwood’s greatest talent was his ability to sense which way the winds were blowing and to shift accordingly. His ability to function as a political weathervane was without equal. Which had made his treatment by President Mitchell so shocking.

Blackwood had picked up on the rising, pro-Mitchell tide before anyone else and had been the first United States senator to endorse him. He had campaigned tirelessly for Mitchell, warming up rally crowds from coast to coast and becoming a fierce pro-Mitchell surrogate on TV.

Every Sunday, he could be found doing a “Full Ginsburg” for Mitchell—an unofficial term named after Monica Lewinsky’s lawyer for someone who makes the rounds on all five major Sunday talk shows in a single day.

Blackwood had pulled out all the stops for Mitchell, but he hadn’t done it out of the goodness of his heart. He had done it because he wanted something in return—a seat at the table.

Having held senior positions on the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, and the Senate Appropriations Committee, Blackwood fully expected to be appointed secretary of state. That appointment, however, never came. Mitchell offered it to someone else—someone who had committed far less time, energy, and personal capital to getting him elected.

In the days after the general election, Blackwood worked the phones, sent emails, and dispatched emissaries to lobby on his behalf. Surely there had to be a position in the new administration worthy of his stature.

But as cabinet positions and plum ambassadorships continued to be doled out to others and his name faded in the press, the truth began to dawn. Mitchell had used him.

Soon enough, Blackwood’s disbelief shifted to anger, but he kept it in check, because in addition to being a D.C. weathervane, there was another talent that had served the senior senator from Missouri well—knowing how, and when, to get even. Nobody was better at shivving a political opponent than Bill Blackwood.

The key was knowing when to take your shot. As the saying went, if you come for the king, you’d best not miss. Blackwood had no intention of missing.

Just behind the Supreme Court, at the corner of East Capitol Street and Third, Blackwood turned left and walked halfway up the leafy block.

At a gray town house he swung open a small wrought-iron gate and followed a flagstone path to a short set of steps leading down to a door for the garden apartment.

Taking out his AirPods and returning them to their case, he pressed the specially modified doorbell, which would trigger a light to come on at the front desk.

When the lock released with a distinctclick, he pushed the door open and stepped inside. The rush of cool air-conditioning felt good against his skin.

The receptionist pointed to theON AIRsign and placed her index finger against her pursed lips. Blackwood nodded and closed the door gently behind him.

Through the large panes of glass that surrounded the broadcast booth, the man he had come to meet was wrapping up his show.

With a blazing American flag of red, white, and blue neon lit up behind him, radio host and podcaster Chuck Coughlin leaned into his microphone. He was a sweaty, overweight, middle-aged man with highlights in his receding hair.

Via overhead speakers in the reception area, Blackwood could hear everything.

“Let me make this perfectly clear for you,” Coughlin said as he stared directly into the camera and paused for dramatic effect. “We were told that James Mitchell would be the man to stand up to the system. We were promised that he’d give us the revolution we’ve all been waiting for. The only thingwehad to do was vote for him. Once he won the election, things were going to change.

“Well, since he’s been in the White House, something has definitely changed—and that something is James Mitchell. He’s gone soft, folks. He campaigned on fighting corruption and standing up for the people. And what do we have now? An attack, on Mitchell’s very own supporters, right outside the Vice President’s Residence.

“And let me ask you something. Where was the Secret Service while all this was happening? Where was the Secret Service while decent, hardworking Americans were being gunned down right outside the gates?

“If you listen to Mitchell’s secretary of propaganda—excuse me, I meanpress secretary, the Secret Service was following its mission. It was protecting the Vice President’s family and his residence.

“But let me ask you something. They couldn’t spare a single agent? In the worst attack on American soil we’ve seen in God knows how long, they couldn’t have rolled one of their armored vehicles onto the street and taken the attackers out?

“It makes you wonder. What was Mitchell doing while all of this was unfolding? I’ll tell you what he was doing. He was cowering in the White House, worried that the attackers were coming for him next.

“All of us were told that Mitchell had steel in his spine. That when the moment came and America was tested, he would rise and meet that test. Well, I’m here to tell you, ladies and gentlemen, he failed. And because of that failure, Americans are dead. Our fellow countrymen and women, who were peacefully redressing their grievances and practicing their First Amendment rights, were slaughtered—all because President James Mitchell didn’t have the courage to act when his supporters, when his fellow American citizens, needed him.

“I don’t know what more I can say. It is a dark, dark day for our country. We’re rudderless morally and we’re leaderless politically. America needs a miracle, but miracles seem to be in short supply these days. It’s going to take action. Action from all of us. I just hope we have the willpower, the patriotic fortitude, to do what needs to be done.

“And that’s going to do it for us today, folks. Another three hours of Bunker Radio in the can. I’ll see you right back here tomorrow. Until then, remember—when you’re under attack, Chuck Coughlin has your back. And we are all,definitely, under attack. Stay safe, America.”

He kept his gaze steady, focused right into the lens until his producer stated, “And we’re clear. Great job, CC.”

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