Coston picked up the phone. “General Coston. Yes, go ahead. . . You checked carefully? Thanks.”
He hung up. “Gentlemen, an Air Force photographer filmed the boarding process at Andrews the night the plane left. We’ve just examined the films. They show exactly seven passengers going up those boarding steps, including the President. And if you’ll pardon my language, I’d sure as hell like to know who the eighth person was and where he came from.”
“So would we,” murmured Speaker Verdi.
Madigan gratefully heard Van Dyke ask the question the Vice President wanted answered but didn’t want to ask himself.
“I take it there’s still no word on the President’s body,” said the Chief Justice.
“No, sir.”
“General,” Secretary of Defense Michael Tobin said, “wouldn’t it have been possible for an extra crew member to be aboard? Maybe Colonel Henderson allowed some officer or even an enlisted man to hitch a ride or something —without telling anyone. That would explain the mystery body.”
“Mr. Secretary, I’ve known Marcus Henderson for twenty-two years. He wouldn’t have let his own father get on that plane without listing him on the manifest. He operated Air Force One by the rules, and the rules don’t allow unlisted passengers or crew members.”
“Well,” Madigan finally spoke up, “I’m afraid this is going to prolong the uncertainty.” The next question is whether we tell the press—or have they already been told, General?”
“Not exactly, sir. Dunbar told me two wire service men at the scene—IPS and AP—were advised of the unknown body but on an off-the-record basis pending clearance. Frankly, I’d like to pass the clearance buck to the people in this room. It’s too hot for the Air Force.”
“Hot” was the word for it, Madigan thought. He had the impulse to make the decision himself, a la Harry Truman forcefulness, but uncertainty surged ahead of the impulse and instead he turned to Matt Parrish. “What do you think, Matt?” he asked almost plaintively. ^
“I think we’d better discuss it further,” Parrish said. “The papers’ll read everything into this from a Commie plot to a mad assassin. Mystery body! My instinct tells me to sit on it for a while. How the hell do we know this character didn’t have anything to do with the crash?”
“I agree with Matt,” Secretary of State Sharkey said. “It’s quite possible there’s a direct link between this, ah, unauthorized person and what happened to the plane. Which would—”
“Possible but not likely,” Coston interrupted. “We’re pretty sure Air Force One broke up from extreme storm turbulence. Your unauthorized passenger, as you put it, could hardly have been responsible for a thunderstorm.”
“The Air Force,” Parrish said sharply, “is going to have a slightly rough time explaining to Congress and the public how turbulence could wreck the President’s plane. A brand-new ship, supposedly well tested—the finest product of this nation’s aeronautical genius. This mystery man could give you a little alibi which you bloody well might need.” Coston had to clamp a mental strangle hold on his tongue to keep from reminding Parrish that the Condor’s purchase had not been the Air Force’s idea, and that its acquisition stemmed directly from congressional refusal to buy what the AF wanted—a supersonic transport.
“Senator,” he managed to answer with a modicum of courtesy, “we’re as anxious as anyone else to know what happened to Air Force One. I assure you, sir, we’re looking for explanations, not alibis.”
“We’re getting away from the subject at hand,” Madigan spoke up. “Is it the consensus here that we do not release this information to the press at this time? Does anyone have a different idea?”
“I think we should release it at once,” Secretary of Labor Nelson Gilbert said quietly.
“It’ll probably be in Drew Pearson’s column tomorrow, anyway,” the Chief Justice remarked dourly. “You can’t sit on anything like this—and it’s better to make the announcement from the White House than let some reporter or columnist leak it.”
“Precisely,” the swarthy, heavy-set Labor Secretary said. “If we try to suppress it and it comes out anyway, it’ll have just the effect Parrish fears—a lot of wild speculation and rumors.”
“The speculation and rumors are inevitable no matter how it’s disclosed,” the majority leader snorted. “But suppose we do it this way—let’s sit on it for a few more hours, anyway. By that time, maybe General Coston here will have more bodies identified, perhaps all of them, and we’ll have a better picture.”
“A better picture of what?” demanded Gilbert. “General Coston has told us there was a body aboard that plane which didn’t belong there. We owe it to the American people to disclose every aspect of the investigation.”
“Let’s do a little more investigating before we do the disclosing,” Parrish said. “There must be some explanation for that body. General, I assume you’re leaving no stone unturned to find the explanation. Although it’s obvious Congress will have to look into this tragedy before we’re finished.”
This time Coston could not stifle his long-festering disrespect for politicians, and this politician in particular. The supercilious, hypocritical sonofabitch. Talking about a congressional investigation at this stage—as if the Air Force was either incompetent or trying to hide something or both. If the Air Force had all the money it spent flying lawmakers around for free, it could have bought a presidential SST instead of that damned Condor, he thought bitterly.
“I repeat, Senator Parrish,” the general said with such slowness that his anger was evident, “we’re doing our utmost to solve this matter—and that includes the body as well as the accident. But that’s why I came here today, because there’s no ready explanation and I was hoping somebody in this room could shed some light. I’m only too sorry they couldn’t. With your permission, Mr. Vice President, I’ll get back to my office.”
Madigan looked pleased at this gesture of respect. “Thank you very much, General. I’ll keep you advised of our decision on this press matter. Until you hear from me, tell your people in Winslow to keep it under wraps.”
“Yes, sir.” The general left, his resentment against the majority leader still lingering in the air like an unevaporated jet trail.
“I’m in favor of doing what Matt suggested,” Madigan said. “Let it ride for a few hours. Anyone object to that? All right, I guess it’s time to face a somewhat more important problem. Namely, do you want me to take over unofficially or what?”
The Chief Justice cleared his throat, more to draw attention than to oil his vocal cords. “Legally, Mr. Vice President; there is considerable justification for your assuming the presidency on a temporary basis. Until the President’s body is found and identified beyond question.”
“The revised constitutional amendment on succession?” the Defense Secretary asked.
“Right. As you gentlemen already are aware, it provides that if the President becomes ill or incapacitated to such an extent that he is unable to perform the duties of office, he may designate the Vice President as the Acting President until he is fit to resume those duties. Or the Vice President himself could declare himself Acting President if the President were for some reason unable or unwilling to make such a designation—in the case of mental illness, for example.” _
“The amendment doesn’t seem to fit this situation,” Madigan pointed out. “We don’t have a sick or crazy President. We don’t even know if we have a President.”
“True,” said Van Dyke, “but the legal authority still is there. Under the law, you could designate yourself as Acting President while Haines is missing. If he’s found, and alive, he’d resume office.”
“Suppose,” queried the bone-thin Defense Secretary, “Haines is found alive but is, well, not quite himself. That isn’t a farfetched possibility, considering all the unusual aspects of this business—the mystery body being a prime example. God knows what happened aboard that plane, or what we’ll find out eventually.”
&nbs
p; “The hypothesis you suggest,” Van Dyke said rather ponderously, “is that the President would be incapable of assuming his duties but would be unwilling to let Mr. Madigan continue as Acting President. In that case, the law provides that a special congressional commission adjudicate the conflict between the two men, with the aid of proper psychiatric advice.”
“I don’t think any, uh, conflict would arise,” Madigan said hastily, even as Haines’s never-forgotten appraisal of the Vice President’s governing abilities sailed through his mind.
“That’s not the point,” Van Dyke said. “The major problem facing us is that the country cannot be without a President, no matter what the circumstances. The precedents are overwhelming. Eisenhower had an informal take-over agreement with Nixon after his first heart attack. Kennedy and Johnson had the same agreement. And so did Johnson and Humphrey. They all recognized the absolute necessity of the continuance of the office. The constitutional amendment merely legalized those informal agreements and spelled them out further to cover all possible exigencies.”
“It’s still difficult for me to announce to the nation that I’m Acting President before anyone knows whether Haines is dead,” Madigan argued. “It seems presumptuous.”
“I can only reiterate what the Chief Justice has told us,” Speaker Verdi said, gazing directly at the Vice President. “It is imperative that the country not be without a President for another five minutes. Good God, Fred, suppose Russia or Red China launched an attack while we’re sitting here. The President of the United States would have to order retaliation. Or, in this case, the Acting President. So let’s get on with it. This is no debating topic and no time for personal feelings and being a nice, modest, self-effacing guy. Does the Cabinet agree?”
The Cabinet nodded as one man, with a few verbal murmurs of consent.
“There should be an immediate press conference called,” Parrish decreed. “Fred, do you want me to make the announcement, or should the-Chief Justice?”
“No,” said Frederick James Madigan. “I’ll make it myself.”
He did, within the hour, and after the press conference he moved right into the oval room with its cream-beige walls, the room that had served as the working quarters for every President since Theodore Roosevelt. Madigan had been here several times, but the big room seemed to have acquired new proportions of size and awesome dignity.
The office, located in the West Wing, was bright and cheerful even without the sunlight of this pleasant September afternoon. The shafts streamed through the twelve-foot french windows, illuminating as if by a spotlight the Great Seal of the United States woven into the huge, grayish-green carpeting.
Madigan was escorted into the room by Newton Spellman. He sat down behind the President’s massive desk, noticing instantly the combined pipe rack and tobacco humidor on the left side and the strangely disturbing fact that the pipestems bore the teeth marks of Jeremy Haines.
It gave him the uneasy, unreal feeling that this was not an office used by a living person but rather a carefully, restored museum section.
Even the eighteen-button telephone console on the desk seemed more ornamental than electronic. Madigan fingered a couple of the buttons, touching them gingerly in the manner of a child reaching out toward fire. “I guess I’ll need to be checked out on this contraption,” he said. “Do you know what all these buttons mean?”
“Not all of them, sir. The emergency ones you should know about first. That red one is the maximum security button. It’s a special line that scrambles the President’s voice. The person being called hears nothing but gibberish unless he has an unscrambling button at his end. The red button is hooked to the war room at the Pentagon. You can talk to any military base in the world on that line via the war room, including SAC headquarters in Omaha or NATO.”
“And the amber one next to the red?”
“That’s a direct line to an Army switchboard. The switchboard can connect you instantly with any Cabinet member and the heads of certain agencies. The CIA, for example, or the Joint Chiefs and so forth. Both those colored buttons are linked to the Pentagon’s war room, by the way. The others, well, maybe I’d better let Mrs. Hahn fill you in on them. That’s her button there.”
“Mrs. Hahn? Oh yes, the woman in the outer office.”
“Yes, sir. She’ll be your personal secretary. Very efficient person.”
“Fine,” Madigan said, although the word came out cloaked with nervous uncertainty. He glanced around the room, awed anew by the Stars and Stripes and the purple and gold flag bearing the presidential seal directly behind the massive desk.
“This desk—must be seven feet long,” he remarked as he caressed the ornate wood scrolling. “Looks like something one of my pred—uh, like something picked up at an auction. Where did it come from, Newt?”
The question strained Spellman’s credibility. The man was about to take over the presidency and he was asking about a piece of furniture. Well, the press secretary assumed charitably, Madigan probably was just nervous and needed a bit of small talk.
“It’s from the timbers of a British warship,” Spellman recounted. “When the ship was scrapped, Queen Victoria had some of the wood made into this desk and sent it as a gift to Rutherford Hayes. Every President used it until FDR, who apparently didn’t like it and ordered it put in storage. Mrs. Kennedy found it hidden under a piece of cloth on the ground floor and President Kennedy had it moved to the Executive Wing. It originally was in the Lincoln Room on the second floor when that room was used as a President’s study.”
“Very interesting,” the Vice President said with sincerity. “I imagine there’s a lot to learn about this place. Historically, I mean. You seem well versed.”
“It’s sort of a hobby with me,” Spellman explained. “Sir, would you like to take a little tour of the White House before you settle down to work? I know you’ve been here many times, but I’d be glad to show you around.”
“I don’t think so,” Madigan decided quickly. “Not today, anyway, Newt. Haines showed us around quite a bit a couple of weeks after he was inaugurated—not with your historical commentary, I must, admit. I think I’d rather get to work. You’ll be handy in case I need you?”
“Just down the corridor, Mr. President. My button is this one.”
Madigan wanted to call Hester right away, but when he buzzed Mrs. Hahn she informed him that the Secretary of State was waiting to see him. He had forgotten Sharkey had requested a private session after the Cabinet meeting.
“Send him right in,” he told her, wondering how at this stage he could manage to look busy. He wished there were some papers on the desk so he could riffle through them in a show of executive zeal, but Sharkey’s immediate entrance made any such ridiculous subterfuge unnecessary.
“Jim, I’m glad to see you,” Madigan proclaimed, getting to his feet and coming out from behind the desk to shake the Cabinet official’s hand. Sharkey didn’t bother to sit down, but placed a bulging briefcase on a nearby chair.
“Mr. Vice President, I won’t detract from your valuable time. I’ve taken the liberty of assembling a few classified documents and reports I felt you might want to study. Sort of a written briefing, as it were. There’s one in particular, a report from the National Security Council and CIA on China’s current intentions. You were on a speaking trip, as I recall, when it was orally presented to the President about three or four weeks ago.”
“Yes,” Madigan confirmed, “I was sorry to miss that Council meeting. And I’m afraid the President didn’t have time to brief me on it after I got back.” The last was delivered in the tone of sad but brave resignation mothers have been known to use when an offspring hurt their feelings. Sharkey ignored Madigan’s unsubtle whining, took a half dozen volumes and folders from the briefcase, and left them on the presidential desk before departing.
Madigan’s next visitor was Frank Corris, the White House appointments secretary, who already had compiled a list of assorted congressmen, politician
s and others seeking audiences the following day. It approximated the passenger manifest on a transcontinental flight, and it took more than an hour for Corris and the Vice President to compress it down to reasonable proportions. More difficult for Corris, that is. Madigan was eagerly ready to see almost anyone who asked.
“My God,” he marveled after they agreed on seven appointments of fifteen minutes’ duration each, “do this many people want to see the President every day?”
“Not quite this many, sir. But enough to occupy an entire day if you don’t draw a few lines. And if you don’t mind a little advice . . .”
“Go right ahead,” Madigan assured him.
“Well, make every caller stick to that fifteen-minute schedule. Otherwise, he’ll stay an hour or more if you’ll let him.”
“I’ll remember,” Madigan promised. “Uh, President Haines . . . did he . . . uh, does he schedule as many as seven appointments?”
“Limit of five, usually,” Corris said huskily, avoiding the use of either past or present tense. “If there’s nothing else, sir, I’ll get back to my own office.”
He left hurriedly without even waiting for Madigan to answer. The Vice President was slightly nettled at this rudeness and made a mental note that Corris might have to be replaced along with Spellman. It never penetrated why Corris departed so abruptly. Madigan had failed to see the tears welling up in his eyes.
Spellman returned to ask if it was all right to put the lid on.
“The lid?” Madigan asked.
“To tell the reporters nothing more is expectable today,” Spellman said.
“How the hell should I know?” the Vice President demanded. “Frankly, I’d like to go home myself.” The press secretary had unwittingly reminded him of an unexpected problem. Namely, who told the Acting President when to go home?
“I don’t know of anything that might come up, sir,” Spellman said. “Of course, we might get something out of Arizona at any time.”
“Well, do I have to stay around for that?”
The President's Plane Is Missing Page 14