To the left and right of the stage and in the rear of the auditorium, still and video cameramen—plus half a dozen guys, whatever they were called, manipulating microphone booms—were crowded together, preparing to send the images and sounds of the conference around the world.
And there was something Roscoe was surprised to see: A detachment of the 3rd Infantry—“the Old Guard”—drum and bugle corps wearing Revolutionary War uniforms. The detachment was lined up, without much room to spare, to the left of the stage, between the stage and the cameramen.
Roscoe had just enough time to wonder about them—they had never been involved in a presidential press conference that he could remember—when the lights dimmed twice as a signal that something was about to begin. The lights went up—really up, to provide lighting for the cameras—and a line of people filed onto the stage.
Vice President Charles W. Montvale came first, followed by Secretary of State Natalie Cohen. Montvale took up a position immediately behind the podium, where he would be on the right of the President when he appeared, and Cohen took up a position to the left of the podium. Next came Truman Ellsworth, the director of National Intelligence, and then A. Franklin Lammelle, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, and finally Generals Naylor and McNab. They took up positions to the left and right of the podium.
Presidential press secretary John David “Porky” Parker stepped to the podium and announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States.”
Everybody stood.
There came a roll of drums, and the sound of fifes playing “Hail to the Chief.”
President Clendennen marched purposefully onto the stage. He was a short, pudgy, pale-skinned fifty-two-year-old Alabaman who kept his tiny ears hidden under a full head of silver hair. As he marched past the dignitaries, just how short he was momentarily was made clear; he was shorter than even Natalie Cohen. Then he reached the podium and stepped onto a hidden platform that made him appear taller than everybody.
“Good morning,” the President said. “Thank you for coming.”
Danton grunted softly. Good morning, Shorty. Wouldn’t have missed it for the world.
The President’s voice was deep and resonant.
I’ll give him that. He sounds like what people want a President to sound like. And when he’s standing on his little stool, he looks presidential.
“Most of you,” the President began, “thanks to the zealous— perhaps too zealous—reporting of a distinguished journalist writing for one of our more distinguished newspapers, are aware of a tragic incident that took place yesterday in Mexico. Three of our fellow Americans were found shot to death. A fourth American is missing.”
And who were these people? Did they have names? What were they doing in Mexico?
“Let me begin by stating that I have no more sacred duty as President and Commander in Chief than the protection of the lives of my fellow citizens, wherever they might be.”
Aside from not getting impeached, and maybe even getting reelected.
“And let me confess, as Zeke Clendennen, private citizen, that I am as outraged as anyone in our great nation about what happened outside Acapulco yesterday. I really understand, and sympathize with, those who think—as did one of Andy McClarren’s guests last night on The Straight Scoop—that we should send in the Marines as we did to Veracruz in 1914 and ‘teach them a lesson they won’t soon forget.’”
Sure you do, Zeke.
“But I am no longer Zeke Clendennen, private citizen. And as President and Commander in Chief, I have a responsibility to our great nation as a whole.
“There are parallels—as I’m sure you all know—between what happened yesterday near Acapulco and what happened in Tampico in 1914.”
Most of the clowns in the White House Press Corps have no idea what happened in Tampico, or, for that matter, where it is.
“And there are considerable differences.”
No shit? Give me a for-instance, Zeke.
“The nine American sailors arrested in Mexico in 1914 were not arrested by a legitimate Mexican government, but by a Mexican dictator, a self-appointed general, Victoriano Huerta. President Woodrow Wilson publicly referred to Huerta as ‘false, sly, full of bravado, seldom sober, always irresponsible, and a scoundrel.’
“It should go without saying that the United States did not recognize dictator Huerta or his so-called government.”
Then how come we recognize Hugo Chavez? Isn’t he a dictator who’s false, sly, full of bravado, seldom sober, always irresponsible, and a scoundrel?
“The exact opposite situation exists in Mexico today. The president of the United Mexican States, my close personal friend, Ramón Martinez . . .”
A close friend, Zeke, like those guys in Matamoros who grab your arm and ask, “Hey, gringo, you wanna fook my see-ster?”
“. . . is a statesman recognized around the world for his lifelong dedication to the principles of freedom and honesty in government.
“When this terrible incident of yesterday came to President Martinez’s attention, the first thing he did was send a senior officer from the Mexican foreign ministry to our embassy in Mexico City to inform our ambassador. Then he called his good friend in the White House—he calls me ‘Zeke’—to tell me what had happened, and to apologize to the American people for what had happened. He gave me his word, officially and as a friend, that he and every branch of the government of Mexico will do everything possible not only to apprehend and quickly bring to justice those responsible for the deaths of our fellow citizens, but to locate and safely return the missing officer to his family.”
Frankly, Zeke, I am not holding my breath. From what I saw in Mexico, every other cop is on the payroll of one of the drug cartels.
Castillo even bought—from the damn Federales—a Black Hawk the U.S. gave them to help fight the drug cartels. Charley used it to fly us onto the island.
I wonder what happened to the Black Hawk after we flew it back to the USS Bataan? Charley said that when the Bataan got back to Norfolk, they should say nothing; just unload the helo onto the wharf, then let the Mexican ambassador explain how it got there after the Mexican government had told us it had been totally destroyed fighting the drug cartels.
I can’t believe Natalie Cohen would go along with that, but I thought it was a great idea.
“We came very close in 1914 to going to war with Mexico . . .”
Again. I’m sure you will recall, Zeke, that we also had one with them in 1846. You know, like the Marines sing, “From the halls of Montezuma”?
“. . . And we came close, as you all know, to war recently. Our late and beloved President, faced with a very difficult choice, decided it was his duty as Commander in Chief of our nation to launch a preemptive strike on what he believed was a factory in the Congo manufacturing a dangerous substance that could have been used against us.”
“What he believed was a factory in the Congo manufacturing a dangerous substance that could have been used against us”?
Where did your late and beloved predecessor get a wild idea like that? Was he supposed to take the word of the guy who runs our biological warfare lab and personally go to the Congo to have a look?
“Like every other patriotic American, I fully supported—perhaps even cheered—his courageous decision.”
I seem to recall you saying, in front of a microphone you thought had been turned off, that it was “idiotic and reckless.”
“And then, when God in His infinite wisdom took our Commander in Chief from us, and I found myself in that role, I came to understand how difficult the decision he had taken was for him.”
Where the hell are you going now, Mr. President?
“The President was a wise and knowledgeable man. More than anyone else, he knew how close his decision would bring us to a nuclear war, and he knew full well that could have meant the end of the world.
“I came out of my study, my appreciation, of what the President had done wit
h two things: First, an even deeper admiration of his wisdom and character than I had had. And, second, an awareness that I was ill equipped to step into his empty shoes, and that without God’s help, I simply could not do so.”
Zeke baby, you finally said something I agree with.
“So I ask you, my fellow Americans, to pray for me. Pray to God to give me the wisdom and the courage that He gave to our late Commander in Chief. Pray to God that when another problem challenges our country, He will give me the strength to not act impulsively but rather with tempered wisdom.”
I hate to tell you this, Zeke, but getting God to give you tempered wisdom’s going to take a lot of praying.
“I was informed just before I came up here that there are matters requiring my immediate attention at the White House. So I will not be able to take questions.
“The Vice President and others here with me today will answer any questions you may have.
“Thank you. God bless you. God bless the United States of America.”
The President then stepped from behind the podium and walked quickly to the edge of the stage and down a shallow flight of stairs.
What the hell? That’s it?
Before you take off, Zeke, you’re supposed to wait until one of your pals in the press corps, cued by Porky Parker, cuts off the conference by saying, “Thank you, Mr. President.”
The cameras followed the President and recorded Porky Parker as he fended off the White House Press Corps as they shouted questions and tried to get close to the President.
Roscoe looked at the stage and saw on the faces of the assembled dignitaries that they were as surprised by President Clendennen’s sudden departure as he was.
Secret Service agents and the CIA police kept the press corps from chasing the President and Porky into the corridor. The chasing press and those who hadn’t chased the President now turned their attention to the podium.
And the podium was empty.
The dignitaries looked at one another in visible confusion, until finally both DCI A. Franklin Lammelle and Vice President Charles W. Montvale at once began heading for the podium.
Lammelle deferred to the Vice President, and stepped back into line.
Montvale stepped to the podium and was under immediate assault by shouts of “Mr. Vice President!” from the press corps.
Danton shook his head at the sight of the melee, and thought, This has turned into a Chinese clusterfuck!
“When everybody has calmed down . . .” Vice President Montvale began, and then stopped when he realized his microphones were not working and his voice could not be heard over the shouts asking for his attention.
He first looked at the microphones in front of him for a switch, and then, finding none, bent to look behind the podium to see if he could find a switch there.
Lammelle broke ranks again and went to the podium to help.
Unbelievable! Danton thought. Un-fucking-believable!
CIA functionaries, uniformed and in suits, came to the stage and the podium to help.
A moment later there came a piercing electronic scream, quickly followed by a full volume broadcast of the Vice President’s voice saying, “Oh, shit!”
This served to almost quiet the room.
“As the President has left the building,” the Vice President’s voice came over the loudspeakers, “this press conference is over.”
That’s “Elvis has left the building,” Montvale!
The Vice President then stepped away from the podium and walked briskly off the stage. The other dignitaries quickly followed him. CIA functionaries kept the press away from them.
The CIA can’t even make their microphone work!
And since this farce is on eleven zillion television sets around the world.
Wait a minute! I’m missing something here!
What the hell?
The glistening Sikorsky VH-60 White Hawk helicopter, known as Marine One when carrying the President, was waiting for the President beside the CIA headquarters building.
Supervisory Secret Service agent Robert J. Mulligan, a tall and stocky forty-five-year-old, came out of the building and quickly checked to see that everything—other Secret Service agents, a fire engine, and an ambulance—was as it should be, and then signaled to the President that he was free to board Marine One.
Mulligan had been on Vice President Clendennen’s security detail, but as one of the agents, not as the supervisory special agent in charge. When Clendennen had suddenly become the President, he announced he wanted Mulligan to head his security detail. When it had been—very tactfully—pointed out to President Clendennen that there already was a supervisory agent in charge of the Presidential Security detail, the President had replied, “I don’t want to argue about this. Mulligan will do it. Got it?”
President Clendennen, trailed by Porky Parker, walked quickly to the White Hawk and climbed aboard, failing to acknowledge the salute of the Marine in dress blues standing by the stair door.
Mulligan quickly followed and reached for the switch that would close the stair door.
“Leave it open,” the President ordered. “And turn on the TV.”
The screen showed the stage of Auditorium Three above a moving legend on the bottom, WOLF NEWS BREAKING NEWS, THE PRESIDENTIAL PRESS CONFERENCE AT CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VA.
The image was of assorted people, including the Vice President, trying to do something about the non-functioning microphone.
The voice of Vice President Montvale crying “Oh, shit!” filled the passenger compartment of Marine One.
“Oh, shit,” presidential press secretary Parker said softly.
The Wolf News camera now turned to the VIP journalists in the front-row seats, finally settling on C. Harry Whelan, Jr., who was shaking his head in disbelief.
The voice of the Vice President announced, “As the President has left the building, this press conference is over.”
The camera quickly shifted to the podium, just in time to see the Vice President march away from it. Then it shifted to a shot of the dignitaries quickly hurrying after him.
“Mr. President, I have no idea what happened,” Porky Parker said. “But I’m sorry.”
“You should be,” the President said. “I never thought you had what it takes to be the President’s press secretary.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re fired, Porky. Get off my helicopter.”
“What?”
“When I get back to the White House, I will announce that I have accepted your resignation.”
“Mr. President, I was in no way responsible for—”
“Nobody’s likely to believe that, are they, Porky? Now, get off my goddamn helicopter!”
Parker went to the door and down the door stairs.
Mulligan threw the switch that caused the door stairs to retract.
“Well, that took care of that disloyal sonofabitch, didn’t it, Bob?” the President asked.
“I thought that everything went very well, Mr. President,” Mulligan said.
“I owe you one,” the President said. He pointed toward the cockpit. “Tell him to get us out of here.”
III
[ONE]
Auditorium Three
CIA Headquarters
McLean, Virginia
1120 12 April 2007
Roscoe J. Danton had decided, without really thinking about it, that he was going to have to write a “think piece” about this clusterfuck, rather than just covering it. Other people, simple reporters, would cover the story. But he was, after all, a syndicated columnist of the Washington Times-Post Writers Syndicate; his readers expected more of him.
His biography, on the Times-Post website, written by some eager-eyed journalist fresh from the Columbia School of Journalism, said, “Mr. Danton joined the Times-Post immediately after his service in the U.S. Marine Corps.”
That was true, though it hadn’t happened quite the way it sounded.
Roscoe had been a
Marine. He had joined the Corps at seventeen, immediately after graduating from high school. After boot camp at the Marine Corps Recruit Depot at Parris Island, South Carolina, he had been transferred to Camp Pendleton, California. A week after arriving at Camp Pendleton, a forklift had dropped a pallet of 105mm artillery ammunition on his left foot during landing exercises on the Camp Pendleton beach.
Two months after that, PFC Roscoe J. Danton had been medically retired from the Marine Corps with a 15 percent disability. He returned to his home in Chevy Chase, Maryland, and entered George Washington University as a candidate for a degree in political science.
He also secured part-time employment as a copy boy at The Washington Times-Post. By the time he graduated from George Washington, he had acquired a fiancé––a childhood friend he had known since they were in third grade—and decided he had found his niche in life: journalism.
This latter conclusion had been based on his somewhat immodest conclusion that he was smarter than three-fourths of the journalists for whom he had been fetching coffee in the newsroom.
This opinion was apparently shared by the powers-that-were in the executive offices of the Times-Post, who hired him as a full-time reporter shortly after he graduated from George Washington.
He married Miss Elizabeth Warner two months later, shortly after she found herself in the family way. By the time Roscoe J. Danton, Jr., aged five, was presented with a baby brother—Warner James Danton—Roscoe J. Danton had not only grown used to seeing his byline in the rag, but had become one of the youngest reporters ever to flaunt the credentials of a member of the White House Press Corps.
Things were not going well at home, however. Elizabeth Warner Danton ultimately announced that she had had quite enough of his behavior.
“You have humiliated me for the last time, Roscoe, by showing up at church functions late—if you show up at all—and reeking of alcohol. Make up your mind, Roscoe, it’s either your drinking and carousing or your family.”
After giving the ultimatum some thought, Roscoe had moved into the Watergate Apartments. He concluded, perhaps selfishly, that there wasn’t much of a choice between the interesting people with whom he associated professionally in various watering holes and the middle-level bureaucrats with whom Elizabeth expected him to associate socially at Saint Andrews Presbyterian Church in Chevy Chase.
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