by Robert Gandt
His hand reached for the red guarded switch on the console.
<>
We may have differences about national policy, and we may disagree about the deployment of our military. But once the commander-in-chief has reached a decision and that decision has been ratified by Congress, it is the duty of the military leadership to respect that—
The explosion sounded like a thunderclap. The noise rattled the building, resonating through the walls, causing the pencil to hop around on the desk in front of Libby. She stopped speaking. The sound had been picked up on her microphone, then blasted back through her earbud. She knew that everyone watching was as startled as she was.
“What the hell?” she heard Cirilli blurt, also loudly enough to carry over the mike.
Seconds later came the noise of debris hitting the roof. It sounded like a hailstorm. Libby could hear the clatter of objects clanging off the tops of parked automobiles outside.
What next? she thought. This was turning into a Wagnerian opera. First the ominous sound from the adjoining room. Then thunder, followed by things raining down from heaven. Where was Jill? Where was Pete?
The camera was still on her. She saw her image in the monitor, flashing on and off. She looked frightened and speechless. Not the calming image of a President addressing her troubled countrymen.
This is what you do best, Brand had said. You reassure people.
The screen was still jiggling. Libby took a deep breath and looked directly into the camera.
<>
McDivott leaned forward in his chair. The sound of the explosion had been clearly audible. The image in the television was flashing on and off. McDivott knew what would happen next. The woman’s face would abruptly vanish, replaced by a blank screen. Or a snow burst of random pixels. The camera feed would switch back to the network. Perplexed announcers would speculate about what happened until someone finally determined that neither the woman or the station from which she was speaking any longer existed.
McDivott kept his eyes on the screen. Nothing was changing. He waited. The image was still there. The flashing stopped. The woman was speaking again.
<>
Once my decision has been ratified by Congress, our differences must end. It is the duty of the military to respect that decision. That’s the way our system of government works.
As President, I have always held the leadership of our armed forces in the highest regard. They are superbly qualified officers who have dedicated their lives to protecting our country. Almost without exception, they are loyal Americans who respect the role of the military in our civilian-led system of government. If it is determined that any of our military leaders have betrayed the trust placed in them, it is my duty to remove those disloyal members from our armed forces. And I will.
My fellow Americans, at this hour of crisis I ask for your unwavering support. We must reject this horrendous attempt to overthrow our system of government. With your help we will preserve the executive branch of our republic. Together we must turn back this vicious assault on our values. As your President, I promise you that I will fight to my last breath to fulfill my duty to you and to our great nation.
Thank you, and may God bless America.
<>
“General, you have calls waiting.”
McDivott glanced over his shoulder. Ripley was holding the phone out to him again. “Speaker Atwater again,” said Ripley, “and the Secretary of Defense, Senator Stroud, Mr. Reckson, half a dozen others.”
McDivott shook his head. “Tell them I’ll get back to them.”
“Sir, I really think you should—”
“No, Jim. No calls. I’m working on something. I need to be alone.”
Ripley started to protest, then caught himself. For a long moment he studied McDivott. “Very well, sir. I’ll be in the duty room.”
McDivott watched Ripley leave. He wondered what Ripley would do. Disappear? No, not Ripley. Clerk that he was, Jim Ripley still had a sense of honor. What would the other insiders do? They were good men, patriots who had cast their lot with Capella. Now their fate was uncertain. Whatever happened to them would be the responsibility of Vance McDivott.
McDivott tilted back in the office chair and gazed around the windowless room that had served as his command post. On his desk were framed photographs of his wife, a blonde socialite with a fetching smile, and his daughter, a pretty nineteen-year-old sophomore at Cornell. McDivott looked up at the face of Curtis LeMay. The old warhorse gazed back at him with what McDivott took to be an expression of approval. The look a warrior gave a bloodied comrade when their battle was nearing a finish. LeMay understood.
McDivott’s eyes swept over the console that contained the encrypted communications links to every major command. He stared for a moment at the situation display where he had followed the hunt for Air Force One. Then he looked again at the flickering television monitor. A network announcer was on the screen. He was parsing the President’s speech, talking about cabals, coups, removal of generals. McDivott heard his name being mentioned.
McDivott stopped listening. It no longer mattered. Since taking his oath at the Air Force Academy as a newly commissioned officer, he had been faithful to his principles. Patriotism, duty, faith in God—those were Vance McDivott’s core values. He had demonstrated courage in the face of enemy fire. He had been prepared to sacrifice his life for his country.
And he still was.
McDivott pulled the ring of keys from inside the briefcase at his desk. He found the one that unlocked the bottom drawer of the desk. The Beretta was still in its holster, well oiled, ready for use. He hadn’t carried it with him since his last combat tour. When was that? Afghanistan, he remembered. Over four years ago.
McDivott picked up the weapon, hefted it, checked the magazine. It was full. He slid the action back, pumped a nine mm. round into the chamber. He was in no hurry. For another two minutes he sat quietly, reflecting on the events that had brought him to this juncture. He had no regrets. He had fought the good fight. He had nothing to fear. It was the way of the warrior.
With that thought McDivott raised the Beretta to his temple.
<>
It was over.
Libby didn’t move. The face of the announcer, Brian Smedley, was in the monitor.
Another voice came over her earbud. “Wow. That was . . . quite a speech, Madame President. The best I’ve ever heard you give.” It was the network producer again. What was his name? After a second it came to her.
“Thank you, Mr. Marks,” said Libby. “Let’s hope it had the intended result.”
“Our phones haven’t stopped ringing since the moment you went on the air. This is a historic moment.”
Libby didn’t feel like talking to Marks. She removed the earbud and the clip-on microphone. She gazed around the studio. Cirilli was looking at her as if noticing something he’d never seen before. He began clapping and the applause was joined by Hagen and Schneider. Libby smiled and gave them a bow of her head.
She felt oddly relaxed. It was a good speech. She knew it. Somehow she had risen above her fear, her feeling of inadequacy. Where had that come from? Was it just another act?
No. She was finished with acting. Be a real President, Brand had said. And so she had been. No speechwriter, no teleprompter, no staff. Without Jill Maitlin she had delivered the most important speech of her Presidency. When you speak from the heart, it’s not an act. That’s what she would do from now on. No more pretending. That included her relationship with Brand. Where would that go? She didn’t know, but she knew where her heart was taking her. If the country didn’t like it, let them impeach her.
She saw Sheriff Waller come through the door to the anteroom. He was holding what looked like a portable radio. “That’s it,” said the sheriff. “They’re leaving.”
Libby didn’t understand. “Leaving? Who’s leaving?”
“The Galeforce bunch. All of them. They’re climbing into the helicopters. Two are gone already.
” Waller held up the radio. “Our radios are working again, and I’ve just been informed that the Pesties are on the way.”
“Pesties?”
“Penn state police.” Waller shook his head. “Right on cue. We handle the crisis, then the Pesties show up to take the credit.”
“What was that explosion that shook the building?”
“Something—we don’t have a clue what it was—blew up right above the station. Scared the crap out of everyone. The pieces hit our cars and wounded one of my deputies.”
“And that . . . other noise?”
Waller looked uncomfortable. He removed the broad-brimmed hat and ran his hand through his mane of graying hair. “Ma’am, something else happened,” he said. “Something we didn’t expect.”
Chapter 31
Two weeks later.
The Rose Garden is filled to capacity. Rows of folding chairs cover the neatly trimmed lawn. The reporters are poised, waiting for the President to finish the formal remarks before they can jump in with questions. Jennifer Rollins, newly installed in her job as White House Press Secretary, has already served notice that anyone who doesn’t wait their turn will get hammered. Transgressors will find themselves barred from future press conferences.
It was Libby’s choice to hold the press conference out here. For over a century the Rose Garden has been the warm weather venue for presidential announcements and ceremonies. Along the West Colonnade the tulips are in full bloom. Flowering magnolias punctuate each corner of the garden. The recently planted daffodils fill the beds on the north and south borders of the rectangular lawn. Libby loves the openness, the flood of colors, and especially the tempering effect the lush garden has on audiences. She will need all the tempering she can get today.
Libby turns her gaze back to the battery of television cameras and continues her remarks. “That we have emerged from the events of two weeks ago serves as testimony to the inherent strength of our system of government. As Americans have always done in times of crisis, we have become a more united people. If anything good has come from this terrible event, it is the knowledge that loyal and dedicated Americans are prepared to step up and defend our country.”
Her plan is to keep the remarks short. Let the reporters ferret out the salient facts during the question and answer session. She is comfortable with that format, unlike earlier in her Presidency when she lived in fear of open press conferences. When she dreaded reporters and their gotcha questions. Particularly the Washington press corps, who have been notoriously vicious to the Paulsen administration.
She’s over that. No longer does she feel intimidated by this crowd. Brand had it right. They weren’t elected to run the country. You were.
She continues. “As you know, there have been numerous replacements and new appointments in our military and civilian branches. Some of these replacements are a result of the recent events. Some are simply routine appointments of persons I think are best suited to serve this administration. We’ve given explanations for some of the replacements, and beyond that I would request that you not draw inferences.”
It is a futile request, of course. Drawing inferences is what the press lives for. Once they’ve scented blood, nothing will deter the hounds from the chase. By last count, ten of those present today have contracts for books on what they’re calling “the cabal” and the “failed coup.”
“So with these appointments,” Libby says, “and with the realignment of our recent treaties with Iran and North Korea, this administration is embarking on a bold new path. I am grateful to the leaders of both parties for the prompt ratification of these amended treaties and for their timely confirmation of our new Vice President. This should send the clearest possible signal to our people—and to the rest of the world—that the United States is mending its wounds and has a brilliant future ahead. Thank you for your attention, ladies and gentlemen. I will now take questions.”
Hands are popping up as if they were spring-loaded. Libby gives the nod to Walter Korick, whose forty-some years at the Washington Post give him seniority in the White House press corps.
Korick rises creakily to his feet. “Madame President, there is still a great deal of speculation about why you nominated Senator Karl Ozinsky for Vice President, even though Senator Ozinsky is not from your party. Especially since Speaker Fred Atwater was already the acting President during your . . . umm, absence from office. Wouldn’t it have been a more logical—and unifying—gesture to name Mr. Atwater as your successor?”
Good, thinks Libby. Get that one over with. “Thank you, Walter, for the excellent question. But I want to correct something. By appointing a new Vice President, I was not, as you suggest, naming my successor. Though this may come as a disappointment to some of you, I have no intention of giving up this job.”
A wave of laughter sweeps over the audience. Even old Korick is chuckling.
Libby goes on. “I fulfilled a constitutional responsibility by nominating Senator Ozinsky, who I happen to think would make a fine President.” She pauses, then adds, “But not for several more years.”
She has to wait again for the laughter to subside. The next question comes from Alice Townsend, veteran columnist for the New York Times. “Madame President, when you say ‘several more years,’ are you signaling that you intend to run for another term?”
Libby smiles. “No, Alice. I’m signaling that I intend to serve as President for as long as the American people want me to serve.”
Libby sees the buzz flow through the audience. Townsend is shaking her head approvingly. Amazing, thinks Libby, what a crisis can do for your ratings. Three weeks ago, when her poll numbers were diving toward single digits, the notion of an extended Paulsen Presidency seemed unthinkable. Yesterday’s Gallup showed Libby’s numbers soaring through seventy percent. Even the stock market has voted its approval. After a short plunge following the failed coup attempt, the Dow has shot up over three hundred points.
Another reporter, Joe Gilstrap from the Los Angeles Times, takes his turn. “Madame President, you didn’t really answer the question about Speaker Atwater. There are rumors that the Speaker might have been affiliated with the cabal that attempted to remove you from office. Was that a consideration in your decision not to nominate him as Vice President?”
Libby regards him for moment. Gilstrap has been one of her nastiest antagonists in the press. He is also one of the investigative reporters racing to get a book out. “Absolutely not,” says Libby. “I am aware of the rumors and I can assure you that they have no validity whatsoever. I hold Speaker Atwater in the highest regard and know him to be an honorable statesman. I wish him continued success as a leader in the House of Representatives.”
As she speaks, Libby catches the barely discernible nod from her newly appointed National Security Advisor. Jill Maitlin towers by a head over most of the staff and cabinet members standing off to the side. Jill’s right arm is still in the sling. The bullet that ripped the flesh between her neck and shoulder had narrowly missed an artery. She will always wear an interesting scar as a memento of Gettysburg.
It was Jill Maitlin’s idea to confront Atwater about the damaging photos of Libby and Pete Brand. If the Speaker had any interest in escaping trial as a co-conspirator with the members of Vance McDivott’s cabal, he would surrender the photos and deny that they ever existed. Atwater had required fewer than five seconds to declare his agreement. Though he swore there were no other copies of the photos, Libby doesn’t really believe him. In the final analysis, it doesn’t matter. She no longer worries about what the media makes of her private life.
There are more questions, most pertaining to the conspiracy to remove Libby Paulsen from office. “As you know,” Libby says, “the joint Congressional investigation panel has begun its work and it would be inappropriate for me to speculate on their findings. In a news conference tomorrow, the Attorney General will update you on the indictments he has sought. Some you already know about. They are senior military officers as wel
l as a number of civilians associated with the security contracting company called Galeforce. Several of these individuals, including General Ripley of the Joint Chiefs staff, have already turned themselves in, while a few others, like Mr. Berg, the former director of Galeforce, and Mr. Schlater, the former Deputy Director of our Secret Service, have not yet surrendered. I have no doubt that they will soon be in custody.”
“Madame President,” says Milly Watrous, Washington bureau chief for Fox News, “can you give us some details about your upcoming trip to the Middle East? It’s been only two weeks since the disastrous trip when Air Force One was attacked. The public is wondering why you would want to fly again aboard another of the same aircraft.”
Libby turns to the men and women on either side of her at the podium. They are the honorees to whom Libby has presented medals in the private ceremony thirty minutes ago in the East Room. Libby smiles at the slender man in the Air Force uniform with the colonel’s eagles on his shoulders. “If you’re asking whether I’m concerned about my safety,” said Libby, “the answer is no. I have no worries whatsoever. One of the things I have learned is that Air Force One is flown by the most competent and professional crew in the world. Our Presidential Pilot has distinguished himself not only as a highly competent pilot but a courageous and professional officer. My staff and I look forward to flying many thousands of miles aboard Air Force One.”
More reporters’ hands are in the air, but Libby is still looking at the honorees lined up at the podium. For a long moment she holds eye contact with the woman in Air Force service dress uniform standing closest to her. Maj. Samantha Fornier, leaning on crutches and wearing her newly presented Air Force Cross, has surprised Libby with her attitude. Nothing, Sam Fornier declared, absolutely nothing would prevent her from regaining full use of her legs. She has mountains to climb, trails to hike, marathons to run. To hell with crutches. Libby believes her.
Standing with Sam Fornier is a beaming Ben Waller, resplendent in his five-starred sheriff’s uniform and his newly received Presidential Medal of Freedom. Beside him is Secret Service agent Vic Kreier, also wearing the Medal of Freedom, as is Melvin Hagen, looking disheveled as ever in his coat and tie. Standing at the end are the newly promoted Presidential Pilot, Col. Lou Batchelder, and Chief Master Sergeant Roy Switzer. Air Force Crosses dangle from both men’s jackets.