Boomsday

by Christopher Buckley

  He had the kinda spooky look.

  Cass stood. “Well, good luck.”

  “Where are you going?” he said, looking suddenly more human.

  “I’m not ‘going.’ I’m fleeing.”

  “Oh, sit down, Cass. Come on. We can work this thing out.”

  “I’m not a lobby, Randy.”

  He smiled. “No. I got that.” He stood and hopped around the desk to her. Cass realized that was why he hadn’t stood. He wasn’t wearing his prosthesis. She began to giggle.

  “Sorry,” she said. “It’s . . .just . . .whatever.”

  “Making fun of cripples. And you all full of umbrage.”

  He hopped over to the door and locked it.

  Sometime later, both of them lying on the big leather couch, she said, “You heard about Gideon Payne’s speech?”

  “I did,” Randy said. “I was thinking of going to his office personally and breaking his nose, but my handlers advise against it. There are certain drawbacks to being a senator. Plus there’s the business about his ancestor shooting my ancestor. It would only look like some preposterous blood feud. Not quite the attitude of dignity one strives for if you’re thinking of running for president. I suppose I could hire a sniper. That would even the historical score.”

  “Is it something we need to worry about?”

  “Shouldn’t think. There isn’t any evidence. We weren’t lap dancing in the minefield.” He smiled. “Hardly had time.”

  “He called me Joan of Dark.”

  “I saw. Good line, actually.”

  “Um-hum.”

  “You’ll come up with a good counterpunch, darling,” Randy said.

  “I was thinking of ‘fat little fuck.’ What do you think?”

  “I like it. It’s witty, but it also has substance. Anyway—change of subject—my man Speck reported in. I’m afraid you’re not going to like what he found out. This has to be absolutely confidential, yes?”

  “No. I thought I’d tell The New York Times.”

  “He’s former Secret Service, so he has access to all sorts of . . .No point in going into it, but he’s an absolute pit bull, let me tell you. During the last campaign . . .well, never mind.”

  “You’re babbling.”

  “Darling, I’m in a state of postcoital bliss. Drowning in endorphins. Of course I’m babbling. It seems there were a number of phone calls between your father’s very private phone line and the White House.”

  Cass froze. “Why wouldn’t there be? He’s a big donor. He’s an Owl. . ..”

  “Yes, but most of these were made in the days just before your dear old pater announced to the press that you were . . .”

  “‘Morally repellent’?”

  “?’Fraid so. Sorry.”

  Cass thought. “Still doesn’t mean—”

  “Cass. Now who’s giving whom the reality check? But let’s look at it analytically.”

  “Beats looking at it emotionally.”

  “Quite. Let’s assume they asked him to denounce you. Why? Cui bono. Them—has to be. In any White House, it’s always about them.” Randy considered. “Can’t quite parse it, but it must have something to do with sparing the White House some embarrassment. It’s as if they wanted Frank to publicly identify himself as your dad.” He thought. “Of course. That’s it. It’s quite obvious. Want to take it from there?”

  “The media hadn’t yet connected the two of us. He’d been lying low. We don’t have the same surnames. He’s a big donor to the White House, and I’m the Molotov cocktail thrower. And the Justice Department lets me go.”

  “Clever girl. See what sex does for the brain?”

  Cass sighed. “Boy. Regular nest of vipers, isn’t it?”

  “It’s Washington, darling. The shining city upon the hill. Beacon of democracy. Last and best hope of mankind. And you wonder why I have to cut a few deals?”

  “Whoa. Bait and switch. You’re not off that meat hook yet.”

  “We’ll discuss it. Meanwhile, that’s not all my man Speck found out. Does the term ‘RIP-ware’ ring any bells?”

  Chapter 21

  The president’s mood, already foul, was not improved by Bucky Trumble informing him, during the regular seven a.m. political briefing, that Senator Randolph K. Jepperson was now “not ruling out” a presidential bid. This brought the total number of presidential challengers to—five. It is unpleasant to have this many people publicly expressing the desire to have your job.

  “For fuck’s sake,” the president exploded, sending a gust of hurricane-force, caffeinated breath across his desk at Bucky. “Is there anyone out there who isn’t planning to run against me? Isn’t it hard enough trying to keep this goddamn fucking country”—Bucky Trumble lived in terror that the president, a salty speaker, would one day publicly refer to the United States as “this goddamn fucking country”—“together without having to run a goddamn primary campaign? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, now you’re telling me I’m going to have to haul my ass back to New Hampshire in the dead of fucking winter so I can defend myself in some goddamn high school auditorium debate against a bunch of shitheads?”

  “Uh, well, sir—”

  “How in the hell did it come to this? Someone tell me! You tell me!”

  Bucky Trumble trembled.

  “It’s that fucking Devine woman,” the president continued, sending another shock wave of air across the room. “Should have Transitioned her ass when we had the chance. But someone thought it would be a brilliant idea to let her walk!”

  “It hasn’t played out fully yet, sir,” Bucky said. “I’m efforting it very hard. By the way, you saw that Gideon went public with the, ah, ‘evidence’ we, ah, conveyed to him?”

  “I saw,” the president grunted. “He goddamn well better not trace it back to us. Evidence. It’s thinner’n piss on slate.”

  The “evidence” that the president of the United States and his political counselor had armed Gideon with against his tormentor Cassandra Devine and—by extension—their tormentor Senator Jepperson was in fact thin. One of the crew members of the helicopter that plucked them wounded from the Bosnia minefield had gotten drunk a few months later and told a U.S. embassy staffer in a bar in Turdje that “they were definitely fucking each other’s brains out.”

  This bit of bar talk was flatly contradicted by Cass’s frantic radio reports to base that they were under attack and required assistance. But the embassy officer had duly reported in a cable to the State Department what the drunken warrant officer had told her. From there it was duly leaked to the White House by a deputy assistant secretary of state seeking to curry favor and get a promotion.

  It was very far from the kind of information that, as the president had put it to Gideon, “causes tides to turn.” But it was enough to pass the muster of Gideon, who in any event was thirsting for revenge against Cass.

  The president and Bucky had shown Gideon the State Department cable but refused to give him a copy of it. In Gideon’s speech in Wheeling, a historical platform for speeches purporting to reveal shocking State Department information, Gideon only said—but said with great umbrage and conviction—that he had “seen proof positive that Corporal Devine and Congressman Jepperson were doing more than fact-finding.”

  Bucky said, “The media’s eating it up.”

  The president said, “Well, let’s hope he doesn’t give up his sources.”

  “He also called her ‘Joan of Dark.’ Wish I’d thought of that. Sir, the whip count on the Transitioning bill, it’s worrisome. Jepperson’s gotten thirty-five senators aboard.”

  “This thing isn’t going to fly. You know that.”

  “That’s not what concerns me. Jepperson’s using it as a springboard. A trampoline. We need to remove the trampoline. And with regard to that, I . . .had a thought.”

  “Go ahead,” said the president, managing to sound bored. He wasn’t, but he found it kept people on their toes.

  Bucky explained his idea. The president pret
ended to be listening with only one ear. When Bucky was finished, the president snorted, stared, pursed his lips, rubbed his chin, nose, tugged on an earlobe.

  “Not bad,” he said, “but won’t Gideon shit his britches if we do that?”

  “Not if we tell him—on a confidential basis—exactly what we’re up to. And . . .throw in a memorial on the Mall.”

  “Ah, goddamnit, Buck, I don’t want to look out my bedroom window onto the Mall and see some memorial to forty goddamn million fetuses. For crying out loud. It’s undignified.”

  “It won’t ever get to that. All you have to do is put it out quietly that you’re not entirely opposed to it. Tell him you’ll call in the senators and congressmen who sit on the Mall Memorial Commission and . . .forget about it. By then the election will be over and it won’t matter what we’ve promised Gideon. We’ll tell him we tried. Have him to Camp David for a weekend, that’ll shut him up.”

  “I’m not spending a weekend with him at Camp David or anywhere. But all right. I like it. Tee it up.”

  “Yes, sir.” It was the first time Bucky Trumble had relaxed in months.

  Randy had never been to the Oval Office before. Riding down Capitol Hill in the car the White House had sent for him, he couldn’t resist daydreaming about a day in the future when he might find himself being driven to the White House in an even bigger car. With Secret Service agents running alongside. Sweating.

  The car was turning into the southwest gate, slowing as the uniformed Secret Service men approached.

  Bucky Trumble, the president’s chief political counselor, deputy chief of staff, and most trusted aide, the second most powerful man in the country, had called Randy the day before—personally—to congratulate him on the success he was having with his Transitioning bill. Trumble said to him, “The president would like to meet with you.”

  At first, Randy affected aloofness. “What about, exactly?”

  Bucky said, “The president admires the way you’ve stewarded this issue. As you know, we’re on the other side of it. But he’s been impressed by the way you’ve carried the ball. Very impressed, you might say.”

  Randy, now all jelly, said, “Tell the president that while we may not agree on some things, I have the deepest personal respect for him.”

  “I’ll let you tell him that yourself,” Bucky said brightly. Time to set the hook. “Senator, may I pay you the compliment of candor?”

  “Uh, sure. Of course.”

  “I must ask for your total discretion.”

  “You have it,” Randy said, flush with curiosity.

  Bucky lowered his voice to just above audible, which guarantees intent listening. “The president is keeping his options open with respect to the vice president being his running mate again in the election. In the event . . .” He let the words dangle like mistletoe. “He may choose to designate another running mate.”

  Randy worried that Bucky might hear his heart going thump-thump, thump-thump. “Yes . . .”

  “That is not the ostensible purpose of your visit. But strictly between you and me, that is the unostensible purpose for it.” Bucky laughed softly. “I’m sorry to be so gosh darn elliptical.”

  Randy was by now sitting bolt upright at his desk. “I understand,” he said solemnly.

  “Three o’clock tomorrow?”

  “You betcha!”

  Randy chided himself for sounding so eager. As a card-carrying member of the WASPocracy, he was good at the old languor; but here his training had, alas, failed him.

  He was about to summon the staff and tell them about the call, but then, fearful that they might leak it and blow it for him, he decided to keep it to himself for now. He yearned to tell Cass but worried that she’d tell Terry, and he didn’t trust Terry not to blab it all over town. Those PR types were always trying to impress.

  He scarcely slept a wink that night.

  And so the next day, he found himself walking across the threshold of the Oval Office, omphalos of history, anvil of ambition, and, unbeknownst to him, a large, irregularly shaped trapdoor.

  The president gave him his thousand-watt smile and rushed to intercept him as he walked in. Randy’s limp became exaggerated as he walked to greet the commander in chief.

  How kind of Randy to come on such short notice. Long been an admirer. Hell of a thing he’d done back there in Bosnia. Amazing the way he’d focused the national attention on Social Security reform. Coffee? Will you sit for a moment? Wish we’d done this sooner. Bucky, why’d you take so damn long to invite Randy down here? You falling asleep on the job? Bucky smiled. All my fault, boss. All my fault.

  “May I call you Randy?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Randy, I’ve got a job for you.”

  Randy thought, That was fast.

  “This Transitioning thing.”

  “Oh? Yes?” Randy said cautiously.

  “You know—and I know—and everyone knows, it isn’t going to fly.”

  “Well”—Randy smiled—“I wouldn’t be too absolutely certain of that, Mr. President. We’re getting more votes every—”

  “I would.” The president had a strong physical presence. His staff called it “the death stare.” It was an accurate name.

  “Thirty-five senators have—”

  “Doesn’t mean shit. They’re supporting because they know it’ll never pass. Even if it did, you’ve already gutted it of any positive fiscal impact by handing out all that Boomer pork.” He chuckled. “Subsidies for Segways? That’s some major oinking.”

  Randy shifted in his chair and was about to assert himself when the president put a hand on his shoulder and said, “But I will tell you—I like your style. I’ve been in this business a long time. There’s amateurs, there’s pros, and then there’s thoroughbreds. The ones born to run. That’s you. You were put on this green earth to be a politician.” The president leaned back as if weary from having unburdened himself of such a momentous observation. He looked over at Bucky in a gruff, almost accusatory way and demanded, “Did you tell Randy what I had in mind?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Don’t bullshit me, Bucky. I can always tell.”

  “I didn’t, sir.”

  The president looked back at Randy, who at this point was a thoroughly confused thoroughbred. A growly smile spread across the president’s face. He said, “I bet he’s lying to me. He always does. But it doesn’t matter. What does matter is you’ve got to keep what I’m about to tell you to yourself and only yourself. That includes pillow talk.” The president extended his hand. “Can I count on you?” Randy shook his hand and nodded wordlessly.

  “All right. Now, I may be looking for a new running mate. I haven’t decided yet. But I may.”

  “I see.”

  “Bucky here thinks you’d be a real asset. I’m inclined to agree with him.”

  Randy stared, mute.

  “However,” the president continued, “there’s a problem. This Transitioning business.”

  Randy stiffened. “I can’t just drop it. Nor will I.”

  “Wouldn’t expect you to. Wouldn’t ask you to. Wouldn’t ever ask a man, especially a man who left a leg behind in a war zone, to throw away his principles just for the sake of advancing his career.”

  Randy said, “I’m not sure I’m following you, sir.”

  The president leaned in closely. “Look here, son. Now, sooner or later, this silly Transitioning business is going to blow up in your face. You’ll look like you just bit down on an exploding cigar.” The president glanced at Randy’s leg. “I mean . . .Hear me out. You’re not going to get the votes. And then where will you be? You’ll just be the poster boy for suicide. You can call it ‘Transitioning’ or whatever the hell you want. It’s still legalized suicide, never mind all that shineola about how it’s all for the common good. Even if you did get the votes, I’d veto it faster’n you can take a morning crap. I promise you that. Now, I can’t have for a running mate someone whose name is synonymous with ‘
lethal injection.’ We’ve got to put some daylight between you and this bill. Like you said, you can’t just walk away from it. You need an exit strategy. Some way where you can walk away from it and still have your integrity. And once that’s done, I believe you would make me a fine running mate. You’re young, good-looking, a regular Pied Piper with the kids. And we’re going to need them. Yes, you remind me a bit of John F. Kennedy. You with me, Randy?”

  “I think so, sir.”

  “Sure you are.” The president smiled. “Hell, you went to Harvard. Now, the way it would work, I would come out and make a public statement, say, ‘Look here, I don’t like the idea of people jumping off bridges in return for tax breaks. It’s un-American. But I recognize that we live in damn hard times—and we got to do something about it.’”

  Bucky Trumble nodded. “That’s right.”

  “I’d say, ‘I’m a reasonable man. I’m willing to listen to both sides of the argument. So I am going to’”—the president paused for dramatic effect—“‘appoint a blue-ribbon Presidential Commission on Transitioning. I’m going to call together all the best minds in the country—starting with Senator Randolph K. Jepperson of Massachusetts, who I suppose knows as much about this issue as anyone on the planet.’ Naturally, we’ll have to have other people of diverse views. But you’ll be my first pick. My”—he grinned—“eyes and ears. I’ll say, ‘I am asking these distinguished Americans to deliver me their report. And at that point I will make up my mind as to whether this proposed solution truly represents this country’s best chance at solving this most dire dilemma.’ Still with me, Randy?”

  Randy nodded.

  “Now, what’ll happen is you’ll be front and center, with daily TV coverage. Only now instead of looking like the poster boy for mass suicide, you’ll be the voice of reason. You’ll get to say in front of cameras—with everyone watching—as you interview witnesses, ‘Well, hm, I don’t know, maybe this isn’t the answer, after all. Maybe there is a better way.’ I see headlines. JEPPERSON EMERGES AS MODERATING VOICE ON TRANSITION COMMISSION. I see another headline. Want to hear it?”