Madam President

by Wallace, Nicolle

  “How are you guys doing?” Dale asked.

  They assured her that they were fine, but it had been a harrowing day. While she had been escorted by the Secret Service to a fortified underground bunker, her staff had been evacuated when the first bombs went off on the Mall. They were called back to the West Wing, only to be evacuated from the complex a second time when the second bomb went off. Edgy Secret Service officers had harassed a few of her deputies while they were escorting the press back into the White House. Dale had walked out to the newly erected perimeter herself to vouch for her staff and the credentialed press. She’d been shocked by the scene. Downtown Washington looked like a war zone. Uniformed military in armored Humvees filled the streets around the White House. Secret Service agents in black jumpsuits held machine guns as they rode in SUVs with the back windows open. Soldiers in fatigues directed all traffic—human and vehicular—away from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Heavy smoke hung in the air from the bombings on the Mall, and the sound of sirens was constant. Men and women dressed mostly in business suits moved like swarms of bees alongside slowly moving lines of cars toward the residential neighborhoods that rimmed downtown Washington.

  “You were all tremendously brave and professional today,” Dale said. “Thank you for coming back twice after being evacuated and for doing everything that you did to make things run smoothly. I know the president is grateful to you for your service, the press is indebted to you until the end of time, and I am so impressed by how you handled yourselves.”

  Her deputies were staring at her, unblinking. A couple of them looked like they were in shock. She should have called them into her office sooner.

  “If you guys hadn’t come back here and helped to fill that briefing room with our press, the people who needed to hear from the president tonight would not have had the opportunity to do so. I’m proud of all of you.”

  “Dale, what should we do with Richard and Lucy?” a press assistant named Danner asked. Richard and Lucy were the evening anchors from CBS. They’d been preparing to do a sit-down interview with the president earlier that morning as part of a special they’d been filming, but when news broke about the first attack, the interview was postponed.

  Dale’s staff had taken part in weeks of painstaking preparations for what they all referred to as the “Day in the Life” special, because it was intended to chronicle every detail of a “typical” day in the life of the president of the United States and her staff. Dale had convinced the president to pull back the curtain and reveal the inner workings of the White House to show the public how much thought and effort and collaboration went into an ordinary day at the White House. No one could have anticipated that close to twenty news crews—each including a cameraman, a sound technician, and a producer—would be embedded with the most senior White House staff members when news of the five bombings started to trickle in.

  Most of the crews were respectful of the limits the disaster had placed on their access, and they’d simply waited in the lobby areas or in the press briefing room. But the two anchors hadn’t taken no for an answer. They felt entitled to the access they’d been promised, regardless of the extraordinary turn of events. Dale and her deputy had determined earlier in the day that throwing them out would confirm that the president was hunkered down, which would send the worst possible message to the public. The decision had been made to try to accommodate the news crews and the anchors without compromising any aspect of the government response, by leaving the press office solely responsible for them and freeing up the rest of the senior staff to respond to the crisis.

  “They’ve been reporting from their cell phones in the West Wing lobby all evening. The other TV correspondents are furious. The bureau chiefs from NBC and ABC are demanding access to the West Wing lobby as well.”

  Dale had incorrectly assumed that Richard and Lucy would have returned to their network’s Washington bureau to anchor its coverage of the president’s remarks, but they had decided to take advantage of their unusual access instead.

  “Oh, another thing. Richard and Lucy are insisting that all of their crews be permitted to embed again with the senior staff tomorrow because we canceled everything today,” Danner added.

  “Jesus, those two are unbelievable. Are they in the lobby right now?”

  “Yeah, I think they’re on the air.”

  Dale turned her TV to CBS, and sure enough, they were broadcasting from their cell phones from the West Wing lobby about everyone they’d seen come and go since the speech ended minutes earlier.

  Dale pressed her thumbs into the bones above her eyes and took a deep breath.

  “Do you want me to come with you?” Danner offered.

  “I’ve got it. Stay here and handle our press corps. Tell them that no one is going to be broadcasting from the West Wing lobby. I will get rid of Richard and Lucy,” she promised.

  Dale reached for her iPhone. She noticed two missed calls from a blocked number that she recognized as the same one that came up when someone placed a call from inside the White House residence. She knew who it was, but she couldn’t deal with him now. Dale had resolved to get through the day, and the only way she could pull it off was to ignore anything and anyone unrelated to her official responsibilities.

  She walked out to the West Wing lobby to talk to Richard and Lucy. She had to convince them that there was more to gain by leaving than by staying, and she was confident that she was about to make them an offer that would do the trick.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Charlotte

  You’re sure I wasn’t too hot?” Charlotte asked Melanie as she stepped into her private bathroom to wipe off her makeup. They’d left the Oval Office so that the production crew could remove the lights and camera equipment.

  “It was very strong.”

  “Thanks to you, Mel.” Charlotte stood in front of her in the dining room scrubbing her eyes with the makeup remover cloths.

  “That was all your doing, Madam President,” Melanie assured her.

  “All that I did was read the speech that you wrote. Seriously, thank you for being here and for everything you’ve done today.”

  “Where else would I be, Madam President?”

  “I mean, after everything that happened last year with Tara and everything, I really appreciate it.”

  “There are more important things to worry about now. As you said before the speech, everything has changed,” Melanie said.

  “I hope so,” Charlotte replied.

  Melanie moved her hands to her hips and started to speak but was interrupted by the sound of the door being pushed open.

  “Great job in there, Madam President,” Craig, the White House chief of staff, said.

  “Thanks, Craig,” Charlotte replied.

  “And thank you for all of your help, Melanie. The speech was excellent,” he added.

  Charlotte watched Melanie toss her BlackBerry and iPhone into her purse and open the door separating the dining room from the Oval Office. She and Melanie had shared more meals in the small sanctuary over the years than she could count. They both had the menu memorized, even down to the seasonal soup selections. Charlotte almost always had a Cobb salad with extra dressing, while Melanie rotated between the veggie burger, the tuna sandwich, and the fruit plate with a scoop of cottage cheese, a selection that Charlotte found revolting. She missed those lunches.

  “Are you leaving?” Charlotte asked.

  “I’ve got to get back to the Pentagon.”

  “I’ll see you on the next videoconference.”

  “Absolutely, Madam President.”

  Charlotte watched Melanie navigate around the crews in the Oval Office. She couldn’t pinpoint it, but Melanie looked different. Then Craig positioned himself directly in front of her and started talking about the things he’d “taken care of,” as if to prove that things were under control. Charlotte knew that things were far from under control, and she resented the spin he was trying to put on what was clearly a hideous calamit
y still in its early stages.

  “Madam President, from a message and tone perspective, I thought you nailed it in there. You were serious and determined but not overly alarming.”

  Charlotte was annoyed that no one on her staff wanted her to be alarming. What the hell was wrong with all of them? The country had just been bombed. She looked down at her intelligence briefing from that morning.

  “How long until this gets leaked?” she asked.

  “Someone from the House or Senate Intelligence Committee will probably do it by the time the morning shows come on tomorrow.”

  “There’s nothing in here about the chatter getting louder, right?” she asked Craig.

  “Nothing. You have no exposure along the lines of September eleventh. No Richard Clarkes are going to come out of the woodwork and say they told you so.”

  “Does that make it better or worse?” she challenged.

  He knew better than to offer an answer.

  “What do we have next?”

  “Just the final National Security meeting. The FBI is going to do a briefing on the DNA testing from the remains of the suicide bombers at the airports in Chicago and L.A. The director is on his way back over here, ma’am. I spoke to him before your speech,” Craig replied.

  “We didn’t need to drag him back over here. Please make sure he knows that he can participate via videoconference next time. He’s going to be the busiest man in D.C.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Those are the only bodies so far?”

  “Yes. And the Miami suspects are still in play.”

  “They won’t talk for a while.”

  “Depends somewhat on your decision on enhanced interrogation measures.”

  “When am I visiting the cities?”

  “We’re doing our best with New York and D.C. The others won’t want to divert resources from the investigation or recovery efforts to—”

  “I know, I know, to escort my goddamned motorcade. I know. Why do we always have to drain everyone’s resources? Why can’t I just land, drive in an SUV without the whole motorcade to survey the damage, visit with local law enforcement, pay my respects to the families of the victims, and then get the hell out of the way? Can you ask them if they can make that happen?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What else?”

  “Are you up for a few foreign leader calls after the National Security Council meeting?”

  “What kind of question is that? If I have to do calls, just give the list to Samantha, and I’ll do them.” Charlotte couldn’t figure out why Craig was asking her if she was “up” to doing the things that needed to be done. She understood that he was being deferential and trying to gauge her stamina for the long list of official to-do’s that emerges during a national security crisis, but it still bothered her that he was talking to her as though she might not have the endurance to complete her obligations.

  “Why don’t you have the vice president do some calls, too?” she suggested.

  “She’s done a half a dozen. Maureen is also in contact with the leaders on the Hill. I just spoke to her, and she’s suggested that we have the chairmen and ranking members of all of the national security committees down here tomorrow to brief them on the investigation.”

  Maureen McCoughlin, Charlotte’s third vice president, was the former Democratic speaker of the House, and she maintained excellent relations with her former colleagues.

  “How’s the mood on the Hill?”

  “I think some of them are still in their undisclosed locations.” For the most part, an undisclosed location was just that, an office that was simply undisclosed to the press and public. Only in very rare instances did government officials evacuate to secure government installations.

  “Ask Maureen to make a list for me, and I’ll add courtesy calls to the senators from New York, Florida, Illinois, and California, plus the leaders and anyone else she suggests tonight.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Charlotte could hear people crying on one of her televisions. She turned up the volume and shushed Craig so she could watch. Seeing the scene of mass chaos just blocks away from the White House complex on her TV screen made her feel oddly walled off from what was happening. She contemplated walking out the door and racing to the Mall below to help with the recovery operation. It was incredibly unsatisfying to be cooped up in the White House with the wreckage and suffering so near.

  “You know what, Craig?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “Ma’am?

  “Don’t ask. Please inform the Secret Service that I plan to visit the Mall first thing in the morning, and tell them that this is the compromise you reached with me when I asked to go tonight.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Craig replied.

  She stood watching the TV coverage.

  “This isn’t the day I thought we were going to have,” she said, more to herself than to Craig.

  “Twenty embedded news crews filming your every move don’t seem like such a bad deal in comparison, do they?”

  Charlotte turned away and hoped he’d return to his office. She appreciated Craig’s attempt to lighten her mood, but she found herself missing Melanie’s quiet intensity. Charlotte did her best thinking when no one was talking to her. Mercifully, Craig fell quiet.

  She thought about what she’d been doing before news of the first attack reached her. Her Democratic vice president, Maureen McCoughlin, had asked for a rather large favor in return for delivering enough Democratic votes in the House and the Senate to pass Charlotte’s legislative priorities. She’d asked Charlotte—a Republican—to become a vocal supporter of women’s health providers, including those that also provide birth control and abortions. In a move that her admirers had called bold and her detractors had called politically suicidal, Charlotte had been delivering a speech at the Women’s Museum in Washington, D.C., in which she laid out the “enlightened conservative’s” case for reproductive freedom. As the first female Republican president, her decision to stand with her Democratic vice president and voice her support for a woman’s right to choose had been the topic of breathless morning-show commentary, large antiabortion protests in front of the White House, and a phone and e-mail campaign from the prolife groups that had jammed the White House comment line for hours. Then, just as she was hitting her stride with the crowd gathered at the Women’s Museum, Monty, her lead advance man, had handed her a note saying that New York City had been attacked. She’d excused herself and made her way backstage. In the motorcade back to the White House, she learned about the attacks in Chicago and Los Angeles. She’d just arrived back at the Oval Office and turned on her television when the media first started reporting on the attack at the Port of Miami. The attack outside the Air and Space Museum in Washington had occurred after she’d already been rushed to the underground command center. After the D.C. bombings, the Secret Service wanted to take Charlotte out of the White House, but she’d insisted on staying.

  Now she asked Sam to give her five uninterrupted minutes. She dialed Peter in the residence.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “How are you doing?”

  “I’m all right.”

  “Do you want me to come down?”

  “No. I’ve got another NSC meeting and then a few calls to do. I’ll be up in a couple of hours. What did you think of the speech?”

  “Was the Longfellow poem Melanie’s idea?”

  “Was it too dark?”

  “I don’t think that’s possible.”

  Charlotte leaned forward so that her elbows were resting on her knees. “How are the kids?”

  “They’re fine.”

  “Do you think they’ll still be up in another hour?” Charlotte asked.

  “With the time change, I’m sure that they will.”

  Their twins, Harry and Penelope, had just completed their freshman years in college, Penny at Stanford and Harry at Charlotte’s alma mater, U.C. Berkeley.
Both had stayed in Northern California for the summer.

  “Please tell them that I’ll call tonight.”

  “Will do.”

  “Are Brooke and Mark awake?” Brooke and Mark were Charlotte’s best friends from college. They made frequent trips to Washington to provide Charlotte with a much-needed reality check from her life inside the presidential bubble. They also added comic relief to Charlotte’s structured and formal existence. Charlotte suspected that they came as both an act of charity and genuine friendship and to escape the boredom of their suburban existence.

  “They tried to get flights home, but everything has been canceled.”

  “Tell them not to worry. Sam can work on getting them out of here tomorrow.”

  “Char, don’t worry about us. We’re worried about you.”

  “I’m fine,” she snapped.

  “We’ll see you whenever you finish, then.”

  “Don’t wait up,” Charlotte insisted.

  “Whatever you say, boss.”

  Charlotte was being passive-aggressive with Peter, but she really couldn’t help it at this point. Her emotions were swinging between fury at the terrorists who carried out the attacks, rage at her own advisors who did nothing to prevent the attacks, and desperate frustration at Peter’s inability to anticipate what she needed from him, even though she didn’t know what it was herself.

  “Have you been watching the press coverage?” she asked.

  “It’s awful,” he confirmed.

  “That ship was full of young families. And the museums on the Mall are always full of school groups.” Charlotte felt a lump forming in her throat, but she didn’t want to cry.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to come down there, Char? I could wait in the Oval while you have your meeting and then sit with you while you make your calls?”

  His voice was so tender. Maybe he did understand. She felt tears forming, and she swallowed hard to stop them. She wanted to accept his offer, but she couldn’t bring herself to open up to him and tell him how desperately she needed to be reassured that she was capable of whatever new and unknown responsibilities now fell to her.