Madam President

by Wallace, Nicolle

  “I bet she thinks about it more than she lets on. I’ve heard that her closest staffer these days is Warren. Politico ran a story last week saying that he does focus groups for everything. Did you guys do that when you were chief of staff?”

  “In the interest of disclosure, Warren is my husband’s best friend, and I am quite fond of him myself.”

  “Do you accept these new polls that show the president and vice president hovering above sixty-percent job approval, or do you think those are honeymoon numbers?” Sandy asked.

  Before Melanie could answer, the three-star general who served as her senior military assistant entered the press cabin.

  “Madam Secretary, there’s a call for you up front.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  “I’m sorry, Madam Secretary, it’s urgent.”

  Melanie stood up and excused herself. As she left the press cabin, she heard one of the radio reporters make a mock announcement.

  “This is CNN Breaking News. The White House announced today that it has shut down the Internet indefinitely, or at least until the first children are out of college.”

  Melanie turned and waved as she headed toward the front of the plane. “Happy birthday, Sandy. I hope you always remember celebrating it at thirty thousand feet with your closest friends.” Melanie winked.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Dale

  Before she even hung up the phone, Dale knew exactly what she wanted to happen once she was alone with Peter. It had been almost two years since they’d stood face-to-face, and all of the feelings that she’d worked overtime to squash had rushed to the surface when they’d been together earlier. The timing was terrible. She had CBS trailing her, and the first daughter’s Facebook crisis had added to her already nearly unmanageable workload. But she’d replayed the fantasy in her mind too many times to pass up an opportunity to make it come true. She’d imagined that they would simply run into each other and that they’d both realize that there was much left unsaid between them. The knowledge that this emotional reunion could never take place while Peter was with Charlotte, and Dale was with Warren, never dimmed Dale’s hopes that a chance meeting would bring them back together. She’d long hoped that he had as many unresolved feelings about her as she had about him, but he’d regarded her with such indifference in the Oval Office that she’d been convinced he had finally moved on. It had been surprising and satisfying that he’d been the one to call her after their awkward conversation in the Oval Office and that he’d agreed to meet her in the place they’d once rendezvoused during a state dinner years earlier.

  That encounter had taken place during the first state dinner Dale had ever attended. She would have done anything not to be at the dinner that night, since she was secretly sleeping with the husband of the woman she covered for the network. Dale had come through the photo line, and Peter had asked her to meet him in the theater. Against all of her better instincts, she’d traveled down the flight of stairs from the grand rooms of the White House residence to the ground level. She’d looked around to make sure that no one was looking, and then she’d pushed the door to the theater open to find Peter waiting inside. He’d had to convince her that they wouldn’t get caught. Dale’s date had been waiting for her upstairs; Peter’s Secret Service agent had been right outside the door; and ultimately, Charlotte had ended up in the hallway outside the theater speaking to her cabinet member. They hadn’t been caught, but it had revealed to Dale just how reckless Peter had become. In hindsight, it was clear that he’d wanted Charlotte to find out about the affair. Dale wondered sometimes if their entire relationship had been an elaborate scheme to get Charlotte’s attention.

  This time, she entered the family theater determined to explain her reaction on the day nearly two years earlier when Peter had surprised her by purchasing and refurbishing the house in Stinson Beach. When he’d proudly shown her around, pointing out all the little details of the house that he’d hoped would please her, she could barely muster any enthusiasm. Instead of seeing the house as their haven, she’d felt too disconnected from the round-the-clock demands of her job, and she’d lashed out at him for buying it without consulting her. Now she had an opportunity to tell him how much she regretted everything that had happened that day. Even if he couldn’t forgive her, he’d know that she was sorry and that she still had feelings for him.

  “I should have been appreciative of the effort you put into making such a beautiful home for us. I’m still so sorry,” she blurted as soon as she saw him.

  He was leaning against the back of one of the oversized theater chairs. Dale’s eyes were still adjusting to the dim light. She couldn’t make out the look on his face. When he spoke, she could tell that he wasn’t interested in her apologies.

  “I don’t care anymore, Dale. It was just a house.”

  “It was supposed to be our house. A place for us to spend time together when I visited,” she said.

  “The house was a bad idea. You were getting pulled in too many different directions. I shouldn’t have added another one.”

  “No, the house would have been perfect. I was there, you know. When you and Charlotte went there after the impeachment stuff. I was down on the beach in the staff trailer, and I looked up, and all I could think of was that Charlotte was in my house.”

  Peter moved closer to her. “It was just a house,” he said again.

  “Stop saying that.”

  “Dale, we don’t have to do this.”

  “Yes, we do. It was my house, and I want my house back.”

  There. She’d said it. Dale was certain that the little smile on his face was an invitation. Their physical attraction to each other had always been the central pillar of their relationship. While it hadn’t proven sufficient to keep their relationship together, Dale was sure that it was too strong to keep them apart. She moved closer to him and waited for the familiar feel of his lips on hers.

  When she looked up at him, he shook his head. “Dale, come on.”

  “I thought . . . when you called, I thought that you . . .”

  “You thought that I wanted to have sex with you in the family theater while Charlotte delivers a speech a mile away?”

  Dale’s shock at being rejected was turning into anger about being led on. “You make it sound so implausible. Have you forgotten what happened here?”

  “Unfortunately, I remember everything. Do you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then you’ll excuse me for not feeling sentimental.”

  “Why did you call me, then?” She was fighting the impulse to raise her voice.

  “I thought we could have a normal conversation. I don’t have too many of those.” He said it with enough of an edge to blunt Dale’s anger. She’d been so focused on what she wanted from him that it never dawned on her that he might need something from her, something as simple as someone to talk to.

  She was still reeling from his rejection, but there was something sad about him. He had snuck down to the family theater to see her with no intention of being intimate with her. He simply wanted to talk. He was either screwing with her as payback for her near-inhumane treatment of him at the end of their relationship, or he was back at square one with Charlotte and feeling emotionally isolated, which was where he’d been when they’d first met nearly six years earlier. Her mind was spinning, and while she was mortified that she’d misread his signs and awash with guilt that she was being so hideous to her own boyfriend, she was intrigued that he had gone through so much effort to be alone with her. It was still something that would get both of them into mountains of trouble if anyone found out. Dale took a deep breath and glanced down at her phone. It had been going crazy since she’d walked in. She’d noticed the red light flashing on her BlackBerry and had felt the phone vibrate several times.

  When she finally looked down at her devices, she noticed that Marguerite had texted her “911” and that the missed calls were from the Situation Room operator. It was ringing
again.

  “I’m sorry, but I have to get this.”

  “Go ahead.” Peter looked down at his phone, too.

  “Hello?”

  “Miss Smith, the national security advisor has been trying to reach you for the last ten minutes.”

  “You can put him through.”

  “He’s on another call, but he asked that you come directly to the Situation Room.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  She looked at Peter and felt like crying. After nearly two years of no contact, he’d called her because he needed someone to talk to, and now she had to go.

  “Go,” he said.

  “I don’t want to. Not like this. I can’t seem to avoid acting like a psycho when I’m around you.”

  “I seem to have that effect on women,” he joked.

  “Can I call you?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “So this was, like, a one-time thing? One opportunity to make it right, and because the goddamned Sit Room is calling me like the friggin’ world is ending, I miss out?”

  “Dale, don’t.”

  “Don’t?”

  “Please. If you care about me at all, or about Charlotte, please just let it all go.”

  Dale looked down at her phones again and felt like throwing the blinking, vibrating devices against the ornate paneled theater walls. “Right. Because I’m the one who fucked everything up, I have to do this one thing for you. Again. Whatever you want, but you agreed to meet me here, too. I didn’t force you here.”

  He barely made eye contact with her. “You’d better go,” he said quietly.

  “Yeah,” she agreed. She was suddenly more concerned about why the Situation Room would have called five times.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Charlotte

  It wasn’t until the faces on some of the guests in the front row started to register discomfort that Charlotte looked around and saw Monty standing next to her onstage. Her first thought was that something awful had happened to one of the twins. She held her breath as Monty unfolded the note and handed it to her. Before she looked down, Charlotte noticed that the reporters standing on the riser in the back of the room were studying their devices and whispering among themselves and into their phones. She also noticed that her Secret Service agents had started to move onto the stage. Charlotte forced her eyes to focus on the piece of paper.

  “There’s been an attack in New York City. We need to get back to the White House.” That was clear enough, but there were no instructions about what she was supposed to say to the audience. Her staff picked one hell of a time for her to start ad-libbing. She was temporarily frozen in place, uncertain what she should say to the crowd and cognizant that the entire press corps was watching and broadcasting her speech live. Monty hadn’t moved, which made resuming her remarks impossible. But it seemed abrupt to simply say that she had to go. She remembered all of the controversy surrounding her predecessor who had learned of the September 11 attacks while reading to elementary-school children. Her eyes moved over the words a second time, and her brain took over.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m so sorry, but there’s an emergency that requires my attention at the White House, and I need to leave you right away. As soon as we can share the details, we will. I’m going to return this podium to its rightful owner, my vice president, who will also be needed back at the White House in a few minutes. Thank you for your hospitality. I will be back, and this important conversation is to be continued.”

  Charlotte followed Monty offstage and was rushed to the motorcade by her agents, who all but lifted her off her feet. The limo took off with a screech of the tires. She heard sirens blaring and noticed the motorcycle escorts on either side of her limo. They hadn’t been there for the ride over. Craig and Marguerite were sitting across from her.

  “What’s going on?”

  “There were two explosions in Times Square. We don’t have any numbers on casualties, but it looks bad. The second bomb went off two minutes after the first, so all of the people rushing to help the victims of the first explosion were hurt by the second.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “We’ve got unconfirmed reports about an explosion outside the check-in counter at O’Hare, and a similar report was coming out of LAX as we were leaving. Both airports were packed. No word on casualties there, either. The FBI thinks there could be more attacks under way. We’re getting you back to the White House, but they may want to relocate you to a base somewhere outside of D.C. until things settle down.”

  “That’s out of the question. I’m staying at the White House. Where are the twins?”

  “Mr. Kramer is in touch with their Secret Service details. They’re fine. The agents are with them and awaiting your direction. It’s up to you and Mr. Kramer, but the Secret Service thinks that it’s unnecessary to relocate them to Washington or Camp David at this point.”

  The limo sped the three-quarter-mile distance between the museum and the White House. The return to the White House took about a minute and a half. Charlotte heard the sound of helicopters overhead as the Secret Service whisked her from where the car parked on the South Lawn into the closest entrance. Peter was waiting for her, along with Sam and her national security advisor.

  “Char, are you all right?” Peter asked.

  “I’m fine. Have you talked to the twins?”

  “I’ve spoken to both of them. The Secret Service thinks they’re safest where they are. I can try to get out there to be with them if you want.”

  “Sam, let’s see if we can get Peter to California.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Can one of you make sure that Brooke and Mark get back to the residence? I don’t want them wandering around D.C.”

  “They were in the motorcade, ma’am. We put them in the guest van,” Monty assured her.

  Charlotte nodded and glanced over her shoulder. Cars from the motorcade were still pulling onto the driveway.

  “Where are we meeting?”

  “Madam President, we are assembling the entire national security team. Some folks are here already, and others will join by teleconference. We can move the meeting to the PEOC if the Secret Service deems it necessary.”

  PEOC was short for the Presidential Emergency Operations Center, an underground bunker that could protect the president and staff during a nuclear attack. More recently, the White House staff had worked from the PEOC during the attacks of September 11.

  “What do we know?” Charlotte asked as they moved quickly down the colonnade.

  “Three separate attacks—New York, Chicago, and L.A. There are confirmed reports now that there were two explosions in New York. It’s unclear how many devices were detonated in Chicago and L.A. There are some early reports that suggest a possible suicide bomber in Chicago. We’ve grounded all flights, but that doesn’t seem to be their mode of attack. We’ll go through all of it downstairs for you, ma’am.”

  “How many people do you think we’ve lost?”

  “Not sure yet, but we’ll tell you everything we know.”

  They entered the Situation Room and proceeded to the conference room, where Charlotte took her seat at the head of the table. The attorney general, FBI director, treasury secretary, homeland security advisor, and various deputy secretaries were already seated at the table. When they rose to greet her with the standard formality granted to a president, she motioned for them to sit. The faces of her secretaries of defense, homeland security, and state were being beamed into the conference room on screens directly in front of her. On a large flat-screen to her left, members of the New York and Washington JTTF, or Joint Terrorism Task Force, had also joined the meeting. The screen next to theirs was broadcasting live split-screen coverage of CNN, Fox, MSNBC, and ABC.

  Her national security director started the meeting. “Hello, everyone. Madam President, events are obviously unfolding in real time, so we’re going to be updating you as we learn new information. We will
be getting this raw, so everything we discuss in here should be considered unconfirmed until we verify and approve something for public release. I’m going to let the FBI director start, because he’s going to leave in a few minutes to join his team at FBI Headquarters. Go ahead, Mr. Director.”

  “Madam President, at about ten-forty-five this morning, the NYPD responded to calls about an explosion in the pedestrian park area of Times Square. People were rushing to help the wounded when witnesses described a second, larger explosion. I believe that this is what we’re watching on CNN and ABC right now. They are broadcasting the local ABC footage of the second explosion, which took place as they were pulling up. They were the first news crew on the scene. Frankly, it’s the footage that we’re analyzing ourselves, in addition to security-camera footage, which is coming in a little more slowly.”

  “How many casualties?”

  “We don’t have any hard numbers yet, Madam President.”

  “Give me a soft number.”

  “I don’t want to guess.”

  “Dozens? Hundreds?”

  “We’ll have numbers soon.”

  “CNN is reporting an explosion at the Port of Miami,” Dale interjected from the back row. Charlotte hadn’t noticed Dale when she’d entered the Situation Room.

  “Put CNN on the full screen,” Charlotte ordered.

  They all stared at an image that was obviously being filmed from a helicopter. A large ship was visible at the bottom of the screen. Dark smoke seemed to be pouring from one side of it.

  “They’re asking us to confirm the attack. Mr. Director, is the FBI there?”

  “They’re on their way, Dale. I’d rather not confirm it until our folks are able to assess the scene.”

  “Are we not able to get our people there before CNN gets its crews there?” Charlotte asked pointedly.

  “In some cases, we’re learning things at the same time as the media.”