The Running Mate (A Jack Houston St. Clair Thriller)

by Andrew Delaplaine

  Thuris rubbed his hands together and clapped Bianca on the back as they approached a line of country bumpkin dignitaries.

  “Everybody hun-gry?” he cackled.

  The sharp look Bianca gave Phil told him in no uncertain terms that the last thing she was—was hun-gry.

  * * *

  In the White House that night, President St. Clair had settled in upstairs in the Residence to watch news footage of the Dumaine team working the big fair in Alabama earlier in the day. Lonnie had just brought the President a drink and was leaving when Jack came in with Francesca Santopietro, who was a features editor for New York Fashion & Style. Her dad was the Italian ambassador to the United Nations.

  “Hey, there,” said the elder St. Clair.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Hello, Mr. President, said Francesca, coming over to his chair and leaning down to give him a kiss on the cheek.

  She looked like a young version of Sophia Loren, with the high cheekbones, eyebrows sculpted into arches, passionate dark eyes. She wore her hair long. Long and luxuriant. She was a knockout. And not just pretty, thought the President. Smart as a whip and a good sense of humor.

  “You two look like you’re up to no good,” said the President.

  “We’re taking a break from the campaign trail to head down to Marcel’s,” said Jack, referring to a stylish eatery a few blocks from the White House.

  “Ah, I used to love to go there with Jack’s mother,” said St. Clair.

  “Why don’t you—” said Francesca before catching herself.

  “When the President moves,” said Jack, “an army moves with him.”

  “One of the great dis-advantages of being President,” said St. Clair. “Yes, you get to live in the White House, but the thrill wears off. You know, that Marcel’s—I used to love that great Spanish fish they serve there, Dorade.”

  “That’s what Jack always gets,” said Francesca.

  “I learned about that fish from him,” said Jack. “They serve it in a lot of restaurants in Miami, especially in the Gables.”

  “A little garlic and olive oil and, presto, what a meal. That fish just melts in your mouth.”

  “Francesca likes the veal ravioli. Not to mention the Turkish fig parfait for dessert.”

  “It certainly doesn’t show on her figure,” said St. Clair. “Have a quick drink before you go,” St. Clair said, pressing a button on a small console resting on the end table.

  “Sure,” said Francesca, and sat down. “We have time. Right, Jack?”

  “Yep. I see you’re watching the Dumaine footage from today, huh?” said Jack.

  “Yeah. You see it already?”

  “I watched it downstairs with the others,” said Jack. “They’ve got their game down pretty good.”

  Lonnie appeared.

  “What’ll you have, my dear,” said St. Clair.

  “Oh, a glass of Champagne.”

  “I’ll have a beer, a Peroni, thanks, Lonnie.”

  “Yes, sir, be right up.”

  It only took a couple of minutes for them to get their drinks. Lonnie left the Champagne bucket standing next to the President.

  “How do you feel about the campaign so far, Mr. President?” asked Francesca.

  “Oh, pretty positive. But the polls are telling us a different story, aren’t they, Jack?”

  Jack nodded.

  Francesca shook her beautiful face as the President refilled her glass with Champagne, her luxuriant curls swaying as she did so.

  “It’s too bad, Mr. President, that you don’t have some kind of secret weapon that can ruin these people. Get them out of the way forever.”

  Exchanging a meaningful glance with Jack, the President said, “Yes, Francesca, if we just had a secret weapon to spring on them, it would certainly take the wind out of their sails.”

  “Then it would be all over for them,” she said.

  “Yes, it’d be all over for them,” the President nodded gravely, still looking at Jack.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 31

  The night of the Great Debate had finally arrived after a grueling campaign that, as nerves were stretched to the breaking point, tested the endurance not only of the two candidates, but of their staffs as well.

  The event was being staged not in an intimate studio or a smaller room with just a few hundred spectators, but in the massive Jacob K. Javits Center in New York.

  Up in the NBC booth, Brian Williams talked to his viewers.

  “There’s a lull here in the Javits Center in New York, the site of tonight’s Great Debate that features all four candidates, a first in history. They’ve taken a breather, left the stage and will resume after a five-minute break.” Williams turned to Leon Pomfret. “What’s your take on the debates so far, Leon?”

  “There’s no question that the team of Dumaine and Mowbray—”

  “Ah,” Brian interrupted, wagging a finger. “Mowbray and Dumaine.”

  “Mowbray and Dumaine,” Leon corrected himself.

  The both laughed.

  “That’s right,” said Brian.

  “Mowbray and Dumaine, sorry. But you can’t ignore the fact that Dumaine has stood out in the first half of this debate as the visionary leader. The audience is responding enthusiastically to his position on the sale of nuclear weapons and supplies to terrorist countries. They get the feeling, quite frankly, that this guy really feels something, really believes it. That we’re gonna go in after the bad guys, unilaterally, and take ’em out, whatever country they’re hiding in.”

  “But isn’t this almost a non-issue? There’s nothing directly confronting the American people that seems imminent,” said Brian.

  “Well, this stance has long been a Republican supported issue, but Dumaine has made it a Democratic plank in their platform,” said Leon.

  “But President St. Clair has pushed the issue,” said Brian. “You think it’s an attempt to make Dumaine seem impulsive?”

  “Even reckless,” said Leon.

  Brian looked over his shoulder at the stage where the debaters strode out onto the platform.

  “We’re ready to begin again, as all four candidates take their positions on the stage here at the Javits Center in New York City.”

  The moderator, a black news anchor on PBS named Shirley Perry, picked up the show.

  “As we enter the second half the debate, the next question comes from NBC News.” She nodded to senior White House reporter Chuck Todd to go ahead.

  “I know there are other issues, but I’d like to return to the threat of nuclear terrorism,” he said.

  Shirley Perry interrupted.

  “We’ve already had questions from three others on this issue.”

  “Everybody except me,” said Todd, generating laughter throughout the massive hall.

  Shirley raised her eyebrows and smiled good-naturedly.

  “Go ahead then.”

  “Senator Dumaine, how far would you go to stop the sale of these weapons to unfriendly countries?”

  “I don’t think it’s a question of how far I’d go. I think it’s a question of how far any President ought to go to put an end to it. These sales—not today, not tomorrow, but someday—will offer a clear and present danger to our welfare. It’s an issue that our children will have to deal with in a deadly environment if we don’t act responsibly now.”

  Shirley nodded toward the President.

  “President St. Clair?”

  “I think we are already dealing with the issue responsibly. But we’re dealing with it through diplomatic channels and through our trade negotiations so as not to aggravate already delicate ties with these countries—not to mention our allies!”

  “That’s a lot of bull, Mr. President!” Dumaine blurted out.

  Shirley was having none of this rowdiness.

  “Senator Dumaine!”

  “I’m sorry, Shirley, but I’ve got to speak. As we stand here talking this issue to death, our very future is at stake. Where is ou
r power if we can’t stop this threat to our security? This country was built on a foundation of tolerance for all peoples, all religions, all ways of life. And our enemies are just the opposite—they have no tolerance, they respect only their religion and they will do anything in their power to obliterate any way of life but their own, and if I’m elected Vice President, I’ll do everything in my power to stop them from destroying the fundamental fabric of American civilization!”

  The convention hall erupted with applause as the thousands of spectators jumped to their feet.

  “Governor Mowbray?” Shirley redirected her attention once the crowd settled down.

  “I concur with Senator Dumaine—the threat is real, the menace is there and this Administration is not doing anything substantive to curtail these weapon sales except talk about it. In my Administration, we’ll take active measures to stop this illegal activity, including a severe economic embargo involving all countries participating in the sale or acquisition of any contraband weapons forbidden by existing treaties.”

  “That sounds a little more moderate than the approach laid out by Senator Dumaine,” said Chuck Todd.

  Mowbray smiled.

  “Well, I think it’s important to remember that, while my esteemed running mate has my full confidence, when this ticket is elected, it is I who will be President. And it is I, after consultation with members of Congress and my Cabinet, who will determine the foreign policy of the United States.”

  Dumaine smiled gracefully and extended his arm toward Mowbray, and even made a little bow as everybody laughed it off and the temperature dropped a few degrees.

  Up in the NBC booth, Brian turned to Leon.

  “Well, I guess Governor Mowbray just put the Senator in his place, eh?”

  “Oh, I’d say it was more like a trip to the woodshed for a well-deserved spanking.”

  Down in the wings off the stage, Phil Thuris stood next to Tim Harcourt.

  “We’re looking pretty good, huh?” Phil said to Tim.

  “We’re kicking their ass,” said Tim.

  Phil chuckled. Tim turned his attention back to the debaters on stage.

  Thuris was a half-foot behind Tim, so he could observe him unseen. He could tell from Tim’s admiring gaze toward Dumaine that there was more behind his smile than admiration. It was one of those situations where you either saw it or you didn’t: Tim was unabashedly in love with Dumaine.

  As Thuris returned his focus to the debate, he thought for a minute about his feelings for Bianca. He didn’t have to dwell on his innermost feelings for very long to come to the realization that his “love” for Bianca wasn’t in the same class as Tim Harcourt’s for Bill Dumaine. Not by a long shot.

  Bianca was fairly good in bed. She didn’t give her whole self up to the lovemaking process. Something was always held in reserve, like a general holding back the cavalry while the infantry did the initial dirty work. Bianca never sent in the cavalry.

  “You can’t win if you don’t send in the cavalry,” he said under his breath, not realizing that he had.

  Tim turned abruptly.

  “What?”

  Phil snapped out of it.

  “Uh—nothing.”

  * * *

  CHAPTER 32

  Deeper and deeper into the campaign, things were looking darker and darker for the St. Clair camp.

  President St. Clair decided to take an overnight break at Camp David, and invited Jack and Francesca along, but Jack told his dad that Francesca was on deadline and was heartbroken that she couldn’t make it.

  “Who’s her boss?” St. Clair had said as they were sitting in the Oval Office. Then he told an assistant to get the senior editor on the phone right away.

  “Ms. Bolton is on hold, Mr. President,” said the White House operator.

  St. Clair wrinkled his nose as Jack sat on the other side of the desk, about to burst out laughing.

  “This is when it’s fun to be President,” said St. Clair.

  “I can see that.”

  He picked up the phone.

  “Is this Ms. Bolton? Ms. Eileen Bolton?”

  Jack could hear excited babbling on the other end of the line.

  “Well, it’s just that I was really counting on having Francesca’s company tonight. I have a very crucial situation involving the Italian Government that I’d like her opinion on, and if you could…”

  Francesca would be on the next shuttle leaving in an hour, Ms. Bolton assured the President. No, it wasn’t necessary to send a Government plane for her. Ms. Bolton would personally make sure Francesca got on the shuttle. A company car would take her to the airport.

  “You’re doing wonders for my sex life,” Jack said after the call ended.

  “What are dads for?”

  Later that afternoon, the three of them made the almost ceremonial walk across the South Lawn toward the VH-3D Sea King helicopter that, once the President was abroad, would carry the call name Marine One. It was operated by the elite HMX-1 “Nighthawks” Squadron of the Marine Corps.

  “This is such a treat for me, Mr. President,” said Francesca, clutching Jack’s arm as they waved to the White House staff and the Press Corps assembled to see them off. Francesca was wearing a loose but billowy heavy knitted red sweater with vertical cabling.

  “Well, Jack said you’d never been to Camp David before, and with the way things are going in the polls, I thought it might be a good idea to show you the place. It’s simple, but it’s very relaxing, even with a hundred sharpshooters lurking in the woods,” he laughed.

  They moved past the saluting Marine at the foot of the steps leading up into the chopper, and settled in. They were the only three on board besides crew.

  “Just us, Dad?” yelled Jack, as the chopper lifted off the ground and soared into the air, the deafening rotors making conversation almost impossible.

  “I’ve got a few people coming up later, but they’ll all be gone by dinner, so it’ll just be the three of us.” He motioned to Francesca. “Take a seat by the window—you’ll get a good view of the trees. They’re almost at their best this time of year.”

  They all looked at the trees turning colors—it was the height of the fall season this late in October.

  After they landed, the President began to give Francesca a tour of the grounds, but was called away by an urgent message from Fran Clougherty at the White House, so Jack continued showing Francesca around until she got a chill. When they walked back, they heard the sounds of approaching helicopters and got back to the main compound just as the choppers disgorged the people meeting with the President.

  Jack took her into Aspen Lodge, the President’s private bungalow at Camp David where there was a roaring fire already blazing in the rough-hewn stone fireplace. A nice pour of Rémy Martin XO Spécial was all it took to warm her up.

  A little bit later, the President came into Aspen Lodge after conferring with the officials. The sound of departing helicopters faded in the distance.

  Francesca wanted to take a long bath, so the President and Jack walked her over to a guest lodge she and Jack would be using for the night.

  “Why don’t you take a little walk with me Jack?” the President suggested.

  They headed down one of the many narrow paved pathways that led into the woods. Through the woods they could see security personnel watching them from behind trees. An elite group, Marine Security Company, Camp David (MSC-CD) was responsible for overall security at Camp David. Even if you didn’t see them, you knew they were there. They saw you.

  “Dad, I’ve been thinking. You haven’t mentioned using this Harcourt business against the Democrats.”

  “No. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Okay,” Jack said tentatively. “With your standing in the polls, it’s getting to the point that you’ve got to use it if you’re going to. The election’s just around the corner.”

  “And the timing would be perfect.”

  “Yes, the timing is perfec
t if you use it now, just before the election. Shock everybody to the point that they’d vote for a sure thing—”

  “Me.”

  “Yes, you. Without even thinking about it, they’d vote for you. As opposed to voting for some gay guy who’s been living a lie, a lie even his own running mate and wife didn’t know about. You’d be a shoo-in.”

  “I’m not going to use it, Jack.”

  Jack just plain stopped in his tracks. In the distance, he could see the Marines pausing behind trees, carrying their rifles, observing them, guarding them against any danger.

  “You know you’ll almost certainly lose if you don’t?”

  The President nodded.

  “There are worse things than losing an election, Jack.”

  Then he started walking again. Jack followed.

  “Can I ask ‘Why’?”

  “Let me ask you, Jack—would you use it?”

  This caught Jack totally off guard.