Born to Run

by John M. Green

  Robinson was praying that Franklin’s call was to put the President through to him.

  “I’ve checked with the President,” said Franklin. “Yes, personally. And he apologises, but he can’t speak to you till later today. Remember, he’ll call you. Bye.”

  Secretary Robinson blinked. He didn’t know what to say, even though Franklin was no longer on the line to hear it if he did. He simply stared into the phone still in his hand contemplating an explanation that, up to now, he had been reluctant to accept.

  He slammed down the phone, and sprinted from Cisco’s office back toward Isabel’s room. The agent let him pass and he pushed her door open without knocking. Both she and the Attorney General looked up with stunned expressions. “Sorry, I…,” said Robinson, recovering his own composure, “Marcus, I need you… Outside, please.”

  Once the two Cabinet members were in the corridor, Bert held his hand up and said, “Not here.” He led the Attorney by the elbow back to Cisco’s office.

  Marcus Bentley listened carefully. Neither man had met Ed Loane before today, nor was either hoping for a repeat performance with him but, even so, both were now convincing themselves that Ed’s suspicions simply had to be correct.

  That the President, their friend, might truly be dead was shocking, a tragedy of vast proportions, personally and politically, but a conspiracy to conceal it would be even more alarming. What absolutely petrified them was the chill of not knowing who was exercising the President’s authority… or why.

  “As senior-most Secretary, if anyone should know what’s going on, it’s me, right?” Robinson asked Marcus.

  The two colleagues tried several more avenues but they all led back to Franklin, a route as unhelpful as it was disturbing. The two men suddenly gaped at each other as though lightning had just struck them. Without a further word, they charged out of the office. They passed Ed as they ran through the corridor, but were going so fast they didn’t see the smile of smug satisfaction crawl onto his face.

  When they got to Isabel’s room, Marcus was puffing. He was tall, but unlike Robinson, he was not a slight man. His career outside politics was as a trial attorney and though he’d made millions out of the tobacco companies for his clients, as well as himself, he’d never kicked the habit. “Ma’am. Bert and I… well, look… we don’t buy what’s happening.”

  Bert was nodding.

  Marcus continued, “We can’t get access to the President and…”

  “He’s fine,” Isabel said.

  “He’s fine?” Bert almost exploded. “I don’t know he’s fine… Marcus doesn’t know he’s fine… No one knows he’s fine except you and that damn Franklin. There’s nothing fine about that in our book.”

  Marcus rested a hand on Bert’s shoulder and looked at Isabel, “Your husband was right, wasn’t he? Bobby is dead.”

  Isabel gingerly pushed herself back into her pillows, her flinch worrying the pair even more. Marcus moved to help her, but she frowned. “I’m fine.”

  “Now you’re fine too?” spluttered Bert, his voice almost a screech. “Hey, Marcus! Everyone in this whole fucking world is fine. The Vice-President is dead, but that’s fine. The President’s suffered a life-threatening asthma attack, something he’s never had before, ever, and that’s fine, too. We can’t even speak to the President, but he’s fine, just trust me. The Speaker is in hospital, bandaged to the hilt and can hardly sit up in bed without wincing in pain, but she’s fine too. It’s all fucking fine. Well, Madam Speaker, it’s not… fine.”

  “Bert’s right,” said Marcus, playing good cop to Bert’s crazy cop. “In a situation where we can’t even speak to the President to confirm he’s alive… well, my advice to the Cabinet will be that we’ve got no choice but to assume he’s unable to act in the Office, at a minimum, in which case it is our constitutional duty to invoke the succession…”

  “And have me declared as Acting President until his inability is removed?”

  “Yes. And if, Madam Speaker, you decline the role, as you might… you know, out of respect for the… ah… political situation… the next in line is Senate President pro tempore.” The current Senate President was Eric Mallord, a Democrat.

  “And after him, it goes to me,” added Bert needlessly.

  “Gentlemen,” said Isabel, “please believe me. President Foster is certainly not dead nor is he unable to fulfil his duties as you and my hus… others are too willing to speculate.”

  “We believe you, of course, ma’am,” said the Attorney. “But until we know that as a hard fact, and not hearsay, we have no choice other than to invoke the succession. Then, once we can be sure his disability has been removed, he’ll be reinstated. But meanwhile, this country cannot be rudderless. We simply can’t permit it.”

  “Actually, I’m afraid you must,” she said, pushing herself further back into her pillows, this time without letting them see her pain. “You give me no choice…”

  73

  MANIFOLD’S AIRSTRIP COULDN’T take the highly modified Boeing-747 yesterday, so the presidential plane had instead landed thirty miles away by road, at the South Burlington Air National Guard airfield. And that was where it was now waiting to fly its passengers to Washington DC for the State of the Union Address that evening.

  Back in the hospital carpark, Isabel and a small contingent of her entourage strapped themselves into the Sea King helicopter. As it lifted its precious cargo into the air for the short airtrip to South Burlington, the rest of the party of officials and security personnel were separately being ferried there in a fairly hotchpotch cortege of two bulletproof limos flown in earlier on one of the C-5 Galaxy heavy transport aircraft, several borrowed pickup trucks, some rented SUVs, and nine of Manifold’s taxis.

  Even with Secretary Robinson giving the orders, the symbolism of Isabel flying in the President’s personal helicopter and then on one of the two presidential planes, as well as her being escorted by C-5s and protected by AWACS, F-15s and F-16s—while President Foster remained incommunicado for the second day running—was torturing an incredulous media and an increasingly jittery public.

  Before boarding the chopper, Robinson and Bentley had fronted the media swarm outside the hospital. They repeated the lines they’d started parroting the prior afternoon: that because President Foster was physically weak after the debilitating asthma attack, even though he was fully competent and definitely in charge, the White House Physician had confined him to bed rest ahead of his State of the Union Address, due that evening. And yes, they had spoken to him personally.

  That two such respected men, who were also known to be his personal friends, were standing side-by-side saying this so unflinchingly placated many people watching, but there were enough rumblings around the country to keep the nation on edge… that the President was dead… he was seriously incapacitated… there’d been a coup.

  The hardcore conspiracy theorists were having a field day.

  74

  THE JOINT SESSION of the two Houses of Congress was scheduled for 8:30 PM, with the State of the Union Address being broadcast at nine. This time every network, not just C-Span and the news channels, was scrabbling to take the feed live. Tonight, virtually every eye in the nation would be glued to a TV screen.

  In the corridor, just before she entered the Hall of the House of Representatives, Isabel sighed, “And now for the public hanging.” Marcus Bentley hoped he knew what she meant, but after what was to follow they were words he would scarcely ever forget.

  Ed went to take her wrist, her undamaged left one, to wish her luck but, so noticeably that even Secretary Robinson flinched, she shook him off. So far, she’d barely said anything to Ed, and certainly nothing about his affair or, for that matter, the President.

  Ed’s fingers had felt like sandpaper against her skin, and as his hand dropped away, she noticed flesh-coloured pads covering a couple of his fingertips.

  “What’re those?” she whispered, trying not to move her lips, aware that Davey wouldn’t be
the only one able to read them this time; there were no press or cameras permitted in the corridor, but it was abuzz with staffers, the Secret Service and the Capitol’s own police.

  “A couple of warts,” Ed shrugged, leaning into her ear. “Got ’em burnt off.”

  Isabel didn’t recall him having any warts recently, but didn’t think about them further after a nod from the Sergeant at Arms signalled her to follow him in, leaving Ed and Davey with the two Cabinet Secretaries.

  Bert pointed out the correct door for Ed and Davey to wait at, and he and Marcus turned, heading for the anteroom where the Cabinet was assembling.

  CARRYING the traditional mace, the Sergeant at Arms walked slowly down the aisle to the rostrum. As Isabel limped behind him, the Hall kept an embarrassed silence, no one confident enough of the circumstances to lead any applause. Her cane was its own mace of sorts, reminding some of the now almost folkloric day she hobbled into George and Annette Hicks’ diner. When her eyes located George up in the public gallery, the old guy, genetically contemptuous of convention, leapt to his feet and started to clap. His outburst seemed to trigger an electric shock through everyone’s seats at the same moment and they all stood to follow him, though their applause was hesitant, unsure.

  Isabel cracked a wrinkled smile, as genial as she was able given her stitches, and pushed on down the aisle until she stood unsteadily to the side of the podium.

  The applause thickened, and with small, precise steps, Isabel cut a slow pivot to face the chamber simultaneously scanning over the faces while the hundreds of Representatives, those cramming the press and public galleries, and the millions more in the TV audience, all scanned her and stared back in shock.

  She knew she wasn’t the pretty sight they’d got comfortable with during the campaign but she’d scrubbed up well enough: a gifted makeup artist had plastered over her facial bruises, though her stitches were there for all to see, and she was stuck with her right arm bent in its sling and her left having to lean on a gnarled oak cane. There was nothing she could do about any of that, but to her, even making it to stand here tonight was an extraordinary feat.

  As the ovation clattered on, she turned and, with her back to the chamber and the cameras, she slowly climbed step-by-painful-step to the top tier of the rostrum where eventually she slumped into the Speaker’s red leather chair.

  THE air was thick with anticipation. Once Isabel had settled the House as best she could, she nodded to the Sergeant at Arms. He in turn signalled the Deputy Sergeant at Arms who announced that the Senators had arrived outside the Hall. As near to a single organism as 435 anxious people can be, the Representatives present rose, as was traditional to receive the members from the other legislative chamber. The public gallery followed suit, with George standing only when Isabel raised her eyebrow at him.

  Spencer Prentice was down toward the front and three rows back. A student of protocol, he knew that the first senator to enter would be Eric Mallord, the Senate President pro tempore. For the joint sitting of both Houses, Eric would be taking the high-backed chair to Isabel’s right.

  With the flag draped behind her, Isabel waited to strike her gavel until Eric sat beside her and the bustle of senatorial silk and wool and the smattering of huffs and grunts had ceased.

  “To escort the President of the United States into the Chamber, the Chair,” she pronounced formally, “appoints as members of the committee on the part of the House: the gentleman from Missouri… the gentlewoman from Ohio…” and after appointing another eleven representatives, “the gentleman from Massachusetts, Mr Prentice.” She winked at Spencer, but without a smile.

  The glint when their eyes met spoke enough for him and, pumped up, the six-foot-six son of a Boston hospital nurse and pre-school teacher—hardly the black Boston Brahmin many people assumed from his bearing and diction—winked back at his old friend, also without a smile. Impassive, tough, she watched him as he stood and swivelled around to go to the doors.

  As Spencer and the others headed up the centre aisle, Senator Mallord took his cue and appointed a similar number of senators as additional escorts.

  Next, the Deputy Sergeant at Arms welcomed the Dean of the Diplomatic Corps and the Chief Justice and the Associate Justices of the Supreme Court.

  Isabel caught the Chief Justice’s smile, and searched for other friendly faces among the otherwise impressive gathering.

  There were many faces, though few actual friends.

  FOSTER’S Cabinet entered next, all except the Secretary for Health who, under the Continuity of Government plans that demanded one person in the succession be located elsewhere, had drawn the doomsday short straw.

  The Cabinet members shuffled in with their heads appropriately grave and low. Their colleague and, for several of them, their good friend Vice-President Mitch Taylor had died; and only two of them were in the tiny loop of knowledge about what was really happening with the President.

  Every Cabinet member, even Robinson and Bentley, was hoping or praying that President Foster would appear tonight safe and well. The repercussions would be enormous if he didn’t: the unspeakable possibility of a double assassination; and with Isabel Diaz seated up ahead of them, the unthinkable toppling of a hard-fought, near-miss Democratic White House.

  Paying evident respects to the tragic circumstances, they took their reserved seats at the front.

  75

  ISABEL CAUSED THE first real stir of the session when she asked Congress to grant the privileges of the floor of the House to Ed and Davey so they could take the two remaining seats up front. Normally the Speaker’s relatives sat in the gallery, where George was. Even the President’s family sat up there, though oddly neither the First Lady nor her children were there tonight.

  “What the…?” was the most common reaction that flittered around the Chamber. Everyone present knew that they were in uncharted territory tonight and a hesitant acclamation granted her request. The doors opened and, preceded by the Deputy Sergeant at Arms, Ed and Davey brushed their way past the President’s welcoming committee. Spencer Prentice, standing beside the doors, grit his teeth as the former General passed. If Ed had noticed the Congressman, he would have done likewise.

  THE President’s motorcade snaked towards the Capitol Building. The vehicles hadn’t come from the White House—no one knew where they were from—so their mere approach was newsworthy.

  “The motorcade is about three minutes away, Kevin,” the newscaster told her ABC sidekick on air. “And as yet, no one has actually sighted of President Foster.”

  “Yes, Patsy, and with the First Lady not even in the Chamber, which is most unusual, there are many who could be forgiven for being in severe doubt that he’s even behind those dark-smoked windows.”

  “There’s been so much speculation about tonight’s session that bloggers are calling it ‘The Fate of the Union’…”

  “A week ago, the events of the last few days would have been inconceivable… plunging the country into a turmoil that, hopefully, will be quelled tonight. Who could ever have contemplated that nothing—not a peep—could have been heard, or seen, of the President since his…?”

  “Kevin, this attendance by the Speaker’s husband and stepson on the floor of the House… it’s most irregular, too. We’re crossing now to Leighton Smith, a longstanding expert on House formalities… Leighton, what do you make of this?”

  “As you know, Patsy, family members are always seated in the galleries. I’ve been covering Washington for fourteen years and I can’t recall seeing anything like this before. For Madam Speaker’s family to be admitted to the floor suggests something more than a State of the Union…”

  “Like what…?” pressed Patsy.

  “I know this will only fuel the rumour mill,” Smith continued, “…an inauguration.”

  “But Leighton, the ceremonies swearing in a new president are held on the West Front of the Capitol.”

  “In modern times they are, but until 1850 they were usually held ins
ide the Capitol, in fact mostly on the floor of the House…”

  “Leighton, you’re not suggesting…?”

  ED strode down the aisle to the front with Davey nervously trying to keep up behind him. Davey was doing his utmost not to shake out of his skin or rather, his alien coat and tie. He stretched his shoulders back and held his posture as high as possible, trying hard to imitate his father’s natural ramrod straightness, but his hands were useless and, without the comfort of holding Pip his fluffy penguin, they were dangling self-consciously by his side, and he knew he wasn’t allowed to put his hands in his pockets. George had said so.

  When Davey and Ed had settled into their seats in the front row, beside the Cabinet, Davey looked up at Isabel in awe, but caught her watching him with a sadness in her eyes, though he thought it was from her injuries.

  Quickly, she collected herself and smiled, tipping her head to the side, so he would look over to the right of the Hall—his right, her left—where the signing interpreter she’d told him about earlier was poised so he could follow the proceedings.

  Tonight, he would need to.

  76

  AT 9:01 PM, THE Sergeant at Arms re-entered through the main doors and closed them firmly behind him. He walked down the aisle and up to the rostrum. Spencer watched him lean over between Isabel and Senator Mallord, cover his mouth and speak. The three engaged in a fleeting conversation and when the Speaker and Senate President nodded, the Sergeant stepped down to the floor and back up the aisle. At the doors, he cleared his throat, and after a collective intake of air, a hush enveloped the Chamber.

  Throughout the Hall, eyes closed in relief and hands clasped together as though in prayer. Then everyone twisted around to see Spencer and the other members of the welcoming committee tipping forward at the doors, set for them to swing open, or at least hoping they would.