At Risk of Winning (The Max Masterson Series Book 1) (31 page)

The president of the United States, the most public high official in the political world, was under a self-imposed siege. Aside from brief public appearances to make recorded stump speeches before audiences handpicked by his campaign staff, Blythe was isolated from America.

As they sat in the White house conference room awaiting the 10:30 a.m. meeting that would never happen, Schoolcraft and Walsh assessed the situation.

“I’m getting that mushroom feeling again,” offered Schoolcraft, a personal joke that the two had shared since their first days of service to Blythe in the early days of his Senate race twelve years before.

“Keeping you in the dark and feeding you shit again? Yeah, me, too,” replied Walsh. “he’s lost it. I don’t just mean the presidency. I mean, he’s getting as cuckoo as he’s ever been, and if it doesn’t come out in that debate, I’ll personally get him an Academy Award. Better yet, a Pulitzer.” They chuckled quietly, but there was no humor, just a shared nervousness.

“I can’t get him to focus on this debate, he cancels a good portion of his campaign appearances, and all the press seems to be interested in is who Masterson will pick as his running mate. he needs to be out there pressing the flesh and looking presidential.” Shaking his head, he lowered his voice to a whisper. “he has this idea that an Independent can’t get elected. The polls say otherwise.”

Schoolcraft cradled his coffee and clutched a meticulously organized notebook. he could have reduced all of the paper to his electronic iPad, and he had, but he chose to have something more substantial to occupy his hands when he was dealing with Blythe. The president was mistrustful of electronic information and had demonstrated a fondness for throwing iPads against the wall to see if they would break. “Whether he pulls this out of his ass and wins a second term or not, I’m leaving this nutcase and going into the private sector right after the election. You should, too. Maybe we can both get a lobbying job and make some real money for once,” he whispered.

After a half hour of waiting, Blythe had not emerged, and they returned to their offices in the east wing. Another day wasted, and no time left to prepare for the inevitable.

u
ChAPTER NINETY-FOUR

had his handlers known that he was abusing drugs and alcohol to mask his depression and paranoia, Blythe would have been micromanaged. But he carried his own pill container, which he used to supplement the medication presented to him as prescribed. Only his personal physician knew the full extent of the problem, but Dr. Oxley was almost as isolated from the president as the rest. A personal checkup was obligatory to convince the public that he was in good health, but two checkups per year were all that he allowed, and the details of his condition were barred from public scrutiny by the same laws that protected everyone else. Secretly, the president was getting stoned, and since his showdown with his intelligence secretary, his need to douse his anxiety had grown to new proportions.

Blythe’s campaign abandoned any hope of disgracing Max and Scarlett. As the two remaining candidates receiving more than twenty percent of the primary vote, they would be at the podium with the incumbent, and the focus of the press was on the final three. Max was far ahead of Scarlett in the polls, but she hung on doggedly, continuing to make stump speeches throughout the country. She had succeeded in eliminating her party from the campaign from the start, and for the first time in her life, she assumed the role of Independent.

For a traditional politician, going bare without the resources of the political machine was scary at best. At its worst, it was uncomfortably lonely. Just the same, Scarlett needed to remain viable as a candidate. Excerpts of her speeches were continuously broadcast to provide contrast to the highly polished rhetoric that was put out by Blythe’s reelection staff. In the last days of the election, her talking points had been repeated so often that one speech was basically the same as the one before it, and she had nothing more to contribute to convince the undecided to give her their vote.

Max made no effort to match or contrast either campaign’s message. his campaign was so unorthodox that there was no way to accurately predict the effect his message would have on the voters. he had made no speeches and had managed to shift attention to his campaign while obscuring his opponents in too many of their own words. There were only Max’s sound bites, accompanied by the intense attention given to Max himself, and a new disdain by the public for the usual process of electing the next president. It was a battle of the new challengers against the old. For the first time in modern history, an incumbent party was being challenged by two Independents, and the incumbent was stumbling badly.

“I need my notes. Where are my notes? Where are the questions? how the hell am I going to know the answers if I don’t know the questions?” Blythe sat in a barber chair, dressed in the same sweatshirt and sweatpants that he had worn for two days. he’d showered, but the old sweaty clothes were not replaced with clean ones, and his body odor was offensive to everyone in the room. he was vibrating with agitation.

AT RISK OF WINNING

“Mr. President, stop fidgeting. You stink like a dumpster, and I’m supposed to make you look and smell like a president. Go change your clothes.” Yawanna hawley was the makeup artist for the White house, and she had been there for three presidents before Blythe. her official job description was “image consultant,” a title bestowed upon her by hillary Clinton, and the title stuck. She didn’t have a political bone in her body and had no fear of being fired for her insolence. Greater men than Blythe had confided in her over the years, and she provided her own unadulterated version of public opinion. his predecessors had valued her opinion, but this one didn’t have a clue. Clucking with disapproval, she rattled on. “The Bushes had good hair, but don’t get me started about Romney. And I can’t wait to get my hands on Scarlett Conroy’s hair. I can always tell how well a politician will do by their hair, you know?”

he ignored her, but changed into the standard dark-blue suit and white shirt upon which the image of the president is built. When he had changed, he settled back into the chair and resumed barking orders. “Someone bring me an ice water,” he bellowed.

Two aides scrambled to comply, while Walsh and Schoolcraft continued to brief him on answers to possible questions. They had the mutual angst that they were bailing out a sinking ship with a thimble, and they dreaded the inevitable shredding of the Blythe administration during the debate. They had no major accomplishments to tout and were only able to weakly defend a presidency that was mired in a malaise of endless wars and economic stagnation. There had been no promises kept, and Blythe’s belligerent approach to international issues had created many more enemies than he had brought into his camp.

While the president popped two small pills from his pocket, Yawanna went to work on his face. She carefully blended the red of his rosacea with the sparse natural flesh-tones of the rest of his face, all the while fighting the feeling that she was dressing a corpse. he had spent the morning drinking the rest of the scotch that he could find, and he radiated the heat and sweat that his body produced to expel the toxins.

Schoolcraft was the more optimistic of his handlers and spent the downtime reading questions and attempting to elicit a response. “Maybe it was wise to keep him bottled up and out of the public eye. he won’t stand up to Masterson and Conroy head to head, and it’s too late to do anything about it. Those political ads are at least two years old, and he’s sliding down a slippery slope to disaster,” he confided to Walsh. he stared at the raving madman and thought, “No amount of makeup will take away Blythe’s glazed eyes and wobbly mannerisms.” he pulled Walsh into an adjoining room, and once they were outside of earshot, Walsh blurted what they were both thinking. “I didn’t have the guts to confront him, to just walk in and shake him out of this. he should have been in rehab a year ago. But how would that have played with the press?”

he moved farther from the door, suddenly fearful of being overheard, then continued sharing his thoughts. “I can see it now. huffington would be sitting outside of the gates of the funny farm, and the press would be saying, ‘It’s the fourteenth day of the president’s rehabilitation, and the course of therapy is progressing nicely, while Vice President Case has assumed his role as world leader during this emergency.’”

Schoolcraft nodded in agreement. “Let’s get back to work—as if that will do any good.” he flipped the lights off as he walked out of the room, leaving Walsh standing in the dark.

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ChAPTER NINETY-FIVE

Max stood at his assigned podium as the television crew scrambled to make last-minute adjustments to sound and lights. he was early. he wanted to get familiar with the venue for the debate, and the audience would not be seated for another hour. By that time, he would be calmly waiting for the signal to take the stage with only Andrew Fox and Bill Staffman to keep him company. As he looked out over the empty seats, the feeling that his father was watching was unshakeable. Silently, he thought of the long journey that had begun when he was an infant and of the senator who became his father. If John Masterson had lived, he would have had the best seat in the house. If he had been able to give last-minute advice, he would have told Max to stick with the plan he had crafted to get his son to that stage.

When the feeling diminished, Max walked slowly back to the room to Andrew and Bill for last-minute advice. he would have preferred to have time to himself, but solitude is impossible during the last days of any political race. Andrew launched into his pep talk before the door closed.

“No speeches, right?”
“No speeches,” Max replied.
“No messages longer than a sound bite, right?” Staffman

chimed in, realizing that the time for preparation was long over for his young candidate. he had resigned himself to following the maxims for so long that it was second nature, any new words would be a distraction.

“I’m sticking with the plan,” replied Max. he walked over to a desk in the corner of the room. The lamp illuminated an envelope. The writing on it was familiar. The words were simple:
Mr. President.

Max tore into the envelope as Andrew said, “Luke Postlewaite and Mom are going to be in the audience tonight, and Luke gave me this for you.” Inside was a copy of the original draft of the maxims, along with a handwritten card. In his father’s distinctive script, there were two lines:

Stick with the plan and release your fear. You have taken the journey, now reach the destination.

Max stood at the podium, calm and perfect, dressed in a charcoal-blue suit and red, white, and blue striped tie. his healthy tan was real, acquired on the ski slopes and beach trips he managed to use as backdrops for his many sound bites. he refused the assistance of a hairdresser or makeup. he didn’t need anything but encouragement.

Noticing activity to the side of the stage, he saw Scarlett surrounded by a swarm of assistants. They were busy patting and combing, all talking at once. Scarlett stood in the middle reviewing the flash cards she had trimmed to fit in the palms of her delicate hands. Until the cameras began broadcasting, she would remain in the wings and take advantage of her unique ability to attract attention. She wore her trademark red politician suit, with a blue satin scarf.

She, too, was perfect.

When the moderator approached his desk, the lights came on and so did the cameras, capturing every angle and activity in the room.
When she was certain that the broadcast of her image was imminent, Scarlett stepped onto the stage and began brushing her long auburn hair, then took her place behind the podium on the left side of the stage. The center podium remained empty, and nervous broadcasters began demanding reports on the whereabouts of the president.
Greg huffington sat at the back of the audience. he had wangled a pass from the League of Woman Voters after threatening to sue the organizers after being tackled trying to force his way into Scarlett’s dressing room. he was sporting a hematoma on his hip the size of a softball, and he limped when he walked. The bruise on his left temple was still tender, but it could be covered with makeup now that the swelling had gone down. he wanted to be in the room when Blythe annihilated his opponents with his skillful debating. All electronic devices had been removed from members of the audience, and security was high. huffington felt naked and gagged, lacking the ability to ask questions. To compensate, he planned to do an immediate report outside of Wait Chapel, the debate venue at Wake Forest University, where his network had erected lights and sound. The fall foliage provided a colorful backdrop.
Accompanied by his team of assistants, Blythe appeared and strode confidently toward his place in the center of the stage. he smiled and moved behind the podium. If he had been scanned for electronic devices like the others present in the room, he would have had to forfeit the tiny microphone inserted inside his ear canal. The president of the United States does not submit to security checks, and his calm exterior belied the fact that he would be fed answers from a secret location at the first sign that he was faltering. Inside the makeup, though, the inebriated man would soon face his largest audience, and his highdefinition image would be viewed by everyone, everywhere.
“Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen, please be seated. It’s time to introduce our candidates,” began Roger Forrestal, retired news correspondent for the now-defunct CBS News. “The rules, as defined by resolution of the League of Women Voters, are unchanged. For the benefit of the viewers who have not participated in our previous debates in this election, I will review them before we begin.” he quickly read a summary of the rules, stressing that the questions for this debate had been submitted by the viewers and the subjects had been changing on a daily basis for the past six weeks. “For the first time in history, the candidates have had no advance notice of the topics and have had no ability to propose or reject the questions I have been provided. To ensure the integrity of this process, I have left them sealed in the envelope before me.” With great drama, he tore open the envelope and extracted the contents.
Forrestal had been the default moderator since the start of the presidential race, and the rules defined by the League of Women Voters had not changed despite the efforts of the candidates to determine the questions to be asked in advance. Any candidate that could predict the questions would hold a significant advantage. The ten questions to be asked were anonymously collected and guarded by the League, and to avoid corruption, they were changed constantly. The candidates could speculate, but they would lack the rote statistics that most annoyed the voters. Without advance preparation, there could be none of that. For the first time in a long time, the debate participants were in the dark.
The cameras panned the candidates. Max and Scarlett stood still, attentive to the announcement. Blythe, however, had his back to the podium, whispering loud enough to be heard by most of the others in the room. The microphones picked up the rest of his words, which were broadcast to the world. “Dammit! Where’s my teleprompter? Walsh! Don’t just stand there like a retard! I’m not going to debate these two freakin’ Independents without my notes! Get out here, now!”
Walsh stood out of the glare of the cameras. Nothing short of a cattle prod was going to get him out on that stage, and he considered leaving the building before the president of the United States had a full meltdown in front of the world. Out of duty, he stood fast, but glanced for the nearest exit.
Blythe realized that he had his back to the audience and turned, reaching for the podium. In his inebriated state, he missed his handhold by a good two inches, sprawling face-first onto the hardwood stage. Immediately, Secret Service agents emerged from hidden locations and rushed toward the president. Trained to immediately protect the president from any perceived harm, they piled on top of him to protect his life from threats to his well-being. No training could protect Blythe from himself, and it was several minutes before the pandemonium subsided.
Scarlett stood at her podium, covering her mouth with her hand, regretting that she had left her mirror in her purse and wondering whether they would be afforded an opportunity to freshen up. By the time Blythe resumed the podium, his hair was reminiscent of a Nick Nolte mug shot. his makeup had dissolved in sweat, and his face was red from exertion and self-abuse. Max was rock solid and waited impassively as Blythe continued to self-destruct.
“Let’s continue, but first let me ask you, President Blythe, do you feel as if you are able to go on?” Forrestal was attempting to restore order, but it was a tall order. he had no hope of erasing the start of this fiasco, and he knew that things could conceivably degenerate into pure chaos at any moment.
“Yeah, let’s get this over with,” replied Blythe, a droplet of sweat forming at the end of his nose. The cameras focused on the dangling drop and gave the viewers an unflattering close-up.