Lethal Trajectories (21 page)

M
edia experts predicted it would be the most highly watched event in history, and analysts and news teams alike planned accordingly. The Burkmeister/McCarty press conference was moved from the Brady Press Room to the East Room of the White House to accommodate more than three times the normal contingent of reporters, and it was still considered the toughest ticket in Washington to get. As at a Cape Canaveral space launch, the tension escalated as the countdown to launch neared zero.

The two leaders entered the crowded room together and were immediately accorded a standing ovation in a show of respect and patriotism. They took their seats behind a table on a raised platform and the room went quiet.

“Good morning, and thank you for coming,” Burkmeister stated. He quickly read through his prepared remarks and then talked off the cuff about his illness and the reasoning behind his decision to resign his presidency. For a few brief moments, the battle-hardened reporters saw him not as president, but instead as a vulnerable friend confronting his mortality.

Recognizing his digression, and embarrassed by it, he quickly became the president again. He apologized for his rambling—although it was by far the most touching part of the news conference—and turned the microphone over to Vice President McCarty. Like the reporters, Clayton was choked up by the president’s honest vulnerability. He focused hard on his prepared remarks before throwing it open for questions.

The early questions were directed at the president, but Clayton sensed the turning tide as he answered more and more of them. Reporters were glancing less often at the president for corroboration of his answers before committing them to their notes. It was astonishing to witness this visible shift in power in real time as reporters accepted the authority of his answers, and Clayton grew more confident in his replies.

The reporters hammered away on the exact timing of the succession and the contingencies that could move it to an even earlier date. Somewhat exasperated, Burkmeister said, “Look folks, this really isn’t rocket science. I plan to resign my presidency no later than twelve noon on Saturday, October fourteenth. Now that’s the latest it will occur. If, for health or other reasons, it seems advisable to move the date up, then that’s what I’ll do. That’s as specific as I can get, and we’re not going to take any more hypothetical questions on it.”

The Beltway obsession with winners and losers became the next focal point. While both men were committed to answering the questions in a forthright manner, it was hard to feed the hungry beast.

“My entire cabinet,” Burkmeister declared forcefully, “has agreed to continue to serve at the pleasure of the McCarty administration, and there will most assuredly be complete continuity in government to mitigate any challenges in the transition to new leadership. I am proud of my cabinet and know the vice president shares my same high regard.” Clayton gave a solid nod of affirmation.

“My long-time personal friend and chief of staff, George Gleason, has agreed to stick with me until I leave. He will then retire to get reacquainted with his beautiful family.”

“Mr. Vice President” asked an overeager reporter, “have you made a decision yet on your chief of staff, and can you comment on your nomination for your vice-presidential replacement?”

Clayton mused,
Here I am, only one day into this thing and I’m already confronted with the nepotism issue. What the hell, I’ll have to answer it sooner or later, so why not now?

“Yes, I have made a decision on my new chief of staff, and no, I have not decided yet on my recommendation for my replacement.”

“Care to elaborate on your chief of staff, Mr. Vice President?”

“Sure,” Clayton declared, “I have asked one of the smartest people I know, and a person I’ve known all my life—my brother, Jack McCarty. I’m still working on my vice-presidential replacement and have nothing to report at this time.”

Burkmeister, obviously sensing Clayton’s discomfort, chimed in, “Folks, you can’t imagine how difficult and lonely the president’s job can be or the number of hours the chief of staff spends with the president. I was blessed to have my good friend George Gleason by my side, and I advised the vice president he should keep that in mind in selecting George’s replacement. I believe he made a great selection.”

Clayton was surprised there were no follow-up questions to that at all, but he suspected it would become news fodder later. The next question was surprising only in being asked so late in the conference.

“Mr. Vice President, you are in the unique position of not being a member of either major political party. Do you plan to align with one of the parties, or do you hope to hold a coalition together as an Independent? Can you comment on the direction you will be taking?”

“Those are great questions, but ones I’m not fully prepared to answer at this time. I deeply respect and support the policies of President Burkmeister, and I see no reason to change anything right now. It may even be advantageous to avoid ties to the rock-hard dogma of either party. That said, I’ll look for the best minds in all parties to craft policies that seem best for the country.” He paused for a moment to think about what he was about to say.

“These are difficult times for America and the world; the questions you’ve asked reflect that. The Chunxiao Incident and its economic ripple effect; skyrocketing gas prices; and now the illness of our president and the succession that will follow—these are the issues that really count. Bottom line, these aren’t Democrat, Republican, or Independent party issues, they are
American
issues. It’s time to put party squabbles aside and concentrate on what’s best for the American people. President Burkmeister’s shoes will be hard to fill, and I’m going to need all the help and support I can get from all parties and, most of all, from the American people, whom I’ll do my very best to serve.”

S
enator Tom Collingsworth’s office door was closed, and he was taking no calls. Hugo was on his second double shot of scotch, and the senator might have been one or two up on him before they sat back to regroup from this crushing blow. He wondered how the fates could be so cruel as to allow Burkmeister to go and die at a time like this.

“Senator,” Bromfield said, slurring a bit, “the president has now become a martyr. We can’t attack martyrs. We can’t even attack that commie lover McCarty because he’s the new knight in shining armor here to save the nation. We have at least two immediate problems to address. First, we need to put the kibosh on our resolution to censure Burkmeister, and that will take some doing because I’ve already sent it around to members of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee.”

Collingsworth groaned. When the media found out what he was about to do to Burkmeister, it would be his own bloodbath. Even his sympathetic friends in the senate—and there were precious few—would drop him like a hot potato.

“Second, Senator, we’ll have to pull the plug on our arrangement with Wellington Crane.” It broke Hugo’s heart to say it, but he didn’t know what else they could do.

“Let’s give Wellington a call and see what he has to say about it,” the senator replied. He clicked the intercom on and shouted for his secretary to track down Crane. Senate staffers were proficient at catching their prey, and within minutes Wellington Crane was on the phone.

“Wellington, my friend, thanks so much for getting back to me. Hugo and I just finished watching the BM boys do their grand finale together, and we were interested in your take on the news. Where does it put the Save America tour?”

Wellington responded with bravado and clear disdain for their weak-kneed response. “If you’ll pardon the cliché, Senator, we are going to make lemonade out of this lemon. In time, we’ll be in a far better position to get our story across with a commie liberal like McCarty in the driver’s seat than we would have with Burkmeister. Think about it, man! Burkmeister is the nominal leader of your own party. As long as he’s there, the best we could hope to do would be to garner a fringe share of the Republican Party and maybe some undecideds. We’d be attacking his judgment, of course, for bringing a commie like McCarty into the White House, but it would only be a deflective blow. Now, we’ll have the real thing to attack. What’s more, we’ll blast away at the McCarty brothers. I’ll make them look like Al Capone and his gang before I’m through—mark my words!"

“I see your point, Wellington, and it’s a good one,” Collingsworth replied, a new glimmer of self-confidence rising in his voice. “Initially, we’ll have to lay low. Anything negative we say will look almost anti-American. I may take some hits, though, if the press picks up on the censure resolution I was preparing against Burkmeister.”

“Correction, Senator, you were
not
preparing a censure resolution
against
President Burkmeister the person, you were preparing it against the administration’s policy of not honoring a longstanding treaty with Japan. You were questioning a one-sided policy favoring China in the Chunxiao Incident, and that’s a perfectly appropriate thing for you to do in your role as chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee.”

“You’re absolutely right, Wellington, that’s a distinction I must be sure to make. Can you help me on this one?”

“Consider it done, Senator. In fact, I’m going to assume the mainstream media will get wind of your censure resolution, and I’ll beat them to the punch by covering it on my radio program today. You’ll look like a hero after I’ve finished spinning out the patriotic motivations behind your action. I’ll also tell them how you have withdrawn the resolution in hopes all Americans will put aside their differences and work together in these troubling times.”

“Genius, Wellington, sheer genius,” said the senator. “What about the Save America tour? How will we handle that?”

“I see no problem with that whatsoever. I’ll tell my audience that good Americans need to work together in tough times like this, and for me that means staying home and reporting the news as accurately and honestly as I can. I’ll tell them it’s not my intention to give the McCarty administration a free ride if I see things that are obviously wrong, but that we need be patient and give them every benefit of the doubt.”

Once again, Bromfield marveled at Crane’s ability to manipulate his way out of what could have been an embarrassing development—true genius, he thought.

“What’s more, I’ll tell them that Senator Thomas Collingsworth would not think of leaving his post at a time of such great peril to the nation. What do you think, Senator, will that work?”

“Absolutely, Wellington, absolutely,” replied the rejuvenated senator. Bromfield calculated the potential of postponing the tour for a few weeks and found the resulting data comforting.

“Now, I have to be honest with you boys,” Crane said, “If my gut instinct is correct, and it always is, I think it’s only a matter of time before that pinko McCarty screws it all up. We don’t
need
to attack now. He’ll self-destruct, and when he does, both parties will desert him and he’ll quickly lose his Independence Party base. One can only imagine who he’ll nominate as his vice-presidential replacement, but that could be the event that triggers our move against him. For now, though, we are all just patriotic Americans doing whatever we can to help.”

“Thanks so much for your insights, Wellington,” said the grateful senator, “Your perspective is right on. Hugo and I will do what we can on our end to hold true to the values of your Pax-Americanism.”

“Correction, Senator,” the great one responded with condescension,
“our
Pax-Americanism.”

After hanging up, Hugo Bromfield shifted into high gear, retooling the campaign to reposition Tom Collingsworth as a nonpartisan warrior interested only in what was best for America. If in so doing it bolstered his own position of power, so much the better.
You’ve got to love America,
thought Hugo.

A
mbassador Winston Thurgoode woke up at three thirty in the morning to a staccato noise he couldn’t identify. Fighting a sleepy stupor that comingled his subconscious and conscious thoughts, he struggled for clarity. A loud knock on his bedroom door provided a focus for his efforts.

“Yes, who is it?” he mumbled.

“Sir, Gunny Sergeant James Malloy, sir, in charge of the mid-watch security detail.”

“Come in, Sergeant,” he said, groggily reaching for his bathrobe.

“Sir,” said the stocky twenty-year Marine Corps veteran charged with guarding the U.S. Embassy on this fateful Wednesday morning, “There’s an uprising of some sort taking place in Riyadh. You must accompany me immediately to the secure room.”

Thurgoode, grateful his family was back in the States, responded, “Sergeant, would you call the communications center and have a direct call put through to the Situation Room in the White House?” He tripped as he clumsily put on his shoes and then tore down the long corridor to the secure room with the sergeant right behind him.

Despite his immediate action, a communications glitch delayed his call to the White House for close to thirty minutes.
I must remember to fix that once all this is over,
he thought, then realized that it might be due to the rioters. He hoped his decision to circumvent the State Department and go direct to the Situation Room would not cause a problem, but this certainly looked like a Code Red emergency. While waiting, he gathered what additional information he could and was horrified to contemplate what appeared to be happening.

“Sir, we’re connected,” the sergeant finally said.

“Is this the watch officer?” Ambassador Thurgoode asked. “Please inform the Situation Room that the royal palace in Riyadh is under attack as we speak. Our Consul General’s office in Jeddah also reports heavy fighting near several governmental centers, and we’re checking now with our sources throughout Saudi Arabia to determine how widespread the fighting is. It looks now like a major insurrection is underway.”