Chapter 69
Duke Patrick nearly had his speech down, but an argument in the outer office broke his concentration. Now what? He waited for the talking to die down. It didn’t. There was a knock at his door. “I said no interruptions!”
His chief of staff was the first in. A number of other men — all looking serious, all with Secret Service pins on their lapels — followed. “I couldn’t stop them,” he said.
“Mr. Speaker,” began the lead agent. He muscled his way right around Patrick’s staffer. “You need to come with us. There’s an urgent meeting at the White House.”
“What? Why? I’m in the middle of something important.”
“I’m sorry for the interruption, but please. Now, sir.”
“I demand to know why?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss it.”
“Then I won’t be joining you.” He turned his back to the agents and silently returned to his speech.
“Sir…”
Patrick ignored him.
“Mr. Speaker, I have my orders.”
Patrick blew his temper. He reeled around and shouted, “Is this one of Taylor’s tricks? Get me out of the way so I can’t deliver my speech?”
“No, Mr. Speaker.”
“Then why on God’s earth should I go with you?”
“Because the White House needs you there.”
Patrick remained obstinate.
The Secret Service agent stepped away and spoke into a small microphone in his sleeve. He pressed one finger to his ear, setting the earpiece tighter. Congressman Patrick watched, broadly smiling as if he had won something. The agent finished and walked directly up to the speaker and whispered into his ear.
“Mr. Speaker, I’ve been instructed at the highest levels to bring you to the White House. It is your Constitutional duty.”
“Highest levels? What the hell is that supposed to mean? I don’t believe the president has returned yet.”
Duke Patrick was living up to his reputation, thought the Secret Service agent. Insolent, intractable, and officious. The agent radioed back, “Negative on John Wayne. Repeat. John Wayne will not comply.” John Wayne was the agency’s handle for the current Speaker of the House. It was an homage to Hollywood’s Duke.
Ten seconds later the speaker’s private phone line rang.
“I think that’s for you, Congressman.”
It rang three more times. Patrick finally picked it up, showing his extreme displeasure.
“Congressman Patrick.”
The Secret Service agents and Patrick’s chief of staff watched, unaware of what was being said, but totally interested. The congressman’s expression dropped.
“Okay,” was all he said.
He hung up, and ignoring the Secret Service detail, told his chief, “I’ll be at the White House. Stay by the phone.”
“Still tracking the craft.” The navigator gave the heading, which was plotted by Pentagon analysts back home. “Course is for an island. Two point two miles.” He changed screens. “Landfall likely at any number of potential coves. Other islands ahead through narrow passageways.” It wasn’t his job to assess the potential destinations, but it didn’t look good. The terrain was rocky and mountainous. Dense vegetation would make a rescue mission extremely difficult. He typed in more information on his computer. It got worse. The immediate islands were known for their caves — hundreds, if not thousands of them. He revised his opinion. If they took the president there, it might be impossible to find him. Like a needle in a haystack.
Katie expected to hear sirens. After all, it was Washington, D.C. There was a fair chance that at any given moment, one dignitary or another needed to be hustled somewhere fast. But in the five minutes since she left the Rayburn Building, it seemed like there were nothing but screaming sirens.
She was on the corner of Constitution and C trying to hail a cab when she realized that all the noise was heading in the same direction — away from the Capitol. A taxi eventually stopped for her. She gave Roarke’s address and asked the obvious. “What’s going on?”
“Dunno,” the driver answered.
“Is it usually this crazed?”
“Oh, sometimes. You never know.” Two black Lincolns with blaring sirens passed them on Constitution. “Could be anything.”
The explanation sounded good enough until another two cars raced by. She took her cell phone out of her pocketbook and dialed Roarke. It rang three times. “Yeah, honey. Can’t talk.” Not good, she thought. “Just tell me, is everything all right?”
“Why? What do you know?”
“Nothing, except that every car with a siren has it turned on.”
“Where are you?”
“Heading home.” That has a nice ring to it. “Will you be…?”
“Later,” he interrupted.
“Call me when you can. Please.” She let her concern show. “I will. Love you.”
She added, “I love you more,” but Roarke was already gone.
“They’re going to feel the love, Elliott,” said a caller. “They better feel what we hate,” the talk-show host said. “That’s what the march is all about.”
Elliott Strong brokered in hate, day and night. He had delivered his single-minded message for years: You’re either for a Strong Nation or against it. Now his philosophy had a face attached — General Robert “Bob” Woodley Bridgeman.
Over the years, he never embraced Democrats. Now he finally turned on Republicans, as he always planned. Strong was leading millions of disenfranchised Americans toward a new political movement: a new party, which would soon have a new name.
“This isn’t a protest march, for God’s sake. You go to Washington and show Bob Bridgeman that you’re there for him. You’re there to demand change. If the power brokers don’t do it themselves, well then, I suppose we’ll have to do it ourselves.”
This was the first time he raised the specter of seizing political power. He slammed his hand on the table to get his listeners’ attention. “You have that? No more calls to congressmen we don’t trust. No more e-mails to a president, hell, two presidents, that don’t mean anything to us! No more pleading with senators. We’ll take this country from the ground level up. It’s time for a recall! We’ll get people in government who can do what needs to be done. And believe me, there’s only one man who can lead us out of the mess we’re in. General Bob Bridgeman.”
Strong shuffled some papers. He looked at his computer screen. He had enough calls to last a month. They’re getting it, he thought.
“Where are you?” Roarke asked urgently.
“Ah, almost at your apartment.”
“Still driving?”
“Yes,” Katie replied. “Scott, what’s going on?”
“Change of plans. Get over here.”
“Here? Where’s here?”
“The White House. North Entrance. I’ll meet you,” he explained.
“But…”
“Just do it.”
Chapter 70
The capital was packed with protestors and the vendors were thrilled. They were stocked up with Bridgeman Rules, March2Washington, and Bridgeman for President t-shirts, sweatshirts, and buttons. Everything was designed in bold red, white, and blue with a single, approved photograph of General Bridgeman against a fully unfurled American flag. It was the work of a New York designer; organized and distributed; definitely not a fly-by-night operation.