The Associated Press had already estimated that more than $2 million would be spent by marchers on souvenirs. Hotel rooms and meals could account for $20 million over the next few days. Overtime for police and support services, another $1.5 million according to the wire service quotes. It was all for a man the public knew nothing about little more than a month earlier…and all because of one radio talk-show host.
Fox News scored another sit down with Bridgeman, while CNN had to settle for a quick run-and-gun interview with the general. No matter the bias, everyone talked about the meteoric rise of the Texas general. As the host of The McLaughlin Group termed it, opinion weighed heavily over traditional reporting in this new age of journalism. Fact-based coverage was becoming a dying art.
“So, Roger Deutsch, political contributor to Vanity Fair, I ask you, can General Bridgeman muster a vote of confidence?” The McLaughlin host always employed tight, staccato phrasing in his questions.
“A vote of confidence? Yes. But if the endgame is to unseat the president, he’ll flame out long before the election. This is too early: three years before the next election, two years before the primaries. I can’t even tell you what party he’s aligned with, or more to the point, what party is aligned with Bridgeman.”
“Any party he wants!” interrupted The Philadelphia Inquirer’s Victor Monihan. “When was the last time we saw a political rally this size for a declared candidate? Never. Both the Republicans and the Democrats would love to have him lead their party. Now if you’re asking me if it’s a good thing?”
“Is it a good thing?” the host prompted.
“Who knows? I can’t even articulate who he represents, other than an amorphous radio constituency.”
“I can tell you what he wants, though,” argued Peter Weisel, the Washington bureau chief of The Chicago Tribune. “He’s for a recall and totally anti-Lamden, anti-Taylor, anti-Constitution, anti-process, anti-procedure, and anti-protocol. And just check his military record — he’s anti-establishment.”
Weisel was not the first to recognize it, but he was the first to state it.
“Page One, The Chicago Tribune,” the host read. “It’s right here. You say General Bridgeman was not the leader he claims to be, but an arrogant maverick who ignored military command in Bosnia.”
“Worse,” explained Weisel. “Under his command, he very nearly restarted the war. The Pentagon sent him to Afghanistan to cool off. He was ordered to lay low, but he couldn’t. He called the new leadership a joke and he held the prime minister under house arrest on suspicion of drug trafficking. Unproven, I might add. That wasn’t the last of Bridgeman’s brilliant military career moves. He came back to a desk job and promptly pissed off then-President Morgan Taylor for deploying troops to Lebanon. It’s all true, and yet you don’t hear any of this on the radio.”
“For good reason,” offered the Dallas Morning News’s Christy Castle. “It’s triple X material. Excessively misstated. Extremely inaccurate. Exceptionally partisan. The man is a true military hero. Distinguished Service, Silver Star, Navy Cross: the whole nine yards. You’ve ignored how he prevented war from breaking out again in Bosnia, how he uncovered the largest drug smuggling operation in Afghanistan alone how, in the Middle East, General Bridgeman saved his own men in the heat of battle. This is a good man, a dedicated American. How he got to national prominence? Well, I suppose that’s because we need him.”
Chapter 71
“Kessler.” Katie identified herself to one of the two White House guards who stopped her cab. She noticed far more security than normaclass="underline" more Secret Service and Marines; more guns. “I’m here to see Scott Roarke.”
While one guard stayed with her, another looked at a list. Her name was not on it. “You have an appointment?”
“Mr. Roarke just called. I got here quickly and…”
“May I see your license, please?”
Katie complied, also producing a temporary White House ID she’d forgotten to mention.
The marine stepped aside and radioed inside. He had to speak loudly over the sirens from other cars rolling into the driveway.
While the marine was making his call, Katie paid the driver, but was careful not to get out of the cab until the Marine okayed her.
“You’re cleared Ms. Kessler,” the guard said a minute later. “Agent Pino will escort you through security.”
“Thank you.”
The woman agent appeared almost out of nowhere and led Katie to the metal detectors. She handed Katie’s purse and attaché case to another guard at an X-ray machine.
“Is this your first visit to the White House, Ms. Kessler?” Agent Pino asked.
“No, my third.” Her first meeting was immediately after the inauguration. The second was only a few days ago with Bernie Bernstein and White House counsel, Brad Rutberg. Now she sensed that this visit was going to be different for entirely new reasons, still unknown.
There was a profound change in everyone’s manner. People were quickly racing through the halls. The urgency from outside carried right inside, or, as she realized, vice versa.
“This way, please.” Pino ushered her to an elevator and accompanied Katie down. When the doors opened, Katie entered a whole new world. Marines were posted everywhere. Officers with uniforms from almost every branch of the military scurried from room to room.
“Just ahead.” They continued to even more guarded quarters, the White House Situation Room. The Secret Service agent spoke to a huge marine posted at the door. He radioed inside showing no hint of emotion. A minute later, Scott emerged. It wasn’t the Scott Roarke she’d left earlier that morning. His face was ashen; he looked pained.
“What’s wrong?”
Roarke pulled her inside and closed the door. What he had to say was not even for the guards. Not yet.
“The president’s plane went down.”
Katie suddenly knew why she was there. It wasn’t because Scott needed his girlfriend at his side. All her work was coming to bear.
Roarke explained what he could. With news of the crash of Air Force One came the inevitable question:
“Who’s in charge?”
Without another word, Roarke accompanied Katie to Brad Rutberg and Supreme Court Chief Justice Leopold Browning.
“Ms. Kessler,” Justice Browning said, “circumstances have moved up our meeting.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied. She firmly shook the hand of the man she deeply respected. She hadn’t seen the chief justice since their spirited conversations in January. “We have much to discuss.”
“Indeed.” The chief justice was 68, which made him younger than most of his colleagues, yet he was more knowledgeable than anyone else on the bench. It was difficult to argue Constitutional wisdom with the former Illinois prosecutor. Katie had tried. And though she was persuasive in their last meeting, she learned that when it came to law, no one in the country had a more brilliant mind than Browning. What can I possibly tell him that he doesn’t already know?
The prisoners were marched blindfolded from the shore, up a rocky incline, through a dense tropical jungle, to a flat area. By the sound of things, they settled in a tent. The fact was confirmed when the rebels removed their hoods. “At least we’re not in a cave,” Taylor whispered to Rossy.
“Silence!” Komari’s order was followed by the butt of a rifle across the back of the president’s head.
Taylor fell to the ground. Komari barked something else in Indonesian, which the president quickly realized were instructions to tie the prisoners together in pairs, back-to-back. Taylor was lashed to Ross. Considering what they had gone through together, the president couldn’t have asked for a better partner.