Still shocked, Patrick remained in the seat at the middle of the table. “My chair? Mr. Speaker?” In a completely awkward moment, Patrick stood and made way for the president to transfer from his wheelchair.
Henry Lamden had lost a good deal of weight, but none of his acrimony for Duke Patrick. They were from the same political party. That was the end of what they had in common.
“Gentlemen, Attorney General Goldman,” Lamden said, “can you give us a few minutes alone?”
The Secret Service agents filed out with a great story to tell their colleagues. Eve Goldman would have given her eyeteeth to stay and listen, but she took President Lamden’s cue. “You may sit down,” the president said. “I think I’d like to stand.”
“I would feel more comfortable if we saw each other eye-to-eye, Congressman.”
Another awkward moment. Patrick looked around the room, hoping one of the statues or paintings might feed him the right line. None came and he sat down opposite Lamden. When the door was closed, the president continued.
“So, my friend, three quick surprises for you in one day. Air Force One goes down. For a fleeting instant you see yourself in the White House, then an old pal crashes your party. I can’t begin to imagine what you’re feeling.”
“I’m relieved to see you, Mr. President.”
“Oh, cut the bullshit. Of course you’re not. You’re pissed as hell. You got this close! Right here. But not today, Patrick. Not this day, or God willing, any day soon. It’ll have to be over my dead body. And as you can see, I’m not quite there yet.”
“You have me all wrong, Mr. President. The country needs you.”
“That is debatable. The real truth is the country doesn’t need you.”
Patrick bolted to his feet in defiance. “Mr. President, obviously you’re not well. You should be back in the hospital. You can’t run the country. You don’t have the strength. You’re irrational. Listen to yourself. You’re attacking the Speaker of the House of Representatives. Me.” He started for the door. “I’m going to talk to the attorney general and the White House lawyers.”
“Mr. Speaker, I’m here because of them, and a smart young woman attorney who encouraged them to get me out of bed. She’s the one who spoke to the doctors. They cleared me. I guarantee you, if you go down that road, you will not win. More importantly, you will not survive another week in this town.”
For one of the first times in his life, Duke Patrick decided to shut up.
“While we’re talking man-to-man, in another day, you’ll introduce the biggest single danger to the American public since Joe McCarthy. Maybe I underestimated you. You’re a better politician than I thought. But I have to ask you — what the hell do you think you’re doing tying in with that crackpot? The best Bridgeman will give you is VP. And let me tell you, if you think that sycophant behind him has an ounce of interest in you, you’re crazy. Strong will eat your heart out right on national radio. You’re not in his great plan for the country. He’s designing a hate-filled America, with laws that serve the extreme. There’s no room in his nation for the Constitution, and there’s no room in it for you, Mr. Speaker. So again I ask — what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“You may dismiss the voice of the people. You can call Strong and all of the others like him sycophants or egomaniacal hate-mongers — whatever you want. But the power is shifting. There is a tyranny of words mounting, and it’s going to take you down, along with every other old-time politician. People don’t listen to you anymore. You’re a sound bite. Seven seconds, eight. If you’re lucky, ten. They’re the whole show. A caller on the radio gets more airtime. The only rule is you have to agree with the host. So what am I doing? I’m joining the new media, Mr. President. I’m agreeing with the host. And I’m going to be heard. Not you. Me. Enjoy your presidency while you can, because this isn’t over. You just kicked the can down the road a little bit. We’ll see who will or won’t survive in this town.”
The Speaker of the House left the Cabinet Room, and with it, any tie with the administration.
“I have a brief announcement to make,” Bill Bagley said. “I’ll take questions for a short period after.”
Ninety-minutes earlier, the White House press corps received an advisory that a major announcement would be forthcoming. They’d been waiting and speculating. Advance word had not leaked, so the press secretary’s statement caught everyone off guard.
“The Pentagon received a report early this morning that Air Force One crashed into the South Pacific Ocean. The president’s plane was en route to Andrews Air Force Base from Afghanistan. At present, I am unable to give you the exact location of the crash due to security in the area.” His voice cracked. Bagley fought back his grief, then continued with a hollow and labored delivery. “I can tell you that President Morgan Taylor was onboard along with members of the White House cabinet and staff, and colleagues of yours. Contact was lost with the president’s plane west of Indonesia. The 7th Fleet has been assigned the task of rescue and recovery. I have no further details on cause of the disaster. I’ll share what I can throughout the day.”
Hands shot up in the air. A dozen voices yelled out questions. However, Bagley had more to say.
“According to the 25th Amendment, ratified in 1967, succession would pass to the speaker of the House, in this case Congressman Duke Patrick.” He paused, sensing the anticipation in the room. “However…”
The however brought instant gasps.
“…when appraised of the situation, President Henry Lamden, recovering at Walter Reed Army Medical Center in Bethesda, advised Attorney General Eve Goldman that he would resume his duties as president, pending discharge by his doctors. President Henry Lamden has since returned to the White House. At this hour he is conferring with his cabinet and he’ll speak to the nation tonight at nine o’clock, eastern time. He has informed the speaker, who was ‘relieved to see’ the president.”
“Questions?” Bagley asked. They all came at once:
“How long were we without a president?”
“Is President Lamden healthy enough?”
“Do we know if there are survivors?”
“What happens if….”
Midway through his next call, Strong’s wife frantically waved a paper at him. She was in the control room, trying to get his attention. Strong, annoyed by the distraction, ignored her. She then spoke into the intercom. “Look at your computer.” While the caller from New Hampshire rambled on about how he was going to be in the first row for Bridgeman’s speech, Strong read the message screen.
“Oh my God!” he blurted.
“What?” asked the caller.
Strong’s reaction was genuine: maybe his first honest one in years. “Bring it in,” he said over the air.
His wife ran in with the bulletin from the Associated Press. As he scanned it, she typed a quick Internet link on his computer. The full story appeared.
Elliott Strong rarely read anything cold on the air. He usually marked pages with one-word cues for adlibs and practiced what he wanted to say. Not this time. He got the gist of the news brief, dropped the caller, who was talking again, and began.
“Darice has just handed me a story from the Associated Press. Honey, keep on this,” he said off mike. “We aren’t the first to report this, but here it is. From AP, maybe a minute ago, ‘Washington, D.C. White House Press Secretary Bagley announced that Air Force One has crashed in the South Pacific, near a chain of islands that comprise Indonesia. President Morgan Taylor, and a contingent of administration staff and reporters were returning from Kandahar, Afghanistan, when Air Force One suffered a catastrophic incident. No further details are known at this time. When notified, President Henry Lamden returned to the White House to assume the office of president.’”