Elliott Strong had launched what amounted to a countrywide political movement. The national media had picked up on the wave of excitement emanating from the center of the country. Thanks to radio, General Robert Bridgeman was heading for the front page.
“Today, on Meet the Press, retired Marine Corps General Robert Woodley Bridgeman,” the host began. “General Bridgeman served in Operation: Enduring Freedom in Afghanistan and Operation: Iraqi Freedom, where he was wounded in battle and decorated with the Purple Heart. He also has been honored with the Navy Cross and the Distinguished Service Medal. He has been recognized for his command of mountain and urban warfare, and now, as a civilian, he represents a growing coalition.” The host stopped, and turned into a two-shot on another. He faced General Bridgeman across the table.
“A coalition of what, General? I know I’m not the only one scratching my head in recent weeks, wondering who and what you represent. You have emerged as something of a phenomenon on the public scene. What is your message?”
“Well, first and foremost, thank you for having me on today,” the general said, slowly and with warmth. He smiled and stretched out both hands, as if to welcome the audience. The TV director, Ben Bowker, cut to a single shot, which accentuated the expression. “It’s a fair and appropriate question. I am, of course, a civilian. My title, these days, is one of a retired serviceman. And I thank you for employing it. But in truth, I am just Bob Bridgeman. A regular guy who’s seen an awful lot. Maybe too much for one man in a lifetime.”
The host could have jumped in to focus the answer, but he decided to stay out and see where this was going.
“I love my country. I proudly served in the armed forces for twenty-six years. Since retiring, which in itself is hard for me to grasp, my wife has been trying to get me out of the house. She says I’m far too young to hang it up,” he joked. “Well, she’s right.” Bridgeman suddenly turned serious. “I have seen our nation slip and slide into a quagmire of political uncertainty. After all, do we really have an elected official leading the United States?”
“Excuse me, sir, but we do. There was a legal election and the succession acts, enumerated by the United States Constitution, provided us with a stable and orderly process.”
“Stable and orderly is quite correct. But now, with Mr. Taylor in the White House, we can’t really say that he is the man most voters or electorates wanted. Can we?” It was not a question, and he pressed on. “At no other time in American history has a defeated candidate assumed the role of president. Yes, duly appointed vice presidents have succeeded presidents following their death, but not one who was nominated only minutes after the inauguration.”
“The Constitution,” interrupted the host, “does not look at such technicalities.”
General Bridgeman rose up in his chair. He found the camera, glanced away from the host opposite him, and said the most profound words of the interview: “It should.” Meet the Press had been on the air continuously since November 6, 1947. It was the longest-running program in television history: no small achievement in the competitive, cutthroat world of TV news.
Every week, Meet the Press not only reported the news, it made it.
Senator Joseph McCarthy attacked his enemies and defended himself on the program. A young Massachusetts Congressman named John F. Kennedy found a national constituency through his appearances. After leaking the Pentagon Papers, Daniel Ellsberg first came out of hiding in front of the show’s cameras, during a remote broadcast from the NBC affiliate in Boston. Vice President Dick Cheney disclosed the Bush administration had videotape proof of Osama bin Laden’s involvement in the terrorist attacks of 9/11. Every important politician in America used Meet the Press to his or her advantage at some time in their political careers. Today, it was General Bridgeman’s turn, and the next question was inevitable.
“General Bridgeman, many people have appeared on Meet the Press to announce their aspirations for political office. The highest, of course, the presidency. We are years away from an election…”
“A scheduled election,” the general politely inserted.
The host bore down. “As presently enumerated in the Constitution, the first Tuesday following the first Monday in November, General. Every four years. We are more than three years from a presidential election. Will you be on the ticket? And if so, for which party?”
Robert Woodley Bridgeman cocked his head slightly and thought for a moment. “As you have noted, the presidential election is pretty far down the pike. But I intend to take the pulse of the country and determine two important things. Are people happy now? That is to say, will they accept the administration for another forty-two months? That’s roughly one hundred sixty-eight weeks. Twelve-hundred sixty days is a long time, and a lot can happen when people want it to.”
The host began to cut in, but General Bridgeman continued unabated. “We must listen to the will of the country. It was, after all, the people who established the Republic. Let’s just say we’ll see what the people want.”
The host broke for the first commercial, and worried what would happen if it were really left to the people.
“I got your e-mail.” Roarke now traveled with a Treo. “You have some news?”
“Yes. Keeping it simple, you were right,” Katie explained. “They spoke. I think it’s time for that subpoena. I’ll talk to the senior partners and let them know why they should cooperate.”
“Great, honey. I’ll call Mulligan and keep you out of it.”
“Thanks, but you know I’m knee-deep already and…” There was excitement in her voice, which Roarke detected.
“Yes?”
Roarke juggled the cell phone to his right ear. His left was actually still blocked from his underwater fight. It was more of an annoyance than a problem.
“I got an unusual call today.”
“From who?” he asked.
“Well, if you want to know, it was from the president’s chief of staff.”
“Bernsie?”
“Mr. Bernstein?” she asked.
“Yeah, that’s what the boss calls him. Why did he—”
“With a question,” she said. “He wanted to know if I’d be available right away to head up a White House study on possible revisions to the succession laws.”
“What?” Roarke exclaimed.
“Hey, I’m allowed.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t. It’s just that…”
“Just what, Mr. Roarke? That I’m in Boston? That I’m seeing you? That—”
“Wait a second, I’m happy for you. This is great news, and I’m not surprised. You deserve it.”
“But you’re upset that he didn’t clear it with you first?” she added.
“I’m not upset. He’s making a great choice. And if you’d let me finish, counselor, my what was leading to a complete sentence: What’s the rush?”
“I suspect recent history, for one.”
“Point taken,” Roarke granted. “So you’ll be moving to Washington?”
“Nope,” Katie replied. “Maybe some trips down, but most of it can be done on the Internet, at law libraries, on the phone. I will have to interview the leadership in both the House and Senate who have already held hearings and drafted bills. And I’ll have to venture back into Justice Browning’s lair.”
“Brave.”
“It does mean I can kiss Freelander, Connors, & Wrather goodbye. Which is fine by me. If I take it…”
“Of course you will.”