Oddly, O’Keefe had been completely absent during Operation Panther, Pacino thought, as well as this op, Operation Poseidon, until the bitter end. Carlucci had hinted that O’Keefe was a staunch pacifist, hated all things military, and would object to being in any room that had Pacino in it. O’Keefe kept to domestic affairs, leaving international issues and national security to the president and national security advisor. Odds were, Pacino thought, O’Keefe had objected to Carlucci hiring a former admiral-in-command of a war fleet as his national security advisor, but Carlucci kept his own counsel when it came to hiring and firing.
O’Keefe took a seat on the wing chair near Carlucci, facing Pacino. He nodded at Pacino. “Morning, Mr. Vice President,” he said respectfully.
“Anyway, Remi, I was just talking to the vice president about his sudden decision to resign, which is a serious problem.” Carlucci winked at Pacino as he said, “Hell, Patch could run against me in the primaries, and who knows, with his recent popularity, he might knock me out of my party’s nomination.”
“That won’t happen, Mr. President,” Pacino said.
“Never say never, Patch,” Carlucci said. “Anyway, we were speaking about reasons? I thought I’d let Remi fill you in on that on your way to clear out the vice president’s office.”
“Good-bye, Mr. President,” Pacino said, standing and shaking Carlucci’s hand. “I hope you feel better.”
“I hope I can call on you for advice, Patch,” Carlucci said.
Pacino smiled. “Any time, Mr. President,” he said, and turned and walked toward the main Oval Office entrance, the most direct route to the vice president’s office. O’Keefe paused to pick up something in his office, across from Pacino’s. Once in Pacino’s VP office, O’Keefe shut the door.
“Something about reasons?” Pacino asked.
O’Keefe nodded solemnly. “You did something that Carlucci would never have allowed. You attacked that Russian rescue airplane.”
Pacino nodded. “I did. And I’d do it again.”
“Having a son on the ice that day, well, that presents a conflict-of-interest. It could be construed that you attacked that plane just to save your son.”
“I did,” Pacino said. “But I’d still do it if my son were safe at his home in Virginia Beach. Besides, shooting the Russian rescue aircraft that could have saved my son? That’s acting against any conflict of interest.”
“Sir, you gave away to the Russians that we’d successfully spied for the intel, the information that they were planning to take our survivors hostage.”
“For all we know,” Pacino said, “the Russians dangled that in front of us intentionally to see what we would do. If we let them take our survivors as prisoners of war, they’d know we were weak. And that would make dealing with them in the future that much more difficult.”
O’Keefe considered for a moment and nodded. “You make a good point. What did the CIA director think of that idea? Or the director of the NSA?”
“I didn’t ask,” Pacino said.
“See, that’s another of Carlucci’s reasons,” O’Keefe said. “You don’t consult experts. You just act. One day that could get you into trouble.”
“I’ll take that under advisement, Remi,” Pacino said, finding a book that had gotten buried under papers, then putting a framed photo of him and young Anthony on top of the book. There was little else to remove from the office. “But I’m returning to retirement, so I don’t think your advice will get used.”
“I doubt that,” O’Keefe said, smiling.
“Are there any more reasons?” Pacino asked. “I should get going.”
“Chopper isn’t here yet,” O’Keefe said, glancing out the office’s south window. “The president wants you to take Marine One to wherever you want to go. Also, he needs a little time to gather up the press.”
“That’s considerate of the president,” Pacino said. “But he could have arranged a limo. I’m just going back to Annapolis.”
“Listen… Admiral,” O’Keefe said, searching for the proper title to call Pacino, since he was no longer the vice president. “President Carlucci wants you to run against him in the primaries.”
Pacino stopped searching his desk for any other things to bring with him and stared at O’Keefe.
“What?”
“You heard me right. Carlucci wants you to run for the American Party nomination next spring and win it.”
“Why? If he’s done, why doesn’t he just resign? Or announce that he won’t run?”
“He’s definitely done, Admiral, but he believes it’s better to lose to you in the primaries than quit. I think his exact words were, ‘winners never quit and quitters never win, but you can always lose the primaries and go home with your dignity intact.’ He says once he loses, he will endorse you and throw his full political weight in your favor so you win the general election.”
Pacino inhaled. “That’s a lot to take in,” he said after a moment.
O’Keefe smiled. “Can I tell the president you didn’t reject the idea?”
Pacino nodded. “As you said, I need to confer with the experts. So I will consult them.”
“Excellent, Admiral. Here, let me take your photo and book. I’ll have a Marine bring this to the chopper with your briefcase.”
“I don’t have a briefcase here,” Pacino said.
“You do now. It will contain a tablet computer with information Carlucci wants you to have with access to his files and his database. It’s highly classified, so—“
“I’ll take good care of it, Remi,” Pacino said, smiling.
He felt a thousand pounds lighter as he walked out of the office, wondering what he’d say to the reporters gathering on the south lawn.
The rotors and engines of the gigantic helicopter, Marine One, had been shut down, presumably, Pacino thought, so that the crowd of reporters could hear what he had to say.
He stepped to the podium that had been set up and looked out over the crowd. “Good morning, everyone,” he said, the crowd quieting. “You may have already heard that I tendered my resignation as vice president to President Carlucci this morning. I’ll be returning to private life and retirement. Other than that, I have no further comment.”
He walked from the podium but the reporters mobbed him, four Secret Service agents pushing them aside and forming a corridor allowing Pacino to walk to the helicopter, which had started its engines.
“Did you resign, Admiral, or did you get fired?” one reporter shouted.
“Did you have disagreements with Carlucci?” another asked.
“Are you running for president next year?”
“Did the Russians contact the White House about your order to attack their rescue aircraft?”
Pacino frowned at that last question. He’d ordered Operation Poseidon to be classified so highly no one would know about it for a decade, but maybe Carlucci had leaked the information or even declassified it. It would make sense, Pacino thought. Firing on the Russian aircraft would gain Pacino points with a lot of voters, he thought, although it would lose him others.
The helicopter’s jets had spun up to idle, the loud whine of them drowning out the other questions from the crowd. Pacino approached the chopper. A Marine guard in dress blues saluted him. Pacino stopped, turned to face the Marine, and rigidly returned the salute. The Marine couldn’t help smiling as Pacino turned at the top of the steps and waved toward the White House, wondering if Carlucci could see him, and ducked into the helicopter as the rotors started spinning.