‘He was killed, sir,’ replied the silver-haired Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. ‘He was poisoned in the White House the night you were shot.’ Gordon closed his eyes. ‘Are you ready to proceed, Mr President?’ Marshall looked up and nodded. ‘Can you state your name, sir?’
‘Gordon Davis.’
‘Your full name, if you please?’
‘Gordon Eugene Davis.’
‘Thank you. Now, sir, can you tell me where and when you were born?’
‘Jackson, Tennessee. March 17th, 1945.’
The silver head bowed in acknowledgment of Gordon’s answer. ‘And can you give me the names and ages of your children?’
‘Celeste, she’s…’ He had to think. ‘She’s eighteen. Janet is fourteen.’
Again the Chief Justice nodded. Gordon was doing well. ‘Now, sir, can you tell me what you know or understand has happened since the night of January 20th? Since you received your wounds?’
‘Well, I was… I was shot.’ The Chief Justice nodded, coaching now. ‘And so was Phil Bristol, only Phil… he… didn’t make it. And I remember the ambulance. Elaine,’ he said, turning to her, ‘you were there.’ She nodded — forcing a smile onto her face. ‘Then not much.’ Heads turned. ‘The oath,’ Gordon quickly added. The Chief Justice’s eyes remained locked on Gordon.
The same deep voice had spoken the words — protect and defend. ‘I took the oath,’ Gordon said. ‘You administered it.’ That seemed to break the tension. The Chief Justice had a muted conversation with the Speaker of the House, who nodded.
‘I’m going to take the poll now,’ the Chief Justice said to the gathering. ‘The question before you is whether Gordon Eugene Davis is competent to assume the office of the President of the United States.’ He began with Marshall’s acting Secretary of Defense. ‘I believe that he is,’ came the man’s reply. ‘I certify him competent,’ said the acting Secretary of State. The other cabinet secretaries all replied in succession. Gordon, for his part, struggled to keep it all straight in his head. Piercing shots of pain purged his mind of all thoughts. Brief respites were swamped by sickening waves of nausea.
Elaine squeezed his arm. ‘You did great, darling,’ she whispered into his ear.
It was quiet now. The room had grown warm, the air stale from so many bodies crammed into it. Arthur Fein stepped through the crowd to stand beside Elaine. He held in his hand a leather portfolio which he opened.
There was a legal document inside in duplicate. ‘This is a written declaration, sir,’ Fein said, ‘that no inability to discharge the powers and duties of the office of President of the United States exists. If you sign these two copies, sir, and I transmit them to the Speaker of the House and the President pro tempore, you will immediately assume the powers and duties of the President.’
A sea of faces watched him. Somber men and women. The most powerful people on earth. And by signing those papers, he would become their boss. The leader of the free world. He looked at Elaine. She winked. Gordon saw now that Celeste and Janet had been ushered to the foot of his bed. They grinned and waved, but were inhibited by all the people. Tears filled his eyes. A movie camera and two television minicams parted the crowd for a better vantage. A boom mike extended high over the bed.
The proffered pen was thick and expensive. Cameras flashed as he scribbled his signature. Elaine kept the pen. Fein squeezed his way to the end of the bed. The Speaker and President pro tempore accepted the portfolio. When they’d finished reading, the Speaker said, ‘Congratulations, Mr President.’
The crowd suddenly burst into applause. Cameras recorded it all. Lights flashed. The girls made it to the head of the bed. They hugged Gordon’s neck. Their faces were cool — wet with tears. The camera lights fell dark. The applause died out. The room began to clear. Congratulations drifted through his daughters’ hair. The sweet smell was what he registered most.
Gordon thought for a moment they were going to leave him alone with his family. But in place of the men in suits came men in uniforms. Rows of ribbons on their chests. Stars on their shoulder boards.
‘Come on,’ Elaine said to the girls. ‘We’ve got to let your dad do some work.’ They each hugged him again. Janet started crying and hugging him. Celeste shook her and said, ‘Let’s go-o,’ in a menacing whisper. Gordon smiled.
Elaine kissed him. She then admonished the gathering generals and admirals not to keep him long. Behind them easels were being set up. Maps were pulled from large, flat cases sealed with combination locks. The soldiers carrying them wore sidearms.
‘You need to go potty?’ the nurse asked. She was holding a stainless-steel bed pan. Gordon looked at the waiting crowd — their big production ready to roll. He shook his head. She shrugged and showed him the button with which to call her.
Gordon’s agony was more or less constant. ‘What about some pain medication?’ he asked.
‘Try to cut back. If you really need it, you ask. But we took you off the heavy stuff last night. That’s why you’re so chipper today. But it’s going to hurt, Mr President. For a long time. You’re going to have to get used to it.’
A trickle of cold sweat ran down his neck. When she left, a Secret Service agent locked the door behind her. Gordon was all alone now with men he barely knew. The Joint Chiefs of Staff. Bristol’s proposed nominees for State and Defense. The Director of the CIA. A host of others who might be important.
‘Mr President,’ began Bob Hartwig, Marshall’s nominee for Secretary of Defense, ‘I’m sorry to have to hit you with this, but we’ve been paralyzed for the last three days. And the situation is getting worse and more dangerous by the hour.’
General Dekker — Chairman of the Joint Chiefs — appeared. He was followed by a large map. It was walked under the brighter lights at the bedside. Two men tilted it down toward Gordon. ‘Eleven hours after the assassinations,’ Dekker said, ‘three days ago, the army of the People’s Republic of China crossed the border into Mongolia.’ Dekker held a pointer to the map. Mongolia was almost completely filled with red crosshatched lines. ‘It was a massive invasion. There was very little resistance. The occupation is nearly complete.’ Gordon’s eyes roamed the map of Siberia further to the north. Small islands of blue marked the American and other U.N. forces.
‘Mr President,’ Bob Hartwig said. Gordon opened his eyes wide. He had no idea how long he’d slept He tried to clear the fog. ‘Mr President,’ Hartwig continued, ‘I’m afraid the news gets worse.’
‘About twelve hours ago,’ Dekker continued, ‘the Chinese crossed the Amur River into the former Republic of Russia.’
‘That’s when we had the doctors cut your medication,’ Hartwig said. ‘Mrs Davis okayed the decision.’
Gordon said, ‘Can’t see the map.’
The map was held closer. Hartwig and the Chief of Naval Operations raised Gordon’s head. Put another pillow under it. The pain was almost too great. From the sources of the pain, he knew there were multiple wounds. They must have been life-threatening.
Dekker was talking.
Gordon looked up. Red lines slopped over an irregular border. The ‘former Republic of Russia.’ The map looked like a child’s coloring book in which an unrestrained pre-schooler had drawn. Gordon had no military experience but he saw red lines of advancing Chinese. They extended from North Korea all the way to Mongolia. That left little possibility of mistake. This was no tentative probe meant to take America’s measure. This was a war. War. Gordon felt the word for the first time. It mixed naturally with his unrelenting pain.
He focused on Dekker’s finger. It lay on the blue unit nearest the invading red. It wouldn’t be long until they met.