This was a most unusual call to a briefing, issued out of the blue at twenty minutes’ notice. The reporters were huddled together, discussing possibilities. The favorite forecast was that President McBride had recognized the state of emergency on the island of Montserrat and was sending aid. Big deal.
However, journalists of a more thoughtful nature had noticed the eight Marine Corps guards in position in front of the dark wooden dais. That hinted at something more than aid to Montserrat. But it did not suggest the imminent unleashing of the biggest news story of the year.
A few more minutes slipped by and the level of restlessness grew. It was always the same at feeding time. The Lions began to lose their cool if the keeper was late. Actually, it wasn’t his lateness that was relevant. It was the pack’s perception of lateness that mattered.
Where the hell is he…? Christ, it’s getting too late for the afternoon papers…Stupid time to call a briefing anyway…Who the hell cares if he sends the taxpayers’ money to Montserrat?
By 1625, the room was buzzing. And the sudden appearance of Lee Mitchell, Vice President Bedford’s spokesman, had no effect on the noise level whatsoever. But when he walked up to the dais, turned on the microphone, and asked for their attention, they gave it reluctantly.
Mr. Mitchell, a tall young former political reporter for the Atlanta Journal Constitution, came right to the point. “I am here to announce formally that Charles McBride has resigned from the office of President of the United States less than one hour ago. At seven minutes before four o’clock, under the precise requirements of the Constitution, Vice President Paul Bedford was sworn into office.”
The entire room exploded with the shrill, desperate, near-panic-stricken sound of fifty-odd reporters flailing between the quest for more detail and the overriding desire to speak to their newsrooms.
RESIGNED! Whaddya mean resigned? When?…Where?…Why…? How?…Where is he? Is he still in the White House? What caused it?
It took a full two minutes for the row to subside, and only then because it was obvious that Lee Mitchell had not the slightest intention of uttering a single word until there was silence once more from The Lions he was supposed to feed.
“Thank you,” he said, carefully. “There will be no questions at this briefing. But I will tell you that former President McBride is resting under medical supervision at Camp David. He has suffered an apparent nervous breakdown and may not recover fully for some weeks. The First Lady is with him. Under the circumstances, he felt he had no options but to resign.”
Again, the suppressed pandemonium of The Lions was let loose. Regardless of the “no questions” edict, they stood and roared…This is a national issue…The people have a right to know…What do you think I’m gonna tell my readers…What kind of a nervous breakdown…? Has he been ill for long…? This is America not Czarist Russia…C’mon Mitchell, you’re paid to tell us what the hell is happening to the President of the United States…
The journalists did have some power, and some of them had more than a few brains, but nothing to match the shrewd orchestration masterminded by Morgan, Scannell, and Bedford. And at this point the scene shifted. Lee Mitchell moved aside to formally greet the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, then in quick succession appeared the Head of the Navy, the military Supreme Commander of NATO, and the Commandant of the United States Marine Corps, who all took up the positions allotted to them by Arnold Morgan, port and starboard quarters to the dais.
And as they did so, the noise from The Lions subsided, to be replaced by a more dignified sound. Through the loudspeaker system came the unmistakably familiar tones of the band of the U.S. Marines playing “Hail to the Chief,” loudly, robustly, summoning that overwhelming sense of patriotism within the chest of every American in the room.
By now the White House phone lines were back on, and the place was connected to the outside world by a zillion kilowatts. The television cameras were rolling, commentators were speaking, the wire service reporters were filing copy from the back of the room. Everyone else, confined to their personal seats by both protocol and tradition, was scribbling.
And into this media feeding frenzy stepped the heavyset, balding Virginian Paul Bedford, making the short walk to the dais in time to the music.
He faced the gathering with outward calm, flanked by the High Command of the U.S. military standing behind the armed Marine guards. He stared at the phalanx of microphones arrayed before him, and then said firmly, “It is my honor to inform you that one hour ago, I became the 45th President of the United States of America. As I believe you have been told, President McBride was compelled to resign at short notice for reasons of health. It was both unexpected, and unfortunate, and we all wish him a swift and full recovery.
“Meanwhile, the business of government must continue, and it is my most unhappy duty to inform you that today we stand in perhaps the worst danger this nation has ever faced. I will not take questions, but I will endeavor to outline the scale of a forthcoming terrorist attack we believe will happen…”
“Any connection between the attack and the President’s resignation…?” someone yelled.
“I wonder if you’d be kind enough to let my secretary know your native tongue?” replied the President. He was reading off Arnold Morgan’s only offering of a riposte to unwanted questions.
The laughter subsided, and Paul Bedford never missed a beat. “Four months ago, we received a communiqué from the Middle East that the terrorist organization Hamas had been responsible for the eruption of Mount St. Helens in Washington State. Our investigations subsequently showed this was likely true.
“We were then informed that we had just a few weeks to completely remove our military presence in the Middle East and to force Israel to vacate the occupied territories on the West Bank. The Administration, needless to say, was skeptical about the validity of this demand, but cautious. We even moved some troops and ships around.
“However, we received another threatening communiqué, and this one contained a further detail — that if we did not comply, they would do the same to a volcano in the Canary Islands as they did to Mount St. Helens.”
A deathly hush had fallen over the Briefing Room, as the journalists waited for President Bedford’s next words.
He paused for a few moments longer, fervently wishing he had either Winston Churchill or Arnold Morgan passing him notes, never mind the one-side-one-sheet decree.
He soldiered on, outlining briefly the scientific predictions.
“Well, President McBride remained skeptical. He was quite worried, but the military was seriously worried. And then came the final communiqué, which said (a) ‘we will now show you what we can do, at midnight on Tuesday, September 29,’ and (b) ‘we will hit the volcano around October 9.’ ”
“DO YOU HAVE AMERICAN SCIENTIFIC OPINION ON THIS?”
“Of course not,” replied the President, trampling all over his “no questions” ultimatum. “We never thought of that.”
This time he reduced the Associated Press reporter to a figure of fun. And once more, he never missed a beat.
“And so, ladies and gentlemen, we are left with two tasks — to track down and kill the submarine, which we believe launched cruise missiles at Montserrat and Mount St. Helens, and to begin to evacuate the East Coast. Just in case we are unable to achieve our Naval objectives.”
“SONAR,” yelled a reporter, displaying a certain in-depth nautical knowledge. “CAN’T WE CATCH ’EM ON SONAR?”