“Yes, ma’am.” The Secret Service agent reported that he was leaving the door, then walked briskly over to the door of the inner apartment, and went inside, followed by the valet. Another Secret Service agent, a woman this time, took his place at the outer apartment door and reported the room secure.
A few moments later, wearing a short-sleeved college sweatshirt, jogging pants, and running shoes without socks, his hair slicked back with cold water, the President emerged from the inner apartment. “I really could’ve used another four hours’ sleep today,” he said, yawning. “Is this a coffee call or not?”
“It’s a coffee call,” the First Lady said.
“Great,” the President muttered. “Coffee calls” meant he should have coffee because he probably wasn’t going to get any sleep the rest of the morning. “What’s the beef now? Not another Cazaux attack, I hope.”
“Bad news and not-so-bad news,” the First Lady said, handing her husband the messages. “A plane carrying a TV crew was accidentally shot down by the Air Force.”
The President shook his head in exasperation, reaching for his coffee and stuffing a pastry in his mouth. “Ah, jeez…” “It happened earlier this morning, but the staff decided not to wake you about it until later — I think that was an error in judgment. You should have been called.”
“I agree,” the President muttered, not really agreeing with her — he was thankful for every bit of sleep he was allowed to get these days. “What’s the not-so-bad news?” “The FBI thinks they got Henri Cazaux.”
“Hot damn!” the President crowed. “That ain’t not-so- bad news, honey, that’s great news! Dead, I hope?”
“Dead,” the First Lady said. “Killed in a shoot-out at an estate in northern New Jersey, in a raid organized by the U.S. Marshals Service and Admiral Hardcastle.”
“That Hardcastle is an arrogant sonofabitch,” the President said happily, “but I could kiss him on the damned lips if he engineered that raid.”
“The problem is, we didn’t engineer it,” the First Lady said coldly. “We weren’t briefed by Judge Wilkes or Deputy AG Lowe about the operation, so we can only assume that Hardcastle exceeded his authority and freelanced this raid.”
“Baby doll, I don’t really care,” the President said, “as long as that Belgian bastard is dead. We need to get confirmation on this, and they better do it quick — maybe we can get the morning news shows.”
“You are not going to show this kind… of glee on international TV,” the First Lady decided. “You are going to praise the FBI, the Justice Department, Governor Seale of New Jersey — I’m sure there were some New Jersey cops in on the raid too — and the Marshals Service for their efforts. No mention whatsoever of Hardcastle.” The First Lady paused momentarily, then added, “Except when it comes to an explanation of this accidental shooting of that civilian plane. The message stated the civilian plane was at fault and that the pilot who fired the missile killed himself by flying his plane into the ocean…”
“Oh, my…” the President exclaimed, reaching for a muffin now.
“… and we’ll put Hardcastle’s fingerprints all over that screwup,” the First Lady said, her mind turning to high gear. “This will prove that Judge Wilkes was right all along: the FBI was better suited to solve this Cazaux problem after all, and that Hardcastle’s plan to use military forces was a failure right from the start. You see, we’ve got to wipe your fingerprints off this military idea.”
“It ain’t gonna matter, sweetie,” the President drawled casually, sipping coffee. “It’s over. We can go back to normal now.”
“What matters, dear, is the political fallout. You approved using Hardcastle, so it’s your fault if innocent people got killed. We’ve got to portray that fucker Hardcastle as a loose cannon, a maverick… I know, we’ll put him up in front of a Congressional panel.” The First Lady’s legal
mind was turning; she was in full damage-control mode: “If Hardcastle’s a witness, he can’t talk to the press. You may have to strip him of his authority, maybe even fire him.” “That’s easy,” the President said, swallowing the last of the muffin. “No one likes him anyway. What I need to do is get back on the road, honey. I’ve got an election to win yet. Kemp and Bennett have been on the move in the east all during this Cazaux thing, Wilson and Brown have been slam-dunking me on the west coast, and Dole’s been in Kansas whipping up the midwest against me — I’ve been stuck here in Washington too long.”
“I told you before, hiding behind the trappings of power doesn’t look good,” the First lady said. “If you simply declare the emergency over, some might say it’s political. Let Lowe and Wilkes and the terrorism committee make a statement to the press declaring the air defense emergency over, and have Hardcastle’s office release a statement taking the fighters and the surface-to-air missiles off alert status pending the investigation of the accident. The press will listen to Lowe and Wilkes. When the press starts wondering why you haven’t gone on the road yet, suddenly they’ll find you on a six-state ‘fact-finding mission,’ beginning in California. But let the staff take the heat. I told you before.” “I know, I know… let public opinion make the tough decisions,” the President said. “Don’t make headlines — embrace them.”
“Right,” the First Lady said. “And we need to make our peace with the producers of the TV show that had their crew shot down by Hardcastle’s goons — we might have to feed them an exclusive interview from the White House or from Air Force One while we’re on the road.”
“Let’s do it on Air Force One — that always impresses the hell out of the media.”
“We’ll decide that later,” the First Lady said dismissively. “Again, it’s important to emphasize that Hardcastle’s mismanagement caused the accident — the Air Force crews were following orders. The pressure Hardcastle was creating with these ’round-the-clock patrols and missiles everywhere caused this terrible accident. Remember that.” “Gotcha,” the President said. “I’m gonna go take a nap for an hour while the staff gets their act together.”
“Let’s get the photos done first,” the First Lady reminded him.
“Photos?”
“Of you and me, up in the middle of the night, working after being notified of this terrible tragedy,” the First Lady said, reaching for the phone. “We’ve got to show the people we’re on the job, and need to show them ratty sweatshirts and unshaven faces. Remember: You’re concerned over the accident. Look concerned. You share their pain.” The President sighed but nodded okay. Sometimes even he had to admit his wife was a bit much.
U.S. Department of Justice
Office of the Deputy Attorney General
Washington, D.C
Four Hours Later
“I’m glad this is over,” Deputy Attorney General Elizabeth Lowe said during the day’s first meeting of the President’s Executive Committee on Terrorism. “If this got any bloodier… well, I’m just glad it’s over.” Left unsaid were the. words “It might really hurt the President’s reelection chances,” but everyone present in the Oval Office knew what Lowe meant to say. To Ian Hardcastle, Lowe said, “Admiral, the President is meeting with the producers of that trash TV show ‘Whispers.’ What’s the final opinion as to the cause of the accident — and what happened to the pilot who fired the missile?”