Shaw was waiting in the wings with Bobbi Jo when the president arrived at the auditorium of Georgetown University. She was exactly five minutes early for the debate, which was scheduled to start at 9:00 P.M. He studied Turner, looking for any telltale signs that she wasn’t ready. He relaxed and smiled at Bobbi Jo Reynolds, absolutely certain that she also was ready. Turner walked toward him. “Any last words?” she asked.
“Knock ’em dead, Madam President.” He stepped back as she moved past. A searing pain shot through his head, making him sick to his stomach. Not yet! he commanded, willing the cancer to obey. Slowly it yielded a notch. He looked across the stage and saw Leland with his man, the honorable David Grau, former boy wonder of the House of Representatives, governor of Leland’s home state, and now candidate for the presidency of the United States. Grau’s stage makeup was perfect, and his salt-and-pepper hair immaculately coiffed to create an older image. But to Shaw he resembled a slicked-down seal.
Leland leaned into the boy wonder, his hands moving, as he gave him last-minute instructions. An image of a football coach sending in his quarterback for the critical play in the closing moments of the last quarter flickered in Shaw’s mind. A well-known political commentator took his place at a podium downstage left and made a brief introduction. “As agreed,” he said, “Governor Grau will make the opening statement, and the debate will run for ninety minutes. There are no other rules or conditions.” On cue, Turner and Grau walked onstage from opposite sides, shook hands, and stood behind their respective podiums. With that the battle was joined.
Grau fixed the audience with a somber look. “This is the thirtieth day of a terrible war,” he began. “A war that has been characterized by poor leadership, missed opportunity, massive intelligence failures, and a total breakdown in diplomacy.”
Shaw felt like cheering. “Missed opportunities.” I left out that one. But three for four in this business ain’t bad. He watched Turner’s face as she listened to Grau’s charges. Give him all the rope he needs.
Finally it was her turn. “The governor is correct,” she began, “when he speaks of intelligence shortfalls. We’re working hard to correct the neglect of the intelligence community of the last ten years. I would like to remind the governor that when he served in the House of Representatives, he voted against every attempt to increase our intelligence posture—”
“Which is a total misrepresentation of the facts,” Grau said.
Turner was condescending. “Please, I didn’t interrupt you while you were speaking.”
Easy, easy, Shaw thought. The pain was back, and he sat down. But it was different this time. “Water,” he said, half aloud. Bobbi Jo rushed for the water fountain while he fished the small bottle of pills out of his coat pocket. His hands fumbled with the childproof cap. Somehow he managed to get two pills to his mouth. Bobbi Jo was back with a cup of water. He gulped it down, fully realizing what the pills would do to him. He breathed deeply while the pills worked their magic. The pain faded into the fog. He reached into his pocket and felt the cassette. Shaking, he handed it to Bobbi Jo. He fought for the right words, but all he could manage was “Listen alone.” The pain came roaring back, consuming him in agony. “Hospital,” he whispered.
Bobbi Jo punched at her cell phone while Grau went on the attack. “Failures on the diplomatic front have led to disaster on the Malaysian peninsula. Your win-hold-win strategy will not work, and the American Volunteer Group is little more than a blood offering, sacrificed on the altar of a failed strategy.” An audible gasp escaped from the audience at the blunt severity of his accusation.
Shaw raged to himself. I didn’t see that one coming! He struggled with the words, but nothing came out.
“It’s okay,” Bobbi Jo said. “The ambulance is on the way.”
Shaw turned his head to the stage. He could see Maddy talking, but he didn’t hear her words as the fog and pain claimed him.
The doors to the waiting room at Bethesda Naval Hospital swung open as four Secret Service agents led the way for the presidential party. The two doctors standing by the counter had been warned and were nervously waiting as the president rushed in. “How is he?” she asked.
“Stable,” the lead doctor said. “He’s heavily sedated.”
“How bad is it?”
The doctor shook his head. “We took a CAT scan. I don’t know how he hung on this long.”
“How long?”
“Days, maybe a week.”
“Can I see him?”
“Certainly. But I doubt if he’ll recognize you.” He held the door for her and led the way to Shaw’s room. “Other than make him comfortable, there’s not much we can do.”
“I know,” she said. She stood by the bed and gazed at him, her eyes moist. “Please,” she said, wanting to be alone. The doctor nodded and closed the door. For a moment she didn’t move. Then she held his hand. “Oh, Patrick. I didn’t want it to end like this.” An eyelid moved as if it were trying to blink. “We’ve come a long way. I couldn’t have done this without you.” She felt a little squeeze, and her spirits soared. He was still with her! Of all the people she knew, Patrick Flannery Shaw was the least sentimental and given to self-pity. He was first, last, and always a political animal. That’s all he was. She started to talk, telling him what he wanted to hear.
“You should have been there for the end. I gave him the last word, and he walked right into it. Would you believe I’ve lost the war and there’s nothing but defeat left?” Again she felt a little pressure in her hand. Or was it a nervous reaction? “Oh, Patrick. You’re trying to tell me something. What is it?”
But there was no reaction, and he lay there, barely breathing.
The readout on his watch flicked to 1750. Tel held the radio to his lips. “Radio check.” A quick “One” and “Two” answered. “One, fire.” The dull whomp of a mortar shell reached him high in the tree as he trained his binoculars on the two bridges in the distance. He saw a flash and puff of smoke. “Long,” he radioed. “Decrease thirty.” A second whomp echoed over him. This time it hit the road.
“Two, fire.” He watched as the third round hit the road, less than ten meters from the second. Now he could see people scattering, running away from the bridges. “One and Two, fire for effect. Right traverse.” The air filled with thunder as the two mortar teams walked round after round down the road, toward the northern approaches to the two bridges. He focused on a truck as it accelerated onto the bridge and rammed its way into the people trying to make their way across. More rounds slammed onto the approaches. “One, left traverse,” he ordered. Now half the rounds worked their way back to the north while the other half pounded at the bridge. In the distance he heard the A-10s.
The refugees on the bridge flowed off the southern end, leaving it clear. “Cease fire!” Tel commanded as a counterbattery round screamed overhead. “GO!” It was shoot and scoot, and they had to run for their lives. He dropped the line he had tied to the tree and rappelled down, hitting the ground running. Another round passed overhead and hit nearby. They were getting the range. He ran for the abandoned kampong. An A-10 passed overhead on its attack run, barely clearing the treetops.