It was nine-thirty p.m. on the East Coast of the United States; the major news channels all cut away from their normal programming to cover the takeoff. The President watched the dramatic departure in his study in the family quarters of the White House with the Majority Leader, the Strategist, and the Chief of Staff. They broke into spontaneous applause as the 747 left the ground. The news channels cut to the Seattle hospital where doctors reported that Cecelia Dodds was “responding to Dormigen” and had been upgraded from critical to serious condition.
“She’s the toughest person I know,” the President offered.
“She’ll pull through,” the Majority Leader said. “This calls for a drink.”
“I’ll go find some of the good stuff,” the President agreed.
“This is great news,” the Chief of Staff said. “I’m going to head home.” She handed the President his schedule for the next day. In the morning, he would be making a brutal trip to California, where wildfires were ravaging eleven counties. He would tour the area briefly and then fly back across the country in time for the Prime Minister’s arrival.
“The guy knows how to make a departure, doesn’t he?” the President said. His mood was noticeably improved, almost buoyant.
“At least he’s in the air,” the Chief of Staff said. “That’s precious cargo.”
“Get some sleep,” the President advised her. “Give my best to Dan and the girls.” The Chief of Staff walked wearily out of the study. The President went in search of a bottle of rare Irish whiskey the Prime Minister of Ireland had given him on his last visit.
Twenty minutes later the President, the Majority Leader, and the Strategist were sipping Irish whiskey and watching cable news coverage of the Air India flight when the Chief of Staff walked briskly back into the study. “I thought you went home,” the President said quizzically.
“We have a problem,” she announced.
The President set his tumbler on the coffee table, leaned back in the sofa, and exhaled audibly. “Do you know what I dream?” he said with resignation. “I dream that one day you’re going to come bursting in here and exclaim, ‘Great news: Something went much better than we expected!’”
“Not today,” the Chief of Staff said, unamused.
“What?” the President asked.
The Chief of Staff explained, “Three governors are saying they won’t allow Dormigen to be moved out of their states. They’re refusing to allow their National Guard units to participate—”
“Hold on,” the President said. “Why does any Dormigen need to cross state lines?”
“The Homeland Security plan has Dormigen moving from metro areas to rural areas,” the Chief of Staff answered.
“Okay,” the President acknowledged.
“Well, look at a map,” the Chief of Staff said impatiently. “The fastest way to get Dormigen to northern Wisconsin is from Minneapolis. If you want to get it to northern Mississippi, it comes from Memphis.”
“Of course,” the Strategist said.
“And three governors won’t play ball,” the President said, absorbing the situation.
“Correct,” the Chief of Staff said. “The federal government can’t tell them what to do, they have an obligation to protect lifesaving medicine from federal bureaucrats, and so on, all the usual claptrap.”
“Let me guess,” the President conjectured, “Hazlett, Goolsbee, and Spencer.”
“Congratulations. A couple of others are making similar noises,” the Chief of Staff said.
“Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana,” the Strategist added. “I sometimes find myself wondering if we should have just let the Confederacy go.”
“You’re welcome to wonder that,” the President said sharply. “I would appreciate it if you would not say it out loud.”
“I’ve asked the General Counsel’s office for our options,” the Chief of Staff said wearily.
“I can nationalize the National Guard units,” the President said. “Do we have time?”
“I’ve called some staff back in. They’re working on it,” the Chief of Staff answered.
The President sipped his whiskey and stared at the television. There was a graphic on the screen of the Prime Minister’s projected flight path from New Delhi to Washington. “They’re just trying to make a point, more partisan grandstanding,” he said bitterly.
“This is more serious than they realize,” the Chief of Staff replied. “If they mess up the plan, then the logistics go off the rails. And if that happens, we run out of time. Every hour means unnecessary deaths—”
“I understand that,” the President said, his former buoyancy long gone.
“These fuckwits think they can have their Dormigen and flip off the federal government, too,” the Strategist offered.
“They can’t,” the Chief of Staff said plaintively. “These are complex algorithms. It’s not like we can just redraw the maps so that no Dormigen crosses state lines. Even if we could, if we make some concession to these guys, then every other governor will want the same thing. Then the plan unravels and people start dying because the Dormigen isn’t going to make it to some places in time.” She paused to breathe. She was worn out, and this political play—so gratuitous—felt like one more kick. “They’re playing with a loaded gun,” she added.
“But they don’t think it’s loaded,” the President said. “That’s what makes it so dangerous.”
“That happens, you know,” the Strategist interjected. “If you take the clip out of a semiautomatic pistol, there’s still one bullet left in the chamber. Most people don’t know that.”
The President stared at him, too fatigued to tell him to stop talking. “If I have to nationalize the National Guard, so be it,” the President said.
“If they resist, or even delay—we don’t have hours to play with,” the Chief of Staff lamented. “Every minute they dick around in front of the television cameras is going to put some areas of the country at risk.” The room went silent as the four of them absorbed the potential cost of this political ploy. “And it’s totally unnecessary,” the Chief of Staff added angrily.
“With respect, Mr. President,” the Majority Leader said quietly, “I’m wondering if there isn’t a better option here.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Can you get me an office with a phone?” the Majority Leader asked. “I might be able to persuade these esteemed elected officials—”
“Fuckwits,” the Strategist declared.
“Yes, well, I might be able to get these fuckwits to think about the situation differently,” the Majority Leader continued.
“You know who you’re dealing with,” the President said. His exhaustion was evident. For the first time during the crisis, there was also a hint of sadness, as if the ongoing parade of self-interest and narrow-mindedness and partisan grandstanding had finally begun to erode his belief in basic human decency.
“I do know who I’m dealing with,” the Majority Leader said confidently.
“I’ll get you an office downstairs,” the Chief of Staff offered. The Majority Leader stood and retrieved his suit jacket from a nearby chair. He put on the jacket, buttoning it over his paunch. He picked up his empty whiskey tumbler and shook the ice cubes against the expensive crystal.
“Might I get a refill?” the Majority Leader suggested. The President fetched the bottle and poured two fingers for the Majority Leader. “Now, can someone get Governor Hazlett on the phone for me?” he asked.
“You’re going to try to talk sense to Hazlett?” the President asked skeptically.
“He’s the least decent of the bunch,” the Chief of Staff said.