The White House

Chapter 135: Inauguration

First things first. “Are you sure about this?” I asked.

“Yes, sir! All the networks have called it!” The two staffers started hustling me inside, with Stormy happily leading us on her leash.

A minute later I was in our campaign suite, with people alternately congratulating me and asking where I had been. Stormy jumped up on a couch with the girls and allowed herself to be fussed over. On the television Tom Brokaw was making a report that there were unconfirmed reports that Vice President Gore was calling George Bush to concede.

Which meant absolutely nothing. I had been through this once before, on my first go. Florida was so close a race that before the night was over, all the networks reversed their calls and ruled it too close to predict. Gore retracted his concession. For roughly a month we had dueling lawyers fighting over recounts and ‘hanging chads’ on the ballots, until George’s brother Jeb, the governor of Florida, had his handpicked election boss declare George the winner, and the Republican Supreme Court confirmed the victory. George also lost the popular vote count, and managed to create a constitutional crisis along the way. It did not bode well for his future.

The Vice President doesn’t talk during these events, although I did go out into the main room to thank everybody and say other wonderful bullshit. It’s the night for the Presidential nominees to speak. Governor Bush did call me to tell me that Vice President Gore had called him to concede. The tipping point wasn’t Florida but Pennsylvania, so Jeb Bush managed to keep his good name through this. We lost Maryland, which we had expected, but the race was tighter than I had expected, 52–48. I went to bed that night not at all certain that history wouldn’t come back to haunt me, and that in the morning I would find that Al Gore had recanted.

I was wrong. When I woke up I was still the Vice President-Elect. It took a bit for it to sink in. I was going to be the Vice President! After all the nonsense with the election, we had won, and handily at that. I had been right with my strategy of going full bore after Clinton. Bush might not agree, since it was all about him, but I had seen what the other side of the coin could be, and it wouldn’t have been pretty.

I think the thing that really stuck out as proof that we had won was that from about the time we climbed out of the sack the phone began ringing. Along with the usual congratulations, I was now getting all sorts of orders from various staffers about what I had to do. It really struck me that I was no longer my own man. I was going to spend most of the week making phone calls and preparing for the transition. Important supporters had to be called. We had to make the announcement about Cheryl. Most important, I had to get to George Bush to keep him from doing anything stupid.

Into all of this, while I was still working on my breakfast while wearing pants and a bathrobe, the Secret Service barged into my life. The Secret Service is mandated to provide security to the Presidential candidates, but it is only voluntary for Vice Presidential candidates. I was comfortable with my own arrangements, and refused the offer. Now that I was officially the future Vice President, they were in charge of our security. They were there bright and early, looking dreadfully serious and impossibly arrogant. The pros from Dover had arrived, and the farm team was to be sent packing. I knew it was going to happen, and prior to the election had called in my security people and made plans. Most would be sent off, but I figured that one or two would be kept around for a few days to transition the Secret Service in. I assured the managers that I would be happy to provide recommendations for either individuals or the firm as a whole; it was the least I could do.

I met my new lead agent that morning. Special Agent Jonathan Reading was disdainful at best, even though several of my people had been former Secret Service themselves. I wasn’t using Wackenhut rent-a-cops to protect my family! They had all been high end Federal operatives at some point — FBI, Secret Service, U.S. Marshalls, Diplomatic Security, etc. He didn’t care.

The Secret Service announced that my existing alarm system was to be ripped out and a new one put in. The fences and gates would be replaced. The security shack across the street would be replaced. The pool house would be converted to a security monitoring and response unit. This was all academic, anyway, since they would be moving me and my family to the Naval Observatory as soon as the Gores vacated it in January. I should probably sell the place, since it was totally unsuitable from a security standpoint and it wouldn’t be possible to stay there after we took office. Mind you, he didn’t ask; he ordered. I listened to this for a bit, and then nodded in understanding. I sat down at the bar in my kitchen and pointed at the seat next to mine, and then told Reading, “Please, have a seat.”

“Congressman, I have a lot to do. The situation here is much too exposed and dangerous.”

“Humor me, just have a seat.”

Reading looked unhappy at my interruption of his plans, but took a seat next to me. “Yes, sir?”

“I just wanted to welcome you to my home. My home, is that understood? This isn’t the White House. This isn’t the Naval Observatory. This is my home. You do not come into my home and give me orders. You ask, and you ask a hell of a lot more politely than now. You do not order me around, and you sure as hell do not order my wife and children around. You don’t even order my dog around. Is that clearly understood?” I kept a smile on my face, but my voice was icy cold.

By the look on his face, Special Agent Reading was not impressed. “Congressman Buckman, you don’t understand the magnitude of what needs to be done. You’ll need to cooperate, sir.”

“Uh, huh.” I shrugged. “Okay, have it your way. Get your supervisor on the phone, please.”

“Excuse me?”

“Special Agent Reading, there is an unfortunate counterfeiting problem at this moment in Minot, North Dakota. You are going to solve that problem. If you force me to make that phone call, the counterfeiting problem will be in Nome, Alaska. Make a choice, Special Agent Reading.”

“You can’t do that, sir! You have no authority…”

I shrugged. “Back in a few minutes.” I went into the bedroom, where Marilyn was in the shower. I grabbed my cell phone and called George Bush. I managed to get through, and asked, “George, I need you to do me a favor. Can you put your lead agent on the line?”

“What’s up, Carl?”

“Nothing much, just a minor issue here on my security.”

“Okay, whatever. Hold on a second.”

About thirty seconds later a new voice came on the line. “Special Agent Wittimer speaking. How can I help you?”

“Special Agent, this is Carl Buckman. I don’t know if we’ve met before, but I am sure that President-Elect Bush will vouch that I am who I say I am.”

“Yes, sir, we’ve met, and the Governor told me it was you. How can I help you, sir?” he asked.

“It’s a matter of the lead agent assigned to me and my family. Can you have your supervisor call me on this number, so I can discuss it personally?” I asked.

“Of course, sir. Can I ask what the problem is?”

“Just have your supervisor contact me. I’m sure you will find out.”

I hung up and waited for a phone call. About two minutes later my cell phone rang. It was a supervisor type at the D.C. headquarters of the Secret Service. I explained my problem, and that Special Agent Reading was not going to be suitable, and in fact a posting elsewhere might be an excellent choice for him. I didn’t make a demand, because I didn’t need a reputation as an asshole with the people sworn to protect me, but the Secret Service didn’t need to piss me off either. I was assured the problem would be settled shortly.

I didn’t let Marilyn know what had happened, and after she got out of the shower, I went in and cleaned up, and then shaved. When I was out and dressed properly, I went back out to the kitchen. Special Agent Reading was no longer in sight. Instead, a much less arrogant Special Agent Ralph Jaworski introduced himself, and promised to work with me to make sure there wasn’t any future unpleasantness in our relationship.

“Special Agent Jaworski, I would appreciate that. Would you care to see my home and give me your thoughts on the security situation?”

“Thank you, Congressman, that would be very nice.”

Sometimes you need to smack the mule with a two-by-four to get him to pay attention.

Something was still nagging at me, and then I realized that I couldn’t go to the Bahamas. Nicaragua still was screaming about demanding my extradition and still had an outstanding warrant issued on me through Interpol. Nobody really took it seriously, since political crimes were expressly excluded from Interpol’s mandate, but they had it couched in terms of murder. We were in the unique position of swearing in a wanted felon as the Vice President! While I doubted anybody would do anything, could I chance it? I called Assistant Commissioner Javier and explained my problem. He almost dropped the phone while laughing, but he promised to take care of the problem, and the next day I received a phone call and a messengered note from the Bahamian Ambassador stating that the Bahamas would ignore the request from Nicaragua for my arrest. I got the impression that they did not need to have the 82^nd Airborne drop in on their little island to free me if I was thrown in jail.

Not that that was about to happen. Before I called Javier, I had called Secretary of State Madeline Albright to see if she could do something about the idiotic warrant. She was sympathetic, but told me that President Clinton had tied her hands. As it was, he was leaving office under a massive cloud, because he had issued pardons to both Hawkins and Reinhart, who would probably be investigated for their part in leaking the Nicaraguan disaster to the press. There was nothing she could do. If I did get arrested outside of the country she wouldn’t be able to help. She suggested I have Dick Cheney request it from the Nicaraugans when he took office.

I could just see that happening.

By the end of the week Marilyn and I were able to take a long weekend and head down to Hougomont. Special Agent Jaworski had taken his predecessor’s fate to heart, and was a lot politer. I knew that there were going to be some changes, but I didn’t have to put up with orders from an asshole. I stressed to Jaworski that once in the Bahamas, I would almost certainly be meeting with the Prime Minister, and that he needed to sort out security arrangements with the locals. I also gave him the name of Assistant Commissioner Javier, and suggested a call ahead of time would be a wise investment of his time. He was already aware of the issues with the Nicaraguan warrant.

My worries about George Bush doing something stupid were overblown. Dick Cheney wasn’t about to let George do anything he hadn’t already told him he was doing. I was a mistake that was not going to be repeated. Dick and Karl had a chokehold on the transition team, and on the cabinet and staff appointments that would be made. First and foremost, Dick was going to be Secretary of State. On my first run, Dick had been Veep, while Colin Powell had State. Now, since Powell was needed as both a sop to the moderate wing (like me) and because he was too prestigious for anything less, he was getting Defense. John Ashcroft, the former governor of Missouri and a staunch conservative, was getting Justice. Paul O’Neill, a Republican powerhouse and the head of Alcoa, was going to have Treasury, which I approved of; he was a moderate and a deficit hawk like me. As for the rest of the Cabinet, nobody cared.

For non-Cabinet positions, Paul Wolfowitz, a leading neo-conservative academic and former Deputy Secretary of State under George H.W. Bush, was going to get the CIA. Louis Freeh was still the Director of the FBI, but he wouldn’t last; he had a lot of baggage from the Clinton years and Cheney was already looking for a hard core conservative. Condi Rice was slated to be the National Security Adviser, which wasn’t a bad idea, actually. She was a black Republican woman, an unusual combination, and smart. Meanwhile Karl Rove would take a position in the White House as a senior counselor or some such.

Some of what was happening wasn’t amusing to me. I was also wondering to what extent George would be listening to me once he was sworn in. I may have shot my bolt simply by staying in the running when the others wanted me to drop out. We’d have to see.

In the meantime, we had about two months before the January special election for my Congressional seat. I threw my support and campaign chest into Cheryl’s corner, and she came out fighting. Rob Hollister had sworn he was going to run against whoever we nominated, but he didn’t have much money and we had whipped him soundly. The Democrats tried bringing in some fresh money, including from the national committee, but the RNC matched it. Every poll we ran showed Cheryl beating him. I even had George come up and we did a joint campaign tour for her, including a stop at the Westminster Diner, where we smiled for the camera with Nick Papandreas and his family. For a small town Greek immigrant running a diner, having the President-Elect and the Vice President-Elect show up was very big news. We ended up on the local and national news that night.

During Orientation Week I pulled out all the stops in a quid pro quo with John Boehner, and we managed to get him voted in as the new Whip. The Republican Party had pulled in another half dozen seats in the House, although the Senate was tied 50–50, so Bush would have a solid House to back him up. I suspected one of my jobs was to be the quiet liaison to Congress and the tie-breaker in the Senate.

Charlie was still out to sea through Christmas and New Year, but we expected him home any day now. He had been in about a year and a half now and had been promoted to PFC, Private First Class. I was looking forward to seeing him again, and asking him how he liked it. What I was really hoping was that he had done some growing up and was figuring out what he wanted to do with his life. If what he wanted was to stay in the Marines, fine, I would shut up and let him do so. He was an adult. If he had decided to do something else, maybe involving going back to school after his hitch was up, that would be fine, too. I had always believed that, patriotism and family history aside, he had joined up because he simply didn’t have anything better to do.

In the back of my mind, however, I was terrified by what was coming down the pike. Before the year would be out, a practically unknown Islamic terrorist group was going to declare bloody war on America. George Bush would promptly use that as an excuse to get us into two disastrous wars, causing tens of thousands of American deaths and casualties. Charlie would be smack in the middle of it, unless I could change history.

Could I change history? I just didn’t know. Some things had changed, but the overall course of human history seemed to be moving in the same general path. Reading science fiction gave you the ‘butterfly effect’, where the wafting of a butterfly’s wings, simply by moving a few air currents, could affect something bigger, which could spiral out of control until everything was different. That hadn’t happened, however. I had wafted an awful lot of air currents since 1968, but the world was for all practical purposes the same. It was as if I hadn’t done something, somebody else would have anyway. Did that mean I would have no chance to change future history?

Up until now I really hadn’t tried. How would I? I knew the space shuttle would blow up, but how could I stop it? Call it in? To whom? What proof would I have? And after it happened, everybody would want to know how I knew. What would I tell them? It was simply impossible!

I just didn’t know what I could do to prevent the coming catastrophe.

I did have a nice chance to sit down with my son about a week before the Inauguration, and I asked him about his plans. His ship had come in and he was taking two weeks leave with us. Charlie had done some growing up, at least to the extent he didn’t give me an automatic smartass answer. Instead he simply smiled and shook his head. “I don’t know yet, Dad.” I just nodded. I did notice that the Corps had knocked some of the smart ass out of him. He was more mature than when he went in. Maturity didn’t extend all that far, though. On his right arm he was now sporting a large globe-and-anchor Marine Corps tattoo. When I told him I hoped it hurt, he just grinned and said, “It’s not too bad when you’ve been drinking!”

The Inauguration was being held, by law, on January 20^th, a Saturday. I had been to the 1996 Inauguration, but I had a bout of the flu the day of the ’92 festivities. The day is supposed to be a joyous celebration of the wonders of democracy, but from what I could tell, what it really was was a major pain in the ass! From the crack of dawn onward there are breakfasts and prayer ceremonies and associated horseshit. Then, in the late morning, would be the Inauguration itself. We would have various speakers and music, Billy Graham would give the invocation, and then I would get sworn in first, maybe about 11:30 in the morning. After that there would be some more fooling around, and then at noon George would be sworn in. He would give a speech, we’d have some more fun and games, and then there would be a parade.

The biggest problem would be that it was outside in January! We had an excellent chance of freezing our asses off. Presidents have died doing this shit! Why they couldn’t do this in the Rotunda of the Capitol was beyond me.

All day long, until the Inaugural Balls in the evening, you had all sorts of pomp and ceremony around the city to attend. Then you had to go to the Balls — plural. There were eight of them, all black-tie, spread around Washington, and you had to make an appearance at each and every one of them. It wasn’t so much a celebration of the Inauguration as a celebration of exhaustion! The balls started at 7:00 PM, and ran until well after midnight. It was expected that we would show up at one of them, say something nice, have a dance, and try to eat something and have a drink. We had to be done and to the next one inside a half hour.

We had a fair number of complimentary tickets given to us. Upwards of 50,000 guests would be at the various balls, the cost of which was fronted by various millionaires and lobbying groups. The Maryland Ball was being held in the D.C. Armory, a cavernous building with seating for 9,000. Cheryl and her husband would be there, along with my (her) entire Congressional staff. Ohio, John Boehner’s home state, was having its ball in the Washington Convention Center, and he would have the Whip’s staff there.

We also invited Suzie and her husband, and Marilyn’s parents. They would stay at the Armory, and not travel around with us. The twins opted to stay with our families and not travel everywhere with us. The idea of Big Bob and Harriet at a black tie affair was so ludicrous that I spent weeks teasing Marilyn about it. Marilyn would be wearing a designer gown by Oscar de la Renta. She wasn’t really a designer gown sort of lady, but off the rack at some boutique wouldn’t cut it. I had no idea what Harriet would be wearing, but I suspected it would be large and ugly. Suzie and the twins opted for some very expensive boutiques — I packed them and Marilyn off to 5^th Avenue in New York for an appointment with a professional that Marty dug up. I didn’t want to know what it would cost me. Other guests included Tusker and Tessa, Jake Senior and Jake Junior and their wives, Missy Talmadge, Dave Marquardt and his wife, and a few other people, like the Gates and the Dells. Any of my other tickets I gave out to campaign donors and supporters on the orders of Karl Rove. I made sure to invite the Republican Committee honchos from Maryland — always remember to dance with the one that brought you!

On the plus side, Charlie was going to attend. His mother and I assigned him as the escort to his sisters, and I was able to rush order some dress blues for him. I had to admit, the Marines really knew how to do a uniform! Of all the services, theirs was the best, with blue, red, and gold. Then I reminded Charlie that when he met the new President he was a serving Marine, and he would be well advised to stand tall and salute! All that stuff he was taught in basic about military protocol and courtesy? Now would be a real good time to review it!

The inauguration was as miserable as I could imagine it to be. It was freezing cold and rainy. Yes, the stage we were on was covered and had hidden heaters, but it was just miserable. I pitied the poor bastards who had to march in this mess. Afterwards it was just a matter of hurry up and wait. Marilyn and I did get to see our families, even if just briefly, and we worked it so that we finished our tour of the balls at the D.C. Armory, and rushed through on the way to get there. I was exhausted, and Marilyn actually fell asleep leaning against me. A picture of her snoring on my shoulder, mouth wide open, made it into the newspapers the next day.

I was sorry that we were both so tired by the end of the day. Marilyn’s evening gown sort of wafted over her curves and had a very pleasing cut to the neckline that really highlighted her bust. It was a shade of red, her favorite color, that did well with her coloring and brown hair (with highlights covering the gray — I had teased her on that earlier.) Marilyn still had a nice hourglass figure, although she was complaining it was getting a lot harder to keep. With me being away so much during the campaign, it became very easy for her to ‘forget’ to exercise in the morning. Still, when she came out of the bedroom in her gown I made the appropriate wolf whistle. It was too bad that she’d never wear it again. It would probably end up being donated to the Smithsonian.

Marilyn smiled and asked, “So you like it?”

“You bet!” I ran a hand across her back and down to her rump. I could tell she had a bra on, but I suspected pantyhose were covering her panties.

“What are you up to?” she asked suspiciously.

“Well, you know, as the Vice President, I need to be able to perform the duties of the President in an instant. As the wife of the Vice President, you should be able to perform your wifely duties in an instant!” I waggled my eyebrows at her and patted her rump. “Nothing should get in the way, if you know what I mean.”

Marilyn snorted and rolled her eyes. “Oh, give me a break!” Then she looked at me and gave me a sly grin. “Does the Vice President’s wife have to step in when the First Lady can’t perform her duties? Maybe I should talk to Laura about that.”

“Hmmm… I never thought about that. Maybe I should check with Bill Clinton. Maybe there’s an intern program available.”

“Yuck!”

“I think the Vice President gets interns, too.”

That earned me a finger wagging and several “You can behave!” comments.

The day after the Inauguration Bush ordered Cheney to take care of the warrant on me. This was handled in Dick’s signature subtle style — he had the Treasury Department put a hold on all Nicaraguan funds in American banks. They squawked loudly and he had a spokesman publicly tell them at a press conference that they were acting too big for their britches and that if they wanted their money back to cancel the warrant. Nowhere did he require that I be exonerated. It was pure power, might makes right, behave or get spanked. They behaved, but sure didn’t like it. I decided I wouldn’t be making any formal state visits to either Honduras or Nicaragua, no matter what Cheney or Bush wanted.

After the Inauguration Marilyn and I took several days down at Hougomont. Now that I was officially the Vice President we couldn’t take our G-IV down, we had to fly in a government plane. What kind of government plane, you ask? We took Air Force Two, an almost brand new Boeing 757. This is a plane that normally can carry about 200 passengers and was now decked out in sybaritic luxury for less than 50. I told Marilyn that we’d need to upgrade when I left the government. Air Force Two is actually just a designation that the Veep is on board. It could be anything from a puddle jumper up to the Presidential 747, if he isn’t on board. If the runway in Nassau wasn’t long enough they would have sent us in a government C-20, another G-IV.

Waiting for us at the airport was a delegation from the embassy and another from Government House. We were invited to several events, including a formal dinner with the Prime Minister. Meanwhile the press was there to take photos of the billionaire politician who had bought a Vice Presidency (in the words of the New York Times, if they only knew how true that was!) and was now beginning a four year vacation paid for by American taxpayers (Fox News). Some days you just can’t win! I needed to get a handle on this quickly, and let everybody know that my future vacations were not state functions!

Another surprise was awaiting us when we got to Hougomont. Aside from how the Secret Service had taken over the security building on the grounds, now we had a Coast Guard cutter sailing around a mile or two off the beach! I could almost feel the eyes scanning us from binoculars. It was probably a good thing they were around, though, since if I looked down the beach in either direction I could see photographers at the edge of our property line. I was really at the center of a media frenzy now, and Marilyn and I needed to get used to it.

This Vice President thing was going to take some getting used to.

Chapter 136: Waiting

February to September, 2001

George Bush had a serious agenda to remodel the country and the government, and it became very obvious at an early stage. He planned to make some wholesale changes in the way things were done.

Well, that is probably an overstatement. What was much more accurate was that George’s backers had very serious plans, and George was along for the ride. To what extent he knew that he was overmatched was questionable. From what I could see working with the man, he was quite possibly the dumbest President we had suffered under since Warren Harding! I might even have to go back to some of the idiots who were in charge of the country before the Civil War to find a match. Certainly he had no native talent for management.

It was much more accurate to say that he paid the greatest heed to the last fellow who talked to him. It became a gigantic wrestling match to become that person. His instincts were conservative, and that was fine, but he let his deputies and department heads craft his agenda, not the other way around. They would make plans and then talk him into them. Cheney and Rove were the leaders of this group, and it was all the moderates could do to try and hold their own.

Taxes? They needed to be lowered, drastically! He envisioned tax cuts for all eight years of his Presidency, or at least the Wall Street types envisioned them for him. We had a bunch of them around. And loopholes! We needed more loopholes!

The military? That needed to be strengthened, really grown! So said the defense contractors who wanted to sell their latest goodies, and the Pentagon generals and admirals who wanted to buy them.

Medicare? For a guy who had pushed against entitlements, he was very much in favor of increasing benefits that mostly benefited the insurance companies and the drug companies.

Compassionate conservatism? Nobody really understood it, but it seemed that it involved bringing in the hard right fundamentalist branch of the Christian churches. They set up a faith-based initiatives group in the West Wing to do something to liaison with church-run charities, and Ashcroft began loading up the Justice Department with lawyers who graduated from Liberty University and other Bible colleges.

Foreign policy? Cheney and Wolfowitz and a shitload of chickenhawks were champing at the bit to start a new war in the Middle East. They believed that the first President Bush had screwed up by not conquering Iraq when he had the chance. Now they envisioned doing it right, in a new war, one which would bring freedom and democracy to the country, and from there spread to the surrounding nations. It would be quick and easy and profitable to boot! In this they were happily aided by George himself, who considered his father’s quite reasoned ending of the Gulf War as a defeat. George would solve the problem his father had let fester.

The Cabinet was not a happy place. It wasn’t quite open war, but it came close. On the right you had an axis based on Cheney, Wolfowitz, and Ashcroft, all of them full of grand plans to reform America and the world. We were a Christian nation with Christian values and we should be damn well giving those values to the rest of the planet, whether the rest of the planet wanted them or not! Wall Street was to be allowed the proper level of freedom to bring the benefits of American style capitalism first to Main Street, and then to the rest of the world. On the other side of the equation were the moderates, those with ties to the liberal or moderate wing of the party. The main axis on this side was O’Neill, Powell, and myself, and I wondered how long that would last.

The mood of the Republican Party was still swinging rightward, and moderates were the new liberals, something to be branded as un-American. As Whip I had been able to keep many of the Congressional idiots muzzled and out of power, but that was changing. Since the Republicans retained control of the House in the last elections, some of the crazies had more seniority and had moved up in their committees and subcommittees. With longevity grew power, and John Boehner was not being as successful at keeping them from getting out of hand. In Congress the bottom line was that if the President wanted to do something crazy, he had a ready audience and an eager band of helpers.

Dick Cheney seemed to spend almost as much time at the White House as he did at Foggy Bottom, the neighborhood that was home to the State Department. In this he was aided by his right hand man, Lewis ‘Scooter’ Libby, who he had gotten confirmed as his Deputy Secretary of State. Scooter was Dick’s chief henchman, and his job was to run the rest of the world while Dick ran George Bush. I had my own network of staffers and assistants to help me in this. I had brought Frank Stouffer and Carter Braxton in as part of my team, as Chief of Staff and Communications Director, with Mindy McIlroy Geisinger as my Personal Assistant, and had commandeered Matt Scully as well. Meanwhile, Marty Adrianopolis was now over at the American Renaissance Initiative, and he had funneled some staffers from there to me. These were all people with ties to the moderate side and to me, and not so much to George or Dick or Karl.

The one thing Dick couldn’t do was to bar me from meeting with the President. If Cheney met with Bush, I would manage to meet with him next. I might not be able to get George to see reason on things (he really was stupid, with a very simplistic view of the world) but sometimes I could tone down his actions or delay them. For instance, almost immediately after taking office George Bush began talking about a 10 % cut in all taxes across the board, and this was just to be the start of a multi-year effort to drastically cut taxes. Almost immediately this was told to Grover Norquist, who began promoting it heavily in Congress. Treasury, the Office of Management and Budget, and I were aghast at what this would do to revenues and the deficit! The best we could come up with was a reduction in the first year to a 5 % cut.

It became very clear the dangers we were facing at our first meeting of the National Security Council in early February. By law this is supposed to be the most senior cabinet members and other critical people, a ‘mini-cabinet’ to contemplate war and peace. Besides the President and the Vice President, you had the Secretaries of State, Defense, and Treasury, the National Security Adviser, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and the head of the CIA. Along with these mandatory members, you also had ‘invited’ members who almost always showed up, like the President’s Chief of Staff and the Attorney General.

One of the biggest changes in American politics became obvious at the Cabinet level, and that was the utter decline of the value of being a military veteran. A generation before the majority of the male members of the Cabinet and virtually all of the National Security Council would have seen some form of military service, even if it had only been running the motor pool at Fort Dix. Now it was almost unheard of. In the entire cabinet, at least from what I could determine, the only veterans were Colin Powell, Tony Principi at Veterans Affairs, and me. Tommy Thompson and George Bush had both been in either the Reserves or the National Guard, and they had worked their asses off in order to avoid actually having to serve. The National Security Council was just as bad.

That is not to say that these were bad people. Just because you wore a uniform at some point in the past, that didn’t make you some kind of saint or an expert on all matters military. I was a pretty good company level commander and could have probably handled a battalion without too many problems. That did not make me the next Patton! However, it does give you a feeling for what will be required and what should be considered in any discussion of the use of military force.

The meetings of the National Security Council are supposed to be run by the President, with questions being asked of and instructions being given to the other participants. I raised an eyebrow at Colin Powell when as soon as George Bush called the meeting to order he turned it over to the Secretary of State. Dick Cheney opined on the problems we were having with Saddam Hussein and the Iraqis (basically, they weren’t doing what we wanted them to do, which was to turn over Saddam Hussein to us for a nice, clean hanging), and then he turned it over to the head of the Central Intelligence Agency, Paul Wolfowitz.

Wolfowitz then began to recite the issues that we were discovering through our intelligence and surveillance of Iraq. I began taking a few notes. They were routinely thumbing their noses at us and testing the limits of the no-fly zones we had created after the Gulf War. There was an active program to develop a nuclear bomb. They already had chemical weapons. They were hiring Russian scientists to develop biological weapons. They were developing missiles capable of carrying these warheads, not just to Israel, but farther, to Europe. They were in discussions with terrorist groups in Lebanon and North Africa. The bottom line was that we needed to strongly consider some form of stronger response to their aggression.

There was no discussion because Cheney immediately turned the meeting over to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, an Air Force General named Meyers, who had replaced Shelton when he had quit during the nonsense with me in the election. General Meyers promptly reported that he agreed with everything Director Wolfowitz had said, and that it was imperative that we begin preparing a variety of responses to Iraqi aggression. George Bush, on cue, ordered General Meyers to begin developing possible plans.

I cleared my throat, drawing attention to myself. “Excuse me, but I have a few questions.”

Before the President could respond, Cheney said, “Carl, this is only a preliminary investigation into these matters for the sake of the President.”

“Regardless, I still have some questions, and the President might be interested in hearing those answers.” I looked over at George Bush. “Mister President?”

“Go ahead, Carl. Let’s hear some questions and answers,” he replied, amused at my trumping Cheney.

“Thank you, Mister President.” I turned my head to Wolfowitz. “Mister Director, You claim the Iraqis are developing chemical weapons. They already have them. Gulf War Syndrome was a consequence of low level exposure to them. What has changed to warrant any changes on our part?”

That was the start. I also pushed on details about his other claims. What proof did he have for the nuclear bomb program? Where were the biologicals being developed? Why would an avowed secularist dictator like Hussein want to have anything to do with the terrorist groups Hizbollah or Hamas, which were primarily supported by the Iraqi’s mortal enemy, the Iranians? Wolfowitz blustered ferociously about all the classified information the CIA was developing, none of which, of course, could be given in detail to us. I simply nodded.

Then I turned to General Meyers. “General, you must have provided the Director with the information about the attempted violations of the no-fly zone and the other provocations. We’ve been living with that for the last ten years. Is there anything different now than before? We’ve been containing these idiots just fine. Why stop?”

To his credit, General Meyers didn’t bluster and fulminate. Still, his responses were that Hussein seemed to be increasing the tempo of his provocations and that we were using a lot of resources to contain him. Worst of all, ever since the Gulf War, some of these guys thought combat was a video game.

I looked over at George Bush and shook my head. “Mister President, I have to tell you that this is very disturbing. I can see no good reason why we should go to war, which is what the Secretary and the Director and the Chairman want. Pardon my French, but Saddam Hussein is an asshole, not a threat, and we simply can’t go around killing assholes just because they are assholes. We will run out of bullets before we run out of assholes!” Cheney looked furious at this, but Condoleeza Rice looked amused. Powell simply looked thoughtful.

Bush nodded and held up a hand to forestall any responses. “Fair enough, Carl.” To Wolfowitz he ordered, “Paul, you need to get a lot more information before we can continue in this direction.”

After that we went on to other topics and areas of the globe. Later, I invited myself into the Oval Office and sat down with President Bush. “George, I won’t deny that I have my differences with some of these guys, but this is more than that. We’re not just talking about money. This isn’t about taxes or deficits or Wall Street. This is about sending young men and women to their deaths. Some of these guys think it’s going to be just like ten years ago, cheap and easy. That was a onetime thing, a once in a thousand years event. Real war is a lot messier, and it is never quick and easy. I am begging you, go slow on this.”

“Carl, I appreciate your thoughts. It is still too soon to know what we need to do. If I do have to send our troops in, I won’t do it lightly.”

I thanked him and left. I was not reassured. The idea of avenging his father’s ‘defeat’ rankled the man. Realistically, the Saudis would never have allowed us to go to Baghdad and depose Hussein. On the plus side, almost immediately afterwards, I was asked to a meeting with Colin Powell, who basically promised to keep me completely up to date on whatever Cheney and Wolfowitz and Meyers were up to. He was as concerned as I was.

A couple of months later we had a similar meeting, but to this one I made an invitation and brought in Richard Clarke, the Counter-Terrorism Adviser to the National Security Adviser. He put together a dog and pony show on what both he and I felt was a much more serious threat, Islamic fundamentalist terrorism. He mentioned Osama bin Laden and Al Qaeda specifically, along with several other groups. The only thing that Bush and Cheney wanted to know was the kind of contacts they had with the Iraqis. Clarke gave them a funny look and glanced over at me, then said, “I’m sure the Iraqis are keeping track of them, simply because Al Qaeda wants to kill Saddam Hussein. Other than that, they have no involvement with them.”

“What about the Iranians? Are they working for the Iranians?” asked Wolfowitz.

“Uh, bin Laden is Sunni and the Iranians are Shiites. They wouldn’t be working together. More like they’d be targeting each other.”

Nobody paid him any attention after that. I was astonished that these geniuses didn’t even know the religions of the people they were planning to invade. It didn’t matter to them. We would invade in another lightning campaign, destroying the Iraqi Army in a matter of days, roll into Baghdad, occupy the palace, and capture Hussein. It might take two weeks, tops. The locals, elated after years of oppression under the boot heel of the dictator (I heard that phrase used) would rise up and welcome us with open arms. Within a matter of months there would be free elections and our hand-picked candidates would take over, and in their gratitude, would allow American oil companies first crack at all that Iraqi oil. It might cost us a few hundred billion, but the oil would pay for it. Even better, once all their neighbors saw democracy taking hold, they would all rise up and overthrow their governments, too (Syria, Iran, etc.) It would be the beginning of democracy in the Arab world!

In hindsight this was as big a blunder as Viet Nam had been. The ‘boot heel of the dictator’ was the only thing keeping everybody from killing each other! They rose up and promptly wanted us to get lost while they went about a delightful little civil war. There were no oil revenues, since Hussein hadn’t invested penny one in the infrastructure, so it was falling down around his ears, and everybody thought blowing up their enemy’s wells and refineries was a good idea. Meanwhile we were stuck there about ten years and spent at least $2 trillion on this disaster, while getting tens of thousands of troops killed and maimed. Meanwhile, none of the neighbors rose up, and what revolts did occur during the ‘Arab Spring’ had nothing to do with Iraq. At the same time, we wasted our best shot at stabilizing Afghanistan, and wasted another $2 trillion over there.

The usual response to my bringing up these unpleasant questions was that Cheney would maneuver me out of the country. Not to important places, but there are a lot of rinky-dink shitholes where the Vice Prime Minister dies and the American Vice President needs to make a formal visit for a state funeral. There are also many facts that need finding in deepest and darkest Africa. As far as I could determine, the most important fact I needed to find was the location of the ‘This way out of Africa’ sign! This usually would tie me up for a week or so, while Cheney and Wolfowitz would undo whatever damage I had done in their campaign to go to war in the Middle East.

It only got worse. We had another meeting in July, where I brought Clarke in again, to discuss the latest intelligence on Al Qaeda. Everything I had been hearing that spring and summer indicated that something was in the works. There was talk of ‘chatter’, emails and cell phone calls from strange people to even stranger people. Something was going to happen. I asked Clarke what he thought it was, and then asked him about various scenarios straight out of Tom Clancy novels. Two days after the July meeting, the counter-terrorism office for the National Security Adviser was eliminated as being duplicative of efforts at CIA. Richard Clarke had been fired.

On the plus side, George Bush was still talking to me and listening, to the extent that he listened to anybody not telling him things he didn’t want to hear. He had been cool after Clinton tried to land me in the jackpot with the release of my classified records. After the election, however, I called George and asked for the account number for the third $5 million payoff, and he brightened right up again. I made the last installment the afternoon of the Inauguration. As I told him, my word and my deals meant a lot to me.

Surprisingly, the one area I ended up supporting George was in education. He was pushing his No Child Left Behind Act, a major overhaul of the way schools were funded and graded. This was a massive bill, and it encompassed some major changes. I knew that the bill was not perfect, and that it had any number of flaws in it, but the way America did public education was deeply broken. If the definition of madness was to do the same thing over and over, and to expect a different result, then the way the U.S. did education was madness.

Personally, I thought one of the biggest improvements would be to cut the unions down to size. As it stood, the teachers’ unions had no interest in improving education and only an interest in getting more money for teachers and the unions. They coated it all with a fine layer of sweetness and light. This was actually one of the big areas where Marilyn and I argued. She had gone through the process, getting a bachelor’s and a master’s in education, and she had bought their bullshit hook, line, and sinker. It was one of those areas we agreed to disagree.

Surprisingly, George used one of our discussions in the major speech he gave to introduce the bill. I had talked to him about breaking the unions and the stranglehold they had on the system.

“We have a system where math teachers can’t do algebra, where English teachers can’t parse a sentence, and where chemistry teachers aren’t qualified to work in a laboratory, but they are teachers because they have a degree in education. Meanwhile, Vice President Buckman, who has a doctorate in applied mathematics, and is qualified to teach half a dozen subjects at the college level, is unqualified to teach in our high schools, because he doesn’t have a degree in education! This is a deeply flawed system.”

To a certain extent this threw me into the fire, which undoubtedly pleased Dick Cheney, but I didn’t care. It was a subject I could speak to, and did so on several occasions.

It wasn’t just foreign affairs that had me in hot water with some of the others in the White House. To be fair, a chunk of it was my own fault; I should have known better than to pick a fight. It was my general disdain with the hard core right wingers running loose. They weren’t all in the government, either. Rush Limbaugh had been running and gunning for me ever since I had begun to make a national name for myself. All through the short list period prior to my selection as Bush’s running mate he had been complaining I wasn’t Republican enough, meaning conservative enough.

Two events occurred which got me in hot water with the White House. First, the tech bubble had burst, costing millions of people billions of dollars. Well, not all of us. Most of my dough was tied up with the Buckman Group, which had done all right, and not because I was issuing warnings to them sub rosa. In late April Fortune ran a cover article titled ‘RED TEAM: How The Tech Titan Profited From The Tech Collapse.’ The picture was a group of four men and women, all employees of the Buckman Group.

Jake Eisenstein Jr. was still running the Buckman Group. His father had retired and was living a life of luxury in Florida. Missy Talmadge had remarried and was semi-retired. Junior was really the only one left of the old gang, but he was a real force to be reckoned with on Wall Street. He had learned a lot from the collapse of the market back in ’87, and had formally created a group of contrarians that called themselves the Red Team. They were a bit flashy and flamboyant, like young guns out to make it big. They studied markets and analyzed all sorts of things and developed trading strategies for when things fell apart. This was all a takeoff on my Red Light and Green Light plans from 1987, which I had created to help gloss over the fact that I knew what was going to happen. As a result, they had been able to keep the firm from losing very much when things headed south, and were able to make it all up and more so with subsequent hedges and short sales. Most of the article was on the members of the Red Team, but there was a sizable side story on Jake and he talked about me and politics. Jake was a bit more conservative than me, but he basically lauded me and ran down the Administration’s economic policies. Thank you, Jake!

I got a fair bit of grief over this, but it wasn’t as bad as what happened next. The second problem was even closer to home. It started when WBAL, one of the Baltimore television stations, was out at Hereford High filming a lacrosse game with Perry Hall, in May. The twins were there, of course, along with the rest of the varsity cheerleading team. At some point they decided to shoot some footage of the cheerleaders (pretty girls in short skirts, sounds like a winner to me!) and all the girls eagerly crowded around. They were teenage girls and being on television was exciting! For whatever reason, the interviewer asked them if they had summer jobs lined up. A few of the girls said they were working in local stores or for their family businesses or babysitting. Holly and Molly decided to goof off. Holly replied, “Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays I sell drugs and my sister turns tricks.”

Molly chimed in and added, “Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturdays we switch off.”

Holly finished with, “Sunday is a day of rest!”

Then, with all of their buddies laughing hysterically, they all ran back over to the sidelines. At that point, one of the editors back at the station figured out that it wasn’t just a bunch of ditzy cheerleaders fooling around. No, it was the twin daughters of the Vice President of the United States who were goofing off! They made the top of the local news that night. The Baltimore Sun picked it up and put it below the fold on page 3 in the morning. At that point it was loose in the world!

I learned about it when Frank Stouffer ran into my office that next day around noon. “Boss! You have to see this! Turn on your television!”

“Frank, what’s going on?”

“Turn on the television!” He grabbed the remote and flipped it to CNN, which was finishing a segment on my daughters joking about selling drugs and becoming prostitutes.

“What in the hell?” I asked him.

“Were Holly and Molly on television yesterday?” he asked.

I shrugged in ignorance. “No idea. If they were, I don’t know how. I was here last night. Marilyn was at home with the twins.”

“You’d better make a call!”

I shrugged again and called Marilyn. “Where are the girls?” I asked.

“At school. Where else would they be now?” she replied.

“Were they on television yesterday?”

“Television? Why? What’s going on?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out. Did you watch the local news last night?” I asked.

“No, I missed it getting dinner ready. By the way, are you coming home tonight?”

I glanced over at Frank, and an equally agitated Carter, who had just come in. “I think so. I think I am coming home tonight. Make sure the girls are there.”

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“I’ll tell you later.”

“Okay. I love you.”

“I love you, too.” I hung up. I looked over at the other two. “So, want to tell me what is going on?”

They looked at each other nervously, and then Frank said, “You’re going to need to see it for yourself, Mister Vice President.”

About twenty minutes later CNN’s Headline News rolled around with a repeat of the report. They had the clip from WBAL, cut down to just the last few questions, and there were the twins proclaiming how they were going to work as drug dealers and prostitutes over the summer. It would have been hilarious if it weren’t for the fact that upon entering the White House it was required that you check your sense of humor at the front door. I just rolled my eyes and tried to keep from smiling.

On cue, the phone rang. It was Ari Fleischer, the White House Press Secretary. He was on his way over. I was to be ready to explain this.

I looked at the other two. “Okay, back to work. Ari is coming over. You don’t need to be involved. Just let the Secret Service know I’ll be traveling to my home tonight, and not the Naval Observatory. Thanks.”

Ari Fleischer barged in as they were leaving. “Mister Vice President, what have your daughters done!?”

“Ari, you know as much as I do. I thought kids were off limits to the press?”

“Nothing is off limits, you should know that! Your daughters are going to sell drugs and turn tricks? This is a disaster!” he cried.

“Ari, how is this any more of a disaster then when Bush’s daughters got picked up for underage drinking a few days ago? I don’t recall the end of the republic occurring when that happened?” I asked him.

“They didn’t do it on national television!”

Just then Karl Rove stormed in, with a full head of steam. “What the hell are your fucking daughters up to now!?” he demanded.

I fixed him with a glare. “Watch your mouth, Karl. Those are my daughters you’re talking about.”

“Screw you, Buckman! We just buried the problems with Jenna and Barbara and you do this? Have you lost your mind?!” He never bothered to give me a chance to talk, but turned to Fleischer and said, “You’ll need to put out a statement, something about how the Vice President regrets the statement his daughters made and how he understands the significance of the drug problem in this country…”

“Don’t forget the prostitution,” I chimed in.

“This isn’t funny, Buckman! Why don’t you just shut the hell up?!” I contemplated tossing his fat ass out the door for a second. Rove just turned back to Ari and said, “Yeah, and the prostitution problem. Add in something about how the Vice President apologizes for his daughters’ behavior and youthful indiscretion and is counseling them.”

Ari looked over at me and I simply shook my head. “Forget it, Ari. Don’t bother. I am not throwing my daughters under a bus so that George Bush’s daughters look good in comparison. Forget it.”

Karl said, “Screw you, Buckman! Ari, write the damn release!”

I stood up and pointed towards the door. “Karl, you can leave under your own power or get thrown out head first, your choice. Ari, I’ll see you at the press briefing in the morning. I think I’m going home to talk to the dope dealers and flesh peddlers in the house. You put out a release like what he wants and I will publicly repudiate it tomorrow morning. See how well that goes over.”

I pushed past the pair of them into the outer office and picked up the Secret Service agent assigned to me. Rove kept following me and ordering me to return and do as I was told. It was quite the spectacle going through the West Wing. Finally I had enough and I turned to him. “Karl, if you don’t settle down I will deck you here and now. I’d love to read Ari’s press release for that!”

The Special Agent stepped in front of Rove and said, “Sir, I have to ask you to step back.”

“Get out of my way!” Karl blustered.

“Sir, if you do not step back I will be forced to detain you.”

He turned to face me and said, “Buckman, this isn’t over!” and then stormed off.

“Thank you,” I said to the agent, and then we continued on. We took a limo over to the Naval Observatory, and then took Marine Two home to Hereford.

I came in to find Marilyn knitting in the living room. Holly and Molly were sitting on the couch looking nervously at me. Marilyn seemed quite a bit calmer. “You’re home early,” she commented.

“I figured democracy had taken enough of my soul for the day, and it was time to go home to find out about what I had been missing. It seems as if we’ve had all sorts of fun in the last day or so.” I dropped my briefcase on the floor and loosened my tie, and sat down. Stormy promptly jumped into my lap and began slobbering all over my face. After a minute of this I pushed her away and looked over at my daughters. “Well, who wants to start?”

“Start?” asked Molly weakly.

“Yes, start. You know, start telling me about your drug dealing and prostitution. It’s Wednesday, so which is it for you?”

At that both of them started protesting their innocence and how they didn’t realize the cameras were going and how they weren’t into drugs or prostitution and how it wasn’t their fault but somebody else’s. Yadda, yadda, yadda! I looked over at their mother and rolled my eyes throughout all this; she covered her mouth with her hands and stifled the laughter.

After five minutes, by which time they were on their third rendition, I made the time-out sign and said, “Enough already! Quiet!”

“Dad, I mean, it just…” continued Holly.

“QUIET! That means you! I watched it on television today at the White House. You were the one who started this…” I turned to Molly. “… and you were the one who went along with her. You are both guilty! Now, I have to clean this up. The White House would like to see me offer you two up on an altar for human sacrifice. I almost agree with them!”

“Daddy!” they both squealed.

“QUIET! Now, for once in your lives I want you to listen to me! Reporters are not your friends! The cameras and the microphones are always on! From now on I want you two to stay away from reporters, like FOREVER! Start practicing the fine art of keeping your mouths SHUT! Are we clear on that?!” I said.

“Daddy!”

“ARE WE CLEAR ON THAT?!” I thundered.

“Yes, sir,” they replied, much more meekly.

“I let you two get away with a lot, but that is going to change. You have no idea how much trouble I am in over this idiocy. You two are staying home tonight to watch the news with me, all night if we have to. That is not open for discussion, by the way. Now, off to your room. I need to talk to your mother.” I made a shooing motion and they scampered out, followed by Stormy.

“Think you were a little rough with them?” asked Marilyn, smiling a touch.

I snorted. “Karl Rove wants Ari Fleischer to put out a press release stating I have disinherited the two of them and roasted them on a spit. Then we got into a shouting match in the middle of the West Wing. No, I don’t think I was all that rough on them. As it is, I am going to have to attend the press briefing tomorrow to sort this out.”

“I kind of liked the idea of them taking Sunday off as a day of rest,” she said, giggling.

“Yeah, so they can spend the other six days breaking the other nine commandments. Good idea, hun!” I glanced down the hallway. “What a clusterfuck. You need to make dinner tonight so I can watch the news.”

The news that night was just about as bad as I expected, maybe worse. We were the second segment on WBAL that night, right after a piece on a series of bank robberies in Highlandtown. Tonight was basically a repeat of the story from the other night, along with a summary of the national coverage the story had received, as well as some of the comments made by national commentators. After that we watched Tom Brokaw on the NBC Nightly News. It was also their second story, but almost as long as the first, and included the ‘controversial’ remarks made by Rush Limbaugh. Rush’s radio show ran from noon to 3 PM and today he had focused on my family. Earlier today, shortly after I had left the White House to fly home, Rush had called my daughters ‘miserable sluts’ and my wife a ‘stupid bimbo’ and an ‘unfit mother.’ Brokaw didn’t call my family names, but simply reported the insults as part of the story on Rush Limbaugh’s reaction. He also reported the official White House response, which was basically what Rove had told Fleischer to write.

At the end of the story they had shocked looks on their faces. Marilyn and I simply sent them off to their room. “How bad is this?” Marilyn asked me after they had left.

“Don’t worry. Tomorrow morning I plan to ram a few pine cones up some asses. I’ll take care of it.” I glanced back towards the girls’ bedroom. “Just tell them to watch what they say around reporters and cameras. Even with their friends if they have video cameras. You’ll never know what they are going to do.”

“I will, tomorrow.”

The morning press briefing was going to be at 11:30, and Ari Fleischer spent the morning with me. According to Ari, Rove had made him write the release after I left, and Rove was ‘super pissed’ at me. The press corps was waiting for us, and Ari thought that Rove had primed some of them to go after me. Ari Fleischer wasn’t all that much of a fan of me, but it was more because he didn’t need the extra aggravation this involved.

At 11:30 we marched into the press room, which was a surprisingly small and drab place, despite what it looked like on television. The lights and cameras were already on, and Ari simply stated that I had a statement to make. He stepped back and I took his place. It was time for my ‘apology’.

“Thank you. I’d like to apologize to the American people today. I am apologizing for the fact that for the last two days so much of your time has been taken up with this nonsense.” You could have heard a pin drop at that moment, and out of the corner of my eye I could see Ari Fleischer turning white. “Let me explain. My daughters don’t live in Washington. They live out in the real world…” I pointed towards the wall, and ultimately anywhere out there, and continued, “… and they have what is known in the real world as a sense of humor. A couple of days ago they made what normal people call a joke while hanging out with their friends. The rest of America understands what humor and jokes are, but here in Washington they don’t. So, I apologize to you. I promise to explain this to them and tell them that in the future, they are no longer allowed to have fun or friends, and they are no longer allowed to tell jokes. Any questions?”

Pandemonium broke out, with everybody and their brother jumping up and shouting out questions. I waited a few seconds and then put a finger to my lips and made “Ssshhhh!” sounds while using my other hand to direct them to sit down again. When they were sitting I said, “There, just like in the first grade. Raise your hands and wait your turn.” Everybody raised a hand, and I pointed to somebody on the left. I recognized the face but not the name, and knew he worked for CBS. I glanced down at the seating chart and saw it was John Roberts. I pointed to him and said, “John.”

Roberts stood up and asked, “So, your daughters aren’t really going to be selling drugs and becoming prostitutes?”

I stared at him for a second. “Are you for real? You’re kidding me, right? Sit down. No more silly questions. Next?” There was a stunned silence for a second when I told one of the ‘elite’ White House correspondents to sit down and shut up, but then another flurry of hands rose up. I decided to go with a woman this time, and found Campbell Brown from NBC. I pointed at her and said, “Campbell.”

“Vice President Buckman, you don’t think you should be subjected to the same scrutiny as other political figures?”

“Me? Sure, I’m fair game. My daughters? No, not at all. Now, it’s your network, not mine, but if you want to report on my ditzy daughters while they are goofing around with their pals, well, it’s your time and money, not mine.” I looked around and found a print reporter, Jim VandeHei of the Washington Post. “Jim.”

“What is your response to the comments of Rush Limbaugh about this?” he asked.

I grimaced at that. “What I’d like to know is how Rush Limbaugh managed to become the voice of family values in this country. He’s on his third wife and I’m still working on my first. He has no children and I have three. My daughters are straight A students. My son is off defending the nation so this blithering idiot can spew his vileness. Yet somehow he is the one who gets to pronounce that my wife and daughters are sluts and bimbos?”

“The worst part is that all of you go along with him on this! Last night I had to sit with them and watch Tom Brokaw announce it on national television, but I could have turned to any other channel or read it in any of your papers. Many of you in this room have met my girls and my wife, and you know that these are lies and slanders, and yet you report them anyway. Here’s another thing they know about out in the real world — shame!”

Somebody yelled out, “So what are you going to do about it?”

I glanced around the room but couldn’t figure out who had spoken. It didn’t matter at that point. “Well, I had to teach my daughters about reporters, didn’t I? They’ve lost a piece of their innocence. From now on they’ll always have to wonder if the people they meet and the boys they date think the awful things that the people in this room have said about them.”

I looked over at an ashen faced Ari Fleischer and stepped back. “I think we’re done here.” I turned and walked down the hallway back to my office.

That night selected excerpts of my press conference made the news, and in full on The Daily Show, with Jon Stewart throwing in pithy comments along the way. He also threw in Rush’s latest invective and commentary from Fox News, which couldn’t figure out whether to back a Republican politician, me, or a Republican icon, Rush. They tried for both and got neither. It would have been hilarious if it didn’t involve my family.

Marilyn and the girls flew down to Washington and stayed the weekend with me. They were pretty upset with some of the things they were hearing around school. I knew it would pass, but it still wasn’t nice. It’s one thing to hear that Rush Limbaugh or some political types were attacking me, but quite another to find it was slopping onto them. Marilyn’s comment to me was simply, “I’m your first wife? Think again! I’m your only wife!”

I had to grin at that and reply, “I don’t know, honey. Maybe I’m behind on the count. Maybe you need to keep me from testing the waters.”

Holly and Molly both yelled, “GROSS!” and ran off to their rooms.

Marilyn tried to punch me and I wrapped her in my arms. “Gross!” she laughed.

“Gross!” I agreed.

Things were tense in the West Wing for a few days. It all blew over, as I knew it would. Rush amped up his bile for a few days until even he went over the line and he began taking heat for it, especially from his sponsors. Ari Fleischer settled down as the ruckus ended. Karl Rove hated my guts before, and hated them now.

Ahhh! The joy of politics! Oh, if I could only go back to being a simple multibillionaire.

Chapter 137: Treason

Tuesday, September 11, 2001

It was surprisingly easy to commit high treason.

By the end of July it was becoming obvious that if I had been hoping to have any effect on the future of the country it had been a delusion. They were beating a drum loudly about going to war with Iraq. Anybody moderate or who tried to point towards terrorism was fired, demoted, or ignored. I was asking all sorts of questions about sleeper cells and whether information was passing between the FBI and CIA, and was told to sit down and shut up. I heard from one of the mid-level people over at the CIA that Wolfowitz and Scooter Libby were ordering intelligence estimates to be slanted heavily in the direction that Cheney and Bush wanted. He wasn’t sure, but he thought some of it was being falsified.

This was something that happened in a lot of cases. Intelligence is a tricky business, and you can never really say for sure what the bad guys are up to. The analysts normally give you a spectrum of choices, such as a happy choice, the realistic choice, and the if-things-go-to-shit choice. They were busy over at Langley blowing smoke up everybody’s asses, and if you weren’t with the program, shut up and pack your bags. Saddam Hussein was gearing up to bring nuclear war to America, and we needed to stop him!

I tried to stop it. I stayed in contact with Richard Clarke and tried to figure out ways to highlight the possible damage coming. We even went over all the various scenarios that I knew were coming, even if they were only the ones in Tom Clancy’s novels. Nothing we did was even admitted to be discussed at National Security Council meetings. I could have marched through with a brass band and a bullhorn and not been noticed.

On the domestic side, it wasn’t much better. We already knew taxes were going to be lowered. While I had managed to get the original 10 % decrease for the year cut to 5 %, they would make up for it next year. In addition, dozens of domestic programs were going to go under the axe in the name of efficiency and deregulation. Be careful eating that burger, because while the FDA and the Surgeon General and the Centers for Disease Control were still around, their budgets were cut in half and they no longer had any inspectors or technicians to test anything or doctors to treat you if you got sick.

Elsewhere, my disloyalty was goading Bush into an action practically unheard of in modern politics. He was planning to dump me. The Vice President is an elected official, not an appointee, so he can’t be fired, only impeached. Rove was leaking to Washington that the President was unhappy with my performance and that I wasn’t a team player and he wouldn’t be bringing me back for the second term. There was even a quiet intimation that my family’s mental health issues were surfacing in me as well. So far this was just a whisper campaign, with nobody saying anything for the record, and nobody saying where they had heard these silly rumors, but it was starting to get out. I spoke to Fletcher Donaldson the last weekend of July at the house in Hereford, and he told me he had heard some things, but without any confirmation he couldn’t print it yet. I simply replied that it was three years away from the election, and he shouldn’t believe everything he heard.

So, I fought back. What better way to fight a whisper campaign than with one of my own. I made a few phone calls to some financial types in New York and let them know I wanted to explore some options for the future, and would they be interested in putting together a breakfast meeting and then maybe some one-on-one time with a few people in New York. We could discuss options for the future and some financial issues, maybe do a little preliminary fundraising for the RNC for the future. No, of course I wasn’t going to run! No, we were just going to talk and raise a little cash for the future. I’d give a nice little speech or two somewhere and come home the next day.

The breakfast meeting was set for 8:30 AM Tuesday morning, September 11, 2001. We would have breakfast at Windows on the World, the restaurant near the top of the World Trade Center North Tower. After breakfast I would join some of the executives of Cantor Fitzgerald in their conference room, along with a few other financial types.

Of all the things I had ever done since I recycled, this would be the worst by orders of magnitude. After I hung up the phone I went into my private bathroom and threw up my lunch. I knew I was condemning thousands of people to death, but they were going to die anyway. There was nothing I could do to stop the attacks of 9/11. Nobody in the White House, the CIA, or the State Department was listening. I could stand up on the table in the Cabinet Room during a meeting and scream it from a megaphone and it wouldn’t be heard.

Was I simply an opportunist? Or was I a psychopath? Had I always been one?

I remember reading Isaac Asimov’s Foundation, where in an early chapter one of the heroes, Hari Seldon, is arrested. He explains to a protégé that he wasn’t worried about being put to death. The judge in the case was too smart. The judge knew that while he couldn’t reverse the decline of civilization, he also knew that he could speed it up by acting stupidly. In this I considered George Bush, who thought that acting stupidly was a high calling. The global dominance of the United States was not a guaranteed thing, and there were a number of indicators that it was ending. I could guide it into a soft landing as the first among equals, or I could allow George to crash it into the ground at high speed. The changes he made over the next eight years took us from global power to international laughingstock in twenty years.

And yet I knew my plan would work. It was too simple. We had roughly six weeks until then, and I knew somebody would talk. Sure enough, the following Monday I got a call from George Bush asking me to step into the Oval Office, where he and Karl Rove were sitting and chatting amicably. Did I have something planned as a fundraiser in New York in a few weeks? No, George, of course not! I’d never go around you like that! This is just something for the future. So you wouldn’t mind if I joined you? No, of course not! Love to have you along!

While we all sat there smiling at each other, I pulled my phone out and called the VP at Cantor Fitzgerald I had been talking to, and gave him the good news. Not only would I be there, but the President of the United States would be making a visit!

From there it became even simpler. By mid-August I was off the trip, assigned to a grade school library visit that morning in Sarasota, Florida, followed by a visit to a high school in Tampa in the afternoon. This was all part of Bush’s big initiative to revitalize education. All I had to do was to wait for the inevitable.

I lost ten pounds that late summer, horrified and sickened, half by what I was doing and what I knew would happen anyway, and half because I wasn’t sure it would work! What if things had changed because I had recycled? What if they attacked on Monday or Wednesday or Tuesday afternoon? What if they attacked but hit something else?

What kind of a monster was I? How could I just allow this to happen, and send people I knew to their deaths? George Bush wasn’t a criminal; he was just criminally stupid! Did he deserve to die for that? The only thing I could see was that no matter what I did, the assholes in the caves and training camps in Afghanistan weren’t going to stop because of what was happening here. All the people that died that day would end up dying anyway. There was nothing more I could do to stop it.

And so on September 10^th I flew to Tampa and stayed the night, and then on Tuesday morning we drove down to Sarasota. At 8:45 I was sitting on a very short chair in a circle with a group of first-graders, debating the merits of The Cat In The Hat versus Green Eggs and Ham (Please, Green Eggs and Ham wins going away!) At 8:46, the Secret Service agents standing in the corner and by the door suddenly looked serious and pulled Uzis from under their jackets, while several more busted through the door to the classroom. Without even saying ‘Excuse us!’, I was grabbed by each arm and lifted off my feet and run down the hallway and out a door. When I say lifted off my feet, I mean every word. My feet didn’t touch the ground until I was at the open door of a black GMC Yukon. Behind me I could hear the screaming of little children as we ran through them, knocking them to the floor. I was tossed into the back seat of the Yukon, hitting my head on the door frame of the vehicle, and before I could even get a seat, I was slammed backwards into a seat as we tore out of the parking lot. A siren was blaring before we ever hit the street. Behind us a small convoy was racing behind us, also with sirens blaring and lights flashing.

“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON!?” I demanded. Up in the front the agent in the passenger seat was speaking into a microphone in his sleeve but otherwise ignoring me. I repeated the question to the one sitting next to me.

His head swiveled to me for a second, and then he yelled back over the sound of the siren, “WE’RE UNDER ATTACK! THE PRESIDENT IN NEW YORK HAS BEEN ATTACKED!” Then his head turned back to the window.

I tried to ask what he meant, but I was ignored. About thirty seconds later we bounced over a curb and drove across the grass into a small park. Just settling down in front of us was a helicopter with the markings of the Florida State Police. We drove close to it and I was dragged out of the Yukon and over to the helo, where I was thrown into the back and three agents climbed on after me. The bird had never stopped its engines and seconds later we were airborne.

I grabbed the arm of one of the agents and asked the question again. “What’s going on!?”

He took a deep breath and said, “We’re under attack! We’re flying to Tampa and getting on Air Force Two! That’s all I know for sure.”

“Who’s attacking us?” I asked. I grabbed his arm again, and repeated it louder, “WHO’S ATTACKING US!?”

He shrugged me off and said, “We don’t know yet. We’ll know more on the plane!” That was all I could get from him.

By the time we landed at the Tampa airport the entire airport had been shut down to all traffic. We landed on the tarmac directly in the taxi area next to the 757 and everybody hopped out. Guns drawn, the agents surrounded me and ran me to the plane and up the stairs. The engines were already running, and as soon as the stairs were pulled away and the hatch was shut, the plane began moving. We were airborne within seconds.

For the first time since this began, the Secret Service agents around me began to relax. They put away their weapons and sighed and sagged into their seats. “WOULD SOMEBODY PLEASE TELL ME WHAT IS GOING ON!?” I demanded.

An agent came out from a compartment in the front and stepped in front of me. “Sir, a short while ago, at 8:44, a plane crashed into the World Trade Center, the North Tower, where President Bush is. A short while later another one hit the South Tower.”

Memories from my first life came rushing back to me. I think every American who was alive that day remembers where they were and what they were doing when they learned the horror of what was happening. When the news began hitting the airwaves at about 8:50 I was just pulling into the parking lot at Lefleur Homes, and thinking that it was a small plane, a Cessna or Piper. I sat there listening to it for a minute, and I remembered that back during World War II a B-25 had flown into the Empire State Building. That couldn’t happen anymore, though. Modern planes had radar and all sorts of navigational aids. Then, a few minutes later the news of the second hit, and that they were airliners, not little planes, meant it was terrorism, not accidents.

I remember afterwards sitting in my office listening to the radio all day in shock and disbelief. I got nothing at all accomplished. I was so shocked by it all that a day later I apologized to my brother-in-law Gabriel, my boss in sales at the time, for not getting anything done the day before, even though he had already told me he hadn’t gotten anything done either. None of us did that day. Around lunchtime, one of my fellow adjunct teachers over at MVCC drove over and told me classes were shut down for the day, and I didn’t have to teach that night. We were both stunned, and we both mentioned that it must have been like when our parents heard on the radio that Pearl Harbor had been bombed. It was the closest thing anybody could come up with.

I stared at the guy for a second, both in shock and trying to hide my lack of shock. “What?!”

“Sir, two airliners, jets as big as this one, have slammed into the Twin Towers in New York. The President is trapped in them.” Then he held his hand to the earbud in his ear. “What… say again… Oh, sweet Jesus!” He looked up in horror at us. “Another one just took out the Pentagon!”

The other guys just stared at each other, white faced. “Where are we going?” I asked.

The guy who was listening to his earbud seemed to be in charge. “Sir, that is classified information.”

“Excuse me?” I asked incredulously.

“Sir, where you are at a time like this is classified.”

“Who the hell am I going to tell?” I demanded. “I’m on the plane with you! Now, where are we going?” I looked out the window but simply saw white clouds below us, and occasional glimpses of blue.

“Sir, that is classified. We will stay here and then land at an undisclosed location.”

Unbelievable! The mind set of these people! “Well, mister, you can damn well disclose it to me! I’m the Vice President. I need to know!”

“No, sir, that is not in the ops plan.”

“Jesus Christ!” I muttered to myself. This was ridiculous! I stood up and brushed past him and headed towards the cockpit.

“Sir, sir! You can’t… STOP!” he demanded.

I was grabbed from behind by the Secret Service agent, who dragged me back. “I DEMAND TO SEE THE PILOT!” I roared.

An Air Force type noticed me being dragged back towards my seat, and grabbed a phone and began speaking into it. Moments after I was pushed down into my seat, an Air Force colonel showed up in shirt sleeves. He stared at us for a second and said, “Mister Vice President, I’m Colonel North. I’m the pilot. You asked to see me?”

The lead agent said, “Colonel, this does not concern you. You need to return to the cockpit and proceed with the mission as authorized.”

“Colonel! I demand to know those orders!” I told him.

“Colonel North, you are to continue the mission,” said the agent.

The colonel took one look at them and then at me, and said, “Like hell. Let that man up now, or so help me God I’ll… I’ll… just let him up! Unless you’ve suddenly learned how to fly an airplane, I’m in charge here!”

Hands left me, and I shrugged loose. “Colonel, are you aware of what is occurring in New York and Washington?”

“Yes sir, I am.”

“Do you recognize me as the Vice President of the United States of America?”

“Of course, Mister Buckman. What can I do for you?” he replied.

“Where are we currently and what is our course? We need to get back to Washington immediately!”

“Colonel, this is a classified mission and you cannot reveal our destination!” ordered the lead Secret Service agent.

“Good Lord!” muttered the pilot. “I can’t tell other people, you twit! I can certainly tell the people on the plane!” To me he said, “Sir, we are currently over the Atlantic Ocean, about 75 miles east of Jacksonville, and circling to hold position. We will maintain position here for another two hours and then we will be heading towards Omaha. We will be landing at Offut Air Force Base.”

“Colonel, you may consider yourself under arrest at this time,” said the lead agent.

Colonel North simply rolled his eyes and muttered in disbelief. I shook my head in disgust and said, “Thank you. Now, Colonel, I am countermanding those orders. We need to get back to Washington immediately. Put us into Andrews as soon as possible, please.”

Everybody’s eyes popped open at that. North replied, “Sir, despite what this fool thinks, there is a very good reason to keep you away from Washington in case of an attack.”

I nodded in agreement. “Colonel, that would be very true in the case of either a conventional or special weapons attack. However, nobody capable of such an attack would be using airliners as a weapon. This is terrorism of some sort, and you know it. Now, are you aware that the President is currently in the Twin Towers?” Colonel North was part of the 89^th Airlift Wing, the wing assigned to do flight duties for bigwigs in D.C., including the President; he would know where the President was. He nodded. “Then he is either already dead or is about to die.”

There was a collective gasp at that from everyone around me. “Sir, you don’t know what you’re saying!” said North.

“Colonel, what is your degree in? Engineering? How much fuel does an airliner carry? How many tons of avgas have been splashed into those buildings? What temperature will those buildings be burning at? It is simple physics. Those buildings will not survive.”

The pilot had a horrified look of comprehension on his face and slowly nodded. “And when the temperature gets high enough, the structural steel…”

I finished for him. “The structural steel will soften and lose strength and the building will collapse.”

“Colonel, I am ordering you to continue the mission! President Bush will be rescued and will be able to alter these orders at that time,” ordered the lead agent.

Just at that moment somebody yelled out, “It’s gone! One of the towers collapsed!”

Colonel North looked at the two of us, and then stepped towards an intercom. He grabbed it and spoke into it. “Bo, change of plans. Head it towards the barn and put the pedal down.”

“Andrews?” came the tinny response.

“Affirmative. Log it as my order.”

“Roger!” Almost immediately the plane began a steep bank to the right. The pitch of the engines began spooling up, too.

North braced himself against the wall. To nobody in particular he said, “Oh, shit!”

“Yeah! Now, I need to get into the commo section. Who are we in contact with?” I stood up and this time wasn’t grabbed by the Secret Service.

“Who do you want, sir? We can talk to everybody from here, even SAC if you want to start a war.”

I was about to make a reply, when I looked around. “Where’s the football?” I asked.

Everybody looked at each other. The ‘nuclear football’ was a briefcase carried around by an officer, a major or lieutenant commander or higher, with a Yankee White clearance, just about the highest security clearance possible. The briefcase, occasionally handcuffed to his arm, contained the nuclear launch codes. By law they were always supposed to be only a few feet from me. There was a football with the President, one with me, and a spare in the White House.

One of the Secret Service agents said, “We must have left him back in Sarasota!”

I looked at the pilot. “Great! Get this bird moving!”

“Yeah!” he turned and trotted back to the front office. I went to the communications section.

I wasn’t interested so much in giving any orders, but in hearing the latest news. It was fragmented and chaotic but coming in fast. The National Communications System had been activated, the Capitol and the White House had been evacuated, fighter planes, some armed and some unarmed, had been launched to search for airliners not responding to orders, and the FAA had shut down all air traffic in the nation, ordering all flights to land at the nearest airports or risk being shot down.

It was the South Tower which had collapsed. There were helicopters buzzing around the North Tower trying to figure out a way to winch George Bush to safety, one New York City Police chopper had already crashed after getting caught in the smoke and turbulence surrounding the fires. Half an hour after the South Tower collapsed the North Tower went down. The President was still inside.

I only gave one order. All cabinet members possible were to gather at the ‘bunker’, the bombproof Presidential Emergency Operations Center located under the lawn at the White House. When we landed, Marine Two was to transport me immediately to the White House grounds. Marilyn and the twins had already been grabbed and flown by helicopter to Fort Meade, where they had been stashed at the bottom of one of the secure intelligence and command bunkers.

It was almost noon by the time I made it to the White House. By then everything was pretty much over. The fourth plane, United Airlines Flight 93, had been discovered to have gone down in a field in Pennsylvania. I had been following all the latest news from the commo section of Air Force Two. When we landed, the pushy Secret Service agent tried to order me around some more, so I fired him on the spot. The other two agents took one look at me and turned their backs on him and we left him standing on the tarmac at Andrews. Ten minutes later we landed on the lawn at the White House. I was to later learn that this was the first and only time that Marine Two had landed at the White House. Another agent was there and directed me to the bunker.

The bunker is buried fairly deep, but I don’t know if it is really nuclear bomb proof or just nuclear bomb resistant. Either way, I’d much rather be at my home in the Bahamas if somebody wants to find out for sure. I had been there once before, on an orientation tour in January. The conference room is a bit cramped, but nobody minded. There was a loud buzz that silenced when I came through the door. I glanced around and found most of the Cabinet already present, with two seats conspicuously empty, mine and the President’s.

Dick Cheney was sitting in a spot next to George Bush’s empty seat. “Mister Vice President?” he said, with a trace of hostility.

I looked around the room and saw a few faces missing. “Who’s not here?”

Colin Powell replied, “Ann Veneman is in Iowa and Tommy Thompson is in Minnesota.”

“Can we talk to them? Are they on the phone?”

A pair of voices came from speakers on the table. “I’m here, sir,” came from both a male and female voice, overlapping each other.

Ann was Agriculture and Tommy was Health and Human Services. “Can you hear us clearly?” I asked.

“Yes, very clear!” answered Ann.

“Same here, Carl… Mister Vice President! Sorry about that.”

“Don’t sweat it, Tommy,” I told him.

“Okay, let’s get started.” I looked at the others, most of whom had a look of disbelief and shock on their faces. “I just flew in from Andrews, so I’ve been out of touch for a few minutes.” I looked around and found Norm Mineta, the Secretary of Transportation. “Norm, you ordered the planes landed?”

He nodded. “Yes, sir, right after the second one hit the Towers. They should all be down by now, even if they have to land at divert fields. International flights have been diverted as well, some to strips in Canada.”

“You did this on your own authority?” I asked.

“Yes, Mister Vice President, I did,” he answered, sitting up straight.

I smiled. “Very good, Secretary Mineta. Thank you.” I looked around the others and said, “This is a most extraordinary occasion, and we will be taking extraordinary measures. Every one of us will need to do more than what we originally signed up for.” I looked back at Norm. “Thank you, sir.”

I looked over at Colin Powell. “Colin, what readiness state are we at?”

“When this started we were at DEFCON 5. After the second tower was hit, I got a call from Secretary Cheney and we took it to DEFCON 3.”

I nodded. The DEFCONs were Defense Conditions, with 5 being the lowest level — peace and quiet — and 1 being thermonuclear war. To the best of my knowledge, DEFCON 2 was the highest we had ever actually been, and that was during the Cuban Missile Crisis. “Now that the planes are grounded, shouldn’t we be lowering that?” I asked.

“We don’t know if this is the start of something else, maybe some other form of attack,” he answered, holding his ground.

I nodded again. “Okay, that makes sense. I would think we’ll know for sure by noon tomorrow. If nothing happens by then, let’s drop it to DEFCON 4.”

“Agreed.”

“Wouldn’t that be a call for President Bush to make, Mister Vice President?” asked Dick Cheney. He had a belligerent look on his face.

There it was, out in the open. Heads swiveled to face us both. I ignored Cheney for a moment and looked around until I found a Secret Service agent. I motioned him over. “Special Agent, your name please?”

He looked startled at this, since normally they just stand out of sight. “Special Agent Patrick Duvall, sir.”

“Thank you, Special Agent Duvall. Are we in contact with either President Bush or any of the agents assigned to him this morning?”

“No, sir. They all went off the air when the North Tower went down, about 10:28”, he answered.

“And they had not managed to get the President out yet?”

He shook his head. “No, sir. They were trying to figure a way to rig a sling, but the New York City helicopter wasn’t rigged with a winch. They were trying to get something from the Coast Guard when… when…” His face was ashen and he couldn’t finish the statement.

“Thank you, Special Agent Duvall. I am sure your colleagues tried everything,” I told him. I looked around the table. “I think we need to consider the provisions of the 25^th Amendment,” I announced.

There was an immediate ruckus at this, and Cheney looked furious. “You can’t do this! He’s not dead!” he roared, effectively silencing the others.

I stayed calm. “I certainly hope he isn’t, but we need to be prepared. Attorney General Ashcroft, could you lend us your expertise?”

“We need to consider Section 4. It was written in case the President suffered a stroke or became incapacitated and couldn’t pass along his powers normally,” he replied. He already had a folded pocket copy of the Constitution before him, and it seemed as if it was open to one of the last pages. “It states that when the Vice President and a majority of the principal officers of the executive departments consider the President to be incapable of his duties, there is a procedure for which the Vice President can be named Acting President.” He read off some of the relevant amendment. “This was passed following the Kennedy assassination, to clarify the succession. We’ve never used Section 4 before, but it would have certainly been used when Wilson had his stroke,” he commented.

“Thank you. John, please clarify the procedure,” I asked.

“Like hell! You will never be President!” declared Cheney. “George was going to get rid of you and name me the Vice President!”

There was a small uproar at that, but I just held my hand up. “Please, let the Attorney General continue.”

John Ashcroft nodded his thanks to me. “When this was written it was envisioned that the principal officers meant the Cabinet. If we vote for this, you only need to win by one vote. Then we inform the President Pro Tempore of the Senate and the Speaker of the House, in writing, and you become the Acting President. You don’t need to be sworn in.”

“Hastert is the Speaker, but who’s the President Pro Tempore of the Senate?” asked Ann Veneman over the phone.

“Robert Byrd,” answered somebody.

Somebody else commented, “He’s still alive?”

Colin Powell took it one step further. “Why are we screwing around? We need to swear you in as President, sir!”

“Damn you! President Bush will be rescued!” exclaimed Cheney.

“Dick, face facts! There is nothing left of the World Trade Center but a pile of rubble. It will take weeks or months to dig it out. Nobody got out of there!” answered Powell.

“You go to hell!” Cheney retorted.

I ignored Cheney for the moment. “Secretary Powell, I considered that, but let me say that this would be premature. I have no idea how many people were lost today, but if I tell the American people that we think the President is dead, we are telling them that everybody is dead. It is too soon for that; they won’t accept it. I can’t do that. I think we need to invoke the provisions of Section 4 now, however,” I told him and the others.

I saw a number of nods and affirmative glances at that, although Cheney looked mulish. I turned back to Ashcroft. “Mister Attorney General, I don’t know how we should do this. I can’t vote, clearly. How do you want to do this?”

He sighed. “Nobody’s ever done this before. We have 14 Cabinet level departments. I will go down the list and ask everybody to vote yes or no. Yes means that Carl Buckman becomes the Acting President. No means he does not.” He took a sheet of paper and began to make a list. “Secretary of the Treasury O’Neill?”

“Yes.” He looked at the others. “If we do find that President Bush survived, this all becomes moot, anyway.”

“Quite true,” added Ashcroft. “Secretary of State Cheney?”

“NO!”

“Secretary of Defense Powell?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“The Attorney General — I vote yes.” Ashcroft continued down the list, only pausing to comment that while the two missing people might not technically be eligible to vote, since they weren’t present, he wanted their opinions as well. Both spoke up in my favor. The vote ended at 13 to 1.

Paul O’Neill spoke up at that. “Dick, I am asking you to change your vote. This is not a permanent thing. If the President is found, Carl goes back to being Vice President. Do it for the nation. We need to be united now, not divided!”

Several other people went along with this, and Cheney reluctantly agreed. Ashcroft happily changed his sheet. He looked up at me and said, “Mister Acting President, your orders?”

I nodded. “Mister Attorney General, you are excused. Please see that this is typed up and put into some sort of proper form and bring it back for all of us to sign. While you are doing that, please see about how we submit this properly. Thank you, sir.”

He stood and made a formal little bow of sorts and left.

I turned to Paul O’Neill. “The stock exchanges are shut down?”

“As much for safety as anything else. Nobody knew if any planes were going to crash into them,” he replied.

“I imagine we’ll need to keep them shut down for a few days. What’s this going to do to the economy?”

“Nothing good!”

After about ten minutes John Ashcroft bustled back in. He had a wry smile on his face. “Even in a nuclear bunker we have secretaries.” He waved a few typed pages and brought them around to me. “It’s simple enough. Everybody sign. I will witness for the people not here. Is that alright?” he asked towards the speakers.

Both absentees said it would be.

I looked it over. It was on White House stationery and simply stated, ‘Pursuant to Section 4 of the 25^th Amendment to the United States Constitution, and with the full agreement of the Cabinet, I hereby assume the duties of the Acting President of the United States of America.’ Below that there were the typed names of everybody in the meeting, with a space for all of us to sign.

There it was, in black and white. I took a deep breath and exhaled. I looked at the Attorney General. “Just sign there above your name, sir.”

I scribbled my scrawl, and then passed it to my left. It went around the table. When Ann and Tommy needed to sign, Ashcroft read the page and then formally asked them if they wished him to sign in their places. They agreed. Cheney looked mulish, but he signed as well. I looked at Ashcroft and asked, “What now?”

“I’ve already taken the liberty of sending the Secret Service to bring Denny Hastert and Robert Byrd here. They were both in town, so we’ll just ask them in and I will present this to them. They can confirm it with us all, and then we can go about our business.”

“Which will be what, Mister President?” asked Colin Powell.

I looked him straight in the eye. “Which will be cleaning up this mess and then killing everybody who thought it up. Are you up for it, General?”

“Yes, sir, I am!”

Chapter 138: Aftermath

Tuesday, September 11, 2001

It took a bit longer for Hastert to arrive than Byrd because he was third in line for the Presidency and the Secret Service had stashed him outside town. In the meantime, I made a little speech before dismissing most of the Cabinet. “I will be speaking to everyone here on an individual basis over the next few days, but I expect the scheduling to be haphazard. There are two things that everybody here has to know and understand. First, we are about to go through some extraordinary times. We have just been handed a world-class disaster. If your department is asked to do something, do not wait around — get it done! Don’t wait for the paperwork to be finished. I will cover you as best I can, but get it done, whatever it is. I can just about guarantee in writing that this is going to end up in front of a half dozen Congressional and Senate committees, and you will not want to be explaining why you delayed something that could have helped.”

There were a few nods and murmurs at this. “Secondly, our economy is going to take a major hit from this.” I glanced over at Paul O’Neill and asked, “Paul, am I wrong in saying this could cause a recession through the end of the year and into next year?”

“I think it is highly likely,” he responded.

“Where is that crap coming from!?” demanded Cheney.

I quietly sighed to myself. I was going to have to get him under control, and soon. “We just shut down the stock markets, the airline industry is grounded for God only knows how long, a big chunk of Wall Street just collapsed into the streets, and we have a multi-billion dollar hole in the middle of New York City. Oh, and when we do find out who did this, we’re going to be spending billions more on fighting them that we didn’t plan for. I used to make money playing these games, trust me on this,” I told him and the others. To the room as a whole I added, “So, go back to your offices and get your deep thinkers figuring out what we will need to do going forward. Agreed?”

There was a healthy chorus of agreement down the table. “Ann? Tommy? We need to get you home. I’ll get the 89^th to send a plane. Just get packed. Somebody will be in touch, okay?”

“Yes, sir,” they both said.

“Thank you. Now, I want State, Defense, Treasury, and Justice to stay. Everybody else, please get to your offices. I’ll be talking to you.”

Most of the Cabinet stood and took their leave. After a few minutes it was just the five of us — Cheney, Powel, O’Neill, Ashcroft, and myself. I looked around at them and said, “Gentlemen, you represent the most powerful and important posts in the Cabinet, departments that were created by the very Constitution itself. Whether you like me or not, I need your help, and I need it badly. Can I count on that help?”

“Of, course, Mister President,” said Colin Powell. O’Neill and Ashcroft said the same thing.

“That’s Mister Acting President!” answered Dick Cheney. “You’ll only have that until we rescue President Bush, the real President.”

I sighed and nodded. “Secretary Cheney, I wish you were correct, but the ugly truth is that there are thousands of people in those buildings who will never even be found, let alone make it out alive. Not much is left when you drop a billion tons of concrete and steel on somebody.”

“That’s pretty convenient for you, wouldn’t you say?”

“Dick, I am going to give you two choices. You can resign your position and go to New York to help digging out or you can shut up and act like the Secretary of State. There is no third choice, and I expect an answer right now,” I told him.

The others just stared at him as his jaw worked, but eventually he said, “I am the Secretary of State.”

“Excellent. I am sure that there is plenty for you to do over at Foggy Bottom. Please go and see to it. Thank you.”

He stood with considerable ill grace and left. I turned to John Ashcroft. “John, the FBI works for you. After you leave here I am going to need to see the Director this afternoon, as soon as possible. You’ll also need to brief Denny Hastert and Senator Byrd, please.”

“Of course. If I may be excused?”

“Please.” I turned to Paul O’Neill. “The same goes with you and the Secret Service. I’ll need to see their boss as soon as possible as well. Also, could you get in touch with Wolfowitz for me? I’ll need to talk to him, also.”

“Yes, sir.”

That left me with Colin Powell, the Secretary of Defense. “Were you in your office when it was hit?”

“I thought a bomb had gone off! The whole place was shaking. We evacuated and I was able to get around to the side to see what happened. Unbelievable, I mean, just unbelievable!” he told me.

“General, just like I am going to be asking the CIA and the FBI, I am going to need any intelligence the military can come up with on who did this. Then it is going to be up to your department to destroy them.”

“You’ll have our full cooperation, sir.” He stood up and left.

I sat there in the conference room by myself for a moment, just staring at the wall, trying to think what I needed to do next. The list was endless. Then I realized there was one simple thing I could do. I stood and left the small conference room, and found a secretary sitting at a desk in a hallway. “Any idea where my family is?” I asked.

“They were taken to Fort Meade, sir,” answered a Secret Service agent who had begun to follow me.

I turned to face him. “Can you get them on the phone?”

He blinked and nodded. “Yes, sir.” The secretary wordlessly turned her desk phone to face him and he dialed a number, probably to his headquarters. I didn’t think cell phones would work underneath all the steel and concrete we were buried under.

A few minutes later, Marilyn was on the other end of the phone. “CARL! What’s going on!? Nobody is telling us anything!”

I breathed deeply, and felt a tremendous weight lift my chest. “Marilyn, it is so good to hear from you! You know about the World Trade Center?”

“Yes, what happened, why are we…”

“Marilyn, hold on for a second. George Bush was in there when it was hit. I’ve been named Acting President. Now, are the girls with you?”

“Acting… oh my God!” she said.

“I want you and the girls to get over to the Naval Observatory. I’ll see you later on. I’m fine. We’ll be fine. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“I love you, Carl.”

“I love you, too. Tell the girls I love them. Bye.” I hung up and smiled to myself, probably the first time since that morning. I turned to the agent and said, “Now, call who you have to, but get them to the Naval Observatory.”

“Sir, I don’t think we’re supposed to do that.”

“Son, I’ve already fired one Secret Service agent today. Want to go for two?” Realistically I couldn’t actually fire an agent. These guys were protected by civil service regulations. However, being dismissed from the presidential detail was the kiss of death career-wise, and that I could easily arrange.

His eyes widened and he grabbed for the phone again. To the secretary, I asked, “Is the White House still evacuated?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, let’s un-evacuate it. We can’t work out of a hole in the ground.” To the rest of my detail, I said, “Well, let’s go, fellows. Show me the way out.”

The White House is normally bustling with people, so it was eerily silent as we went in. I headed directly to my office. I wanted to start making calls, but I realized I didn’t even know how to get an outside line. Everything went through my secretary. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my cell phone and called Matt Scully. I quickly told him to get over to the office and I’d tell him what was happening; I was going to need a speech.

At that point Josh Bolten and Ari Fleischer came into my office, both with shocked looks on their faces. Josh was Deputy Chief of Staff for President Bush, and Ari was the White House Press Secretary. “Are you… did you…” came stumbling from Ari. Josh just was silent and stunned.

“I’m the Acting President. I wasn’t sworn in. President Bush might be found,” I told them. “Who was with him?”

“Huh?”

“Ari! Josh! Come on, snap to! I need some help here!” I had to get them back to reality.

They both focused in on that. “Uh, yes sir,” said Josh.

“Who was with President Bush?” I asked again, as gently as possible.

“Andy and Karl,” he replied.

“Scotty, too, and Blake,” added Ari.

I nodded. I knew all four men. Andrew Card was George Bush’s Chief of Staff and Josh’s boss, Karl Rove was ranked as a White House Senior Adviser, and Scott McClellan was Deputy Press Secretary and Ari’s number two man. Blake was Blake Gottesman, Bush’s ‘body man’, his personal aide like Frank had been for me during the campaign. We had a hole in the heart of the White House that these men would need to fill. It was one thing to eliminate the President, but in doing so I had also killed a number of other good men whose only crime had been to work for George Bush. I was truly a psychopath.

“Ari, I am going to need to go on television tonight and tell the country what is happening. I don’t know how to make that happen. Can you set that up?” I asked.

That was the sort of routine task he could focus on. “You mean, like from the Oval Office?”

I shook my head. “It’s too soon for that. Can we do it from my office instead? I don’t want to seem like I’m jumping the gun. When can we set it up for? Seven? Eight?”

Ari began to act professionally again. “Seven would be best. I’ll need to make some calls…”

I gave him a positive smile and pointed him towards the door. “See me when it’s set up.” I turned to Josh. “The Cabinet named me Acting President until we figure out what is happening to President Bush. I won’t be using the Oval Office unless I get sworn in. Can you handle this? Step up to it?”

Tears were streaming down his face, but he wiped them with a hand and nodded. “Yes, sir, it’s just… yes, sir.”

“Thank you, Josh. I need you to find out where the First Lady and the girls are, and also where former President Bush and his wife are. I need to talk to them. Go wash your face and settle down some, but then figure out where everybody is and get back to me.”

Josh took off and Matt Scully wandered in, along with Mike Gerson. They were the principal speechwriters in the White House. I gave them a quick breakdown on what had happened in the Cabinet meeting, and we went over an outline for the speech I needed to make that night. After they left Ari returned and told me it would be at 7:30 that night, and I sent him off to help Mike and Matt.

And so it went for the next two hours, with people streaming in and out of my office figuring out what was going on and what to do about it. Laura Bush and the girls had been taken to Camp David, and I spoke to Laura on the phone. There wasn’t much I could tell her other than rescue operations were underway. I spoke to the first President Bush and offered to send the spare Air Force One to pick him and Barbara up and bring them to Washington, an offer he accepted. I was on the phone with Rudy Giuliani in New York. He had been scheduled to attend the breakfast meeting and had been delayed. He got there just in time to watch the North Tower get hit. I told him that if he needed anything, to let me know and it was his. Scooter Libby showed up from the State Department with a list of foreign dignitaries I was ordered to call, basically every Prime Minister and President on the planet. I sent him back to State with the list and the order to have Cheney pick the ten most important and get that list to me tomorrow. Cheney could speak to the others.

One contentious meeting was with the heads of the FBI and the Secret Service. Louis Freeh was there for the FBI, and a guy named Brian Stafford was there as Director of the Secret Service. I had never met Stafford before, but he was a perfect fit for them. He had the same level of arrogance as the rest of the department! Almost immediately after they got into my office it descended into a turf war.

The Federal Bureau of Investigation, I was told, was by law required to investigate all cases of terrorism on American soil. The Secret Service responded that, by law, they were required to investigate all threats and attacks on the President. I listened to them wrangle for a couple of minutes and then reached into my desk and pulled out a steel whistle I kept there. Charlie had given it to me as a gag gift to sort out the twins’ wrangling. When I became the Whip I took it to the office, and told him my fellow Congressmen were worse behaved than his sisters. I took a deep breath and then let out a piercing shriek of a whistle, and shocked them into silence. I also attracted some attention to my closed door, and I waved that off.

“Gentlemen, I am extremely disappointed in the both of you,” I started.

Louis Freeh said, “Mister Vice President, if you…”

I blasted the whistle a second time. “Mister Freeh, Mister Stafford, if either one of you says another word I am going to fire you on the spot. Now shut up and let me speak!” They glanced at each other but then they both nodded.

“This is the most disgusting thing I have seen since I first came to Washington. Thousands of your fellow citizens are dead, and you two are playing power politics over their corpses! Now, since you decided to bring this to me, I get to play Solomon.” I turned to Stafford and said, “There are only two ways this happened. One, there was a terrorist act and the President just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. It has nothing to do with him. The FBI investigates that. The second is that this is an elaborate plan to assassinate the President. If that is the case, however, the FBI is ten times the size of the Secret Service! No way, no how, do you have the manpower or resources to solve this! You would have to go to the FBI to figure it out. Are we agreed? Good! Thank you!”

Stafford looked angry and started to respond. I simply held up my whistle and moved to put it between my lips again. He shut up. “I am going to make this very simple.” I pointed at Freeh and said, “The FBI is going to be the lead agency,” and then I pointed at Stafford. “You get to name whichever of his deputies you want to run the investigation, and you get to name whichever of your deputies you want as the number two. I am going to make that announcement tonight on national television. If either of you don’t like it you can clean out your desk and then you can tell it to the Washington Post in the morning. I don’t have the time for this and neither does the country. Clear?”

Stafford looked like he wanted to argue some more, so I put the whistle to my lips and pointed them both to the door.

Assholes!

Paul Wolfowitz of the Central Intelligence Agency came through right after Matt and Mike ran through the first cut on the speech. I gave them a quick read-through and edit, and sent them out, along with a request to have somebody bring me a sandwich. I had missed lunch earlier. Wolfowitz came to the conclusion that it was Al Qaeda which had attacked us, something that Richard Clarke and I had been saying all summer long. He also thought this was an excellent opportunity to link terrorism to Saddam Hussein. I told him flat out to not say anything to anybody until tomorrow, no leaks, no nothing.

I sat at my desk and ate my late lunch while a camera crew tried to arrange my office for a camera. It was just too small. Reluctantly I agreed to give the speech from the Oval Office. Then I called in my secretary. She popped in and I said, “Mrs. Lowenstein, I need you to tell the following people to be in here tomorrow for a meeting. We can use either the Cabinet Room or the Roosevelt Room, whichever works better. I want to call the meeting at 9:00 AM and we’ll run however long. We should consider it a meeting of the National Security Council.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied. “Who will be attending?”

I looked at some notes I had made. “I want the head person, director or Cabinet secretary, for the following departments: State, Defense, Justice, Treasury, the FBI, the CIA, National Security Adviser, and the FAA. I also want their deputy, whoever their number two is, or if that person isn’t in town, somebody else. Oh, and we’d probably better bring in the Secret Service, too. FEMA, we’ll need them.”

She was scribbling faster than I could without even looking. When I was done she said, “Sir, those planes, how could… how could somebody do that?!”

I simply shook my head. “I don’t know, Mrs. Lowenstein. There are some things I just can’t understand. Explain Auschwitz to me some day. That will be your answer.”

She nodded and left.

At 7:00 I was reviewing the latest edit on the speech when I got a call I had to take. It was from George H.W. Bush, Bush 41, George’s father. “Good evening, Mister President,” I said when we were connected.

“Good evening, Mister President,” he responded, although it sounded like his voice was cracking at that.

“I am only the Acting President, sir. Search and rescue operations are underway as we speak. We are all hoping and praying for George’s safe return.”

“That’s very kind of you to say, Carl. Can I call you Carl?” he asked.

“Of course, Mister President.”

He continued, “I wanted to thank you for sending the plane. With everything shut down, I wasn’t sure how Barbara and I would get to Laura and the girls.”

“I am placing it at your command until this is resolved, sir. Could I ask a favor of you, sir?”

“How can I help, Carl?”

“Sir, would you come here tomorrow, when you get a chance? I need to speak to you about a few things. I understand your family obligations could get in the way, but it would help me a great deal,” I asked.

“Of course, Mr. President. Whatever I can do to help.” He paused for a second, and then asked in a heart wrenching tone, “Is there any hope? Have you heard anything?”

What was I to say to that? “Sir, there is always hope.”

I’m sure he heard the pause in my response. He sighed and thanked me, and then hung up.

I hung up as well. What could I say to the man? That I was the cause of his son’s death, because his son was a disaster in the making?

Ari grabbed me and pulled me into a small room next to the Oval Office and they slapped some makeup on me. As they did so, I saw Josh Bolten out of the corner of my eye. “Josh, I am going to need to see the leadership of the House and the Senate tonight, after this. We can do it here or at the Capitol, their choice, but I don’t want them to think I am snubbing them. Can you make it happen?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Good man! I know this is tough, but we take it one step at a time. Pass that along. I have faith in you guys. We are going to make it through all this, and the payback is really going to be a bitch!”

“Yes, sir!” he said feelingly.

At that, Ari tapped his watch and said, “Show time.” I followed him into the Oval Office and made my way around the camera and lights and sat down at the President’s desk. I didn’t have enough time to contemplate the enormity of my actions. I had to straighten up, find the teleprompter, jot a couple of sentences into my speech, and look into the camera. I couldn’t be fumbling when this began. The director gave everybody a two minute warning, then a one minute warning, and then another at thirty seconds. I looked into the camera, where a light would come on when we were broadcasting. At ten seconds, he began a countdown. “… three… two… one!” He pointed at me silently.

“Good evening. I am Acting President Carl Buckman.

Earlier today our citizens, our freedoms, our nation, and our very way of life were assaulted by terrorists in a series of deadly attacks. In acts of unimaginable mass murder, an attempt was made to drag our country into chaos. That attempt failed. Our country remains strong.

By now everyone in America, and probably the rest of the world as well, knows what happened. This morning two planes hit and destroyed the World Trade Center in New York, destroying the Twin Towers. A short time later a third airliner was crashed into the Pentagon, which while suffering some damage was not destroyed. Finally, a fourth airplane crashed into a rural area in Pennsylvania, apparently when the heroic passengers tried to take back control of the plane from the terrorists who had captured it.

Immediately following the start of these attacks, Secretary of Transportation Mineta ordered the grounding of all airplanes throughout the nation, an unprecedented action. He is to be commended for his quick thinking and action. Likewise, Secretary of Defense Powell and Secretary of State Cheney immediately realized what was happening and raised the defense readiness state of our nation to deal with any possibilities. Because of their quick action, a second set of attacks will not occur, and they are also to be thanked.

The full extent of the destruction is not yet clear, but it is evident that the death toll will be great, far greater than any of us can imagine. The bulk of the destruction is in one of our greatest cities, New York. I have spoken to Mayor Giuliani and assured him that whatever is needed in the rescue operation will be made available. I have also spoken to Secretary Powell and said the same thing about the crash at the Pentagon. There is hope that survivors will be found at both locations. Unfortunately, there were no survivors of the crash in Pennsylvania.

By now, you have all heard that President George Bush was visiting New York, and was in the North Tower of the World Trade Center when it was hit by the first airplane. He was trapped with many other people, and we lost contact with him when the building collapsed. There is, however, hope that he and others may have survived the attack and will be rescued. I have spoken to his family and to former President Bush, and I have assured them that all available resources will be used in the rescue.

The Founding Fathers of our nation provided us with a Constitution, a document laying out a system of government that all these years later still provides us with wise guidance and robust protection. Over the years we have refined that Constitution with amendments designed to adapt to changing times, but to still safeguard our liberties and way of life. Earlier today, at an emergency Cabinet meeting, provisions of the Twenty-Fifth Amendment were put into place when it became apparent that President Bush was no longer in contact with us. This amendment clarifies various policies and procedures to be taken when the President is not capable of discharging his duties. Attorney General Ashcroft, our nation’s leading attorney, explained to the Cabinet what was involved, and then led a unanimous vote to name me as Acting President. His services were greatly appreciated by all of us. Once the President is rescued and is capable of discharging his duties, I will revert to Vice President. Later this evening I will be meeting with Congressional leaders to further discuss this.

As Acting President, I have full executive authority to defend our nation against any and all foes. Let no nation or group think that this would be an opportune time to attempt to take advantage of us. I can assure them that any such attempts will be met with the full force of our military.

My first order to the Cabinet was that all our strength and effort should be put towards the rescue of anybody still trapped in New York and Washington. The American people expect that of them, and they all promised to do their utmost. Likewise, while many buildings in Washington were closed today because of the emergency, they are already reopening and will be fully staffed tomorrow.

Because of the temporary grounding of all airplanes, we currently have thousands of passengers stranded far from home. I promise you that as soon as practical we will begin flying again so that you can return safely to your loved ones. I have been told that overseas, many stranded passengers have been temporarily adopted by host families. I thank you, and our nation thanks you, for this extraordinary generosity in our hour of need. It will not be forgotten.

Around the world, nations and peoples have sent messages of support and assistance, condemning those who would attack innocent people going about their business in such a horrific manner. The civilized world is united in its horror at what has occurred today. That support will also not be forgotten. Further, all civilized peoples were shocked by the actions of some who consider the death and suffering of our citizens a cause for celebration. That behavior will also not be forgotten.

Finally, I say to those who perpetrated these unspeakable crimes, we will find you. Our law enforcement and intelligence agencies will track you down, you and those who harbor and assist you. Our retribution will be swift… and final.

I close now with the following thought. America is more than its buildings and America is more than its people. America is an idea, a symbol, a belief. We are a beacon of freedom and opportunity to the world, and the evil of madmen will not shutter that beacon. The price of freedom is never cheap, but it is a price that we must bear, and a price that we will gladly pay. Our nation will emerge from this dark day even stronger and more committed to the ideals we believe in.

Thank you, good night, and God bless America.”

I kept looking into the camera and waited until the director said we were done and the lights went out. Even then I kept my mouth shut until after they had the microphones turned off and out of the way. The last thing we needed was an ‘Ooops!’ moment where I said something stupid while something was still live. The technology wasn’t quite at the point where anybody with a cell phone could catch you being an idiot, but it was fast approaching that point. As soon as possible I headed out of the room and went into a bathroom to clean off the makeup. I really needed a shower for that, but just didn’t have the time. I think the worst part is the stuff they put on top of my head to keep the glare off my bald spot! I mean, like, thanks a lot, I really needed to be reminded of that!

I came out feeling a little more human, and found Ari and Josh waiting for me, along with some of my own people from my Vice Presidential staff. Frank, Carter, and Mindy were waiting for me. It was obvious Mindy had been crying heavily, and Carter whispered in my ear that her mother had been on Flight 93, which had gone down in Shanksville. I sat her down and told her to take some time off. She nodded and I motioned for an agent to take her home. Then I looked at Frank and Carter. “Guys, this is a bit weird, but we are going to somehow merge our staffs together. If President Bush is rescued, I go back to being the VP, and you come back with me. Otherwise, we are going to have to figure this out.”

“Yes, sir,” they both agreed.

I looked at Josh. “Are we lined up to meet Congress? Were you able to set something up?”

He nodded. “Yes, sir. I was able to corral some of them and they promised to get hold of other people. It’s at the Capitol, though. Should I have them brought over?”

“That will be fine. Let’s get a car and go. You, me…” I looked around and eyed Ari. “Ari, you want to go? Carter’s been my press guy, but that’s not a big job for the VP. Do you want to take him on as your deputy?”

“We can see how it works out, Mister President,” he answered, noncommittally.

“Carter, if Deputy Press Secretary doesn’t work out, we’ll fit you in somewhere.” I looked over at the nearest Secret Service agent. “Five minutes. We’re going to need a car. We’ll be just going over to the Capitol, so set it up, please.” He immediately began speaking into a microphone on his sleeve.

I stood and stretched a bit. It had been a long day and I was feeling tired and creaky. I grabbed my cane. “After I meet with the people over on the Hill, I am going home. I’ll keep living at the Naval Observatory until this plays out. Everybody, you all need to go home and get some sleep at some point. Tomorrow might be even crazier. We’ve got a major meeting in the morning, and if President Bush, the former President Bush, calls, I want to meet him tomorrow as well. Regardless, go home and get some rest.” To my traveling party, I said, “Let’s get this on the road.” With a Secret Service agent leading us, we headed down to a car. A few minutes later we were at the Capitol.

There were a bunch of people in the Speaker’s office, some sitting, but they all stood and faced me when I came in the door. From the Senate we had Trent Lott, Tom Daschle, Harry Reid, Robert Byrd, and Don Nickles; the House was represented by Tom DeLay, Denny Hastert, John Boehner, and Dave Bonior. The only major leader missing was Dick Gephardt, and I knew he was out of town. “Gentlemen, thank you for meeting with me,” I said.

Denny Hastert said, “We all watched your speech from in here, Carl. We all thought it went well. Not too long, but it got the point across.”

“How are you doing, Carl?” asked my old friend John Boehner. “You look tired.”

I smiled and shook his hand. “I’m beat, but I’ll make it. I started out early this morning in Tampa. Good to see you again.”

At that, I went around the room, shaking hands with everybody. These were the men I was going to have to work with for the foreseeable future, the Majority and Minority Leaders and Whips, the Speaker, and the Senate President Pro Tempore. Some of them were friends and some were enemies, but all of them had a personal agenda that did not necessarily involve cooperating with one Carling Parker Buckman II.

First steps first. “Denny, Senator Byrd, I apologize for not meeting with you this afternoon, but it just got crazy. Did the Attorney General talk to you? Are you satisfied that everything was done in a proper form?” I didn’t need somebody getting a bug up his ass about my ‘usurping’ power.

Both men nodded. Denny Hastert said, “It was fine, Carl. How long do you think it will last? Or do you think it will be permanent?”

I was feeling a bit tired, so I hoisted myself up and sat on his desk, and faced everyone else. “Right now, Denny, I just don’t know, but I have a really bad feeling about this. Those buildings were a thousand feet tall. How many millions of tons of concrete and steel was that? I can’t imagine how anybody could get out of that.” There, it was out in the open. We needed to consider that the President was dead.

“If that is the case, why didn’t you get sworn in as President?” asked Harry Reid in an accusing tone.

“Harry… Senator Reid, if I was to go out there and declare myself President, then I am saying that George Bush is dead, and that means everybody else in those buildings is dead. I don’t think people are ready for that. We’ll all know better in a few days time. How long do you think I should wait, sir?” I responded. There, dump it in their laps for a bit, see how they liked it! They couldn’t complain about not being informed if I asked them in a group session.

I wasn’t given a break on that. These guys were too savvy for a rookie stunt. Dave Bonior immediately asked, “Carl, what did you have in mind?”

I held my hands up in a questioning gesture. “Today’s too soon. On the other hand, we are going to need a permanent President sooner or later, and probably sooner. We can’t have me be the Acting President until 2004.” I looked around the room daring anybody to counter that. A couple of faces looked thoughtful, but nobody argued with me. “Now, let’s be blunt. I need to be cleaner than Caesar’s wife on this. I cannot be seen to be delaying or denying any form of assistance to the rescue efforts. I ordered all the Cabinet departments to assist. Here are my thoughts. We wait three days. By Friday morning it should be pretty obvious if anybody is going to make it out of there. By lunchtime Friday, I call another Cabinet meeting, and this time I bring in the leaders of Congress — you guys — and we take another vote. In the meantime, why don’t you send two people to New York to provide some oversight?”

Tom Daschle commented, “You’ve given this some thought.”

I shook my head in the negative. “Senator, I am making this up as I go along. John Ashcroft was telling us earlier that the idea behind Section Four of the amendment was to handle what would happen if the President had a stroke, like Wilson did. It was never designed to handle the President… disappearing!”

I wanted to tell them to send one Senator and one Representative, and make one a Republican and the other a Democrat, but resisted the temptation to meddle and influence them. After ten minutes of wrangling they decided to send Harry Reid, a Democratic Senator, and John Boehner, a Republican Congressman. I turned to Josh and told him to get the 89^th warmed up for a morning flight, and also to track down Dick Gephardt and get him here, as well, and he stepped out of the room to make a call.

Denny Hastert then asked the question on everybody’s mind. “Carl, who did this!? Who was behind it?”

I sighed. “All we know for sure is Islamic terrorists. We have some pretty strong theories, but we won’t know for absolutely sure for a few days.”

“You’re going to need to do better than that, son,” commented Senator Byrd.

“No, sir, I don’t. Even if I knew the names and addresses of the people involved — which I don’t — I wouldn’t divulge the information until we had disposed of them. When the time is right, I will inform you and the American public, but not until then.”

Several of them recoiled at that, with angry looks on their faces. How dare I imply they couldn’t keep a secret?! The reality was that they couldn’t keep anything secret. In Washington information is currency to be traded for power. Any number of Congressmen and Senators could be guaranteed to tell somebody, probably a reporter, in order to demonstrate how much they were trusted by the President and to show how much power they had! Afterwards, if it came out, they would have plenty of well intentioned reasons to say why they had to divulge the information. There were several murmurs and whispers around the circle facing me.

“What happens, then, Mister President?” asked Tom DeLay. He was the first not to call me by my name, and a couple of eyebrows went up at that. “What do you plan to do when you have that information?”

I smiled and got off the desk. “Well, that part is simple. We’re going to kill them.”

“What about taking them prisoner and bringing them back here to trial?” asked Daschle.

I gave him a big grin. “Tom, you remember what Bill Clinton claimed I do to prisoners, don’t you? Nah, I don’t think we’ll have too much of a problem with prisoners.” Nobody knew what to say to that. I decided to wrap it up. “Fellows, it has been a long day. I am going home and getting some sleep. John, Harry, you should go home and pack for your trip. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Good night.”

We drove over to the Naval Observatory, and then I sent the car with Josh and Ari back to the White House. Technically speaking, the Vice Presidential Residence is not part of the Naval Observatory, which is still functioning, but on the grounds of the Observatory, at Number One Observatory Circle. It’s a fairly large Queen Anne style place, and while it has dining rooms and parlors large enough to entertain a large group, it almost never makes the news. Marilyn and I were still living semi-apart, with my going home every other night or so, to Hereford. Still, we had managed to have a few dinner parties earlier in the year, but as word of my impending doom became obvious, a lot of people managed to have something else to do when we had a party. Wouldn’t they be surprised now!

Marilyn was in a sitting room on the first floor, wrapped in an Afghan in front of the television. The boob tube was on, but Marilyn wasn’t; she was laying on the couch but asleep, while the images of the towers collapsing played over and over, and the talking heads tried to come up with new shit to tell people. Her face was a mess, with the marks of tears and a runny nose. She stirred as she heard me walk across the floor. “Come on, honey, let’s get you upstairs,” I told her.

“What time is it?”

“About ten,” I said, glancing at my watch. “Come on, you should go to bed. How are the girls?”

“Okay. Scared,” she admitted. “Me, too, I guess.”

“We’ll be fine.” I held out my hand and she took it, leaving the Afghan on the couch. I led the way upstairs to our bedroom, but did a double-take when I went into our bedroom. Ever since we got Stormy, who was now at a monstrously large 130-plus pounds, we had taken to sleeping in a king size bed. Stormy liked sleeping with us, and she was now bigger than my wife! Now, I stared. My twin girls were both in my bed, along with my dog, all asleep as the television flickered.

“Uh, oh,” commented Marilyn.

“Now what? Do we sleep in their room?” I shook my head in amusement. I pushed her towards the bed. “Here, you lie down and get some sleep. I want to sit up and think for awhile.”

Marilyn was a little groggy and crawled under the covers, still dressed, next to Molly, who was separated from her sister by the mutt. I just shook my head in disbelief and headed into my den, and cranked back the La-Z-Boy. I was tempted to get a bottle of whiskey out, but I figured if I started drinking, I wouldn’t stop. All that was on television was a rehash of what had happened that morning, and the latest news, which was the same as they had reported half an hour earlier. I flipped through some channels, and then fell asleep in my lounger.

Chapter 139: Picking Up The Pieces

Wednesday, September 12, 2001

I woke Wednesday morning when Stormy whined to go outside. It was cool, but I wandered out in my bare feet with her, with a Secret Service agent hovering nearby. After she did her thing, I took her back inside and unhooked her leash, and she thundered back up the stairs. I followed. The girls were back in their room and Marilyn was stirring awake. I went on into the bathroom and stripped yesterday’s clothes off, and took a quick shower.

“Good morning,” I heard from the bathroom. It was Marilyn sitting on the toilet. Just as I reached to turn off the water there was a loud WHOOSH followed by, “Sorry!”

I climbed out and attempted to look superior to her. It didn’t last, since she looked worried. “Good morning. Get a decent night’s rest?”

“I’m sorry about last night. Where did you sleep?”

I did a head nod towards the bedroom and beyond. “In the den. I’m fine. I need to get to the office.”

“You’re the President now, aren’t you?”

I nodded again, as I toweled dry. “Pretty much. The title is Acting President, but I’ll probably be sworn in by the end of the week. Are you okay with this?”

That got me a wry look. “Well, it’s not like we never knew it couldn’t happen. Still, it’s different than if you actually ran for it, you know?” She pulled on a bathrobe and asked, “How is this going to change things? Do we move into the White House?”

I shrugged. “Not until after Laura and the girls move out. I think that would be more than a little tacky, don’t you?”

Her eyes opened wide. “Oh my God! I never even thought of that! Laura… Oh, God! I need to call her…”

“Please, do that today. Don’t say anything about them moving out or us moving in. Just call and offer some support.” Marilyn got along well with Laura Bush, much better than George and I had been getting along. Marilyn had teaching degrees, even if she hadn’t been a teacher, and Laura was a librarian. They had done several joint projects together, usually something related to education and reading, mostly in the general D.C. area.

“Of course.”

I finished dressing and headed out, with Marilyn behind me in a bathrobe and fuzzy slippers. The girls were still upstairs, so I didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye to them. Breakfast was a quick bagel and cream cheese and juice, and then I was off to the White House. I got there by 8:00, by which time the place was already a beehive of activity. It never really goes to sleep, of course. A lot of the office staff starts coming in before 6:00, just to prepare for the President to arrive.

As usual, the first person in my office was a National Intelligence Officer with the President’s Daily Brief, a daily summary of the latest intelligence. It was compiled by the CIA overnight and the first person to get it is the President. Other people to get it typically included the Vice President, the Secretaries of State and Defense, and the National Security Adviser. I knew for a fact that there had been arguments made by Cheney and Wolfowitz to cut me out of the loop, but Bush hadn’t gotten to that point yet. I read it over quickly, and wasn’t surprised by any of it. Most of the world’s militaries had increased their levels of readiness, the smart ones because they were worried about Islamic nut jobs, the dumb ones because their neighbors had increased their readiness. The rest of the brief was mostly information about various terrorist groups. Nothing like locking the barn door after the horse had bolted.

I raised an eyebrow at one piece, which was tying Al Qaeda to Saddam Hussein. “What is the basis for stating that Osama bin Laden is sharing information with Saddam Hussein?” I asked.

“I’m not at liberty to say, sir,” he replied.

I set the Brief down on my desk. “You want to think about that for a second and come up with another answer, buster?”

“Sir? That information is classified and cannot be divulged.”

This fellow was in his late twenties, a junior version of the regular NIOs who met with the President. “Sonny, I’m the Acting President of the United States. When I tell you I want some information, you can trust that I really want it.”

He looked very confused at this. “Sir, my understanding is that this is just something temporary.”

“Uh, huh. Who told you that?” I asked pleasantly.

“Mister Wolfowitz, sir, and Mister Libby.”

“Scooter said I’m just temporary, too?”

“Yes, sir. You’re going to be Vice President again as soon as the President is rescued, so we shouldn’t break security,” he told me.

“And besides, I’m not going to be here much longer anyway, right?” He didn’t know what to say to that, but it was obvious he had heard this. “Okay, thank you,” I told him.

He looked relieved. He collected the report and left. Yet one more damn thing to sort out.

One important moment came when Frank Stouffer came through and said, “Air Force One, the spare anyway, is in Houston. The first President Bush and Mrs. Bush are going to leave within the next hour. They’ll be here sometime early this afternoon.”

“Okay, Frank. I want you to keep track of that and head over to Andrews when it lands. For as long as the Bushes are here, you belong to them. Get them where they need to be. Grease the ways. If the Bushes want you to take off your skin and dance in your bones, do it. Got me?” I told him.

“Understood, sir.”

“Good man. President Bush was President when I first got to Congress. I have a lot of respect for the man, and I expect you to show it.”

“I won’t fail you, Mister President.”

I stood up and smiled. “I know you won’t, Frank, that’s why I’m giving you the job. One thing… I am sure the first thing the Bushes will want to do will be to see Laura and the girls. Make sure to mention to Mister Bush that I would appreciate some of his time. This afternoon would be good, if possible.”

“Yes, sir.” He left to go about his duties, and I thought about him for a second. He was now my Deputy Chief of Staff, a big step up from the Vice President’s Chief of Staff. He’d been with me just over a year now, since when he came on board with me after Springboro. I’d been using him as a combination Chief of Staff and body man. Deputy Chief of Staff meant I’d need to find a new body man. One more damn thing to do.

I headed to the meeting I had ordered for the morning. It was time to sort this mess out. I grabbed a covered leather clipboard sporting the Presidential Seal, and tossed a few items in it.

We were meeting in the Cabinet Room, and I took the central seat at the long table. There had been a quiet buzz as I came in, but it silenced as I sat down. I glanced around. As far as I could tell, the key people I wanted to speak with were present, and there looked to be an equal number of other people, their deputies, most of whom I didn’t know, sitting in chairs behind their bosses, along the wall. Everybody’s eyes were on me as I sat down.

“Thank you all for coming,” I started. “Now, before we get into anything, I want to tell you something. Last night, when I got back to the house, I found my wife sleeping in her bathrobe on the couch, with the television on showing the news from yesterday. She had been crying. Upstairs, my daughters were upstairs in my bed, also asleep with the news on, and they had been crying as well, and they were huddled up with my dog to protect them. All across this country the people who rely on us to protect them are crying in their beds because they are scared! We have failed to protect them. We have to fix this, and this meeting is the start. If you do not understand this, there’s the door. Is that clear enough?”

A chorus of “Yes, sir!” came from around the table, some clear and some mumbled.

I looked around and nodded to everybody. “Thank you. Okay, first things first.” I looked around again. “Where’s Joe Allbaugh?” Joe was a long time political fixer and was now the head of FEMA, the Federal Emergency Management Administration. He was a long time pal with the President.

A voice came up from the end of the table. “He’s at a conference in Montana, sir. I’m Michael Brown, Deputy Director of FEMA.”

It took me a second to recall Brown’s round face, and then it hit me. This was the guy who, on my first run, had been running FEMA at the time of Hurricane Katrina. Yeah, Michael ‘Heck of a job, Brownie!’ Brown. Great! For years both political parties had been using FEMA and a few other agencies as dumping grounds for politicians who managed to raise enough money for them and needed an easy job. Both Allbaugh and Brown fit the bill perfectly.

“Okay, Mister Brown, what’s the current status with the crash sites?”

To be fair, his answers were clear and concise and accurate as to what we knew. The Pentagon was severely damaged on one side, but not destroyed and was still functioning, and the structural design of the building (five separate rings, one inside the other, with connecting corridors at the vertices) broke the building into separate sections. We probably had a few hundred dead, but the fires were out and cleanup was proceeding.

The real problem was New York, where we now had two gigantic piles of smoking rubble. Giuliani was running the show, and doing it competently, and had all the men and equipment he could ask for. The biggest problem was the choking smoke and dust surrounding the area. Otherwise, everything that could be done was being accomplished, but it would be slow. There were some survivors, but not many.

“Thank you. A few questions. Do they have enough respirators and gas masks, that sort of thing? Does FEMA have a stockpile of that? Can we get them more?”

“They are using what they have, and more are being rushed in,” he replied.

I nodded and made a note to talk to Tommy Thompson. He would need to alert the Centers for Disease Control about possible health hazards from all that shit.

“When do they expect President Bush to be rescued?” asked Cheney.

I eyed him for speaking out of turn, but then looked at Brown. “It’s the next question. Any ideas, Mr. Brown?”

He simply shook his head. “I’m sorry, but that seems like it is going to be a real long shot. So far none of the people who have gotten out or been found were from above the plane strikes. They are still looking, of course, but… sir, there’s just nothing left!”

“Thank you, Mister Brown. I appreciate how difficult that is to say.” To the group I stated, “Last night I met with the leadership of the House and the Senate. John Boehner and Harry Reid volunteered to go to New York to report back to Congress on the rescue and recovery operations.” To Brown I said, “Make sure that you do what you can to help them. Do we have any idea what the count is yet? How many people were in there?”

He shook his head. “No. A lot of people managed to escape, at least from the lower levels, but nobody was running a head count. We probably won’t know for days, maybe weeks.” He thought for a second, and then added, “It will be in the thousands.”

There were a few gasps at that. There had been wild speculation on the television stations yesterday, but this sounded ominously official.

I muttered something rude under my breath and then nodded. “I’m going to need to see this for myself. This afternoon, I should be able to get over to the Pentagon. Tomorrow, I can fly to New York.” I looked around and caught the eye of one of the Secret Service agents on the periphery. “Did you catch that? I’ll take Air Force Two. Please set that up, along with a drive over to the Pentagon later today.”

“Yes, sir.” He departed the room.

To the others I added. “The original Air Force One is still in New York, and I loaned the second to the President’s father.” I turned to Colin Powell. “Are we still at DEFCON Three?”

“Yes, sir, but nothing seems to be happening. I think we should downgrade to Four,” he replied.

“That is much too preliminary!” argued Cheney. “We need to maintain this readiness state. We’ll be making a response to this as soon as President Bush is returned to office.”

“When we make a response, then we can worry about the readiness state at that time. Until then, maintaining a Level Three readiness state puts excessive wear and tear on both the troops and the equipment, and costs us an excessive amount of money for a level of protection not currently warranted,” responded Powell.

I looked at Powell. “Are we locked down overseas, too?”

“Yes, sir.” He gave us a quick outline of what DEFCON Three involved, including increased patrolling with planes, readying vessels for sea and increasing naval patrols, and locking down on overseas bases.

I listened for a bit, and when he was finished, I said, “Okay, after we are done here, take us down to Four, but keep the overseas bases tight, and keep some planes flying. We’re going to need to begin taking security a bit more seriously.”

“Sir, that’s a call for President Bush to make,” interjected Cheney.

Time to handle this; the man just would not take a hint! I kept focused on Cheney, but raised my voice a bit, and said, “Mister Attorney General, is there anything in Article Four of the 25^th Amendment specifying that the powers of the Acting President are not those of the President?”

I could feel all the eyes in the room on me. Ashcroft answered, quickly, “No sir, there is no restriction as compared to the President. As Acting President you have the full powers of the President.”

I kept looking at Dick. “Very, good, sir. So, Secretary Cheney, do you have anything to add to that?”

Cheney was working his jaw, but simply said, “No, sir.”

“Thank you.” I looked back at Powell. “You have my orders. Any questions?”

“None. I will probably modify a few items based on intelligence, but I understand your intent.”

“Good enough.” I turned back to the table and looked up and down. “Okay, now for the fun part. Yesterday was the biggest intelligence failure this country has seen since the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor! Would somebody please tell me what the hell happened yesterday morning?” I pointed at Paul Wolfowitz, head of the CIA. “You first.”

Wolfowitz looked confident as he responded, and I was surprised by the level of information he had available. How much he had known before the attacks and simply ignored, that I wasn’t sure of. Basically, he had several dozen members of a terrorist group called Al Qaeda who had managed to travel to the U.S., in some cases months ago, and Al Qaeda was now making public statements that they were the ones responsible. He then pronounced that Al Qaeda was taking orders from Iraq.

I made a few noncommittal grunts and then pointed at Louis Freeh, head of the FBI. He was on his way out, so to speak, a holdover from the Clinton days, and unpopular in the Administration. Originally he was supposed to have left right after the Inauguration, but for some reason Bush held on to him as a sop to the Democrats. Nobody expected him to last through the year. “Louis, anything you guys have figured out?”

His report was similar, though he had less information. He didn’t know how many people were involved, or what weapons they had, or where they had been living, or where they had managed to learn to fly airliners. However, he promised that all that would be figured out, since every agent was being pulled off every other case to look into this. It was a remarkably unsatisfying response. Even though it had only been a day, I had expected more.

I turned to Brian Stafford of the Secret Service. “Who do you have working on this?”

He turned and pointed at a man behind him, who stood up. “Deputy Director William Basham, sir,” he said.

“Pleased to meet you. I’m sure we’ll be talking. Who’s the guy running this on the FBI side?”

“That would be Executive Assistant Director Collins Barnwell,” answered Basham.

“Is he here?” I asked, looking around. Nobody was jumping up, so I turned to Freeh and gave him a raised eyebrow.

“You only specified my deputy, sir,” he said lamely.

I muttered under my breath something else rude, and then finalized the decision I had been considering since last night. I simply nodded to myself for a moment, and then looked down the table to the Director of the FBI. “Well, that settles something for me.” I looked around the table. “It’s time for a frank discussion, folks. I met with Congress last night. One of the things that was mentioned was that the American people will be looking for some answers, and Congress will be holding hearings. They are going to want to know what happened, and they are going to be looking for a few heads to roll. People will be held accountable. We might as well get started.”

I opened my clipboard cover and pulled out a sheet of White House stationery. I slid it down the table to Freeh. “Mister Freeh, I am sorry to hear that you have decided to resign your position as Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Your many years of service will always be remembered. Just write ‘I quit’ on there and sign it and date it. That should be good enough.”

You could have heard a pin drop, and everybody stared. I was firing somebody? That just wasn’t done! The usual Washington response would be that the President would admit to various unspecified lapses in judgment and take the blame for everybody. Nobody would be hurt and life would go on, business as usual. Screw that! Time for some people to get a wakeup call!

Louis Freeh just stared at me. I snapped my fingers at him and pointed at the paper. “Mr. Director, your performance a few minutes ago was totally unsatisfying. I have no doubt that when this finally gets figured out, the files of the FBI will have the names, ranks, and serial numbers of everybody involved. Do like I said. Write ‘I quit’ and sign and date it.” Stunned, he did as he was told. He passed it back, and I said, “Thank you. When you leave this room, turn over any identification, keys, etc. to somebody outside. Then, go home. You are no longer in the employ of the United States of America.”

“Jesus!” I heard somebody murmur. Freeh stood up from the table and slowly left, the look of a broken man on his face.

I looked over and saw his shocked Deputy Director. I crooked a finger at him and then pointed at the chair Freeh had just left. “Congratulations, you are the interim Director. From now on, when we have a meeting about what happened yesterday, I will expect your Executive whatever to be on hand, and I expect him to have a lot more answers than what I just heard. Are we agreed on that?”

“Uh, yes, sir.”

I turned back to the Deputy Director of the Secret Service. “Mister Basham, from now on, you and this fellow Barnhart…”

“Barnwell, sir.”

I gave him a dour look at the interruption. “Do I look like I care? Barnwell! You and he are joined at the hip. I want you two working so closely on this that you can finish each other’s sentences! If you get an itch, I want him to scratch it! This afternoon I am going over to the Pentagon to see what happened there. Afterwards I want the two of you to see me here, and I am expecting a heck of a lot more info than I just got. Understood?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Thank you. You are excused. I want you to go find him and get this sucker cranking!” Basham left with a lively step and a look of determination. After he left I pulled a second blank sheet from my pad. “Our next contestant is the Administrator of the Federal Aviation Administration.”

“ME?!” came from a few feet down the table to my right. “What did I do!?”

“Ah, there you are, Ms. Garvey.” I slid a blank piece of stationery down the table. “Ms. Garvey, it’s not what you did, but what you didn’t do. Your agency is supposed to regulate the airlines, and instead they regulate your agency. Now, while I will admit that you didn’t create this situation, you did nothing to change it, either. We might not know what happened, but airplane security falls under the regulations of your agency. I can guarantee that in your files will be a list of proposals that could have stopped this but were never implemented. So, sign away.”

Jane Garvey was furious, but she signed a resignation and stormed out. Her replacement sat down in her place and I looked at him. “Your job will be to find that list of fixes and get them going. If you need political cover, I’ll give it to you. If you need an Executive Order ordering things to be done, I’ll give it to you. I will support you on this, but no plane lifts off until we are sure that this won’t happen again, and we need those planes flying as soon as possible. Understood?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Good! Now, get out of here and get to work. I’ll talk to you sometime tomorrow night, by which time I expect a list of concrete proposals and a timetable to implement them.”

“Yes, sir!” He took off. I hadn’t even caught his name.

“Next!” I pulled out another blank sheet, and slid it across the table to Paul Wolfowitz, who was sitting across from me. He simply stared at me. “Paul, for the last six months, other experts and I have been warning about the dangers of terrorism and you have been telling me how we weren’t in any danger, and how the real problem was Iraq! You fired the experts you didn’t like, but you couldn’t fire me. Even today you are still trying to sell the idea that this was caused by Iraq. Sorry! No sale! You know the drill by now. Sign it and date it!”

“Damn you! You can’t do this! President Bush will have you impeached!” yelled Cheney.

I turned to my left, where Dick was sitting. “Dick, we went through this earlier, remember? I can do it, and I just did. If we find the President, he can hire any of these people back that he wants. In the meantime, they are gone.”

Wolfowitz looked at his patron, but he either didn’t pick up on Cheney backing down, or didn’t care. “You go to hell, Buckman! You’re not the President! I don’t have to take this shit!”

Around the table you could hear people gasping. I hadn’t quite expected that response, but I certainly knew how to handle it. I caught the eye of a Secret Service agent and said, “We’re going to need a team in here, right now, if you please.”

“Yes, sir!” He began speaking into his sleeve mike and moved to stand behind Wolfowitz.

“What the hell do you think you are doing, Buckman!?” Wolfowitz demanded.

I reached over and took back the piece of stationery. I wrote, ‘Paul Wolfowitz has been terminated from the employment of the United States of America, effective immediately. Carl Buckman, Acting President, United States of America, September 12, 2001.’

By the time I was finished, four additional agents were standing behind the ex-CIA director. I looked up at them and said, “Mr. Wolfowitz is no longer in the employ of the Central Intelligence Agency, or any other agency of this government. After you escort him from the room you are to search him and remove any identification or other items not of a personal nature. Then he is to be taken directly to his home. I want two of you to head over to Langley and inform the guards at the gate that Mr. Wolfowitz is no longer an employee and is no longer to be permitted on the premises. If there are any questions, they can call the White House. Is that understood?”

“Damn you!” yelled Wolfowitz, who tried to stand up.

On doing so, two agents grabbed him by the shoulders, one on each side, and held him in place. I pointed towards the door, and he was led outside. Some of the faces in the room looked shocked, but I noticed Colin Powell had a slight smile, and Paul O’Neill didn’t look unhappy, either.

One of the shocked faces was Wolfowitz’ deputy. I pointed at him and motioned to fill the now vacant seat. He moved into position and I gave the newcomer a hard look. “Tomorrow morning I am flying to New York City. I will expect to be able to tell people with a straight face that we are working hard to figure out who exactly did this to us, so that we can return the favor. I am expecting you to have information for me that is truthful and unbiased. If you are smart, you will have somebody very senior and very serious to help those other two figure things out. They are to become the Three Amigos. If you need to open the vaults, do it. Do you understand me, or do I need to repeat the process we just witnessed?”

“I understand, sir.”

I pulled out a fourth piece of blank paper, and stared at it for a second, and then put it back in my folder. I felt a sense of relief in the room; there had been enough drama. I made a half turn in my chair towards Cheney, but then kept turning my head towards Scooter Libby, sitting behind him. “Scooter, I really thought hard about this, but I am going to give you the benefit of the doubt. However, if you ever again tell anybody that I’m not the real President and that I am not to be kept in the loop and can’t be told classified information I will hang you out to dry in the noonday sun! In the meantime, you are to start doing your damn job and not running around trying to game the system and cooking the books on the data with the CIA!”

Cheney looked like he was about to explode, but kept quiet. If he had said anything, I planned to pull out a sheet of paper and hand it to him, but he behaved himself. The rest of the meeting was about what we would need to do in the future for security. I also gave people a plan for my coming schedule, including a joint meeting with the Congressional leaders Friday morning with the entire Cabinet.

When we broke around noon, I called Norm Mineta and semi-apologized for firing the FAA Administrator out from under him, and asked him to call over there and give whatever assistance he could to get the planes up and flying again. Then I called in Ari Fleischer and filled him in on the changes in personnel, and my schedule. He was going to have to start earning his pay! I would let him handle the press briefing.

I grabbed a quick lunch in the White House Mess, the West Wing cafeteria run by the Navy, and then got a call from Frank Stouffer saying that the first President Bush had flown in, along with his wife. From Andrews they would be taking Marine One to Camp David to see Laura and the girls, but they would land at the White House first, and the President would sit down with me for a bit while Barbara flew on. I told Frank to bring him in as soon as possible.

It was a little before 2:00 that I got the word that Marine One was about to land, so I cleaned my desk off and made myself presentable. I watched it land and then lift off again as soon as the former President was clear. He looked much the same as when I had met him a few times back during his Administration, but he was clearly older, at least in his mid-70s, and moved slower. Today, he had a very somber look on his face. Frank escorted Mr. Bush to my office, and I greeted him at the door. “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. President. Allow me to say that Marilyn and I and the rest of my family are all praying that George will be rescued shortly.” I ushered him over to an armchair.

“That is very kind of you, Carl. Is that alright?” he asked.

“Of course, sir.” I waited until he had sat down, and then I sat down in a chair opposite him. “I appreciate the time you are allowing me, sir. As soon as we are done, I will have Frank get you up to Camp David. I hope Frank has been helpful. I told him he belongs to you and Mrs. Bush as long as needed.”

That earned me a small smile. “Good heavens, but he seems so young, but I suppose we all were that age once.”

“Yes, sir, I think that is very true. He’s good, though. He’s been on my staff since the campaign, and I’ve found him very useful. Whatever you need, just let him know.”

He nodded. “Once we get to Camp David, we’ll be fine, I’m sure. Please, is there any more news?” he asked with a pleading tone.

It was heart-wrenching to tell this to a man I had so much respect for, and to know I was the cause of this heartbreak. I shook my head and said, “Rescue operations are still moving along, but the latest report, right after lunch, was no different than what you might have heard this morning. There are some people being pulled out of the rubble, and some who we know are trapped, but nobody from above the plane strikes. Still, it’s early. We still have hope.”

He seemed to deflate for a second, and then drew upon a hidden well of strength inside himself and sat up straighter. “Thank you, Mister President, for being so… compassionate. There really isn’t any hope, is there?”

“That was one of the reasons I wanted to talk to you, sir. Could I have a few minutes of your time before I answer that remark?” I asked.

He nodded. “Of course, Mr. President. How can I help?”

“It is related to my current status. As I am sure you understand, I am currently only the Acting President. When the authors of the 25^th Amendment wrote the bill, they were contemplating the President being ill or otherwise indisposed. They certainly never thought that he might not be available. Now, while the Cabinet has confirmed me as the Acting President, I am facing considerable opposition from one particular individual, and I was hoping that while you were here you might be willing to speak to him.”

He eyed me curiously. “Who?”

“Secretary of State Cheney,” I admitted. “I hate to admit that I can’t control the situation as well as I would like to, but that is the truth. He refuses to accept the situation, is telling people I am not the ‘real’ President, and is fighting me at every turn. Worst of all, he is telling the people he works with not to cooperate with me. I am afraid that George led him to believe that I was going to be removed as Vice President, and that he would be named as the new Vice President. I am on the verge of firing him, but I simply do not need the headache it will cause me. You worked with him in your Administration, and I was hoping you could speak to him. Our nation needs to be unified now, not split apart like this.”

President Bush grimaced at this and looked away slightly, but then turned back to face me and nodded. “I’ve talked to George and he indicated to me he was trying to get Dick into your office, but I counseled him that if he really wanted to do that, he would need to wait until the re-election. George does have his own mind on things, though.” I could tell the admission left a sour taste in his mouth. It was my understanding that the Bush family couldn’t quite figure out how George W. had ended up in the Presidency. His younger brother Jeb was considered the smart one in the family!

“I think that if you were to talk to Dick, perhaps you would be able to reason with him. He doesn’t have to like me, but he cannot continue to publicly fight and belittle me in front of the Cabinet and other agency heads. The next time he does it I will have no choice but to remove him from office, regardless of the price I have to pay. Earlier today I asked the Director of the FBI and the Administrator of the FAA to resign, and they complied. When I asked the head of the CIA to resign, he refused, with Cheney’s backing, and I fired him and had the Secret Service remove him from the building. I will not tolerate Dick Cheney’s attitude, and I would dearly love for you to explain that to him in no uncertain terms.”

“You fired Wolfowitz! Oh my God!”

I nodded. Paul Wolfowitz had held the position that President Bush had once held, Director of the CIA. “Yes, sir. He and Scooter Libby have been slanting the intelligence under the direction of Dick Cheney. They want to go to war with Iraq, so they are saying the Iraqis were involved in this.” I wasn’t sure how much of this he was aware of. By tradition, ex-Presidents can receive the President’s Daily Brief also.

“And they weren’t?” he asked.

“No, sir. It was done by a group called Al Qaeda, a bunch of renegade Saudis hiding out in Afghanistan. I do have to ask that you not divulge that.”

He simply shook his head and sighed. “I’ll speak to Dick. He and I go way back. Was there anything else?”

I slowly nodded. “Yes, sir. It relates to what we were discussing before. As you are probably aware, Senator Reid and Congressman Boehner traveled to New York last night, to get a personal take on the rescue efforts and to make a report to the rest of the Congressional leadership. When I met with them last night, I told them that if it was necessary for me to be sworn in, I wanted there to be no question on it. It was too soon to even contemplate it. We discussed another meeting Friday morning, with the leadership and the full Cabinet, and taking a vote at that time.”

A look of pain came over the President’s face as I discussed, even in an oblique manner, the probable death of his eldest son. “How does this relate to what you would like to ask, Carl?”

I took a deep breath. “Sir, I have the utmost respect for you, and would never wish to cause you any harm or pain. However, if the Cabinet decides to vote to have me sworn in as the President, there will always be a lingering doubt as to the legitimacy of my Presidency. If you were to be standing at my side and holding the Bible I would be sworn in on, those doubts would be eliminated. This is something I ask, not for myself, but for the nation. Still, if you refuse, I’ll understand.”

The President didn’t say anything, but pain flashed across his features and tears welled up in his eyes. I kept my mouth shut. There was nothing I could add. After a minute he said, “Carl, I need to think about this. I should be getting up to see Laura and the girls.”

“Of course, sir. Please give them my regards. If there is anything that I can do or get done let me know.” I stood and waited while President Bush climbed to his feet. As we walked towards the door I said, “I am flying to New York tomorrow to see the damage. You are welcome to come with me.”

“No, I think that would be too soon.”

“Yes, sir.” At the door I turned the President over to Frank and found myself facing Scooter Libby. “Mr. Libby, what brings you here?”

Scooter was a bit more deferential this afternoon. “Mr. President, you said you wanted to begin calling back some of the various heads of state this afternoon.”

“Yes, I did. Thank you for the reminder. Come in. Do you have a list? What’s the procedure?” This was a first for me! How the hell do you dial up the Queen of England?! What, do you dial the Operator, and then when you get the switchboard, ask for her extension?! I took the list from Scooter and glanced down it, and then looked back at him. “You’d better have an interpreter on hand. Marilyn says I can’t even speak English, only Southern. I sure can’t speak some of these languages!”

I had told him the other day I would speak to the top ten countries, and the State Department could handle the rest. On the list — Russia, Israel, England, France, Germany, Canada, Mexico, Japan, China, and Saudi Arabia. I went over to my desk and sat down, and gestured for him to sit as well. I grabbed a pen and crossed off Saudi Arabia. “Screw the Saudis. They’re half the problem.” I thought for a second and jotted down, “India. I assume they called? What the hell time is it in some of these places?” India and Russia were somewhere on the other side of the world!

Scooter glanced at his watch and then said, “It’s 2:30 now. India is ten hours ahead of us, so that makes it after midnight…”

“That would be crazy!”

He continued with a nod, “… Moscow is plus nine, Israel is plus seven, and then we work down from there.”

“Okay, let’s start with Israel and work our way west. We’ll budget ten minutes each and hope for the best. Now, what do we want me to say?”

He blinked at that, and then we figured out a standard response. So far, everybody had been saying how sorry they were, they were offering assistance, they hoped for the President’s quick rescue, and looked forward to meeting me at my earliest convenience. The response: thank you, we appreciate the offers and the State Department will coordinate any international assistance, we are also hoping for President Bush’s rescue, and I look forward to meeting you. He had already told the White House bull pen to start warming up the interpreters.

In general, the calls went about as expected. The only thing out of the ordinary was in the first call, with Ariel Sharon. He offered some very valuable intelligence assistance and I promised to make sure the CIA cooperated and worked with them. Then I informed him that Wolfowitz was gone.

“So I have already heard. He is still pushing that ridiculous theory that Iraq is involved? Good! He’s more trouble than he’s worth!” said Sharon

This had all been on speakerphone, and I glanced over at Libby for his reaction. He was visibly shocked. “That was the gist of our disagreement. Mister Sharon, I don’t have the time to talk to you right now, but I look forward to meeting with you soon to discuss this and other security issues.”

“And I with you, Mister President.”

After I hung up, I looked at Scooter. “Scooter, when this is settled down some, we’d better plan on a summit meeting between me and Sharon. These guys have been fighting these crazies since before you and I were born, so maybe we should listen to them every once in awhile.” Then I grabbed the list. “Who’s next?”

Most of the leaders I spoke to spoke better English than I did, but if it wasn’t their native language, we had translators on the line anyway. We took a break after Europe and North America, and then hit China and Japan after dinner. Meanwhile, I had various aides coming in and out and phone calls from various people about everything else. When did I want to discuss the flight ban? When could I discuss the latest intelligence? When could I discuss military responses? What were my travel plans for tomorrow? What was the latest information from Ground Zero?

Somehow in the midst of all of this, I managed to make a limo drive over to Arlington to see the destruction. Colin Powell was present and he showed me around while the television cameras rolled. The stench was overpowering, a mix of jet fuel, burned tires, melted asphalt, construction fire — and burned flesh. There wasn’t anything to do or say, but I had to say something to the workers. They had already rigged up a gigantic flag and I said something patriotic and martial, about how we wouldn’t let this stand and how justice would be done. I was just winging it, but they were cheering like crazy. Then I told Colin that when this was over, that flag was to be in a museum somewhere.

There must be something in the American psyche about raising the flag in a disaster. After a disaster, natural or man-made, one of the first things we do is raise a flag. I remembered that was one of the first things I saw when we climbed out of the school in Springboro. Somebody had dragged out a spare flag and was running it up the now bare flagpole.

It was late when I got back to the Naval Observatory, well after the dinner bell had rung. Marilyn and the girls were still up, and I gave them the rundown, and then my wife handed me a phone and a slip of paper. Charlie had called from Camp Lejeune, where he was on alert. I called him back and it was good to hear from him. He wanted to know when they were going to deploy to kill the crazies, so I told him to settle down. When I needed the Marines, I would let them know.

No way was I invading half the Islamic world! We lost thousands of American soldiers, sailors, and marines doing that on my first go, and I did not need to include my boy with the list!

Chapter 140: Oath of Office

Friday, September 14, 2001

Thursday morning, we got up early. The girls needed to get back into a regular schedule with school, so Marine Two flew them all home to Hereford at the crack of dawn, with Stormy in her travel cage. Actually, it flew all of us to Andrews and dropped me off first, and then flew to Hereford. This was some crazy fucked up schedule. I knew that sooner or later it would calm down, but right now we were just winging it and making it up as we went. I kissed my family good-bye and waved as they flew away, and then climbed up the stairs to Air Force Two.

It was a fast flight to New York. The President normally gets priority routing, but with no planes flying, there were zero delays. It was spooky. We really needed to get air traffic flying again! With me on the trip were the Three Amigos, the guys from CIA, FBI, and the Secret Service, who spent the trip up briefing me on what they were finding. It had been two days now, and the results were impressive. The flight manifests for the four flights had been examined, and every single passenger and aircrew member was being investigated, with most of them already cleared of any involvement. On every flight there were four or five individuals, all men, with very sketchy backgrounds and personal histories, and everybody was zeroing in on them. Likewise, links were being found between these names and the names the CIA had in their files.

What I was seeing was the first-hand results of what I knew would be found. The FBI is a huge organization. At the lowest levels, where the agents and the first line supervisors are massed, they have extremely smart and dedicated people and amazing technology, and the ability to flood a problem and pick apart every last little piece. Unfortunately, once it climbs up the ladder, very quickly the organization turns into a bureaucracy much more interested in covering its ass. I knew what they would find, that the hijackers had taken flying lessons in the U.S. and had raised a number of red flags in doing so, but when the reports had gone into the system, they had swirled around the bowl and been filed and ignored.

The CIA was similar, with several additional problems. By law they weren’t allowed to operate in the U.S. By practice, they shared nothing with anybody else, especially the FBI. They would be discovered to have followed these guys into the States, filed a classified report, and not told anybody. Furthermore, half the work product these guys were generating was aimed at slanting or corrupting the information heading towards the White House. Not only didn’t the right hand know what the left hand was doing, but half the time they were working at cross purposes.

As for the Secret Service, nobody told them shit.

When we landed in New York, I was greeted by Rudy Giuliani and the Police Commissioner, Bernard Kerik. Rudy I had met a few times at Republican fundraisers and election meetings. Kerik I had never met before. Both men had been near the Twin Towers when they collapsed, Giuliani had actually been invited to the breakfast meeting at Windows on the World but had been delayed, and he had gotten there just as the North Tower was hit. Kerik had arrived afterwards, just in time for the South Tower to be hit. Both men had lost their vehicles to falling debris, and had run away to set up a nearby command post.

The two men looked tired and somber. We rode over in the Mayor’s car, since the armored limousine the President rides around in was buried in the rubble. “How bad is it, guys?” I asked.

“Mister President, you will have to see it to believe it,” answered Rudy. “I simply don’t have words to describe it.”

“Mister President, I don’t know if you believe in Heaven and Hell, but now I have seen Hell,” responded Kerik.

“Is there any hope? Not just for President Bush, but for anybody who was in there?”

Kerik bowed his head and shook it but didn’t answer. Giuliani, sighed and said, “Very little, sir. If you didn’t make it out before the buildings collapsed, you didn’t make it out. We are still trying to figure out who was in there at the time, but so many of the companies that were there… the records and computers are gone. It might take us weeks to find out who was there and who wasn’t.”

“What do you need? What can I do to get you what you need?” I asked.

Again, they shook their heads, but this time it was a more positive response. “Everybody is being extremely helpful. We are getting everything that is available,” said Rudy. He shrugged. “Money? This is going to cost a fortune.”

I gave him a wry smile. “Spend the money. I work for the Federal government. We print the money, remember. We’ll just have to print a little more.”

Kerik added, “The only thing I can think of is more rescue dogs, you know, dogs specifically trained to search for people buried in avalanches and structure collapses. We simply don’t have very many. We’ve had offers of help but with the airports shut down…” He shrugged in helplessness.

“I intend to get them up as soon as possible. This is not something that can last. I will be talking to the FAA about that on my way back to Washington,” I told them.

“You really fired the heads of the FAA, the FBI, and the CIA?” asked an incredulous Giuliani.

It had been all over the news yesterday. All three organizations, as well as the White House, had issued press releases that were brief — ‘So-and-so resigned today at the request of Acting President Buckman. A-different-so-and-so was named temporary director.’ All three were immediately run down and had microphones and cameras stuck in their faces. Louis Freeh had nothing to say; Jane Garvey was loudly irate and had protested her innocence; Paul Wolfowitz informed the world that I was the worst thing that had happened to American democracy since the British burned Washington in the War of 1812.

I nodded at Giuliani. “Yes I did. They may not have been personally to blame, but their organizations dropped the ball, and heads need to roll. Congress has already told me that they intend major hearings on this disaster, and I told them I intend to cooperate. Here’s something else I want you two to think about, the both of you. What do we need to do to improve our response, not just here, but everywhere else, other cities? What can we learn from this? When this is at a point where you can sit down and think, put your smartest people on that. I can just about guarantee that is going to make national news, too.”

First stop was Ground Zero, towering piles of rubble where the tallest buildings in New York had been. I was basically speechless. It’s one thing to see it on television, but the reality was a smack in the face, and the smell, that I was never going to lose. There were television cameras around, and I know I said something appropriate, but I can’t remember for the life of me what it was. I needed to watch it on the news later to find out.

After that we went to the command center, which was a beehive of people, many of whom were filthy and tired, all of whom were talking into phones and trying to get something done. That was where I found John Boehner and Harry Reid, and they looked as drained as the others. I shook their hands and they followed me as I trailed after the Mayor and the Police Commissioner into a conference room. A few other people followed me in, including the Fire Commissioner and the head of the New York City Office of Emergency Management, their version of FEMA. Giuliani had things under control, but the problem was massive, and most of the people there had friends who were inside the buildings when they went down. Loss of life, especially among the Fire Department, was enormous.

I don’t know if it was worse than my first time or better. The total death toll was being estimated simply in the thousands. Impromptu memorials were sprouting up all over, as were walls with people hanging pictures of relatives and requests for information on them. It was incredibly chaotic. In some cases people were being reported as missing who never made it to work that day, or nobody had taken down the picture after they got home. They were beginning to get a handle on it, by setting up a clearinghouse for names, but it was slow going. Some of the financial firms which had been destroyed would need to consult emergency backup records in other locations.

I knew it would happen and that there had been nothing I could have done that would stop it, but it was just incredibly depressing regardless. John and Harry didn’t say anything during the meeting, but several others commented that they had been quite helpful in reassuring people that resources would be made available, and occasionally suggesting ideas for that. I thanked them both.

Eventually things ran down, and I asked everybody to leave the room but Harry and John. They both nodded, and after everybody else filed out, John closed the door behind them, and then sat down heavily. There were bags under his eyes and under Harry Reid’s eyes as well. “Gentlemen, you look like crap! Have you been able to get any sleep?” I asked.

“Not much, Carl. I dozed for a few hours last night in a chair in here,” admitted John.

“Same here, Mister President,” added Senator Reid.

“Harry, I think we can dispense with the titles. It’s just the three of us, and you’ve been calling me Carl for a while now, usually with some other stuff added on,” I said with a wry smile. He snorted and smiled at that, but nodded. “Listen, I have to ask the question. The President, is there any chance?”

Both men sighed and looked at each other wearily. Harry answered first. “Not really. Almost nobody got out of there after the buildings collapsed. There’s a few people trapped in the rubble in the subbasements, but they were down there to begin with. Up top? Nobody!”

“John?”

“Carl, I would like to argue, but I can’t. We are going to have to swear you in. We can delay it, but it’s a lost cause. We’ll be lucky to find anything in this mess. I heard one of the emergency managers talking about putting everything through table sifters to try and find anything but dust.” He lowered his voice and added, “We’re talking about bits of bone and wedding rings and pieces of wallets, that sort of thing!”

“Jesus!” They’d be sifting dust for years! “So, what do we do now? What do you two plan to do?”

Harry looked over at John and then turned back to me. “Carl, later today, John and I are going to call down and talk to Denny Hastert and Tom Daschle. You can’t be in on the phone call, I mean, you just can’t be. You can’t be seen to be influencing anything. They’ll probably talk to you later today.”

“And then what?” I pushed.

“They’ll talk to you later today. That’s all I will say for now.”

I nodded in tired acquiescence. I could see one of two things happening. Either they would decide to swear me in as President, or they could decide to wait until they had proof that George Bush was dead, something that might take years, if it was even possible. If they chose Option Two, I was the lamest of lame duck Presidents, doomed before I even started. There was even the possibility they could make me live in the Vice President’s mansion until I was sworn in, making me an international laughingstock. “Fair enough.” I stood up. “Guys, I am going to get out of your hair. I’ll go talk to Rudy for a bit and then I’m heading back to D.C. You do your thing, and then get a room and get some sleep. You’re not going to help if you collapse from exhaustion.”

They both nodded mutely and we shook hands, and I left the room. An hour later I was flying back to Washington, accompanied by the Three Amigos. On the way, we talked to the Deputy Director of the FAA and outlined plans to get things up and running by the weekend. The plan was to start slowly and concentrate on getting people back home first, and then ramp up. We would start flying again Saturday morning.

By the time we got back to Andrews and were preparing to take Marine Two back to the White House I had gotten a call that Denny Hastert and Tom Daschle wanted to see me. I told them they would be first on my list. We got to the White House about 4:00 and I sent the Three Amigos on their way, while I headed to my office. Denny and Tom were already there. I invited them into my office and closed the door. “How we doing?” I asked.

“What’s it like up there, Mister President?” asked Tom Daschle, the Senate Majority Leader.

“I don’t know what Harry and John told you guys, but words just can’t describe it. Bernie Kerik said that now he’s seen Hell. There’s nothing left but rubble and dust,” I told him.

Tom looked over at Denny Hastert, the Speaker of the House and a Republican, and Denny nodded back at him. Tom took a deep breath and said, “We need to have you sworn in, sir. We both talked to Harry and John, and we had a few others in the room with us. They were pretty convincing. There’s nothing left, and no chance.”

I nodded and looked at them. “I forget whether it was John or Harry who said that there were plans to start putting all the rubble and the dust through sifters and sieves to look for bones and anything to identify people by. I’ve never seen anything like that! I don’t think I could do it myself.”

Denny muttered something in disbelief and then shook himself of the thought. He looked at me and asked, “Carl, when do you want to do this? How do we do this?”

I gave him a brief smile. “I’m making this up as I go! Hell, how do we have a state funeral without the guest of honor? Answer me that one?” Both men’s eyes popped a little at that. “Anyway, today is Thursday. I’m not sure, but I think we’ll need the approval of the Cabinet, just like when they named me the Acting President. If we had absolute proof the President was dead, it wouldn’t be necessary, but that might take years.”

“That would be good. We can call them together and Denny and I can attend the meeting with Chief Justice Rehnquist handy,” replied Daschle. “As soon as the vote passes, he can swear you in.”

“I’ll call for a full Cabinet meeting in the morning.”

“Very good, Mister President,” agreed Denny.

They were on the verge of leaving when I had a thought. “Hold up a second, gentlemen. Let me bounce an idea off of you.” They looked at each other and settled back into their chairs. “I have a worry. There are going to be people, some in Congress and some out there in the real world, who will not think I am the legitimate President of the United States. I wasn’t elected, I’m jumping the gun, the real President is in the rubble and I’m stopping the rescue — I mean, you guys can fill in the rest. Will you grant that this has the potential to be a real problem, and not just for me, but for the nation? When we figure out who did this, we are going to war, and we do not need any questions raised.”

“I understand you, sir,” answered the Speaker. Senator Daschle was slower to respond, but he nodded and agreed also.

“Well, it’s not like I am going to get an Inaugural Ball out of this disaster, but we can’t be seen to be hiding this in a conference room in the White House. We need, all of us need, this to be public, as public as possible.”

“Perhaps at the Capitol and on television,” suggested Hastert.

“How do we do the vote? What if somebody gets a bug up his tail and votes no? You don’t need that on television!” countered Daschle.

“Yikes! No, that would be lousy!” I agreed. “How about this? You guys come to the Cabinet meeting in the morning. You tell them what you’ve agreed to, and they take a vote. If everybody is unanimous, we do a public version tomorrow night in the Capitol on live television and Rehnquist swears me in.”

“You planning to speak afterwards?”

“I can. It won’t be big, but I probably should. Something about how democracy continues to march on or something like that. I am not figuring on a major speech or State of the Union Address,” I told them.

“Speaking for myself, I think we could go along with that,” he agreed. “Denny?”

“Same here.”

I stood up and thanked them and ushered them out, and then ordered up a Cabinet meeting for the morning. Then it was back to work.

I got home at a relatively decent hour that night. I was still living at the Naval Observatory, and Marilyn and the girls (and Stormy) were home in Hereford. They had gone back to school today, and if everything went as planned, they would be at school tomorrow. Afterwards, they could come back down for the swearing in ceremony. I ate a late supper and watched CNN for a bit.

The news was a mixed bag. It was all about the 9-11 attacks, of course, but it was about a bunch of different things. You had reports from Ground Zero (and virtually nothing from the Pentagon) with footage of rescue teams and guys in hard hats trying to sort through the mess. They were constantly rerunning any footage of anybody being pulled out, but there were damn few of those. On top of that was vast speculation about the status of the President, which segued into my status as Acting President and my visit to the site earlier in the day. Also discussed was my visit with the first President Bush, as well as some footage of Harry Reid and John Boehner talking to reporters in New York. There was intense speculation about what they were doing there, and who they were discussing their findings with.

There was also discussion of my actions the other day in cleaning house at the FAA, FBI, and CIA. Rush Limbaugh had declared my actions (on the basis of his extensive legal background, no doubt) unconstitutional and justified my impeachment. That prompted all the mainstream networks to call out their guest lawyers to report on the constitutional implications. They needed something to fill in 24 hours of air time.

I was getting out of my chair to head towards bed when they called a late breaking story. “We are now getting a report — this is unconfirmed but from a reliable source — a report that tomorrow the Congressional leadership will report to the Cabinet that President Bush is to be considered missing in action and presumed dead, and that they are recommending that Acting President Buckman be sworn in as President!” I stopped at that and listened. The report was about 90 % accurate, and it was obvious that one of the Congressional leaders was leaking the story. After that I headed to bed.

Friday morning found me back in the Cabinet Room at 9:00. This time we had Tommy Thompson and Ann Veneman with us in person, and I made sure to thank them for getting back to town. Dick Cheney was present and looking mulish as ever, but I had talked to Frank Stouffer and he had confirmed that President Bush had talked to Cheney before heading to Camp David. Hopefully he wouldn’t be an asshole today. Also seated in the room were Denny Hastert and Tom Daschle. By now all the networks were reporting that there was going to be a major decision in the Cabinet today related to the 25^th Amendment.

We started with my greeting our guests from Congress. “Speaker Hastert, Senate Majority Leader Daschle, thank you for coming. When we talked yesterday you were getting in touch with the rest of the Congressional leadership. Have you done so?” I asked.

I wasn’t sure if they had rehearsed this or not, but Denny Hastert replied, “Yes, Mister President, we have. We talked to both John Boehner and Harry Reid yesterday and have concluded that President Bush is missing and should be presumed dead. We are here to recommend to the Cabinet that they vote to make you the President.”

There were some murmurs at that, and Cheney turned red and looked like he would explode, but he kept his mouth shut. With his heart problems he was about one outburst away from a heart attack!

The Attorney General spoke up. “Mister President, I have been in contact with Chief Justice Rehnquist about this, and I would like to bring him in at this time.”

“He’s here?”

“Yes, sir, along with some of the other Congressional leaders. I think we should have everyone in.”

I blinked for a second, but nodded. “They’re here too? Fine by me.”

Ashcroft turned to a Secret Service agent and motioned him over, and then spoke quietly to him. He left and a couple of minutes later the rest of the Congressional leadership trooped in, less Harry and John, along with Bill Rehnquist. I stood and greeted them. I had known the Congressmen and Senators for years, but I don’t think I had met the Chief Justice more than a handful of times. “Mister Chief Justice, I am glad you could make it. I gather the Attorney General has been keeping you abreast of what has been going on.”

“Mister President, thank you. Yes, I have talked to the Attorney General several times over the last few days. He was concerned over any possible misinterpretation of the 25^th Amendment. We really don’t have a precedent for this, as I am sure he told you,” answered Rehnquist.

He took a seat near me, in effect my old seat as the Vice President. I sighed and nodded. “Yes, sir, he did. I told him that we were making it up as we go. Hopefully you can sit here and tell us what we are doing is legal. I’d really prefer not going to jail.”

There were several chuckles at this, but not many, until the Chief Justice smiled and answered, “You can always write yourself a pardon, sir.” I smiled at that, too, and he continued, “Seriously, though, what you are doing is going above and beyond my reading of the Amendment. On the other hand, the political reality is such that going above and beyond may be what is best for our nation right now. With that being said, I would suggest we turn the meeting over to Attorney General Ashcroft, much as I understand you did Tuesday afternoon.”

“Of course, sir.” I turned towards the Attorney General and said, “You’re on!”

John Ashcroft stood up and said, “Well, it is my intention to repeat the process we had on Tuesday. I am going to go down the list of all the Cabinet members and ask ‘Yes’ or ‘No.’ A Yes vote means that Carl Buckman is the President and a No means he stays as Acting President.” He grabbed his pen and a note pad and asked, “Secretary of State, yes or no?”

Dick Cheney turned beet red again, and he growled as he answered, but he said ‘Yes.’ I could see the looks and sighs of relief around the room. Ashcroft ignored the histrionics and continued down the list. It was unanimous. At that he turned to the Speaker of the House and said, “I’ve been talking to the Chief Justice as well. It’s not in the 25^th Amendment, and it is not required, but we both think it would help immensely if I asked you gentlemen the same thing. Mister Speaker, yes or no?”

We had the Speaker of the House, along with the Majority and Minority Leaders and Whips of both the House and Senate in the room, all except John and Harry, who were flying home. He went down the list and it was unanimous. Denny added at the end that both John Boehner and Harry Reid had told him they were voting Yes as well.

“How do you want to do this, Mister President?” asked the Chief Justice.

Denny Hastert interrupted and said, “Excuse me, Mister President, but is it still your desire to do this on television tonight, like we talked about yesterday?”

I nodded. “Like I said, I know it’s not an inauguration but I think the country is going to want to see this. It’s up to you fellows, though. The Capitol is your building.”

“Well, we’ll do it like a State of the Union Address. We’ll have everyone there, let John here run the thing, swear you in, and you make a quick speech. Who is going to be the missing man?”

“That will be me!” growled Cheney forcefully. At all State of the Union speeches there is always a ‘missing man’, a member of the Cabinet who can become the President if somebody manages to nuke the Capitol. “I’ll be damned if I want to watch this crap!”

Denny Hastert wasn’t going to be put off by Cheney. “Fine by me, but if you’re not going to be there, you’ll write out your acceptance right here and now. John, give him a sheet of paper!”

Cheney’s nostrils flared at that, but he was under the stare of everybody. Ashcroft silently pushed a sheet of stationery across to him. Cheney scrawled something on it and then stood up and stormed out of the room. It was rude as hell, but I wasn’t going to make an issue of it and I was glad to see his back. One of my first jobs would be to replace Cheney.

Denny took the paper and folded it up and stuck it in a jacket pocket. “Okay, I will see you all this evening at eight o’clock. Mister President, get Ari Fleischer to get the wheels in motion. Otherwise, we are going to get out of here and let you get to work.”

“I agree.” I stood up. “Everybody, I will see you all this evening. Thank you.”

Getting back to work involved getting Ari Fleisher to crank up the system for this evening, calling Marilyn and informing her of what was going to happen, and calling Camp David and talking to the first President Bush.

That was an instructive call. He told me that Harry Reid and John Boehner had called him last night after talking to the Congressional leadership, so that he wasn’t blindsided when the inevitable reports came out. The President offered to come to Washington for the ceremony, but that for Barbara, Laura, and the girls, it would be too much, too soon. I promised that I wouldn’t move into the Executive Mansion until they were ready and had moved out. Dignity of the office or not, that would be more than a little tacky! He promised to sit down with me and talk, commenting that he had done the same with Bill Clinton and George W. Then he asked an interesting question. “Have you talked to your son yet? Where is he stationed?”

“He’s at Camp Lejeune. Why?” I answered.

“Get him to the Capitol tonight. This is all about theater. Get him there in a uniform, sitting with his mother and sisters.”

“Huh. I had planned on letting him alone. I didn’t want to prejudice things…”

“Carl, that is ridiculously naïve! You aren’t a Congressman anymore. You are the President of the United States! The guys over in the Pentagon are not going to let him just slide by. If you want him to have any sort of normal life, you are going to have to take that bull by the horns and have it out with them. Now, after we hang up, you need to get your Naval Adviser to get the boy on a plane!”

I chuckled. “Yes, sir. Pardon me for saying it, sir, but you still sound like a President.”

“You bet, Carl! You bet!”

“Very good, sir. I will obey that order. Please tell your family that they are in Marilyn’s and my prayers, and that we hope to see them again in the future.”

“Thank you, Carl, and good luck to you and your family, as well.”

After I hung up, I called Josh Bolten and told him what President Bush had told me. “So, how do we get Charlie up here?” I asked.

“We get Mike Miller in here, that’s how.”

I felt like an idiot, but I had been cut out of so much the last few months, and there were so many people working at the place. “Okay, so who’s Mike Miller?”

“He runs the White House Military Office. If he can’t do it, he’ll know who can.”

“Well, stop talking to me and call him. Bring him on in when you find him. Thank you.” I hung up and started making some notes about what I wanted to say tonight. I didn’t want to talk for a long time, and it wasn’t the place for anything legislative, like a State of the Union Address. I needed something uplifting and patriotic, something that would let people know we still had a functioning government and one that would keep them alive. I put out a call for Matt Scully and Mike Gerson to stop by.

Before they could come in, Josh returned with a Navy Captain, an O-6, which was much higher up the food chain than the O-3 Army Captain I had been. “Mister President, this is Captain Miller. He should be able to help you,” said Josh.

I stood and went around my desk to greet Captain Miller. I had probably seen him in passing, but couldn’t swear that we had actually spoken. “Captain, I have a small problem, and maybe you can help, or at least point me in the right direction.”

“Yes, sir. Whatever I can do.”

“This is in the nature of a personal emergency. My son is a Marine Lance Corporal at Camp Lejeune. I haven’t had a chance to even call him about this, and I don’t even know what he is doing, but I need him here in Washington tonight.”

Captain Miller didn’t bat an eye. “Yes, sir. I’ll take care of it. Where should he report to, and what is his uniform to be?”

I opened my mouth, but didn’t reply for a moment. “Captain, you seem to be smarter than I am. I like that! He needs to be at the Capitol by eight this evening, for when I get sworn in. You should probably get him to the residence at the Naval Observatory. We made sure he has all the uniforms he could need there. I would think that the Blue Dress Uniform is too much?”

“That’s more like a tuxedo, sir. He should wear his Service A uniform. We’ll let him know.”

“Okay.”

“With your permission, sir?” he asked.

“Thank you, Captain. I am sure we will be talking some more. I hope you get him here on time.”

“The difficult we do immediately. The impossible just takes a little longer.” He turned and left.

Josh smiled. “This situation sucks, Mister President, but we are going to make it work.”

I motioned him towards an armchair and moved to one opposite him. He sat down and I asked, “Are we going to be able to mesh the staffs?”

“Pretty much. Some of them really are Vice Presidential only, and will be on hold until you name somebody. Frank Stouffer will work out. He’s just awfully green at this…”

“Frank’s a quick study and has been with me since the campaign. Let’s see how he shapes up.”

Josh nodded. “… Agreed, sir. I’m not sure about your other fellow, Carter. The VP’s press guy doesn’t do much, and I don’t think it’s in his blood.” I was about to say something, but Josh held up a hand to forestall me. “That being said, he isn’t dumb. If he doesn’t work out in the press office, we can move him somewhere else. He’s the gay guy, right?”

“Is that a problem for you, Josh?” I asked. “Carter has been a smart and loyal staffer for me, going back to when I was in Congress.”

“Hey, it’s not a problem to me. I’m just saying, why’s he a Republican? Half the party wants to burn him on a cross!”

I snorted. “You know, I asked him that once, back when Rove wanted me to fire him. He told me that his sexuality is not what defines him, that even homosexuals can want a strong and safe government and a decent tax policy and a balanced budget.”

It was Bolten’s turn to snort and shrug. “I can’t argue with that. It just might be better to keep him out of the public eye.”

“Josh, if he can’t do the job or doesn’t like the job, that is one thing. I am not going to bury him in the basement to satisfy the religious right. Hell, they don’t like me anyway! If we are ever going to make this party relevant to young people again, we have to be more accepting to women, gays, Hispanics, blacks, you name it! We can’t remain a party of old white people. You know what happens to old white people?”

“What?”

“They become dead white people. We need some fresh blood in the Party, or I am going to be the last Republican President for a long time.”

Josh gave me a wry smile. “Good luck selling that one. Maybe you’re right, but we both know people who won’t want to hear it.”

“I ain’t blaming you, Josh. I’m just saying, numbers don’t lie. I know what they say about me, but you know I’m not about to start wearing a robe and praying to Lenin and Marx.”

“Mister President, I understand what you are saying. On the other hand, you must have heard the old saying about the problems with remembering that you are there to drain the swamp when you are up to your butt in alligators. We have a bunch of alligators, some of which you made.”

“By firing people.”

“Not to be blunt about it, but yes.”

“Fair enough,” I answered. “We are going to need to replace some people. Right now the important ones are going to be the FBI and the CIA. Cheney, too.” Josh looked distressed at that. “Josh, the man can barely be civil with me, let alone work with me. Whatever you feel about whatever direction you think I should be going in, you know we can’t work like that.”

He gave me a pained look, but nodded. “I understand, sir. It won’t be pretty, though.”

We spent the next half hour talking about possible personnel changes. Some of the best people might be qualified in more than one spot, others I didn’t know very well and he needed to get some background worked up for me. Anybody I selected would need to go through a Senate confirmation hearing, and it was a guarantee they would be scrutinized closely.

Before he left, he asked, “What about a new Vice President?”

“Add that to the list of alligators, Josh.”

He left and I ordered no more appointments or meetings for a few hours. I needed to think and to make a few phone calls. I had already learned I had a bunch of personal calls backing up, and it was time to clear some of them away. Marilyn was first, and I simply gave her the latest details on the schedule for the day, and that Charlie was going to be here for the swearing in. We’d be able to see him that evening and talk before sending him back to the Marines.

After I hung up I called Suzie at her house. She was at work, but her husband, John, was at home, having finished his shift. “Carl, is this for real!?” he asked.

“As real as it gets. How are you guys doing?”

“So far so good. We’ve had some reporters trying to bug us but I got the barracks to station a patrol car outside, and Suzie is going to get a ride home with a buddy.”

“That figures,” I told him. “I’m sorry about that, but I figure it will calm down in a day or two.”

He agreed. “Probably. Maybe I’ll get lucky and have to shoot somebody.”

“Sounds like fun. I can write you a pardon, you know,” I replied, laughing.

“I’ll pass that along.” Then he got serious. “What are we going to do about this? I talked to Jack last night. He managed to make a call from the Tarawa. Those guys are ready to bust! They want to go kill some people.”

“John, I can’t go into that, but if you are talking to him, tell him I agree. When it comes time, we’ll be going full bore on this, and if I need the Marines, he and Charlie will be remembered.”

He asked, “Have you talked to Charlie?”

“Not yet, but I am getting him brought here. I’m sure it will be a topic of conversation. He’ll be there tonight when I get sworn in. Watch it on television.”

“Yeah!”

“I have to go. Tell Suzie we’ll call over the weekend.”

“Take care.”

We hung up and I called Tusk Cycle next and talked to Tusker. I promised that we would get together as soon as possible. He told me that Marilyn had been talking to Tessa already about that. After a bit we hung up and I called the American Renaissance Initiative.

Actually, I don’t really make the call. Even the Presidential cell phones go through the White House switchboard in the Old Executive Office Building. All calls in or out go through there and are recorded. I’ve often wondered how many calls get there by an infant playing with Mom’s cell phone and just hitting buttons at random. You just knew it had to have happened! In my case, I simply lift the phone and tell them who I want to speak to and hang up. They call the other party, tell them to stay on the line, and then call me and make a connection.

So in this case I asked to talk to Marty Adrianopolis at ARI and then hung up. A few minutes later the phone rang and I picked it up and said, “Hello.”

“Carl, is that you? Is this for real?” I heard my old friend say.

“Hey, Marty, good to hear from you.”

“You’re the President?! Jesus!”

“That’s kind of what I’ve been saying. How are you doing? I’m sorry I didn’t call before this, but it’s been crazy,” I admitted.

“I’ll bet! How are Marilyn and the kids handling this?”

“Okay, so far. They’re back home today, but they’ll be there at the Capitol tonight for my swearing in. Charlie is coming up from Camp Lejeune, too.”

“Carl, what can I do to help?”

I snorted out a laugh. “Know anybody honest who wants to come to work for me?”

“That’s pretty much a contradiction in terms, isn’t it?” he replied.

“Like you wouldn’t believe! There are times I think Diogenes was an optimist!” Marty laughed at that, so I asked, “Want to come to work over here?”

“Doing what?”

“No idea. I can put you on the staff. I don’t think you’ve got the experience to run the CIA or FBI.”

“Yeah, I read about that. I heard a rumor that you had to have Wolfowitz dragged out of the building. What a fucking putz!”

“I can neither confirm nor deny any such tale,” I told him.

“Yeah, well you can’t afford me. My wife has expensive tastes.”

I had to laugh at that, because it was true. I gave him a Presidential Order to come over sometime soon and visit.

Late that afternoon the intercom buzzed and a secretary said, “Visitors, sir.” They knew I wasn’t on the phone, since it would have gone through them.

“Send them in.”

There was a knock on the door and it opened. Captain Miller came through the door with somebody behind him. “Captain Miller reporting for duty with a detail of one, sir.” He stepped to the side, and there was Charlie, dressed in a Marine Battle Dress Uniform (a camo version of the fatigues I would have worn in those days.) and looking a touch bewildered. However, Marine habits are strong, and when Captain Miller came to attention, though with a smile on his face, Charlie automatically snapped to attention.

I smiled at Miller and said, “As you were.” Miller automatically relaxed, though Charlie took a few seconds.

“Dad? What’s going on? Is this real?” came jumbling out.

“Charlie, it’s good to see you again. I’m glad they found you. Where were you, by the way?”

“I was out on the firing range! All of a sudden they shut the whole thing down and a chopper lands and the Captain, he orders me and the Gunny to get back to the barracks and pack my stuff. I didn’t even get a chance to hit the head and clean up! Then I got thrown back on the chopper and taken to New River, where I was thrown on an airplane and flown to Andrews. And now I’m here! What is going on!?”

I had to laugh at this. To Captain Miller I said, “Congratulations, you got him here.” I turned to Charlie and asked, “Did you ever get to the head?”

“Yes, sir, in New River.”

I nodded. “Good. The long and the short of it, Charlie, is that tonight I am being sworn in as the President of the United States. Your mother and sisters will be coming down from Hereford this afternoon, in fact they should be down any time now. We need you to be in a good uniform to be with them. I’ll get you back to your base tomorrow.”

“You told me that I wouldn’t be taken from my battalion for this sort of stuff,” he responded.

“And I meant it. It’s just that, tonight, for this, I need you here. I’ll get you back to where you need to be tomorrow. Alright?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay. The Captain here will see that you get to the house. We’re still in the Naval Observatory. I’ll come home for dinner before we head over to the Capitol. We still have your uniforms in your room. You get over there and let Stormy out and get cleaned up.”

He smiled at that. “The Monster? Is she going to be there tonight, too?” By the time Charlie had gotten home from the deployment he’d been on when we got Stormy, she was gigantic, and he had taken to calling her The Monster.

“That would be all we’d need!” I laughed. “No, I think she’ll stay home. Listen, I promise, I will talk with you about any changes when I get home.” I moved towards my office door and the other two moved with me.

Charlie stopped in the door and turned to face me. “Dad, who did this? When do we hit back?”

“We’re working on that.”

“I want in on it! All the guys do! We have to do something!”

“Like I said, we’re working on it. If I need the Marines, I know the address.” Not if I can help it!

“Yes, sir.” He headed out the door, and then stopped again. “Who could do something like that?”

“Monsters, Charlie. Monsters.” I said to Captain Miller, “See he gets to the house. Thank you.”

Monsters — like I had become.

I was the last of the family to make it to the Naval Observatory. Marilyn and the girls had flown down as soon as they got home from school. I walked in to find Charlie cleaned up and in an old BDU, sitting on the floor and brushing out Stormy’s coat. Stormy was writhing on the floor in delight. Meanwhile the girls informed me that one of the major topics of conversation around Hereford High was their status as daughters of the President. I told them that this gave the Secret Service authority to shoot boyfriends. “Not funny, Dad!” I was informed.

Marilyn asked me, “Are you ready for this?”

“As ready as I will ever be. I can’t back out now.”

“Then we’ll be ready, too.”

I laughed and said, “I know you said you’d stick around for better or worse. Is this the better or the worse?”

“Ask me this time next year!” she replied, and then gave me a hug. “You’ll be America’s greatest President. A hundred years from now, historians will be telling people that Washington and Lincoln would have wanted to be as good as you. Your birthday will be a national — no, an international! — holiday! Children will be named after you! Churches will…”

“All right, enough out of you. I just hope I don’t blow up the country! Now, what’s for dinner?”

“The cook has a glazed ham going. Whenever you want to eat, say the word.”

I smiled. “Sounds good. Let’s do this now. I can change after dinner.”

We left about a quarter after seven, with me in a dark suit, Charlie in a Marine Corps Class A Service Uniform, and the ladies in knee length dresses and heels. Security was tight, with a convoy of vehicles. We rode in an armored limo, but not the official Presidential limousine. That was buried in the parking lot under the World Trade Center. I knew the Secret Service wouldn’t be happy until we were actually living in the Residence portion of the White House, but that couldn’t happen until Laura and the girls moved out. I couldn’t push them out. That would be pretty tacky for a guy who killed Laura’s husband and the twins’ father.

At the Capitol we separated. Marilyn and the kids would be watching from the gallery, like they did last January during the State of the Union speech. I was directed towards the Speaker’s office, where Denny Hastert was sorting out the ceremony. We really didn’t have any precedent for this. It wasn’t an inauguration, which is just an excuse for a big party. Likewise, while everybody was present in the House chamber, it wouldn’t be all smiles and congratulations, like in a State of the Union Address. Denny told me that they were passing the word that everybody was supposed to be quiet and somber.

“I’ve got John and Dave telling everybody to behave. There is to be nobody reaching out to shake hands in the aisle or whatever when you come in,” he told me.

“Let’s do it one better. When the doors open, how about we have the House and Senate leadership, the Majority and Minority Leaders and Whips, the eight of them, march me down the aisle in a phalanx. You can already be at your seat. They need to be down front for the vote anyway. Is Ashcroft still planning on asking them to vote?” I asked.

“Yes. I talked to him about ten minutes ago. After you enter we are going to turn it over to him to run the vote.” He slid over a proposed ceremony. “Let’s just hope we never have to dust this off again in the future.”

“Agreed!”

“Did you prepare something to say?” he asked.

I tapped my coat. “I had Matt and Mike whip something up quick. I won’t be long, but I do need to say a few things.”

“Do you have any idea how we are going to run a funeral without a body?” he asked.

I shrugged. “I had the guys simply jot something in that next week we will begin a month of national mourning. We can come up with something over the weekend. Hell, Denny, I was eight years old when Kennedy died! I just remembered it screwed up my cartoon watching schedule! Somebody is going to have to dig through the archives.”

We talked a bit more as I glanced over the ceremonial plan, and then there was a knock on the door. An aide stuck his head in and said, “We need to get ready.”

I glanced at Denny and nodded. He responded to the aide, “Are the Leaders and Whips out there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let’s go.” He led the way out of his office and into the corridor beyond, where the others were waiting. A flash went off and I realized there was a photographer there. Not one of the reporters, but an archival photographer for the President. For the rest of my Presidency I would be under constant scrutiny.

John Boehner and Harry Reid were there, and I thanked them for getting back. “Any changes?” I asked.

John shook his head sadly, and Harry simply answered, “None, Mister President.”

“Thank you.”

Denny glanced at his watch and got us in order, and then said, “At the signal, just escort the President down the aisle and take your seats. Wait here until somebody comes for you.” We murmured something and he left.

A few minutes later the same aide as before hustled up. “They’re ready now, gentlemen.”

John Boehner looked over at me and said, “Are you ready for this, Carl?”

“Is anybody?” I answered with a sad smile. “It’s the job I signed up for, John. Let’s do it.” I started forward and the others stepped out and caught up to me. I had two Republicans on my right and two on the left, the same with the Democrats, and two Congressman on each side and two Senators on each side. I didn’t want anybody claiming I wasn’t being ‘bipartisan’ or some such shit.

We halted before the large double door, which then was opened, and the stentorian voice of the House Sergeant at Arms called out, “Mister Speaker, the Acting President of the United States of America!”

Several eyes glanced at me, and I just nodded resolutely and stepped out. The others were in lockstep as I marched down the aisle. There was a low murmur, but it was the quietest I had ever heard the place. We marched down to the well at the bottom, and I continued on and up to the podium. I waited there silently as the others took their places. In their appointed places were the Cabinet members present, the Justices of the Supreme Court, and the Chiefs of Staff of the military services. I glanced over at the Cabinet and saw John Ashcroft holding a leather covered clipboard. He nodded at me discreetly and it was show time. “Mister Speaker, I call on the Attorney General to come forth and preside.” Then I stepped away from the podium. I saw John stand and come forward and I moved around to my regular seat next to the Speaker. That was when I saw the first President Bush sitting next to Denny on the other side. His face was blank and he simply stared forward.

John Ashcroft stepped up to the podium and opened his covered clipboard. He looked out at the audience and began speaking. “Mister Speaker, Mister President Pro Tempore, Congressmen, Senators, distinguished guests… Pursuant to Section 4 of the 25^th Amendment, on Tuesday, September 11, 2001, the Cabinet voted unanimously to confirm Vice President Buckman as Acting President of the nation. Tonight we meet to vote again, to confirm Acting President Buckman as the President and to swear him in as such. I have consulted with Chief Justice Rehnquist as to how we should commence.”

His voice took a slightly more formal tone. “Congressman Boehner, Senator Reid, you have returned from the site of the World Trade Center in New York, where you witnessed the recovery efforts. Is it your opinion that there is any chance that President Bush will be found alive?”

Both John and Harry stood up and said in a loud voice, “No!”

I glanced over at the former President, and tears were streaking down his face, yet he sat there stock still. I remembered hearing that this was his second child to die. Their second child, a daughter, had died as a toddler from leukemia.

My contemplation was short lived. Ashcroft was speaking again. “I will now poll the Cabinet, in order of seniority. A vote of Yes will be to confirm the Acting President as President, a vote of No will be to maintain him as Acting President. Secretary O’Neill?”

Paul stood and said clearly, “Yes!”

“Secretary Powell?”

“Yes.”

When it came to his own name, John voted Yes. Then he continued down the list. Everybody voted Yes. At the end, he reached into his clipboard and pulled forth the Yes vote from Dick Cheney, read it aloud, and asked that it be placed into the record. Then he continued on, going down the list of the House and Senate leadership. All eight voted Yes, as did Denny and President Pro Tempore Byrd.

“The vote is unanimous. Chief Justice Rehnquist, would you please administer the oath of office?” John moved away from the podium and went back to his seat.

I stood up and moved towards the podium, as did Chief Justice Rehnquist. There was a muted gasp from the room as President Bush also stood. He moved woodenly and slowly, and his face was a blank mask of pain, but he came down to the podium with us. I pulled my Bible from my jacket pocket. It was the same King James Version copy I had been sworn in with after all my previous elections, an inexpensive small travel edition Bible, with lightweight paper and a zipper cover. It had been given to me by my parents at my confirmation, back in the days before Hamilton went crazy and I still had a family. When President Bush stood next to me, I handed him the Bible. He stared at it for a second, and then nodded to himself and stood up straighter. His right hand was rock steady as he held it in his palm.

I placed my left hand on the Bible and raised my right hand. Rehnquist discreetly read off a crib note in his hand. “I, Carling Parker Buckman the Second, do solemnly swear… that I will faithfully execute… the Office of President of the United States… and will to the best of my ability… preserve, protect and defend… the Constitution of the United States… so help me God.”

That was it. I was President of the United States. When I had recycled, I had spent years working to meet Marilyn and win her again. This… this was different. I had never gone into politics in a desire to become President, simply a desire to make things better. I had never considered becoming President. Now what?

When I finished, President Bush seemed to stumble a touch and slump, and Justice Rehnquist took his elbow. At the touch, he straightened and looked me in the eye. “Good luck, Mister President.”

“Thank you, Mister President.”

President Bush turned and went back to his seat, and the Chief Justice went to his seat. I moved to the podium and pulled my speech from my coat pocket and flattened it out. It was typed in large print, double spaced. There hadn’t been time to get it to a teleprompter. I took a deep breath and began.

“We the people of the United States, in order to form a more perfect union… That is how our Constitution starts. Over two hundred years ago our Founding Fathers created one of the most amazing documents in human history, a robust yet flexible system of governing that has become one of the strongest in the entire history of mankind. Over the last few days we have seen that wisdom in action.

During that time the strength and flexibility of our system has been on display for the world to see. At the first meeting of the Cabinet after the attack we discussed the 25^th Amendment, and we all came to realize that while the intent of the Amendment was clear, nobody could have foreseen the events which occurred. More than one of us commented that we were in uncharted territory. Yet the meaning and spirit of the Amendment was always understood. I would like to particularly thank Attorney General Ashcroft and Chief Justice Rehnquist for their assistance in determining the procedures we would follow. I would also like to thank Congressman Boehner and Senator Reid for their part in this, both earlier in New York and here today. Most of all I would like to thank former President Bush for offering his services this evening, despite the immense personal cost to himself and his family.

I can begin to tell you what is happening and what will happen in the future. Beginning tomorrow, airports will reopen and flights will begin flying again. The FAA is implementing new security measures, and flight operations will be ramped up slowly, to allow the airlines and passengers to get used to the changes. Initial operations will focus on getting stranded travelers home as quickly as possible. I would expect full scale operations to commence by early next week. Also, we will begin a month of national mourning next week, in remembrance of all who died on Tuesday. While we do not yet have any schedule, memorial ceremonies will be held.

Earlier today my son asked me a very simple question. ‘Who could do such a thing?’ I answered him the only way I knew how. ‘Monsters!’ Even as we speak, a team of FBI, CIA, and Secret Service agents are working to determine exactly who committed this atrocity. I have met with this team several times already and expect to continue to do so in the coming weeks. We will determine who was involved and who aided and abetted them. At that time we will make the appropriate response. Congress has already promised an investigation of this tragedy. It is my intention to cooperate fully with them. Following our response, all information we develop will be reported to them.

Two days ago, while I was touring the destruction at the Pentagon, I talked to a Special Forces sergeant. He told me that ‘They can run as far as they want and dig a hole as deep as they want, but they will just die tired and dirty.’ When the time comes, and we know who was involved, I promise the nation that our response will do that sergeant proud.

I issue a word of warning, however, to anybody who misguidedly decides to take up vengeance in their own hands. I have learned that there have been incidents of religious and racial bigotry and intolerance. Our nation was built on principles of religious tolerance. It was the first and most important amendment to the Constitution. We are not a vengeful people, but a just people, and tolerance is our strength, not our weakness. These actions will not be allowed.

So let me close by repeating what I said three nights ago, when I first spoke to you to tell you what had happened. America is more than its buildings and America is more than its people. America is an idea, a symbol, a belief. We are a beacon of freedom and opportunity to the world, and the evil of madmen will not shutter that beacon. The price of freedom is never cheap, but it is a price that we must bear, and a price that we will gladly pay. Our nation will emerge from this dark day even stronger and more committed to the ideals we believe in. I believed those words when I spoke them, and I believe them even more firmly now.

Thank you, good night, and God bless America.”

Chapter 141: Funerals

After that, I left the podium and exited out a side door. There wasn’t going to be any schmoozing in the aisles tonight. Once outside the chamber, I sent somebody in to find the Commandant of the Marine Corps and ask him to see me for a minute or two. I smiled as I considered that. Once upon a time if a senior officer ‘asked’ me to do something, it was really an order. Now I was the one doing the asking. My, how Second Lieutenant Buckman had grown up.

Marilyn and the kids showed up about a minute before the Commandant did. I knew when that happened because suddenly Charlie’s eyes got wide and he came to attention, making his sisters stare at him briefly. I twisted to look to my right and found the Commandant also coming to attention. I chuckled and said, “As you were, the both of you.”

“You asked to see me, sir?”

“Yes, thank you for coming over, General. I appreciate it. This really concerns my son, Charlie.”

Charlie’s eyes bugged out again and he coughed out a squeaky, “Me!”

The Commandant chuckled and said, “Settle down, Lance Corporal.” He turned to me and asked, “What can I do for you, sir?”

“Two things, really. First, we need to get the Lance Corporal back to Camp Lejeune tomorrow.”

He nodded and turned to his aide, a full colonel. “Set that up, please.”

There was a mumbled, “Sir”’, in response.

“Secondly,”, I continued, “I simply want to make sure that you, and through you the Marine Corps, understands that Lance Corporal Buckman is to continue being treated as Lance Corporal Buckman. I mean no disrespect, but I know it would be tempting for some officers to change his assignments or how he is treated because of who his father is.”

I received a smile at that from the General. “Understood, sir, I will take care of this.”

I then turned to Charlie and said, “Charlie, I can’t promise that people won’t know who you are or who I am. This is the best I can do. As for anything else, you’re a Marine, and I expect you to suck it up.”

My son came to attention and barked out, “Aye, aye, sir!” which made me roll my eyes and the Commandant chuckle.

“General, thank you for your time. I’m sure I’ll be talking to you soon,” I ended things.

“Of course, sir. Thank you.” He shook my hand, and then reached out and shook Charlie’s hand before heading out.

I turned back to my family, and saw that Marilyn was standing away slightly, her cell phone to her ear, and one hand over her other ear, so she could hear the conversation. She had a look of horror on her face, and tears were forming. She looked to be in shock, and she hung up the phone and stared at me. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

“It’s Harlan! He’s dead!”

“WHAT!?”

“That was Anna Lee. She’s been trying to reach us, but couldn’t get through the switchboard. She finally found a number for Tusker and Tessa and got a number from them. It’s Harlan! He was at the Pentagon Tuesday. He’s dead!” She began crying.

The blood drained from me. Oh God, but my sins were piling up fast! “Sweet Jesus!” I exclaimed lowly.

I led the family over to a bench on the side of the hallway and sat down with them. Marilyn and the girls were crying and Charlie was muttering curses under his breath. Several people were staring or trying to get my attention but I ignored them. I pulled out my phone and turned it on, and called the switchboard. A minute later I was talking to Anna Lee.

“Anna Lee, it’s Carl. What happened?”

“Carl, it’s Harlan. He was at the Pentagon when… when… they just notified us. They couldn’t… couldn’t… Oh God, Carl! How could this happen!? He was just going over there to meet somebody!” she wailed.

“Where are you at? Are you at the house? When can we come over?” Marilyn reached out and took my free hand and nodded at me.

“We’re at the funeral home. We’re just about to leave and go home,” she told me.

“We’ll meet you at the house.”

“Thank you!”

I hung up and slipped my phone back in my pocket. I stood up and helped Marilyn to her feet. She was no longer crying, but her eyes were puffy and wet. The kids looked confused and hurt. They might not have been as close as Harlan and I, but they had played with their children and been on vacations with them. I turned to the nearest Secret Service Agent and said, “Change of plans. We are heading over to the Buckminster residence in Alexandria, not the Naval Observatory.”

He looked shocked and said, “Mister President, we can’t…” Then he stopped as he saw the look in my eyes. “Yes sir, understood.” He began speaking into his mike. “Jumper is on the move, diverting to…”

Jumper was my Secret Service codename, taken from my time in the 82^nd. I recalled when it had been assigned to me that it was a name taken from one of Clancy’s books. Marilyn’s codename was Jelly Jar, after the jams and jellies we made together, and it irked her to no end. I had damn near died laughing when I first heard it. The kids were Biker, Trouble One, and Trouble Two at my suggestion. They actually liked their codenames.

There had been some plans to go over to the White House at some point and meet some people, but it wasn’t anything that couldn’t be put off. The Buckminsters had bought a split level in a fairly typical upscale suburban development in Alexandria. Anna Lee had commented to me at the time that it was the first place they had lived that she didn’t have to plan for their next move. We had a convoy of lead and chase cars and my limo and a dummy limo to act as a decoy. When we got there, a lead car had already arrived and ‘secured’ the area. With my luck they had probably shot the neighbors. The Secret Service had a level of institutional arrogance and chutzpah beyond anything I had ever run across.

After we got out, I ignored my protectors and simply walked to the front door and knocked. An agent was already inside, and he opened the door, and looked around, then allowed us in. Anna Lee and Mary Beth were sitting on the couch together, and Tyrone was off to the side. Marilyn immediately sat down next to Anna Lee and they hugged. The twins sandwiched Mary Beth between them. They were just a year or so younger than Mary Beth, who was a college freshman at Virginia Tech. Tyrone was still in high school, a freshman or sophomore, I thought.

Tyrone was the only one by himself, so I went over to him and reached out and shook his hand. Charlie followed along behind me. Tyrone was like a robot, moving on remote control. I went into the dining room and grabbed a chair and brought it back and sat down next to him. “Tyrone.” He didn’t say anything or even look at me. I put my hand on his knee and nudged him. “Tyrone, Earth to Tyrone.”

Tyrone smiled and turned his head, and then got serious again. “Sorry about that, Uncle… Mister… what do I call you now, Mister President?”

I chuckled at that. “Whatever you want, Tyrone. If you want to call me Uncle Carl, go ahead. If you think you’re too old for that, just call me Carl. I won’t mind. Tell your brother and sister the same thing.” He nodded at that. I looked over to the sofa, where all the women were crowded together hugging and crying. “I’m not ready for that. Where can we talk?”

“Yeah. Let’s go in the family room.” Charlie and I followed him down a half flight of stairs into their finished basement. He plopped down on the couch and I sat down in an old armchair next to him. I sent Charlie off to find a few cold cans of Coke. “I don’t know which is worse, the not knowing for the last few days, or the knowing, now,” said Tyrone.

“Tell me what happened, Tyrone.”

“I mean, it was just a normal day. Dad said he was going over to the Pentagon to meet some people, and then after lunch he was going back to his office, but after the plane hit, we never heard nothing. Mom tried to call him but had to leave him a voicemail and he never called. He never came home and we couldn’t get anybody to answer our calls when she called over there. A cop showed up today and told us!”

“Oh, shit!” I muttered lowly. “What’d he say?”

“Oh, man, it was awful. He said they had a body, with Dad’s wallet and identification, at the morgue. He wasn’t a soldier anymore, so they had the police tell us,” he answered.

“Oh, shit!”

“I mean, he wasn’t rude about it or nothing, but… I mean, how do you tell somebody something like that? Do you have to take lessons or something?”

I shrugged. “Yeah, in the Army you do have to take lessons in it. They have special teams to do that.”

“Man, that must suck.”

“I don’t think I could do it, Tyrone,” I told him. “Have you guys gotten in touch with Roscoe?”

“Mom called, but they’re on lockdown. She left a message with somebody.”

I sighed. “Maybe I can do something about that. Let’s go talk to your Mom.”

Roscoe Buckminster was a first class cadet at West Point, what everybody else would call a senior. Roscoe had wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps in the Army, but decided to apply to West Point. Since their official address of record was still in Mississippi, when Harlan had asked me for a little help, I spoke with one of their Senators and did a little horse-trading for his appointment. It was actually really routine Congressional back scratching, but the Buckminsters were suitably impressed. It wasn’t a college lifestyle I would have enjoyed, but Roscoe seemed to like it.

We went back upstairs and I found the girls were off in Mary Beth’s room and Charlie went in search of them. I sat down next to Anna Lee and said, “Tyrone told me you tried to reach Roscoe, but they were locked down. Did you ever reach him?”

“No. Can you call him?”

“You bet.” I wasn’t terribly surprised. When we went to DEFCON Three, they locked up the military bases, and by definition West Point was a military base. They had probably issued bazookas to the cadets and told them to man the wire. I looked around the room and found my Personal Assistant, Mindy, and waved her towards me. Mindy had been my assistant since my Congressional days, had followed me to the West Wing when I became the VP, and was still with me. How she had managed to do all that and get married and have two kids at the same time was a most impressive feat of time management!

“Grab a pad and pen and start taking some notes.” I pulled out my cell phone and called the switchboard. “Get me the Superintendant of West Point, or if he’s not there, whoever is in charge. Call me back as soon as you can.” I flipped the phone shut and said, “As soon as they call, we’ll get you on the line with Roscoe. Mindy, we’ll probably need to make some arrangements to get him back here.”

“Thank you, Carl,” Anna Lee said.

“Did you and Harlan ever talk about where he wanted to be buried?” Marilyn and I had decided on a small public cemetery in Dulaney Valley. Since I wasn’t Catholic, we couldn’t both be buried in a Catholic cemetery. “I can make arrangements for Arlington, I’m sure.”

She shook her head. “No, Harlan wanted to go home. He wanted to be buried at the family plot in Buckminster.”

“Fair enough.” Just at that, the phone I was holding buzzed. I flipped it open. “Hello?”

“Lieutenant General William Lennox, sir. How can I help you?”

“General, thank you for calling. Are you still on lockdown there?” I asked.

“No sir, but we have been conducting drills and inspections. Is there a problem, sir?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m afraid so. You have a cadet there, a first class cadet, Roscoe Buckminster. We just discovered his father was at the Pentagon when the planes hit. I need to speak to him, please.”

“Yes, sir. Give me five minutes and I’ll get him.”

“Don’t say anything to him, General. Let me do that. Afterwards, I’ll need to speak to you again.” I could hear the phone being set down, so I handed it to Mindy. “Keep an ear on that. When you get somebody, I’ll take it. Thanks.” She took the phone and nodded and moved away, to sit at a dining room table.

It took a little over five minutes, but not by much. I had no doubt that I had just initiated a world class goat rope at the Military Academy, which would have been funny any time but now. Who was this Buckminster kid? Where was he? What was he doing there? Get his ass in here! NOW!

I simply sat there quietly, with Tyrone to one side, while Marilyn and Anna Lee commiserated with each other. I gathered one of the problems was a snafu with the switchboard. They had recognized Harlan on my list of Anytime Anywhere callers, like the Tusks, Marty, Brewster, Suzie, and most of Marilyn’s family, but somehow had missed Anna Lee. I would have Mindy look into that. I was jolted out of that reverie when I heard Mindy say, “Please hold for the President of the United States.” She came back to us and handed me the telephone.

I wasn’t sure if I was going to be speaking to the General or Roscoe. “Hello?” I said.

“One second, Mister President. I have Cadet Buckminster here,” answered Lennox.

There was a bit of phone shuffle, and then Roscoe’s clear tenor came through. “Cadet Lieutenant Buckminster!”

I glanced at his mother and decided it would be better for me to break the news. “Roscoe, it’s Carl Buckman.”

“Yes, sir, Unc… Mister President.”

“Roscoe, I have some bad news for you. Your father was at the Pentagon when the plane hit. I’m sorry, son, but your dad didn’t make it.”

I caught a hitch in his voice. “Dad… he’s…”

“Roscoe, I have your Mom here. Hold on.” I handed Anna Lee my phone and then sagged back into the cushion. There is no good way to do this. Some people simply can’t do it. They can’t say the words. I remembered back when Mark and Lauren had their accident on my first go, and lost their oldest girl, Nicki. Gabriel was my boss at the time when I was running Cooperstown and got the job of calling me, and through me, telling Marilyn. He literally couldn’t say the words, but kept spouting things like,

Gabriel: ‘Nicki had a bad accident.’

Me: ‘How bad?’

Gabriel: ‘Bad!’

Me: ‘How bad?’

Gabriel: ‘Real bad.’

Me: ‘Gabe, how bad?’

Gabriel: ‘Bad.’

It took me about a half dozen or more tries to get him to say the words, that Nicki was dead. He simply couldn’t do it. It would have almost been funny, if it wasn’t so horrid.

I sat there with my thoughts as Anna Lee cried and talked to her son, and then she handed the phone back to me. I picked it up and held it to my ear. “Hello?”

“It’s General Lennox, sir. You asked to speak to me.”

“How is Roscoe, General?”

“He’s a bit in shock. As soon as we hang up I am going to speak to his tactical officer and get some of his friends to be with him,” I was told.

I wasn’t sure what a tactical officer did, but it wasn’t important. “General, I don’t want to upset your applecart, but I assume you have some procedure for compassionate leave in a case like this.”

“Yes, sir. We’ll figure something out and try to get him home tomorrow. If he can’t fly, we’ll get him on a train to New York, and then he can get a train from there.”

“The airports will be opening again tomorrow, but I’m not sure when he’ll be able to fly. Just get him to the nearest airport tomorrow and I’ll get a plane there. I’ll let you talk to my assistant about that. Hold a second.” I held out my hand and gave the phone to Mindy. “We can send my G-IV to pick him up. Fly him back here and then we’ll fly the family to Mississippi as needed. Figure it out with the General.”

“Got it.” She took the phone.

I turned to Anna Lee. “We’ll get Roscoe back here. After that, we’ll get you and the family and Harlan back home. Call me when he gets here. If you can’t reach me, call Marilyn. We’ll give you Mindy’s card, too.”

“Thank you.” She gave me a funny look. “You’re really the President, aren’t you? If Harlan was here he would be laughing his ass off at you right now.”

I snorted out a laugh of my own. “He’d have died from laughing too hard, and we’d be back here anyway! He never did have a good thing to say about politicians after he spent time with me on Armed Services!” I shook my head and smiled in remembrance of him.

“I know you’re going to be really busy, but if you could come to the funeral… I mean, I know that you can’t do that stuff now, but maybe call us that day,” she asked.

“Call us when you have the details. Give me a day’s notice and I’ll see what I can do.” I told her. The Secret Service was going to hate it, but if I could swing it, I would.

We all went over to the Naval Observatory and went to bed. I didn’t bother listening to the late night television. I was heartily sick of the 24 hour news stations trying to come up with one more piece to yap about. By now the conspiracy theorists were claiming that I had managed to do all this, because I was actually a secret member of a terrorist group, so that the Muslims could take over the world. If they only knew how right they were (although not in the details!) If it was important, somebody could wake me up. I went to bed thinking about my actions this last week. Was I right or wrong? I had tried every way I could to avoid this, yet here I was.

Saturday I went into the office, and found that things had been moved into the Oval Office. The Bushes were still up at Camp David. I had a visit from the Commanding General of the Military District of Washington, the guy who owns all the ceremonial troops around the city. The Army runs state funerals, which is what the memorial service for George was going to be. They had dusted off the funeral service for JFK, and then started editing it, since it’s real hard to bury somebody who ain’t around to bury! Kennedy had lain in his casket in the White House for 24 hours, and then a horse drawn artillery caisson took the casket to the Rotunda of the Capitol. After 24 hours of laying in state in the Capitol, in an even bigger march back to the White House, then on to St. Matthews Cathedral, and then on to Arlington.

Thankfully, I didn’t have to make any decisions on this. The General had been in touch with President Bush at Camp David, and gone over a plan with him. We would basically use the Kennedy funeral plans, only with an empty casket. It would lie in state, first at the White House for a day, then another day at the Rotunda in the Capitol, and finally be transported to Arlington for interment on Thursday. Eventually it would get a perpetual flame like Kennedy’s. I called the Bushes at Camp David to go over some of this with them. I had talked to the first President Bush several times, and I had called Laura at one point Tuesday afternoon during the mad scramble. Now I was able to speak to Barbara as well, though the twins were still too broken up to speak.

It was rather maudlin and grotesque, I thought, but I really wasn’t in a position to criticize. We did have to make a change, though. By late Saturday morning, Roscoe was linked up with his family, and by that evening they were all, including Harlan in his casket, in Buckminster, with plans for a Sunday viewing and a Monday funeral. Anna Lee had asked us to attend the funeral and speak for Harlan. At that point I called Josh and informed him of my plans. Now I had to write a eulogy for Harlan on my own, and let the Secret Service and the 89^th Airlift know what was going to happen. They would hate me for this!

The President of the United States doesn’t just go somewhere. Security is simply crazy! The assholes who want to kill him are numbered in the thousands or more. When he flies off to someplace, it’s not just him but an entourage of hundreds of people. For instance, my flight to Jackson for Harlan’s funeral (the closest big city to Buckminster) would involve the following. An advance team of Secret Service agents would head down a couple of days before to scout out Jackson and Buckminster. The local cops would be called in and informed about what was happening and what would be required. The Secret Service got first call on all resources. If the locals were chasing a crazed serial killer and the Secret Service wanted the manpower, the serial killer would be left on the loose.

I wasn’t planning on staying overnight, but if I was, they would find a room and set up security. That would probably involve agents investigating every employee and guest of the hotel and checking his or her name against various watch lists of local wackos. Rooms would be cleared out, reservations would be cancelled for other guests, and service deliveries would be investigated. Dozens of agents might be involved.

Prior to Air Force One showing up, one or two C-5 Galaxies would arrive, carrying the armored limo and a bunch of armored Chevrolet Suburban security SUVs, known as ‘War Wagons’. Fuel would be bought for the planes, tested for safety, and then stored in tanker trucks with armed guards around it. Helicopters for local flights might be ferried in or packed into the C-5s for reassembly on site. Doctors would be present. In some places food and water are brought in. This was all choreographed to look seamless — the Big Man flies in and things are ready to go. Mind you, this was for friendly visits. If I was going someplace unfriendly, it was worse! Then, it would all be packed up and leave for the next trip to someplace else.

It could be worse sometimes. George Will once reported that when George Bush came to his house for a dinner party, advance teams of agents descended on his neighborhood and ordered his neighbors, under pain of arrest, to leave their yards and go inside their houses and stay there. It was insane. As a result, the President is practically a prisoner in the White House. There is a reason they have a movie theater in the White House — it is incredibly difficult for the President to actually get in a car and take his wife to the movies otherwise! It’s actually cheaper to build him a theater than it is to go out on the town.

It isn’t this crazy for the Vice President. He’s just another spare part, nice to have around until the machine breaks. Otherwise, one is as good as another. There had been plans to get rid of me and bring in somebody more docile, or smarter, or more bloodthirsty. Now I had to get my own spare part lined up.

On Sunday Marilyn and I took Marine One up to Camp David. I had never been there before. The Presidential Retreat is actually a rustic cabin complex up near Thurmont in the Catoctins. That I wasn’t invited before was due to two factors. First, Presidents are pretty picky about who goes there; they tend to think of it as their personal playground. Second, I was not on the favorites list with Bush and his closest people. He might have to put up with me in Washington, but not up there. Once there it was the first chance we had to see the Bush family since the tragedy. Everybody was present, George H.W. and Barbara, Laura and the girls, and most of the other kids and grandkids. George told me that they would stay up there until the Thursday ceremonies, and then go back to Texas. Laura and the girls wouldn’t be coming back to the White House. I replied that we wouldn’t move in until after the ceremonies. There was no point in being rude about it. I did have a chance to talk to Jeb and a few of the older grandsons, some of whom seemed interested in getting into politics on their own. This family was the Republican version of the Kennedys, though without all the drama.

The schedule that week was, for want of a better word, horrid. I would be officially mourning the entire week, from Sunday on, speechifying, shaking hands, looking somber, meeting every dignitary and VIP under the Sun, at least 25 or 26 hours every day. The current plan was to do Harlan’s funeral on Monday and fly back that afternoon. The official Bush funeral ceremonies would start on Tuesday and conclude Thursday. The only one I really wanted to be at was Harlan’s, which was the one I got the most grief over from everybody else on the planet. How dare I visit a private funeral this week? How could I pick this funeral and not any of the others? What makes this guy more deserving than anybody else? I dumped it into Ari Fleischer’s lap. He could tell people that while I knew there were going to be thousands of individual ceremonies and sendoffs, my duties would allow me only two, one for a ‘common man’ — Harlan — and one for a ‘great man’ — the President. He needed to polish that turd up and get a few people to start spinning the story.

Monday morning Marilyn and I flew out at the crack of dawn. The girls were back in school in Hereford and Charlie was back at Camp Lejeune, and everybody probably had lots of stories to tell. Tessa was staying at the house keeping an eye on the girls. We were met in Jackson by the Governor of Mississippi, a fellow I had never met before named Ronnie Musgrove, and all the Mississippi Senators and Congressmen. None of them had ever met or heard of Harlan until I came to bury him, and all of them had wonderful things to say about him. I almost lost my lunch. I whispered to Marilyn, “Do you hear that high pitched whirring sound?”

She gave me a confused look. “No.”

“It’s the sound of Harlan spinning in his grave, and he’s not even there yet!”

That simply earned me a subtle nudge in the side.

From Jackson we rode in a convoy to Buckminster. I allowed Musgrove and an aide to travel with me. The rest of them could find rides of their own! They actually had a couple of deluxe motor coaches, giant luxury buses, to haul their important butts around. I knew there would be cameras and video crews and press around for this, and I had warned Anna Lee that by my showing up, things could get crazy. She still wanted us there, and said that she’d throw people out if they got out of control. I was traveling with Carter, on his first foray into press control. We came up with a few rules. A single video camera inside the church, along with no more than a half dozen reporters. Anybody who acted up would be escorted to the local jail, where they could call their lawyer. The same applied to the politicians. I mentioned this in passing to the Governor, in a joking manner, but I wasn’t really smiling and I suggested he pass it along to some of the other dignitaries.

I wasn’t really surprised to find that there was a real zoo outside of the Buckminster African Baptist Church. As I looked out the window as we pulled up in front, I could see a line of State Troopers and local cops keeping a solid wall of reporters back. Hovering around everything was a cloud of Secret Service agents, all looking important, wearing dark sunglasses and talking into their sleeves. One of the agents in the limo began talking back, and after a bit, we were allowed out. Needless to say, everyone started yelling questions at me, and needless to say, I just ignored them. I did, however, notice a face I needed to speak to, in a small group near the door to the church.

I turned to the Governor and said, “Gentlemen, I am sure you can find a seat inside. Meanwhile, I need to talk to a few people first.” Then I turned away, dismissing them. It might have been a little rude, but I couldn’t deal with any more bullshit today. I took Marilyn by the hand and went towards the little group at the door.

There were three men in the group, an older black man in the uniform of a police officer of some sort, wearing a Smokey Bear campaign hat, a white Army officer about my age, and a young black man wearing the gray cadet uniform of the Corps of Cadets of the Military Academy. Him I knew. He was Roscoe Buckminster. As I approached Roscoe and the officer came to attention and saluted, and the police officer at least stood a little straighter. I approached a little closer and then stopped and came to attention and returned the salutes.

As soon as we broke I reached out and took Roscoe’s hand. “Oh, Roscoe, I am so sorry for this. How’s your mom doing?”

“Thanks, Uncle C… Mr. President. She’s fine. They’re inside already. I just needed to get out in the air for a bit.”

“You can still call me Uncle Carl, I won’t mind. If it’s official, though, it’s Mister President or you get drummed out of the Army,” I said with a grin.

Marilyn came up and gave him a hug. Roscoe was now quite a bit bigger than she was. She began talking to him. I looked at the other two men. “Gentlemen, Carl Buckman.”

The black man spoke first, saying, “John Brown, Sheriff of Buckminster County. I’ve known Harlan’s family for years.” He looked over at the mob of reporters with disgust. “They’re like a pack of hyenas.”

I shook the Sheriff’s hand. “Sheriff, hyenas have morals. If any of them get out of line, you have my blessing to lock them up and throw away the key. Hell, shoot them and I’ll write you a pardon! It’s nice meeting you.” I turned to the officer, an artillery colonel. “Colonel?” I shook his hand as well.

“Avery, sir. William Avery. I served with Harlan quite a few times over the years. We stayed in touch after he got out. Anna Lee called and invited me and my wife. I was just chatting to Roscoe here about my days in Beast Barracks.”

I smiled and nodded. “Harlan and I managed to avoid that personal torture. We served together several times, also. I’m glad you’re here. They need familiar faces.”

Roscoe looked over and said, “Sir, Mom said that she’d like you to be one of the pallbearers, if you could. I mean, if you can do that sort of thing now. If not, don’t worry, we’ve got plenty of cousins.”

“I’d be honored. Let’s just hope we bought your father a cheap and lightweight casket.”

He smiled. “I heard him say the same thing once.”

“They’re heavy suckers, that’s for sure.”

“You two are awful, and I am telling your mother, Roscoe,” commented my wife. “We should be going in.”

I smiled and took Marilyn’s hand, and Roscoe ushered us inside. We were in a reserved pew a few back from the family, and Roscoe whispered, “Mom says you need to be on the aisle, so you can get up and speak.” I nodded, but then broke free and went forward with Marilyn to hug Anna Lee and Mary Beth. It was obvious they had been crying, but were calm now. After that we sat down in our pew and Roscoe sat with his family.

The liturgy was fairly simple to follow along with. It was somewhat longer and a bit more rambunctious than I was used to, but that was the style, so go with the flow. The church was fairly large and was packed, though how much that was because of Harlan’s attendance and how much was because of my attendance was debatable. Eventually it was my turn to speak, and the minister called me to the lectern.

“Thank you, Pastor Carmichael. It was with a great deal of sadness that I learned that Harlan Buckminster had passed from us. We only learned Friday evening, and our entire family felt the loss deeply. We rushed to Anna Lee’s side as soon as we heard, because that is what family and friends do, and what you here have done.

I knew Harlan Buckminster for well over twenty years, since I was a teenager in fact, and we were friends since just about that first day. We met our first day in basic training in the Army. Buckman — Buckminster — the Army is nothing if not efficient, and we were assigned to the same barracks and to the same bunk. I was on the top bunk and Harlan was beneath me. For the rest of our time that summer, when one of us was assigned to do something, the other one would be right next to him.

We had not a single thing in common. Harlan was a black kid from Mississippi, the son of a mill worker and the descendant of slaves. I was a privileged white kid from one of the richest suburbs in the country. The only thing we shared was our color, not white or black, but green, Army green. We were soldiers, and that was plenty good enough for the both of us. We became fast friends.

Two years later we attended artillery school together at Fort Sill, and we bunked together again. We went our separate ways afterwards, as you tend to do in the Army, but we would often link up again, as you also tend to do in the Army. One time, when Harlan finished jump school and was assigned to Fort Bragg for a few weeks, Marilyn and I had him stay with us rather than let him live in the barracks. Many years later we worked together again when I was on the Armed Services Committee in Congress, and Harlan was assigned to be my assistant. Over the years we vacationed together; sometimes we stayed with the Buckminsters, and sometimes they would vacation with us. Our children called the Buckminsters Uncle Harlan and Aunt Anna Lee, and we were Uncle Carl and Aunt Marilyn to their children.

In every way, Harlan Buckminster was a good man, a brave man, a proud man, and a fun man. He was a good man, in that he always took care of his family and friends, and could always be counted on in a time of need. The people here in this church knew him from when he was a little boy, and I have met several of you over the years, and have heard some of the stories about him. Most of the time I ended up laughing over the stories, and then we would sit there and swap lies for a while.

Harlan was a brave man. He spent twenty years defending our country. He was a lieutenant colonel in the United States Army, and in that time saw combat and smelled gun smoke. He paid a price, as all soldiers do, in frequent absences from home, frequent moves, and not enough pay for the responsibilities which were his. His love for his country was as great as his love for his family.

Harlan was proud, too. He was the first member of his family to ever go to college, and he ended up a professional officer. His wife was a nurse, and his children would all go to college. He knew the great leap he had taken but he was always proud of his family and background, and he always cherished the burden of making his family proud of him.

Harlan was funny. He was a guy you could sit down with and have a drink with, and we routinely did. When I went into politics he had more than a few pithy comments to make, and the longer I stayed in, the more fun he made of me. As I was telling Anna Lee the other night, if he’d lived long enough to see me become the President, he’d have died laughing and we’d all be back here anyway!

Harlan and I were friends, and we often talked, not just about what the kids were up to and what our favorite teams were doing, but about history and politics. I won’t lie to you and say we agreed on everything. Harlan was a Democrat and I’m a Republican. Sometimes we’d get to chewing on each other pretty good. It didn’t matter. In the end we would always come back to the fact that Army green wasn’t red or blue, it was red, white, and blue. No matter what we would argue about, in the end we were both Americans.

And now we do what has to be done with all good men, we have to give him back to God, with thanks for letting us borrow him for too short a time. Harlan, your family will miss you, and your friends will miss you, and I will miss you. So, it’s time to send you now to your final reward. I strongly suspect you’re going to Heaven, but I might be wrong. I suppose there’s a chance you might be heading somewhere south of there. Don’t worry, though, because if that happens, when I get there we can bunk together again.”

After the ceremony, I hung back with the other pallbearers (and a Secret Service detail, which everybody else stared at) and then helped carry the casket out of the church and to the hearse. I commented to Colonel Avery that Harlan didn’t get the lightweight casket, which earned me a few laughs. From the church we went to the cemetery, and again I found myself carrying a casket. Thankfully I didn’t stumble or drop him, since this was going out live and nationwide on television. Then it was back to Washington. We didn’t even have time to do much more than hug Anna Lee and the kids, though I did have a chance to speak to Tyrone.

“Uncle Carl, can I ask you a question?”

“Sure, what’s on your mind?”

He glanced over at his brother in his gray uniform. “When I get old enough, will you help me get into West Point, like you helped Roscoe?”

I crossed my arms and eyed the young man, and also glanced at his mother. She didn’t look either pro or con, but she had been a camp follower for most of her life. “I’ll give you a maybe on that. You need to qualify to get in, which means really good grades and a few other things. You’ve got a few years to go, but if you can qualify and you are still interested, look me up, and we’ll talk. Fair enough?”

“Yes, sir!”

Anna Lee shooed him off and said, “Thank you.” She glanced over at Roscoe, talking to some of his cousins. “Who’d have thought it? The first in his family to go to college, and he ends up with two at West Point? Harlan wouldn’t never believe that!”

“Kick his butt on his grades,” I told her, then we all hugged and we took our leave.

We flew back to Washington quietly, both Marilyn and I wrapped in our own thoughts. I had known Harlan for over a quarter of a century. Had it really been that long? It seemed like just a summer or two ago that we had routed the Orange Army and fired 105s and done training jumps together. It was like I had said; we hadn’t been black or white, but green. He was just too damn young to be gone!

The rest of the week was a combination of morbid fakery and diplomacy. Every day there was some form of ceremony, some short and some long, usually with the Bush family in attendance. I had a lieutenant colonel from the Military District of Washington following me around giving me instructions and timetables for what I had to do. My overwhelming thought every time I saw him was, ‘We’re paying an O-5 to do this shit?!’ Every day it seemed like I had to give a different speech or memorial presentation, and Matt and Mike were working overtime writing them for me.

It got worse that day. Somebody decided to have some fun mailing anthrax to various government offices. Fortunately, I had remembered about this happening, though not the time frame, and I had given orders on 9-11 to start screening mail more carefully. Nothing actually got to any Congressional offices, though the Capitol mailroom ended up contaminated and four workers there eventually died. For some reason it seemed like it wasn’t as bad this time as on my first trip through. Once again the press went into overload.

Meanwhile, foreign dignitaries were trickling in daily. Pretty much every nation around the world that the United States had cordial relations with sent either royalty or their highest ranking elected official or their head of foreign affairs. Many sent all of the above. From England we got Prince Charles and the Prime Minister. The Israelis sent their President, Prime Minister, and Foreign Minister. Unlike with JFK, we now got delegations from a variety of former or still Communist states, including the People’s Republic of China. We also got delegations from a number of Arab and Islamic states, but not all of them. Meanwhile, back home, in a number of those countries people were still dancing in the streets.

I assigned Dick Cheney to handle most of these delegations. We were barely on speaking terms at that point, and we were now communicating through aides and assistants. I ordered him to divvy the delegates into groups. The people we liked and were important got to meet with me. The people we liked and weren’t important got to meet him. The people we didn’t like got junior flunkies, regardless of how important they were. That group included most of the Arab world. There was no way in hell I was going to sit down and break bread with the Saudis, not when almost all of the hijackers had been Arabs working for an Arab terrorist group. If they felt insulted, I really didn’t care.

I ended up speaking to the powers-that-be of about a dozen nations. In most cases I was able to meet with them between ceremonies. Everybody wanted the new American President to visit their country. It was actually rather refreshing in a way, in that some of these places were actually places you would want to visit. George Bush had never sent me to Paris while he was alive, but now it seemed quite probable he would do so in his death.

Wednesday, after seeing the casket in the Rotunda, I was able to meet with Colin Powell in the Oval Office. I knew that some of the neoconservatives in the West Wing would report the meeting to the ‘real’ Republicans elsewhere, but I no longer cared. It was time to do some housecleaning.

“Colin, thank you for coming,” I said after he was ushered into the Oval Office. I dismissed the Secret Service escort and directed him over to a sideboard. “Coffee?”

“Allow me, sir. You?”

“I’ll have tea. I never have been able to really stomach coffee. Now I don’t have to,” I said, smiling.

I joined him at the sideboard and poured myself some Earl Grey from a silver tea service. Colin poured himself some Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee. The blend was supposed to be the most expensive in the world, and restricted to the Oval Office. It was ironic that I would never taste it. It was simply coffee to me, and made my stomach churn. We took our cups back to our seats in armchairs in the center of the room.

“You asked to see me, sir?”

I smiled. “Colin, I think when we’re alone, you can call me Carl. Twenty years ago I would have been calling you sir, not the other way around, and I would have been doing it at attention.”

He chuckled at that. “Carl, I would hate to be that presumptuous. I wouldn’t want to take the chance somebody might consider me disrespectful.”

“Do you consider it likely that somebody will consider you disrespectful of the President, whoever he is?” I said, smiling.

“No, sir, I don’t.”

“Okay, let’s get down to business. You want to be the Vice President?” I asked.

Secretary Powell was quick to answer, with a shake of his head. “No, sir, I would not.”

I shrugged. “Didn’t think so, but I had to ask. You’d do it well. If something were to happen to me, I’d die knowing the country was in good hands.”

“I’ve talked to Alma about it and I just can’t do it to my family,” he replied.

“I’m not surprised. Okay, want to be the Secretary of State?” Colin Powell looked at me sharply at that but didn’t say anything. “Oh, don’t give me that look! You know I can’t keep working with the man. He thinks he should have had this job, not me. I don’t trust him and neither do you. It’s not a question of whether he leaves, but when and how. I need a Secretary of State I can work with and that I can trust not to get me into a war I don’t want.”

Powell sighed. “Are you sure about this?”

“Colin, last Tuesday changed our nation, our world, in ways that will take years to figure out. For the last twenty years old enemies have been dying out and new enemies have been arising. Now we have to figure out ways of dealing with a wholly new world. I cannot do this by myself. I need help! Help me!” I asked.

“Who do we put in as Secretary of Defense?”

I shrugged but smiled. “I don’t know yet, but we can figure it out. Does that mean you’ll switch to State?”

“When do you want to do this?” he asked.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” I replied, smiling. Powell didn’t gainsay me. “Soon. We’ll be responding to this in the next few weeks. As it stands, I can’t trust what I am being told. If I leave it up to Cheney and the other neocons, we’ll end up invading some damn place that has nothing to do with this. They have an agenda that has nothing to do with what really happened.”

“The question still stands. When do you plan to do this?”

“I can see a response by the end of the month, or maybe the first week of October. Once that is done, he’s gone. If I fire him first, I have no idea what he will do in response. He might just spout off and say something, all with the best of motives, of course, that will screw something up. In the meantime, you need to get your bomber crews dialed up and the other assets in place. I want to have some options to discuss early next week.”

“Al Qaeda?” he asked.

“And the Taliban. And I don’t need to attack the other billion Muslims around the world while we’re doing this.”

“Who do we put in Defense? And CIA, for that matter? And the Vice Presidency?”

I gave a minor shrug at that. “I’ve got an idea or two for the CIA, but I’m not sure yet on Defense, and I will be more than happy to listen to suggestions. I’m thinking about the VP slot, too. If you can come up with a name or two for Defense, I’ll sort out the Vice President slot and CIA. We need to completely rebuild our intelligence capabilities. Go back to the Pentagon and see what your sources are up to.”

“Yes, sir. Understood.”

I stood up, and Powell stood with me. I reached out to shake his hand. “General, I appreciate the assistance. Thank you, sir.”

I was also able to meet with several foreign leaders on an individual basis. For these we had to have interpreters and the Secretary of State was present. Some leaders were happy to see me, others quite wary. The neocons had been getting more and more bellicose as the year had worn on, and Vladimir Putin was not amused, among others. Most of all, everyone wanted to meet the new boy President. I was 45 years, 10 months, and 6 days old when I was named Acting President, the third youngest President in American history. I told Cheney we would need to make a foreign trip before the end of the year. I received a sneer in response.

Fine by me. I’d hang him out to dry before then.

Chapter 142: Intelligence

Monday, September 24, 2001

The funeral was finished by Thursday afternoon. Laura and the girls officially moved out on Friday. I needed to take a few days off myself. Marilyn and I flew back to Hereford on Thursday for a long weekend. In the meantime, the White House Chief Usher, the head of the residence staff, would coordinate getting the Bush’s belongings out of the place and out of Camp David, and getting our stuff moved over from the Naval Observatory. We would officially move in Monday morning.

When I was elected as Vice President, we had moved our clothing and my office from the house on 30^th over to the Naval Observatory, though we left the furniture. I had debated putting the home on the market, but quickly realized that it might be useful to keep it around as a backup residence. If I had somebody visiting that I either couldn’t put up in an official residence, or didn’t want to, or didn’t have the room for, I could let them stay there. It wasn’t like I had to sell it to pay the new mortgage.

We were both exhausted by the time we got back to the house, but there was no rest for the weary. Almost immediately I was asked where I wanted the commo bunker installed. “Excuse me?” I asked the Secret Service agent.

“The communications trailers. There are actually two of them, plus antennas. We didn’t think you wanted them out on the front lawn, so to speak.”

I looked at my wife and muttered, “Good grief!” She looked distressed so I dragged the fellow outside and pointed to a place out in the field on the other side of the landing pad. Then I looked in the other direction, and saw a clearing in the woods I owned on the other side of the street, a clearing that hadn’t been there before. “What’s going over there?”

“A security trailer.”

“Just how permanent are you making these things?” I asked.

He shook his head and said, “Not too crazy. No basements or anything. They’ll be self contained units on slab foundations. The day you leave the White House, we can just unbolt everything and haul it away.”

Leaving me with new concrete lawn ornaments. I sighed in acceptance. “I assume you’ll be doing this at Hougomont, too?”

“Where’s that? I know we have to do it in the Bahamas.”

“Hougomont is the name of our place in the Bahamas,” I told him.

“Oh. Yes, sir, there too. That’s a different team, though.”

“God help the Bahamas! They’ll probably declare me an undesirable by the time this is done!” I wandered back inside and told Marilyn what was going on.

To be fair, they kept the disruption to a minimum. Ever since that first day after the election, when I managed to get a really obnoxious and arrogant agent packed off to Nome, Alaska, or somewhere north of there, the Secret Service was generally a lot politer to me. Okay, there had been the asshole on Air Force Two, but that was a pretty odd day to begin with. Some of the changes we were getting were simply upgrades of various things that had been put in when I became the Vice President. They had replaced our phone system and Internet/cable connections then, and increased security also. Now, as the President, I just got more.

I couldn’t wait until they brought in the anti-aircraft missiles! That was no joke, either. I heard somebody mentioning an I-HAWK battery, but they couldn’t figure out how to camouflage it, and were debating using Stingers instead. Joy!

I had 25 acres around the house and about 10 across the road. I wondered if it would be sufficient!

One thing I had to deal with over the weekend was a ridiculous case of racism. It had been simmering all week, but what with the memorial services, I was prevented from dealing with it appropriately. It all dated from Monday, at the funeral for Harlan, when during the eulogy I had said that in basic, ‘I was on the top bunk and Harlan was beneath me.’ Reverend Al Sharpton had been taking me to task ever since then about my obvious racism and how black people were beneath me!

When Ari Fleischer told me this, I simply stared at him in disbelief. Finally, I got my brain to working and asked, “Are you kidding me?!”

“I am dead serious, Mister President!”

“Ari, we were assigned our bunks. I never chose, or I’d have chosen the bottom bunk! Are you shitting me?!”

“He is also claiming that your position carrying the coffin meant something demeaning. That one I don’t understand myself.”

I gave him another odd look. “There were six of us, and I was in the center on the left. I’ve got a bad knee, and if I bobbled the thing, the guys in front and behind could catch it. This is nuts.”

“Al Sharpton doesn’t have to make sense. All he wants to do is keep his name out there. He thinks he’s the next Jesse Jackson and Martin Luther King, Jr., all rolled into one.”

“Shit! Okay, if you have to put out something, simply say that the bunks were assigned and that is all that means. Jesus Christ! I have to bury a President and this asshole thinks it’s a good time to grandstand!” I told him.

Ari put out an appropriate statement, but that didn’t shut Sharpton up. He loved the sound of his own voice, and facts never swayed him. It came to a head that Sunday morning on Meet the Press. Tim Russert, who I had known for years, had Sharpton on in an early segment, and as a counterpoint, had a retired Major General Jonathan Buller. It took me a second to recognize him, but then it dawned on me that General Buller had been my battalion commander when I had Bravo Battery. The interesting thing, though, was that Buller, who had been a fine battalion commander and who had continued rising through the ranks, was as black as the ace of spades. That had never been important to me when he had been Lieutenant Colonel Buller and I had been First Lieutenant Buckman. He said ‘Jump!’ and I said, ‘How high?’ How they ever dug him up I will never fathom.

Sharpton was being broadcast from a studio in New York City, and Buller was in the studio with Russert. Sharpton started off with a litany of woes about the racism of the Buckman administration, which had only been in office about 12 days at that point. As proof, he cited my long personal history of racism, starting with my statement about Harlan being beneath me. When Tim stated that I had explicitly stated that I was in the top bunk and Harlan was in the bottom bunk, Sharpton replied, “That’s what Mister Buckman says, of course, but that doesn’t mean it’s true!”

Tim looked over at General Buller. “General? You used to command the President. Is he a racist?”

“Absolutely not! This is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard of! Lieutenant Buckman was one of the finest officers I ever had the privilege of commanding, and I never saw a trace of racism in his words or his actions. I recommended him for early promotion twice, and if he had stayed in the army he would have had an outstanding career. He was an excellent officer.”

“Then what about the significance of which bunk he was in? Or is there a significance?”

Buller snorted. “This happened when he was in cadet training, which for an officer is the same thing as boot camp. They start at one end of the barracks and a sergeant assigns each boy a bunk alphabetically. It’s a bunch of 18 and 19 year old kids, and the sergeant just goes you… you… you… right down the line. Buckman… Buckminster… next! They sleep where they are told, they march where they are told, they do what they are told, and they do it with whoever they are told to do it with! That’s all it is. Every soldier and every officer goes through it. It’s basic training and that’s how it works. If Al Sharpton had ever served the country like he serves his mouth, he’d know better!”

It only got better from there! I watched with vast amusement as my old friend had to put up with Sharpton and Buller trading insults. Sharpton called my former commander a ‘Tom’ and a ‘house boy around the plantation’ and Buller called Sharpton a ‘damn fool’ and a lying sack of [bleeped]!’ I was laughing my ass off at that point, and Russert pulled the plug on the pair of them. I told Marilyn we would have to invite General Buller to dinner some night, maybe to speak to the NAACP, at which point she told me to ‘Behave!’ and gave me a finger wagging. Somehow I suspected the problem was going to go away at that point. I dreaded to think of what Harlan’s family thought of it all.

Monday morning, I took Marine One back to Washington while Marilyn stayed home with the girls. This was their senior year in high school. We needed to somehow make a two-home family work, just until they graduated. This was going to be tricky, since Marilyn was now the First Lady, and needed to be in Washington with me. It wouldn’t be easy.

I left the house early and got to my office about 8:00, and went directly to the Oval Office. First things first — I received a Presidential Daily Briefing without any attitude now. The official intelligence was still that everything pointed towards Iraq. The intel I was getting from the Three Amigos was pointing towards Al Qaeda and Afghanistan.

Priority Number One — Sort this shit out! My first call was to Collins Barnwell, and tell him I wanted the three of them to be here at 11:00 with the latest info. Barnwell was the titular head of the investigation, and an Executive Assistant Director of the FBI. The other two, Secret Service Assistant Director William Basham and CIA Deputy Director of Analysis Winston Creedmore, were to come along with him.

Until then I puttered around doing odds and ends. That’s not saying I was goofing off, but at the Presidential level, even the odds and ends are important. The secretaries try to keep things straight, but there are never enough hours in a day. Even going to the bathroom seems to be on a schedule. Forget about goofing off and reading a magazine or playing Solitaire on the computer. You are already booked for that time. Meanwhile, something is bound to come up that throws everything out of whack. By the way, everything that lands on your desk can literally involve life and death decisions.

Nobody has yet come up with a way to determine if somebody will be up to the job of being President. Some business executives ran on the basis of their ability to run big operations and multi-task. These are useful skills, and are also found in a number of governors who had held the job. Then again, over the years we’ve had some governors who didn’t do as well as others (Carter and Bush 43, not great; Clinton, better than average) and Senators without executive experience that had done okay (Kennedy) and others who hadn’t (Obama). All the scholars could do was make wild ass guesses about what it took. From what I could see you needed to be a world class juggler and as flexible as a contortionist. Maybe they needed to start recruiting at the circus.

Barnwell gave the presentation on what they had discovered so far, and it was impressive. The FBI technique is to throw a zillion agents at a problem, with each one assigned to a specific task, and that agent becomes an expert on that task. So, the simple answer was to take the passenger and crew lists from each airplane and assign an agent to each passenger or family of passengers, and to each crew member and investigate them thoroughly. Could they have been involved? Where were they sitting? Who were they sitting next to? What was that person doing? What was their background and history? If they were clean, that agent got assigned to something else.

In short order they were able to write off ninety-plus percent of the crew and passengers. Joe Schmoe, a stock broker from Milwaukee, flying home from Boston, on the way to see his blonde wife and 2.3 children, was not the guy who did this. Instead, let’s look closer at this swarthy fellow, Mohammed Mohammed, who paid for his trip in cash, one way, is on an expired visa from Saudi Arabia, and who got a pilot license in the States. Yeah, let’s look at him, especially after an interview with his flight instructor reports that Mohammed Mohammed wasn’t paying any attention to the ‘landing’ portion of the lessons. At that point, they start tearing this guy’s life apart. Where was he living? What was his itinerary like? Where did he get his money from? Where were his bank accounts? Can we tie him to anything overseas, with the CIA? Did he show up on Secret Service lists?

Nineteen foreign born men, most of them from Saudi Arabia, were tagged and investigated. They all had ties to the terrorist group Al Qaeda, and had some history in Afghanistan. None of them had anything to do with Iraq.

“Okay, gentlemen, you’ve told me the good news, such as it is. We know who did it and we know how they did it. How did they slip through? Or did we catch them and ignore them?” I asked. At that point I started getting some hemming and hawing, and guilty looks from both Barnwell and Creedmore, with Basham having the good taste to try and look sympathetic. I eyed them and said, “Let me put it another way. Just how bad did your departments fuck up?”

Barnwell answered first. “Bad enough, sir. We are still digging through our own files on this, but it is obvious that we had some early reports on at least some of these men, something that twigged various local agents, and that got buried by higher ranking agents.”

“Great! You?” I asked Creedmore.

“Not like that. We don’t investigate inside the U.S. That being said, if something was sent to us, it would have been buried. As a general rule, we don’t share with anybody else unless we have to.” He saw the look on my face and held his hands up. “Hey, I am just telling it like it is. It’s the way we’ve operated for years. I am not saying it’s right or wrong.”

“Wonderful.” I turned my head to Basham and raised my eyebrows at him.

He shook his head. “We had nothing on these guys. They simply didn’t pop up. Then again, we never got a heads up from anybody else, either.”

“Okay. It’s obvious that we need to really overhaul the intelligence system in this country. Keep working on this. I don’t care how crazy it gets, but we need to be comprehensive. You three are my point men on this. When Congress decides to hold hearings on this, I am going to personally haul you down there and nail you to the seats. They are going to have a field day with this, and we have no choice but to be clear and comprehensive. We can’t hide it any longer. We will need names of anybody at any rank who withheld information or buried reports. Heads are going to roll.”

Creedmore looked at the other two for a second and then turned back to me. “Mister President, the FBI and the CIA aren’t the only intelligence agencies in town. Have you looked at any other sources?”

“Specifically?”

“Well, there’s the Defense Intelligence Agency, which is run by Defense, and the State Department has some sources. Most of the military branches have their own intelligence system,” he explained. “Even Treasury has intelligence related to moving money around. These mutts had to get their money somewhere.”

Good luck getting anything out of State! That was locked down tight by Cheney and Libby. Defense was another matter, however, with Colin Powell running it. I knew enough about moving money around that Paul O’Neill and his troops would need names before they could track things. I gave them orders to get a list of names to O’Neill and Treasury. Basham could handle that, since the Secret Service worked for Treasury. I would call Colin Powell.

I called Colin Powell right after lunch. I told him what I had been told, that maybe Defense had some assets in the DIA who might know something. Colin’s response was unusual. He paused for a second, and then said, “Are you reading my mind or something?”

“Not that I was aware of. Why?”

“Something came up this morning. I need to see you about it.”

I looked down the schedule on my desk. I was already booked solid, but decided to delay some things until after dinner. I had already planned to stay the night in the White House. “Can you be here by four?”

“Yes, sir.”

I hung up and called in Josh and Mindy to go over the schedule and changes. At 4:00 Secretary Powell was announced and was ushered in, along with an officer in an Army uniform, with a lieutenant colonel’s silver oak leaves on his epaulets. I hadn’t been expecting anybody else, but I didn’t envision a problem. I stood and shook hands with the Secretary and the newcomer, a Lieutenant Colonel Anthony Shaffer, and invited them both to sit down.

“Mister President, when you called me earlier today, I had just spoken to Colonel Shaffer here, and I think it is important that you hear what he has to say. I have to say, I had never heard any of this before.”

I turned to Shaffer and said, “I’m all ears, Colonel.”

“Sir, have you ever heard of Project Able Danger?” he asked.

“Project Able Danger? Can’t say as I have.” I turned to Powell and asked, “Where do you guys come up with these names? You keep them in a barrel in the basement or something?”

“This isn’t all that funny, Mister President.”

“Okay, fair enough. Continue, Colonel.”

Shaffer nodded and said, “Project Able Danger was started two years ago in the Defense Intelligence Agency. I was in charge of the project, though not the only person assigned to it. General Shelton authorized the program, which was to use database mining techniques to determine if open source and non-classified information could be used to target potential terrorists operating inside the United States.”

Despite my technical background, I wasn’t quite sure what he was talking about. “This started in 1999? What is database mining? My technical background is in information theory and topology.”

He blinked at that, expecting me to say law or something. “Yes, sir, 1999. Data mining involves looking for relationships in massive databases. It needs really massive computer power. It starts getting into artificial intelligence and statistical analysis…”

I held my hands up. “Okay, while part of me would love to go into this, a bigger part of me doesn’t have the time. You are obviously here for a reason. What is it?” Before he could answer, I looked at Colin. “How did you get involved in this? You’re the Secretary of Defense. I don’t mean to belittle the Colonel here, but whatever this is is way below your horizon.”

“Colonel, you want to explain that, please?” answered Colin Powell.

“Yes, sir.” He turned to face me. “Earlier today I was ordered to shut down Able Danger and destroy all the records involved. I felt this was very unusual, so instead I made a computer copy of what I could, and delayed implementation of the orders.”

“Who gave you these orders, and why do I care?”

“The orders were given to me in the office of the Director of the Defense Intelligence Agency, Vice Admiral Wilson. I was called into his office this morning, and received them verbally from somebody in the State Department,” he said.

“State? Why?” That made no sense at all. What would State have to do with whatever this was?

“Yes, sir. I was called into the Director’s office and he was talking to a man. Then he ordered me to obey any orders I was given and he left. The fellow who was there never introduced himself, but he had a nametag on, an ID badge, saying he was Jonathan Radziwill, State Department. He ordered me to shut it down. Afterwards, he left, the Director came back in, and I was sent on my merry way.”

I glanced over at Powell, who simply said, “Deniability.”

I nodded and asked, “He ordered it shut down? Why?”

“That was not explained, sir. I was simply told to shut it down and destroy all records of it. As I said, I found that very unusual, so I went outside of channels and got in touch with the Secretary.”

“I like proper channels, Colonel. Who did you speak to?”

He took a deep breath and admitted, “I called General Shinseki. I had met him once or twice before. He’s retired now, but he told me he could reach the Secretary. I simply stated I needed to speak to the Secretary. I did not speak of Able Danger.”

I looked at Powell. “Shinseki called you?”

“And I called Shaffer here.”

“What the hell is this all about, Colonel? What did this Able Danger do?”

“Sir, we found the names of some of the 9-11 hijackers. We reported them to the CIA.”

I stared at him for a moment. “You knew who was going to attack those airplanes?”

“No, sir, not really. We figured that out afterwards,” he replied.

I looked over at Powell. He looked back at me in dead seriousness. Colin Powell had bought into whatever this was. I turned back to Shaffer. “Okay, you’re going to need to explain that, like you’re teaching a really stupid politician.”

“What we determined was that there were groups of individuals who fit the profiles of possible terrorists, organized into groups, a cell organization it’s called. We passed this information along to the CIA, since these were foreign nationals, so they could track down anything about them.”

“I’m with you so far. So how do you know these men were the 9-11 guys? Those names haven’t been released yet. The information is still being developed, in fact.”

He nodded. “Yes, sir. Well, we had these names and we were tracking them, sort of, just to see if our algorithms were working. Then we noticed that none of the names had any changes or movement after 9-11. They had completely dropped from sight. That was when we started querying the CIA again.”

“And that was when the State Department ordered it shut down and disbanded? How did they get involved? What does the State Department have to do with the Defense Intelligence Agency? None of this makes sense.” I looked at Shaffer. “This program of yours, is it — was it — operational?”

“No, sir, it was just a pilot program, to see if we could develop information. We were still figuring it out.”

“Colonel, I’m going to ask you to step outside for a few minutes.” I escorted him to the door and showed him out, with instructions to stick around, but feel free to get coffee for himself. Then I went back and sat down with the Secretary of Defense. “Colin, why the hell do I feel like we’re playing a game and I not only don’t know the rules, I don’t know the game.”

“Carl, I am getting a very bad feeling about this.”

“Some unknown light bird at the DIA finds some names and crossdecks them to the CIA, but it’s the State Department which shuts him down. How did they get involved?”

“How would they even have heard?” commented Powell.

I was getting a really bad feeling about this. “Who is this Radziker or whatever his name is?”

“Radziwill, Jonathan Radziwill. I asked about that. He’s a personal assistant to Scooter Libby,” he replied. “He also knew Wolfowitz, at least that’s what I’ve heard.”

That made me raise my eyebrows. Wolfowitz had previous history at State, and knew Scooter and Cheney. Scooter was the Deputy Secretary of State, the number two man over there, and Cheney’s longtime assistant. “Scooter doesn’t go to the bathroom without permission from Cheney. So, why does Cheney want it shut down?” I thought for a second longer and said, “Okay, so Cheney orders the evidence that we knew about 9-11 ahead of time buried, but we didn’t know about 9-11 ahead of time. They just had some names of possible bad guys. Cheney might be the Antichrist, but even he wouldn’t allow these guys to kill George Bush,” I argued.

“It’s not about 9-11,” Powell rebutted. “It’s about Iraq. All year long State and the CIA have been arguing that Saddam Hussein is the threat to the country, and after the attack, they’ve been saying he sent the terrorists. Now Lieutenant Colonel Shaffer pops up to throw sand into the gears. Here’s a question for you. What happens if these names get sent to the CIA or the FBI? The CIA buries it in the vaults, because they don’t talk to anybody. The FBI, however, puts some agents on these guys, maybe hauls them in for questioning, maybe figures it out and we don’t get 9-11.”

A chill ran up my spine! I had condemned thousands of Americans to die, when we already knew the bad guys were in the country and up to something. What if we had grabbed them? What if 9-11 hadn’t happened? I didn’t know whether to cry or throw up.

“I get the impression that Cheney is trying to cover this all up, but what’s he covering up? That it was Al Qaeda, not Hussein? Is this even a cover-up? Is this even illegal? Or are they trying to cover up the fact that they wanted a war with Iraq, no matter what the facts are? Or are they trying to cover up the fact that they failed to act on the info, even though the CIA isn’t allowed to act inside the U.S,” I replied.

“Have your Three Amigos heard about any of this?”

“Nobody has said anything to me, and I think they would have said something. By all accounts this is looking like George was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Nothing they are finding says that he was being targeted.” I shrugged for a second, and said, “I’m not even sure this is illegal, just sneaky and underhanded. Well, we need to figure this out, and neither you nor I are going to be able to do that. We need to get a lawyer involved. Will you ask the colonel to come back in? By the way, when all this is over with, we need to come up with a way to say thank you to Eric Shinseki. This is the second time he has helped me out.”

Colin stood and went to the door, and summoned Shaffer back in. I stood and said, “Colonel, I’m not really sure where this is going to be headed, but I think we need to find out. I hereby order you to make backup copies of the project, and ignore any orders to destroy it. I also am ordering you to cooperate with any investigation from the Justice Department. Colin, I want you to get in touch with John Ashcroft, and take the colonel over there.”

Both men replied, “Yes, sir,” and I sent them away. The whole thing was disgusting. Did Cheney and Wolfowitz and Libby and the rest of the neocons they surrounded themselves with want war with Iraq so badly they would bury evidence that it wasn’t Iraq who did this? But I wasn’t buying that and wasn’t claiming it anyway, so who were they trying to bury the evidence from? Bush? He was the least of their worries! The moderates? Was that even illegal? Or is this simply hiding the incredibly embarrassing, but not necessarily illegal, way they ignored something that led to the deaths of over three thousand people?

One thing I was sure of was that it was going to come out. The biggest problem with cover-ups is that they don’t work. Every scandal I had ever heard of, going all the way back to Watergate and before, it wasn’t the crime that landed people in jail, it was the cover-up. The only way this was going to be at all something we could work through was if we could control the release of the information.

I could foresee two possible outcomes. First, we could try to bury it. We tell Shaffer to dismantle the program and send him to Nome for the rest of his life. Sooner or later, though, somebody would talk, it would hit the papers, and some Congressman would demand hearings. It would take months of time, and somebody would end up fired or in jail.

The other option wasn’t vastly more palatable, but was better. We announce we discovered a problem. No, we didn’t know what was going to happen, but we did discover some of the names involved. We discovered a cover-up and called in the Justice Department and have been cooperating. It still ends up in the papers and in front of Congress, but we can control the exposure and look like we are doing something about the problem. It takes less time, and you can control who goes to jail.

Another thing to add to the to-do list, completely revamping intelligence gathering and reporting!

Meanwhile, I had a war to plan. I had told Powell I wanted to meet this week to discuss our military response, so I called a meeting of the National Security Council for Wednesday morning with this in mind. Present were Cheney, Powell, Condi Rice as the National Security Adviser, the new temporary head of the CIA, and the Chairman of the JCS, Myers, and Josh Bolten. Once we were all present in the conference room, I turned it over to Colin Powell, who promptly turned it over to Myers for a dog and pony show.

I was presented three options for Operation Enduring Freedom, a name picked more for symbolism than anything else. If it was up to me I’d have called it Operation You Asked For It. Option Able was restricted to Al Qaeda targets and was the minimum recommendation; it consisted mainly of bombing training camps. Option Baker ratcheted things up a notch, by adding in some Afghan military assets like Army bases, and Option Charlie added a ground component. Special Forces teams would be dropped in to link up with anti-Taliban forces in the northern part of the country, and do joint combat and training missions with them. From what I remembered of history on my first go, we had gone with Option Charlie, which had worked fine, but then decided we could actually run the country better than the locals, so we sent in 100,000 troops later on.

I listened to Myers’ spiel and looked at the computerized map he had on the giant wall screen. At the end, I had a few questions. “General, in which of these options are we attacking the Taliban itself. I don’t mean their military assets. I mean their government.”

He looked at me in confusion. “Sir, I’m not sure I understand. Both in Baker and Charlie options we will be destroying their Army and Air Force.”

“General, correct me if I’m wrong, but their Air Force is limited to a few barely workable helicopters and their Army uses captured Soviet tanks and artillery pieces from the Eighties. No, I mean the government itself. Why aren’t you attacking their Congress or Parliament or White House or whatever they call it over there?”

“Sir, attacking a foreign government… it just isn’t done, sir.”

“Why not? They attacked ours? As much as the Afghanis want to sit there and say they weren’t involved, we all know they were up to their necks in it, and I see no reason not to cut them off at those necks. I can pretty much guarantee they don’t have any qualms about attacking our government. I expect to see an option with attacks on the Taliban presented to me. Now, just what sort of assets do you have planned? Bombers? Afghanistan doesn’t have a coastline, so who are we going to have to fly over to get there? What’s the plan for that?”

For that he actually had an answer. Bombers would be staged out of Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean, with tanker support. Meanwhile the Navy would be in the northern Arabian Sea with carriers, which would fly missions and launch Tomahawks.

“So we will overfly Pakistan while we do this? What makes you think they will appreciate us violating their territorial integrity to wage war on their buddies? Al Qaeda might be Arab, but the Taliban is a subsidiary of the Pakistanis,” I said.

By now Rice and Powell were looking thoughtfully at me, but Myers and Cheney looked angry, and Harold Tillison, the temporary CIA director looked like he was wondering how I knew so much about the assholes on the other side of the planet. Obviously I wasn’t following the script.

Cheney answered, “Well, obviously we will need to inform the Pakistani government ahead of time and secure permission.”

“Well, while you are doing that, why not send a telegram to Kabul at the same time? The ISI in Pakistan has them on speed dial,” I replied. The ISI was the Pakistani Inter-Services Intelligence Agency, a combination CIA and FBI, and was filled with hardliners and Muslim radicals. They were directly responsible for financing and supporting Muslim terrorist groups in Afghanistan and India.

I turned back to Myers. “General, I appreciate this, but it is inadequate. I want you to understand the overall concept I have of our response. We are going to bomb their country into rubble, then we are going to bomb their rubble into gravel, and then we are going to bomb their gravel into dust. Figure a way to start it without the Pakistanis knowing about it. The minute we launch, I will invite the Pakistani ambassador in here and tell him where the bear shits in the woods, and he can like it or lump it. I expect you back here in two days with an Option Delta, with some very specific target lists and details. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Thank you. Oh, and come up with something other than that cockamamie name! Enduring Freedom? How about something a lot closer to the truth, like Operation Justifiable Homicide!” Colin Powell smirked at that and rolled his eyes. “I want to begin operations in two weeks or less. Make it happen.”

For the rest of the week I went about rebuilding the Cabinet. Wednesday morning John Ashcroft told me that the DIA Director, Wilson, and Radziwill, the guy from State, had been picked up at their homes by FBI agents. Wilson had promptly lawyered up and was on ice at the moment, but Radziwill was frightened to death and they had granted him immunity from prosecution for giving them people higher up the food chain. Radziwill promptly named Scooter Libby as giving him the orders. By Thursday afternoon Dick Cheney learned that Scooter Libby was being investigated by the Justice Department and demanded an audience with me. I let him in to see me and he told me in no uncertain terms that Scooter was being railroaded and that I needed to shut down this witch hunt. He couldn’t possibly run the State Department without such a critical man as his deputy.

I let him go on like this for a few minutes and stopped him. “Dick, you’ve had your say, so here is mine. I know about the investigation. I’m the guy who ordered it. I sent the individuals involved directly to the Attorney General. I know Scooter’s your friend, but the best thing you can do is to tell him is to cooperate and to hire a good lawyer. I will not be issuing pardons over anything related to 9-11. Is that understood?”

“You can’t do this! He’s done nothing wrong!”

I shrugged. “Then he’ll be fine, won’t he. On the other hand, from what I’ve seen of Scooter, he doesn’t blow his nose without asking you which tissue to use. If you told him to destroy information, maybe you should be getting a lawyer, too.”

“HOW DARE YOU!”

“Dick, I think the time has come for the parting of the ways. Would you prefer to resign or do you want me to ask you to leave? Which statement should I have Ari issue?” I had gone through enough with the man. I didn’t need Dick Cheney to look tough. Enduring Freedom (Colin told me to behave and accept the name) was going to do that just fine.

“You go to hell, Buckman!”

“Okay, so be it. Ari Fleischer will be issuing a statement this afternoon that in light of our disagreements over foreign policy I have asked you to stand down as Secretary of State effective immediately. I hereby warn you that you have sworn various oaths regarding secrecy and classified information, and that violation of those oaths will be prosecuted, and I do not issue pardons.”

Cheney’s face was beet red and I wondered if he would have a heart attack right there in my office. I wouldn’t really mind, but as the saying goes, the paperwork is a nightmare! He stormed out of my office, slamming the door as he went, and my next call was to Ari Fleischer. Ari was going to end up hating me. My second call was to Colin Powell, to let him know that his new job was available.

Dick did not go gentle into that good night. The news reports that evening uniformly began with the story of Dick Cheney’s dismissal as Secretary of State, and how I was cleaning house in the Cabinet. Most of the networks had two or three stories, perhaps one on Cheney’s dismissal and a second reviewing all the names I had fired so far. Only NBC had picked up on the Justice Department’s investigation of ‘improprieties by senior employees of the State Department’, though they didn’t have any details, and Brokaw speculated that this was part of the reason for Cheney’s dismissal. For his part, Cheney denounced me as weak and deluded. A firm hand was needed to guide our country and I was out of my depth.

A much easier conversation was with Richard Clarke. I had asked for him to come over and speak to me for a few minutes Thursday afternoon. I had worked with him earlier in the year trying to wake people up about terrorism. I suspect he knew I was going to offer him a job, but not which job. I made it easy. I offered him the Central Intelligence Agency and told him I wanted the mess cleaned up, the sooner the better. He didn’t bat an eye, but signed right up.

I had a different conversation with John McCain. He arrived Friday morning and was ushered straight in. It wasn’t that I was being overly deferential, but the man was a very senior Senator, and I had no good reason to piss off the Senate. I had already decided I wanted much more of a collegial atmosphere than some Presidents had with Congress. I wanted to make some changes, and if kissing some Congressional ass was required, so be it.

John was brought into the Oval Office and I moved around my desk to greet him. “Thank you for coming, John.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. President. How can I help you?”

We shook hands and I showed him to the armchairs in the center of the room. He moved with a slight limp like I did, courtesy of his service in Viet Nam. We both had injuries in common. “Can I offer you some coffee?”

“Please.”

I looked over at Frank Stouffer, who had brought the Senator into my office and nodded. I chatted with McCain for a moment while Frank prepared coffee and tea, but we didn’t say anything substantive. After he served us, I thanked Frank and sent him out of the room.

John sipped his coffee and commented, “This really is very good coffee. You don’t drink it though, I’ve been told.”

“No, I’m a tea drinker, have been since I was a teenager. Made things difficult in the Army, I’ll tell you. The Army runs on coffee!”

“The Navy was pretty much the same way. They might not issue rum anymore, but they sure better have coffee around.” I smiled and nodded at that. “Those were simpler days, Mister President. It’s more complicated now. You’ve been busy the last few days.”

“That’s very true, John. Call me Carl, by the way.”

“Thank you, Carl. As I was saying, you’ve been busy. The CIA, the FBI, now State — I have to wonder what you are up to.”

I nodded in understanding. “I’d be surprised if you weren’t wondering what was happening. Let me put this as plainly as possible. Our nation just suffered through the worst intelligence disaster since Pearl Harbor, and I do not use that term lightly. We lost more people at the Twin Towers than we did at Pearl, and we ended up then with a World War. You were Navy. You must have been to Pearl and seen the Arizona and the Punchbowl. This will be for our generation and our children’s generation as momentous an event as that day was. Would you agree with that?”

“Yes, sir, I would agree with that, which makes me wonder why you are dismantling our capabilities like this,” he replied.

“John, the last thing I want to do is to dismantle our capabilities. We are going to need them more than at any time in the past. No, what we need is accurate information that is not tied up with politics, and I am sorry to say that is not what we have been getting. I am not one to fire people without a darn good reason, and I am sorry to say I had reasons.”

“Carl, I want to believe you, but four high level firings is a lot.”

“John, I agree. However, this is going to break down into two separate issues. First, the quality of the intelligence and how it was handled was a disaster, in no uncertain terms. We had plenty of warning and nobody did jack about this. When this comes out you will be amazed. Those were the people I let go initially. Cheney is a different matter. You have probably heard that the Justice Department is investigating senior people at State. Ashcroft thinks there will be indictments. Basically Cheney, Wolfowitz, and the entire crew around them have been gaming the intelligence for the last year or so, and you have seen the results. I told Dick the other day that he needed to hire a lawyer, and that I would not be handing out pardons.”

McCain looked stunned as I told him the information. After a moment he replied, “These are unbelievable charges!”

“I agree, but I have been dealing with this for most of the last year. Now I have to rebuild a government. That’s why I asked you to come over today. I want your help.”

McCain set down his coffee cup and saucer. “In what way, Mr. President?”

“I am bringing Colin Powell over from Defense to State, and I am bringing Richard Clarke in to run the CIA. I don’t know if you know him, but he’s been working counterterrorism for Condi Rice, at least until he was fired.”

“And you want me for Defense?” he asked with a touch of incredulity.

I gave a wry smile at that. “I considered that, or State, but no, that’s not my thought. I was thinking a little higher up the ladder.”

“Vice President!?”

“Would you consider it?” I rejoined.

He looked closely at me. “Are you planning on running in 2004?”

I smiled at that. “John, the honest answer is that I just don’t know. I might. I would never run if I had to go through what you guys have to do, but this would be different, wouldn’t it. Or were you planning a primary challenge?” Normally, a primary challenge to a sitting President is both unheard of and a disaster to everybody involved. Now, it was possible, but could still be a disaster.

“It’s something to consider. You’ve never done a national campaign, not like that. If I become VP, that is out, isn’t it?”

I nodded. “On the other hand, you get a leg up on everybody else, regardless. Who else is there?” I shrugged and tossed my hands up. “John, I just don’t know if I am going to run. If I do run, I’m term limited to just one more term. You’ll be able to run in 2004 if I get out, or 2008 if I stay in. Either way, you get a lot of benefits from being the Veep.”

“I won’t put up with the crap you took.”

I smiled at that. “You noticed! I’m touched! Seriously, every once in a while this country gets a lesson in politics when the Vice President gets an unexpected promotion. Most of the time nobody gives a rat’s ass, but when it happens, they care. I might not have run for the job, but I have it, and I will damn well make sure that whoever is next in line is qualified. I won’t say it will be perfect and easy, but I believe you have the nation’s best interests at heart, and if necessary, you could do the job.”

He didn’t respond directly to that, but he didn’t shoot me down. “What is my role in this?”

“My door will be a lot more open than George’s was, that’s for sure. Actually, one of my biggest plans is simply to work with Congress on things. Back when I was in the House I used to work across party lines all the time. You were there; you know that’s how I worked. I need to do that some more, and a second person couldn’t hurt. This country is going to be going through some changes and I will need the help with Congress. That will be a focus for you.” I sat back in the armchair and smiled. “Besides which, you will have more than a few advantages if you run for President when I step down. I can help with that.”

“Can I have a day or two to think about this?” he asked.

I chuckled at that. “Yes, you can, and I promise I won’t say anything to anybody. However, you know how the cameras watch this place. Don’t blame me if somebody starts asking questions!”

“That’s true enough.”

“Are you considering it yes or considering it no?” I pressed.

“I’m considering it yes, but I want to talk to my wife. As long as we are talking about who is considering what, what are you considering for 2004?” he asked.

“I really don’t know yet. Right now I feel like I’m playing catch-up ball. I will be able to say by early next year. Give me until the spring before I decide. I hate to say it, but you’d be buying a pig in a poke in that regard.”

“Can I call you Monday morning with my answer?”

“Or before, if you want to. If it isn’t you, I am going to have to find another name, but you are my preference. If yes, we will need to have a skull session here.” We would need to sit with my people and his before the announcement.

We left it at that and I did some more of what my staff told me I was doing. In that way it was a lot like my days in the House. My time was booked and my boss was the clock and the staff. After lunch, however, I had a major meeting. General Myers was giving me the detailed presentation on the Afghanistan plans after lunch, at the Pentagon.

Josh and I drove over to the Pentagon and were taken directly to the Situation Room, a secure facility in the basement where we could see all sorts of stuff. There was a conference table, computerized maps on the walls, various generals and admirals, and Colin Powell. I have to admit that I walked around looking at things. “I’ve never been in here before,” I commented.

“The big thing is that it is secure. We can’t be spied on here. Your cell phone won’t work, for instance,” commented General Myers. “Here, sir, why don’t you have a seat?” He pointed me towards a chair in the center of the table, opposite a large computer screen or flat panel system on the wall.

“Thank you.” I took my seat, and General Myers went around the table introducing me to people. At the end, I nodded to Myers and said, “Well, let’s see what you have for me. By the way, General, Secretary Powell has told me I have to behave. We are keeping the name Enduring Freedom.” That earned a laugh out of Colin Powell.

I might have been rough on the General a few days ago, but the man was a professional and took my words to heart. He had developed a multi-prong approach.

* On the date selected, which was simply being called ‘X-Day’ for now, a dozen B-2 stealth bombers would fly directly from the United States, from Whiteman Air Force Base in Missouri. They would be loaded with precision guided bombs and would be tasked with destroying anything air defense related, as well as any targets near cities that needed precision targeting. These targets would include army and air force bases, military headquarters, and government buildings. They would fly direct, and because they were radar-invisible (mostly) would overfly a number of countries on the way.

* Simultaneously, a flight of B-1 bombers would fly in, loaded with as many dumb iron bombs as they could carry. While they weren’t technically stealthy, they had a lot lower radar signature than B-52s. They would stage out of Diego Garcia and would fly in over the relatively uninhabited southwestern portion of Pakistan. Once inside Afghanistan, they would proceed to various training camps and army bases, and then do high speed, low level bomb runs, carpet bombing whatever they were assigned to. They actually showed me a video of a Bone (B-One, get it?) on a training run, popping up over a mountain range and dropping down so low it looked like the exhaust was hitting the ground, and then whipping over a target and dropping a massive load of bombs out. It was quite impressive.

* B-52s would make a second wave attack on the various training bases about an hour after the Bones plastered them. It was commented that by giving the terrorists time to dig out and start looking for their buddies, the second attack would catch them flatfooted and demoralized. Colin commented that it would be like Arc-Light strikes back during his Viet Nam days, and that they were surprisingly accurate.

* Special operations teams, (Special Forces, SEALs, Marine Force Recon, Delta, etc.) would be parachuted into northern Afghanistan to link up with the Northern Alliance, a loose alliance of resistance groups. They would have special radios able to talk to bombers and target bad guys quickly. After the initial attacks, B-2 and B-1 bombers with precision munitions would be on call 24-7 to blow up bad guys as needed.

* Meanwhile, the Navy was going to have several aircraft carriers stationed off the coast of Pakistan. If the Pakistanis decided to butt in, the Navy was going to be responsible. They were already positioning assets, which meant that they had two carriers in the area, with a third on the way, and most of their cruisers and destroyers had long range Tomahawks as well. If they didn’t need the Tomahawks for the Pakistanis, they could fire some at the Afghans.

* Diego Garcia was getting a buttload of tanker and intelligence support planes being flown in even as we spoke. Tankers I understood, but the intelligence stuff was a variety of ‘elint’ electronic intelligence planes and even some U-2 spy planes!

After the show was over, I looked around the table and nodded. “General, I have to say, this was definitely a better plan than what I saw the other day. I think you have in mind what we are looking for. I am going to tentatively approve this. I do have some questions first, though.”

“Understood, sir. Anything we can answer now?”

“Probably.” I looked over to find an admiral with some insignia I didn’t know how to read. I glanced at his name card, Vern Clark. “Admiral Clark, are you in charge of the naval portion of this?”

“Yes, sir, I’m Chief of Naval Operations,” he replied

“What kind of assets will you have available?”

“On what day do you plan on this, sir?”

I looked at a calendar. “Monday, October 8 sound all right? I don’t think they celebrate Columbus Day over there.”

He gave a slight smile at that. “No, sir, I don’t think they do.” He thought for a second and said, “By then I can have three carriers on the line. Right now we have one in the Bay of Bengal and the other in the Arabian Sea. We’ll move the one from the Bay of Bengal over, and I’ll have a third as backup by then. We’ll also have Tomahawk loaded ships with them.”

“And if the Pakistanis get feisty?”

“Sir, I am not trying to make light of this, but three carriers can handle anything the Pakistanis can throw at them. I would appreciate it, however, if you could try to keep them from getting feisty.” The last was said with a smile and shrug.

“My thought is that when we start the bombing runs, I call the Pakistani ambassador to the White House and lay down the law.”

“Yes, sir.”

Next I turned back to the Air Force and reviewed their list of targets. I got several nervous looks at this, because several of the targets were located uncomfortably close to mosques. I gave them my best stone-face look and signed off on them. I really wasn’t in the mood to worry about mosques or civilian casualties. As far as I was concerned, they had earned whatever happened to them.

I looked over at an Army general and asked, “How do we get your guys home, General? I don’t think we want to leave them there.”

“Are we bringing them back, sir? Or are they going to be the first wave of an assault?”

I shook my head. “I am not about to invade a landlocked country. We are going to kill their Army and then go home. The locals can do with the place whatever they want. It’s not like we want it.”

“We are still working on some of the details. Two possibilities are being considered. First, we can stage them out of Uzbekistan, on the northern border. The other choice is simply to figure on picking them up with C-130s from rough airstrips and roads.”

“You have until October 8 to figure it out, General.”

“Yes, sir! HOO-AH!”

I had to laugh at that. Across the table, though, I had some serious looking faces. Colin Powell said, “You are not planning on an invasion.”

“Definitely not. Let me make that very clear. I am quite aware that there were plans afoot to invade Iraq and other Arab countries. I can envision few things which would be more dangerous for us to do. These are people who do not like us. We can kill them and destroy their armies, but if we invade them we are nothing but modern day Crusaders and colonialists. We are not their religion or culture, and no matter how hard we try, they will never love us or want us there. We need to get in, do our thing, and get out.”

I looked around the table. “So far, so good. We can destroy training camps and trash Afghanistan. What about Al Qaeda? I mean, the big guys, not the recruits. Are they being targeted?” Several heads turned towards the end of the table, where two middle-aged men in civilian suits were sitting. I am sure we had been introduced, but their names passed by me. I did remember they were CIA liaisons of some sort. I looked at them and asked, “Gentlemen, where is this bin Laden character? Is one of these Xs his house?”

They looked at each other, and then one began to speak. “Sir, confirmed intelligence is, of course, difficult in Afghanistan under any circumstances. We have more than a bit of signal and electronic intelligence which is pointing to possible locations for senior members of various terrorist linked groups…” He went on for another minute or two.

I held my hand up and stopped him. “Let’s try this a different way. Yes or no — Do you know where Osama bin Laden is?” He was off and running again, without actually saying anything. I cleared my throat. “Last chance. Yes or no? If I have to ask a third time I will ask your partner there, because you will be unemployed.”

His eyes snapped open, and he stammered out, “No.”

“Thank you. Wasn’t that easy? Now, do you have any locations of places he might be hiding, him or anybody else? Safe houses or something? Do they have an office somewhere? Maybe in the downtown Kabul business district? The headquarters of Al Qaeda, Inc. Where do they get their mail and their cell phone bills, that sort of thing?” I asked, sarcasm dripping from my lips.

They glanced at each other again, and the second guy answered, “We have some information on possible locations, but nothing completely confirmed.”

“Has that information been given to the generals and admirals here, for inclusion in their targeting lists?”

“We were waiting to confirm our options.”

I leaned back and counted to ten slowly. “Let me make this abundantly clear. Those locations go on the target list now, no matter how fuzzy they might be. I don’t care if it’s in the basement of the Afghan version of the Washington Monument. We are going to drop a really, really big bomb on it. Is this understood or not?”

I received a chorus of “Yes, sir!” from around the table.

“Thank you.” I looked around the room. “Let me be perfectly frank. Regardless of any irritation I might feel at times, this is probably the most important thing I will ever do. In a matter of days I will be sending our men and women into combat. I have a son and a nephew serving, and I know that some of you have children in the services also. We have to get this right. What do I have to do to get it right? If you need me to do something, you have to ask. I do not intend to be calling mothers to tell them their baby isn’t coming home because we at this table didn’t do everything we could to get it right!” I looked back down at the CIA. “Would the Israelis know where these assholes are?”

They looked at each other again. “I don’t know, sir. Maybe. Nobody gets in these groups. You practically have to be born into them. On the other hand, maybe.”

I looked at the wall, where around the room were spaced clocks with different time zones marked. Israel was plus-seven, so it was approaching midnight there. “If I call Sharon tomorrow morning, I’ll ask for help. Perhaps you two could prime the pump and let him know I will be calling?”

“Of course, sir. When do you want to call?”

“Will he be at his office at 0800 local time?” I asked.

Eyes snapped open at that. That meant I would have to call him at 0100 Washington time, after midnight! “Yes, sir. He should be.”

“Get the message to him. Now, if we are done here, I need to get back to the White House. Marilyn and the girls are coming down. It will be the first time they have been to the White House. Thank you all. I am sure we will be talking again.” I stood, and Josh and I headed out.

“You know, it’s not that late. Sharon is probably still awake,” said Josh.

I glanced at my watch. It was a bit after 3:00 PM, so it was a bit after 10:00 PM in Tel Aviv. I shrugged. “Maybe so, but if I am calling on somebody for a favor, it pays to do it on his schedule, not yours. Maybe you’re right. Follow up with those two from the CIA. If he’s still up and wants to call me, I’ll take the call. Otherwise, I’ll stay up late.”

He asked, “What do you plan to ask Sharon to do?”

“Not sure, yet. You don’t need to be there, Josh. You need some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning. It’s Friday. I’m calling it an early day.”

We drove back over to the White House (No, you don’t just drive! It’s a caravan of War Wagons, the armored limo, a disguised ambulance with doctor and nurse, motorcycles, flashing lights — basically a heavily armed and armored zoo on wheels!) We got there just in time to see Marine One coming in for a landing on the South Lawn. I sent Josh on his way and waited for my family to come out. After the helo settled down, I began walking across the lawn towards them. First off was Marilyn, followed by the twins. Last off was a Secret Service agent struggling with a gigantic hairy monster, otherwise known as the First Puppy. Stormy was happy to get out of her travel cage and wanted to jump down and run around for a bit, and looked like she could easily drag the burly agent with her.

I jogged a little closer and she pulled loose and ran down the stairs and came close enough for me to grab her leash. Some luggage came off the chopper and then it took off again. It felt good to see everyone again. I had been holed up in the White House all week, not the every other night routine I had been often able to do as a Congressman or Vice President. I missed my family. I even missed my dog, who romped madly around for a few minutes before squatting and dropping a load of Presidential Puppy Poop on the lawn. Afterwards she looked up at me and I said, “Stormy, you are not really what I would call Presidential caliber! You barely qualified for Congress!”

I got a loud ‘Woof!’ in return, and then she pulled me along. I tugged her back and then went over to Marilyn and the girls. The twins didn’t look terribly enthused to see me, and Marilyn had a half smile on her face.

I looked at them, and then sat down on a bench. “Okay, what’d I do now?”

My wife looked at me and said, “What are you talking about?”

“What’s with you two?” I asked of Holly and Molly. “I’m the Dad, so it has to be my fault.”

They both gave me mopey looks and refused to answer. Marilyn sighed and said, “You have interfered with their social schedule. They were invited to a party tonight and I had to say they were coming here.”

Neither of the girls argued with this. I just looked them over and said, “Okay, fair enough. I am sorry to screw up your busy schedules, but I need to run the country from here. Let’s make a deal. Every other weekend you come down here. This is only for the rest of the school year.”

“What about when you go away? What do we do then?” complained Molly.

“What are you talking about?”

“We saw on the news you were going overseas?” added Holly.

“Ahh, don’t worry about that.” The news was running reports that I had been invited to visit several countries. “Nothing is definite, but you two are old enough that you can stay on your own, with the Secret Service around, if your mother and I have to travel. Again, come summer time, you two might want to travel with us. We might be going to some pretty neat places.”

They looked at each other for a moment and were considering it. “What about dates?”

“They have to pay for their own flights,” I replied, deadpan. Marilyn rolled her eyes at that.

Holly protested, “No, Daddy! How do we date like this!?”

“Give me a break! You date the same way you did when I was the Vice President! There’s no going out on school nights anyway, you know that. Just tell your boyfriend that the leader of the free world needs to see you every other weekend. If he wants to drive down and take you out, fine by me.”

“Really?”

“Sure. Just warn the boys that they will be strip searched before they are allowed on the premises, and that any drugs, alcohol, or just about anything else I don’t like will get them thrown in Federal prison! Maybe I can get the Secret Service agents to demonstrate marksmanship for them.”

“DADDY!” they protested in unison.

Marilyn giggled at this, and I could see a couple of agents snorting in silent laughter. “Enough of this. Would you like to go inside and see where we’ll be living? It’s pretty cool. It’s like living inside a museum.” I stood and took my wife’s hand, and Stormy led the way towards a door. The girls trailed behind us.

Behind me I clearly heard an agent saying, “Jumper, Jelly Jar, Trouble One, and Trouble Two on the move…”

I looked at my wife. “Let’s go inside, Jelly Jar!”

That earned me a vigorous finger wagging. “You are having too much fun with that name!”

We were greeted by the Chief Usher, Mr. Walters. An usher makes it sound like somebody trying to keep the groom sober at a wedding, or a bell boy, but at the White House he basically runs what is effectively a small hotel and museum. The Buckmans were simply the guests. I had met him when I moved in the beginning of the week, after the Bushes had left, and had gotten enough of a tour so that I could find my bedroom and the bathroom. Otherwise, I just followed people around who seemed to know where they were going. Mr. Walters gave us an excellent tour, enough so that by the time we got upstairs the twins were over their initial snit and were going ‘Oooh’ and ‘Ahhh’ over everything. At one point he was taking us through the Blue Room and I commented it was named after President Blue. I could see him working to keep from laughing, as Marilyn and the twins looked at each other and then asked when he had been President. I just moved them along at that point.

We ended up on the Second Floor, which was where the Presidential apartment is. Marilyn and I had a very nice bedroom suite down at the west side, with a sitting room, dressing room, bathroom, and so forth. The Oval Room (not to be confused with the Oval Office) was set up as our living room, and allowed entry outside, to the Truman Balcony over the Portico. On the backside, across a central hallway, were the dining room, a small kitchen, and bedrooms for the kids and guests. If I wanted to rent out the White House to paying guests, which is effectively what the Clintons had done, the Lincoln and Queen’s Bedrooms were down the hall.

Mr. Waters told the girls they were free to wander around, and to ask anybody they saw for help if they needed help, and they took off with Stormy like they had jets up their butts. He took that opportunity to introduce some of the more senior staff, like the Butler and the Chef, to Marilyn and me. We were also presented with our recommended menu for the week. The Chef would suggest healthy choices and we could pick and choose. For me this was pretty simple. Breakfast would be cereal if I had it, lunch would be either something from the Mess or a business lunch with others, and dinner would be whatever Marilyn told me I was eating. When I was home, I could do the cooking. Otherwise I was asked if I had any favorite recipes, and I promised to bring the family cookbook in.

I was also told that my personal billing would be done on a monthly basis. While anything we ate at official dinners and such was compliments of a grateful nation, our personal meals we paid for. It helps to be rich when you are the President. I was probably also going to be billed for Marilyn and the girls flying around or being taken somewhere. I simply told them to send the bills to my accountants.

The twins and the dog returned about a half hour later, the bunch of them looking like drowned rats! “What in the world happened to you two?!” I asked.

Holly answered unhappily. “We found the swimming pool out back and Stormy decided to go swimming!”

“And you two couldn’t wait to change into swimsuits?”

“No! We had to get down and help Stormy out of the pool and she managed to pull us in with her!” explained Holly.

Marilyn just started laughing, and I buried my head in my hands. “What a pack of idiots!” I muttered. Stormy loved swimming in a pool, but at home we had some steps built into the pool, so little kids could climb out. Our dogs had all been happy to climb out that way. I was going to have to get something built for Stormy. A Wet-Vac would also be useful, since she could carry gallons in her coat. I glanced over at the girls, who were arguing with their mother that it wasn’t funny. “I remember hearing about that pool. I think Jerry Ford had it built. The old pool used to be inside, in the West Wing, and when Johnson was the President he used to go skinny-dipping in it.”

The looks on their faces were priceless.

“OH MY GOD!” exclaimed Holly.

“I am never going swimming again!” added her sister.

“I need to take a shower now!” finished Holly. They stormed down to their rooms to change, followed by the dog, who they loudly blamed for their predicament.

I simply shook my head at my wife, and took her hand and led her downstairs. We went outside and walked around the place. It’s gorgeous. I told Marilyn we would have to bring down H&A Yard Work for a professional critique. She also suggested her family. I told her that her parents could sleep in President Blue’s Room, and got an elbow to the ribs.

After dinner the girls went exploring some more, and Marilyn joined me in the Oval Room. I was just staring out over the Truman Balcony, with Stormy snoring on a couch nearby. “You look like you’re a million miles away,” she said.

I turned to her and smiled. “I’m fine.”

“Sorry you took the job?”

I snorted at that. “The thing that gets me is why anybody ever wants it in the first place! Grown men, guys who should know better, spend years running for the job and would do anything to get it. They would happily sacrifice their daughters on an altar if it could get them a vote. And for what? It is totally thankless.” She laughed at that. “Yeah, you laugh now. You’re going to be sleeping alone tonight. I need to make a call at one in the morning.”

“What? Why?”

I sighed and shook my head. “I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?” Marilyn asked, not angrily, but out of curiosity.

“Because I can’t. There are things that I do now, things that are secret, and that I can’t tell people who shouldn’t be told. You’re one of those people.”

“Don’t you trust me?”

I took a second to answer that. “Marilyn, I would trust you with my life. However, I am now responsible for the lives of 300 million other people, and I can’t put that trust on anybody else. Let me ask you something. Could you order somebody killed?”

She recoiled at that. “Oh my God, NO! How can you ask that!?”

“Because I have to be able to do that. In a matter of days or weeks I am going to send our country into war. Hundreds, no, thousands of people will die as a result of that,” I told her.

“Oh my God! Charlie?”

I shook my head. “No, he should be okay, him and Jack. Still the time might come when I have to order him into battle. You could never do that.”

Marilyn shook her head. “No, of course not. I hate that you have to do this. Why do you have to kill all those people? Why can’t they just leave us alone?”

I smiled sadly. Marilyn was a good person, but she saw the world as she wanted it to be, and I saw the world as it was. “Two sides of the same question, hun. I have to start this war and kill them so I can try and convince them to leave us alone. If I could figure a way to do it differently, I would be happy to.” I snorted and laughed derisively. “Hell, I used to kill retail, and now I get to do it wholesale! Hell of a world, ain’t it?!”

“And tonight?”

“Tonight I have to talk to people in faraway places. That’s all you can know.”

We just sat there on the couch looking out at the world while the sun sank and night came. Eventually Marilyn went to bed, and I made my way down to the Oval Office. I worked on some budget numbers that the Office of Management and Budget had put together for me until it was time to make a phone call. I made the request for the night operator to put the call through. Sitting across the desk from me was one of the two CIA representatives from the afternoon. After a few minutes the phone rang and the voice said, “We have the Prime Minister of Israel, sir.”

“Hello?” came an accented voice.

“Prime Minister Sharon, thank you for taking my call. I hope this isn’t too early for you.”, I said.

“No, Mister President, of course not. This is quite late in Washington. If you had called earlier I would have been happy to take the call,” he replied. The signal quality was crystal clear.

“No need for both of us to lose sleep. I was hoping that you might be able to do me a favor.”

“If it’s within my power, of course.”

“Mister Prime Minister, it occurred to me that you might have some intelligence on certain terrorist groups that we might not have. I assume you have heard of Al Qaeda,” I asked.

“Yes, we know of this group. What kind of intelligence would you be looking for?”

“Nothing much, really. Just names and addresses, I suppose. I plan to mail them some packages.”

Ariel Sharon gave me a barking laugh at that. “If we had those addresses, there would be no need for you to send them any packages, Mister President.”

“Perhaps not, Prime Minister. I will concede that point. Regardless, it still occurs to me that you might have more information than we have. The reason I ask is that you probably have people capable of passing along intelligence in the other direction, so to speak. Without getting into details, we think it might be helpful if any individuals in Al Qaeda who happened to be outside of Afghanistan currently were to head back home. Maybe if they thought that we knew where they were currently, but not where they might go in Afghanistan. Do you follow my drift?”

Sharon responded slowly. “You would like these individuals to head back to Afghanistan I gather. When do you foresee a need to get them home?”

No way was I going to tell, but I had to make a reply. “Well, not today, but soon, very soon. A matter of days, maybe a week or two. Certainly no longer than that.”

“And then?”

“Well, I don’t want to seem to be making unwanted suggestions, Mister Prime Minister, but if I had friends or employees in Afghanistan, I might want them to be out of the country by then.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I don’t really think there will be a place called Afghanistan in a few weeks. It sounds kind of unhealthy to me,” I told him.

“That’s very interesting, Mister President. Perhaps I can call on some people I know after breakfast and see what we can do to help.”

“Thank you, Prime Minister.”

“The name is Ariel, sir,” he commented.

“My friends call me Carl. My close friends call me much worse,” I answered with a laugh.

“Perhaps I can become one of those close friends. I know I invited you to Israel when I saw you last week. Let me again invite you to visit. I think we would have much to discuss,” he said.

“I think you are right. Let me get a few things taken care of here, and I will be sure to visit. Perhaps sometime in November?”

“That would be very nice. Would it be imprudent to ask if your delay will be due to the need to rebuild your Cabinet?” he commented.

“You know how difficult it can be to get good help. Let me let you get back to work. I appreciate you taking the call. Thank you.”

“Goodbye, Carl. Shalom.”

“Shalom, Ariel.” I hung up the phone. I looked over at the fellow from the CIA. “Well, let’s see how that goes. Dial up whatever assets you have anywhere over there. If we get lucky, some of the bad guys are going to get word that they are going to be attacked somewhere other than Afghanistan. Maybe they decide to go home for a little vacation. Get addresses to the Pentagon. A stern word goes a long way in diplomacy, but a stern word and a thousand pound bomb goes even farther.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll get on that.” He stood and left, and I headed up to bed.

Chapter 143: War

Monday, October 1, 2001

My most important Cabinet post left was Defense, what with Powell moving over to State. I thought about this some over the weekend, but didn’t really do anything. Most of the time I simply played with the dog, and let the twins drag me and Marilyn all over the place showing me what they were finding. A lot of stuff is actually down in the basement. Also, there are several elevators and hidden stairwells and hallways. As amusing as it might be, you really don’t need the First Lady wandering through the Main Reception Hall on the ground floor looking for the swimming pool while a tour group comes through. Marilyn was pretty cute, but some of the First Ladies in swimsuits could be downright scary!

Saturday afternoon Marilyn and I spent some time getting to know each other again. After breakfast I had done some paperwork down in the Oval Office and had then returned to the Residence. In our bedroom I found Marilyn lounging on the bed wearing a short silk robe. “Is this some sort of secret White House ritual I missed during Orientation?” I asked.

My wife smiled at me. “If you don’t like the idea…”

I waved my arms at her. “Now, don’t be hasty. I didn’t say anything like that. I’m just a little surprised, is all.” I began to unbutton my shirt.

Marilyn smiled. “I have to tell you, I had a visit from a very discreet Secret Service Agent, a woman, and we had a little discussion. Were you aware that we get every station broadcast anywhere in the world here. Or something like that. Stations like the Playboy channel? And a few others?” Marilyn blushed at that. “She showed me how to dial them up.”

I had the same conversation with somebody equally discreet but male. Not only did we have all sorts of stations, but if I wanted any sort of ‘marital aids’ or lingerie, I could place various orders using some fake addresses and account names. By the time he was done I was damn near rolling on the floor laughing. We had both had the same conversations when we had moved into the Naval Observatory, but somehow, in the White House, it seemed even sillier.

I kicked off my shoes and sat down on the bed, to start pulling off my socks. “I would have paid a pretty penny to have listened to that conversation. Did you have a question and answer period, or a test?” I stretched out on the bed next to Marilyn. She could do some of the work. “Just what kind of stations did she tell you about?” I decided to leave my glasses on.

Marilyn reached out and found a remote control on the nightstand and placed it on my chest. She snuggled up against me and told me to hit the ON button. She must have been playing earlier, because it immediately went to a movie that was already on, and in the beginning scenes of a very graphic blowjob on a very large television. I knew it wasn’t the Playboy channel, because as I remembered it, that was more of a hard R sort of station. I put an arm around her shoulders and she snuggled up against me, and began running a finger through my chest hair.

“Is this really Presidential, do you think?” I asked.

Marilyn giggled. “From what I’ve seen of the President, this would be an improvement!”

“Oh, really? Maybe you need to get closer to double check!” I pushed on her shoulders and Marilyn giggled some more, and she began kissing her way down my chest slowly, while one hand began to undo my pants. A minute later Marilyn began imitating the movie, by sucking my cock and jacking on the shaft. Unfortunately, the scene changed, and the blonde on the screen moved to sit on the bald stud’s face. Marilyn decided that life needed to imitate art, so she peeled off her robe and sat on my face.

I couldn’t hear shit from the movie in this position, and certainly my vision was extremely limited. On the other hand, Marilyn wasn’t complaining, and after a few minutes was becoming rather vocal in her appreciation. Even before the movie went to the vaginal sex, Marilyn had moved down and decided to sit on me and bounce on my cock. “Couldn’t wait for the movie?” I teased.

“Just shut up and fuck me!” she hissed, lowering her tits down to my lips.

I licked at her nipples teasingly, and added, “What’s with you today? Not that I’m complaining. Just curious.”

“I only get to see you a few days a week now. I really need you. Now shut up and fuck me!”

I glanced over at the screen, and found they had changed positions, to doggy style, so I rolled Marilyn off of me and moved into position behind her, and that was how we finished. Afterwards, I lay on my back, with Marilyn cuddled up against me, as the movie finished. “Now, let’s do that again,” she sighed.

I snorted a laugh at that. “Give me a few minutes, okay? By the way, were you aware that the President is always under surveillance?”

“Huh?”

“Well, you’ve seen the cameras around the West Wing and downstairs, right?”

“Yes,” she answered.

“Well, they are monitored in real time downstairs. You don’t think that’s the only part of the White House being monitored, do you?” I asked innocently.

Marilyn’s eyes snapped open and she grabbed at the bedcovers we were unfortunately lying on. “No way! You don’t… no!”

“Marilyn, ask any cop, ask Suzie’s husband, John, they’ll all tell you that most murders are by the spouse.” This was probably bullshit, but it sounded like something off of Law and Order. “They have to protect me. Look, there’s a camera over there.” I pointed at the molding up by the ceiling at the foot of the bed. “And another over there.” I pointed across the room. I was just pointing at the molding; there were no cameras inside the Residence.

“You bastard! You are full of shit!” she said poking me in the side. “There’s no cameras here. Besides, we’ll just do it at night, then.”

“They have infrared cameras, too. See in the dark. And they probably are keeping a record of what channels we are watching,” I added.

“You are so full of shit!”

I shrugged, and pushed on her shoulders again. “We just might as well give them a show.” She was right. It had been a week or so. Longer really, since last week back in Hereford, it had been that time of the month. We both needed to relieve some stress.

Marilyn and the girls and Stormy went back to Hereford Sunday evening. I promised to come home Friday afternoon.

Sunday afternoon I received a call from McCain, telling me he was onboard with the choice. He told me he had discussed it with Cindy and gotten her agreement. I thanked him and asked him not to tell his colleagues yet, but that we would do something this week.

Monday morning I talked to Josh Bolten about some of the Cabinet choices. Tom Ridge was the governor of Pennsylvania, and like me and a few others, had been on the short list for Vice President. He had prior Congressional experience, and I knew that in a different life he would be picked to head Homeland Security after 9-11. I thought about Frank Keating for a moment, but set him aside. I liked Frank and had met him several times during the Springboro tornado pleasantries, but his background was law enforcement. I like the idea of having him on tap as a possible replacement for Ashcroft. The current Attorney General was considerably more conservative than I was, and his overt religious tendencies tended to grate on my nerves, but his performance in the aftermath of 9-11 was superb. He had showed considerable strength and integrity, and I had no good reason to get rid of him.

I discussed all this with Josh, and asked him to invite Ridge down for a chat. By lunchtime he reported that the Governor would be in my office Tuesday morning.

I didn’t have a replacement for Freeh at the FBI yet, or for Garvey at the FAA. In the case of the FAA, I was tending towards naming the Deputy Director to the spot. He seemed to be capable and was tightening things up over there. As for the FBI, I was at a loss. We needed somebody with law enforcement experience, and I just didn’t know that sort of thing. I hadn’t been impressed with Freeh, and while both his Deputy and Barnwell seemed capable, I didn’t see either of them as being the Director. I was going to have to talk this over with a few people.

My meeting with Tom Ridge went well, and he accepted the offer of Defense on the spot. At that point I called in Josh. “We need to make some announcements about this,” I told him.

“Then we need to get Ari in right now.”

“Good point!” I picked up the telephone and asked Ari to step in, and he joined us a couple of minutes later.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“Ari, this is Governor Tom Ridge of Pennsylvania. I asked him to become Secretary of Defense, and he has agreed, so we will need to make an announcement. Several, in fact. I think you know what’s been happening, but let me make it clear. Colin Powell will move from Defense to State. Richard Clarke will be nominated for CIA, and John McCain will be coming onboard as the Vice President. What would be the best way to handle this?” I asked.

He was nodding to himself as I told him what was happening. Ari wasn’t dumb, so he must have been considering some of the latest comings and goings as possible appointments. “Have you discussed this with Congress yet? Not the whole Congress, but the leadership?”

“No, but I should. The Senate is going to have to sign off on Colin, Tom, and Richard Clarke, and both houses have to vote on John, as I recall.”

“Let’s kill two birds with one stone,” commented Josh. “Get the Group of Eight over here for lunch and tell them. I don’t care how much you stress this has to be kept quiet. One of them is bound to talk to somebody. That primes the pump, so to speak. You make the formal announcement by the end of the week. You aren’t expecting any grief on this are you?”

I shook my head. “Colin’s already been through a Senate confirmation hearing, and I don’t see them refusing John McCain. Tom used to be in Congress himself, so again, I don’t expect problems. The only one I wonder about is Clarke, and I think we can push the fact that we need to shake up the agency.” I looked over at Josh. “Can you make a few phone calls and set up a nice lunch over here, tomorrow or Thursday, so we can let them know?”

“Even better, have the nominees here as well. Give them a chance to meet and greet,” added Ari. “Do you plan to do a broadcast on this?”

“Do you think I should? I’ll be doing another broadcast next week, and I don’t need to wear out my welcome with the networks.”

“Afghanistan?” he asked.

“We’ll talk later, Ari. One problem at a time,” I answered.

“Okay. Then Friday morning you read a prepared statement in the Press Room naming your choices, with them in the background. They each read something short and sweet. No questions.” I raised an eyebrow at that, and he explained, “The first question everybody is going to ask is when are we invading Iraq, and the second will be why did you fire Dick Cheney. We don’t need either.”

I looked at the other two and nodded. “He makes a certain amount of sense.”

Tom chuckled and said, “Yes, sir.”

Josh added, “Scary, isn’t it?”

I turned back to Ari and nodded. “Let Mike and Matt know what’s going on and tell them I need a short statement. If we do this Friday morning, somebody will have blabbed by then. We’ll need to have some talking heads for the Sunday news shows.”

Ari nodded in return. “Josh and Frank. Frank’s young but surprisingly good. By the way, I wanted to speak to you about Carter. Don’t get me wrong. Carter’s nice, but he’s really not a spokesman type. We are going to need somebody else.”

I shrugged. That had been a long shot. “Okay. I will let you figure that one out. I really don’t know what that entails and how you find a guy. Have you talked it over with Carter?”

“Yes. We both knew this was coming. He can move into more of a legislative role of some sort. That’s more his interest, anyway,” Ari replied.

“I’ll confirm this with Carter, but if you need somebody different, so be it. If Carter doesn’t like the change, I know he can find a home over on K Street anyway. I’ll talk to him this afternoon,” I answered.

“Thank you, Mister President.” At that the meeting broke up and everybody left.

We had the official luncheon on Thursday in a room on the ground floor of the Residence across from the Map Room. By then, two days after the decision to do this, there was already some leaking from the White House. I was a little surprised by that, but not much. Nobody was really saying anything yet, but Ari commented that there had been a few questions in the hallways by the Press Corps. He seemed to think this would be good. One of the Congressmen would yap, that was guaranteed, and ‘speculation’ would be on the nightly news. This would prime things for our announcement Friday morning.

Lunch was to be relatively simple, soup and salads and sandwiches, but all eaten on White House china. Over the years, some Presidents discounted the need to schmooze Congress, and they tended to be less successful. As I had told John McCain, I wanted to work them like a salesman working a customer. The fellows who were going to be at the luncheon wouldn’t be all that impressed, because they were senior people, and had all been there multiple times before. However, you get some first or second term Congressman from Butte, Montana, or Pigs Knuckle, Arkansas, and invite him to the White House? Wow! That’s impressive! Work him, make him feel important, ask him about something from back home — I don’t care what party he’s from, it makes it easier to sell the fellow. Throw in some of the swag available, and the vote is half in the bag.

What was swag? All sorts of things, simple stuff with the Presidential Seal, like cuff links, tie clips, business card holders, cigarette lighters, match books, pens and pencils, fake coins. Some is for men and some is for women. Give it to somebody personally, along with a handshake. If you go to a John Deere dealer to buy a tractor and he throws in a ball cap, that’s swag. You just bought a half million dollar combine and got a free ball cap, and now you think the dealer is your best friend. Guess what? We had White House ball caps, too. It was similar to what I had for the constituents back in Congress, only I had more stuff and a bigger budget.

Some of that wouldn’t work on the leadership, but it still paid to be polite and break bread. Most of them knew the lunch was more than just a meeting, and nobody was surprised to find Clarke, McCain, Ridge, and Powell in the room. Josh, Frank, and Ari were with us, also. Before we had lunch, I went to a small podium and made the official announcement. “Thank you all for coming. One of the things I promised all of you was that I intended to work closely with Congress. I apologize if I wasn’t able to meet with you all last week, but you all know how busy that schedule was. One of the things I want to talk with you about today is coming up with a more formal schedule for lunches, both with the leadership and with other members of Congress. In any case, I asked you here to meet some of the candidates we have to fill some of the current vacancies in the Executive branch.” At that I gave a quick rundown of who was doing what, and a request that the leadership work with me to see that everybody was confirmed quickly.

Nobody gave me any grief over McCain or Powell. There was a bit more comment about Ridge, but only because he wasn’t as well known. The same applied to Richard Clarke, with the added difficulty that several people knew that the Bush White House had fired him, and here I was bringing him back. It was a very obvious sign the Buckman Administration was going to be different, and not everybody in Congress was going to be thrilled with that. I simply asked that the confirmation hearings be expedited, and that the various Committee Chairs in the Senate contact us to set up meetings.

I actually got a bit more grief about the upcoming response to the 9-11 attacks. Pretty much everybody wanted to know what I was going to do about it and when, and why hadn’t we already done it, and why they hadn’t been told weeks ago, like on the 12^th. I just kept pushing the answer that it would be soon, and that security restrained me from letting anybody know until it started. There was some grumbling at that, but I kept a stoic look on my face.

It was also obvious that people knew something was up, just not what. I was told they were hearing from constituents that family members had been updating wills and going into lockdowns on bases, and that planes had been flying out to parts unknown. I was being asked about every country from Libya to Pakistan. I just shook my head and refused to answer. I simply promised that it would be sometime in the near future.

If I actually said what was going to happen, the Afghanis would be filing a complaint in the United Nations before I made it back to the Oval Office.

As predicted, all four names were leaked by somebody in time for the Thursday night news, along with a comment that the White House would make a response Friday morning.

Friday morning, Ari had us all troop into the Press Room, read our statements, and then we all trooped out again. There were no questions and answers, but we weren’t worried. The four men were all known quantities. The news would be full of them, and on Sunday Frank and Josh would make the rounds of the talk shows, extolling their virtues.

I couldn’t fly home that weekend.

Monday was X-Day, and I needed to be in place. I was ordering our troops into combat. The bombs might not start falling until Monday, but the planes had to take off hours ago, in some cases, early Sunday. Everything was compounded by the fact that Afghanistan was 8–1/2 hours ahead of us. We had decided to bomb them at 9:00 AM local time. That made it 12:30 AM Washington time. The most complicated factor was the need to tell the Pakistani Ambassador we were committing hostile acts in his nation’s sovereign airspace. They would be well within their rights to disagree with that. Violently.

We asked the Pakistani Ambassador to arrive at the White House at about 11:00 PM. Both Colin Powell and I would greet him. Condi Rice was supposed to be there, but she had been looking a little green around the gills earlier in the day, and had ended up at Bethesda with a bad bout of the flu.

By the time we told the ambassador what was happening and he got back to the embassy, even if he managed to make an immediate phone call home, it would be too late. Our birds would be across the border and over their targets before they could do anything. “Anything you can tell me about the ambassador?” I asked Colin. “What’s his name?”

“Her name is Doctor Maliha Lodhi. She’s been here a couple of years or so. According to her file, she’s a big wig in their Foreign Office,” he answered.

“So she probably speaks better English than I do?”

“No probably about it. She used to be their ambassador to the Court of St. James before this.”

I snorted at that. Colin finished with the Cliff Notes version of her background right up until 10:45, when the Ambassador’s arrival was announced. Both Secretary Powell and I were standing when she was ushered into the Oval Office. I moved forward and said, “Thank you, Madame Ambassador, for coming at such a late hour. I know this is unusual, but a situation is developing that requires this of all of us.”

She had a pronounced British accent. “Of course, Mister President. Allow me to say how sorry the Pakistani nation is at the events of September 11, and that the entire nation despises what occurred that day.”

“Your words are most kind, Madame Ambassador.” And not quite true, I thought to myself. More than a few of the dancing and chanting crowds had been in Islamabad and Karachi.

She turned to Colin and said, “It is a pleasure to see you again, Secretary Powell. Might I ask if you are here in your role as Secretary of Defense, or your future role as Secretary of State?” Technically, in the event the Secretary of State was unavailable, his Deputy would be present. Unfortunately, that was Scooter Libby, now on a paid leave of absence while dealing with the Department of Justice.

“For tonight, I must report that would be both roles,” replied Colin.

She smiled. “That sounds ominous.”

I waved a hand towards an armchair. “Why don’t you have a seat, Doctor, so we can discuss that,” I said. We waited for her to seat herself, and then we both took our own seats.

“You have my attention, Mister President. How can I and Pakistan assist you?”

“By allowing our planes to fly over your country.”

“Your planes? What planes are you talking about? From where and to where? When do you wish to do this?”

“The when is right now,” I answered. “Even as we speak, American warplanes are overflying the southwest corner of Pakistan in order to take up positions to begin bombing targets in Afghanistan. By the time you leave here and make it back to your embassy, they will already be in-country and on their final approaches to their targets. Our intelligence agencies have determined that the attacks you mentioned earlier were carried out by a terrorist group in Afghanistan known as Al Qaeda, with the active assistance of the Afghan government, the Taliban. We intend to destroy both.”

“And you are doing this now!? Without giving my government the opportunity to discuss this?! This is a gross violation of the sovereign airspace of the Pakistani people! This is intolerable!” she replied. She was no longer the smooth diplomat, but now rather an affronted representative of her people. Too bad.

“Madame Ambassador, the location of the overflight is far from any population centers, or even government control. It is in Baluchistan, which you will have to admit is only nominally part of Pakistan. Regardless, it was necessary for operational reasons to do this,” added Secretary Powell.

“Mister Secretary, as you are well aware, Baluchistan is not simply a location on a map. Your warplanes are overflying the nation of Pakistan, and you well know it. No, I am going to have to insist that those bombers or whatever they are must turn around and depart our airspace immediately,” she replied.

“Madame Ambassador, that will not be happening. Our armed forces have been given a mission to perform. I authorized that mission and I approved that mission. It will go forward. I am simply informing you so that you can contact President Musharraf and assure him that Pakistan is not the target of our attacks, and that we have no intention of initiating hostile action against Pakistani forces. We intend to overfly isolated and deserted sections of your country on the way to somewhere else. Those planes will then reverse course and fly back out the way they came,” I told her.

“No, Mister President, this is not acceptable. No nation can invade another nation’s airspace, regardless of their intention or destination, without it being a flagrant violation of international law and an act of war. You are risking a great deal with this illegal saber rattling. I must insist that you stand down your forces and send them home,” she answered.

“Madame Ambassador, I have considerable respect for you, and I appreciate the position I have put you and your nation in. It is not your fault that Pakistan is caught in the middle like this. However, it is now the time for plain speaking and blunt truths,” I replied. She opened her mouth to argue, but I held up a hand. “Please, hear me out.” She settled down a touch and I continued. “The only way to reach Afghanistan is through the airspace of neighboring countries. We will be destroying Afghanistan over the next few days or weeks. That is a given. It is non-negotiable. Overflying Baluchistan is the simplest and cleanest way of doing this. I am sorry if Pakistan doesn’t like it, but it is what we will be doing.”

“Now, it’s your country, and your airspace. By every consideration of international law, Pakistan would be well within its rights to attempt to prevent us from violating Pakistani airspace. The only way to do that, however, would be with military force, and I have ordered our military to protect our planes with every means available. Let me be even plainer in speaking. If you wish to try and stop us, it is your right to do so, but you are going to lose a lot of airplanes and ships and men, and you won’t stop us. You are not a soldier, but your President is. I would suggest you discuss it with him.”

I stood up at that moment, as did Colin Powell, signifying the meeting was over. We shook hands, coldly, but I wasn’t finished yet. I held onto her hand, and added, “Doctor Lodhi, the CIA and the NSA have reported rumors that foreign fighters, not Al Qaeda, but others, are in northern Afghanistan. Now, I could not order the Pentagon to target such rumors without confirmation, however that can always change in the future. Certainly if there were such rumored forces, it would be much healthier for them if they were to go home.” The Pakistanis had an infantry brigade of about 10,000 troops facing the Northern Alliance. Doctor Lodhi didn’t make a reply, and she was shown out. Afterwards, I sat back down with Colin. “I imagine that went about as well as could be expected. What’s the fallout going to be?”

“Lousy, but that’s the hand we have to play. At the bare minimum, they do nothing back home, but file a bunch of protests in the United Nations. Worst case scenario, they decide to try and stop us from this violation, and we sink a lot of their ships and shoot down a lot of their airplanes. Absolute worst case, they try to do that with nukes, in which case Pakistan ceases to exist,” he answered.

“I don’t see that happening, but I could be wrong. I think you are correct about the U.N. though. Just make clear to everybody that we don’t want those bombers anywhere near anything the Pakistanis might care about,” I told him. We chatted a little more, and then I glanced at my watch. “Let’s go down to the Situation Room and see what’s happening.”

It was my first real look at the famous Situation Room, where we were supposed to have the means to wage war around the world in a secure facility buried beneath the West Wing. I had been here once before, on an orientation tour, but I hadn’t had a chance to do more than look around before I was whisked off somewhere else. Now that I was actually there and supposed to accomplish something, I was less than impressed. The room isn’t all that large, considering the number of people who work there (it is staffed 24-7). The walls were lined with wood paneling, like your basement family room, and behind the paneling were television and computer screens. Since they were all ancient CRT monitors, the false walls were correspondingly thick, which made the room narrower. The computers I saw were ancient 1980s technology. There were a couple of fax machines and a teletype machine in the corner. The carpets were crappy and the tile was cracked.

“What is this, the dungeon?” I asked.

The senior watch officer had the decency to look embarrassed. “We’ve been meaning to upgrade things…”

“It’s authorized. Start tomorrow,” I told him. I found a seat at the big table. “Okay, so, where are we at?”

“Sir, in approximately five minutes, it will be 9:00 AM local time, X-Hour.” He hit a remote control and one of the screens lit up, with a map of Afghanistan, with several cities shown, and a number of colored arrows and dots moving slowly. “The B-2s are on their final approaches. They are at 45,000 feet, so even though it is daylight, nobody can actually see them from the ground, and they are radar invisible to anything the Afghans might have available. In a few minutes they will be dropping 1,000 pound JDAM munitions on the initial target list. That would be all the Taliban and military hard targets and headquarter targets we had. In some cases multiple bombs are targeted to the same site.”

“JDAMs?”

“It’s a new type of bomb, sir. We basically bolt an extremely accurate guidance system onto cheap old dumb bombs. They are guided by GPS signals,” he explained.

“And if somebody jams the GPS signals?”

He shook his head. “They are multiply redundant, with backup inertial guidance units. They are extremely accurate. This is the first time we are actually using them. On the tests we have been running, you can practically pick the window out that you want the bomb to fly through.”

“Huh.” This all sounded like more of the video game warfare we had seen during Desert Storm. I wondered if any of these guys had ever gotten their hands dirty and feet muddy in the real Army.

“We should be seeing something on the satellite screens shortly.” He pointed to a different screen, with a black and white image of an urban zone, but without labels I didn’t know what I was looking at. A timer in the corner was ticking down, and then went to 0:00, and began climbing again. Nothing had happened. I glanced over at him and he smiled, saying, “It takes a bit for the bombs to fall from nine miles up and ten miles away.”

Okay, that made sense. I turned back to the screen and wondered when and what I would see. If I tried, I could sit down and figure it out, but by then, it would probably be over. Suddenly there was a bright flash on the screen, which washed out everything, and the room erupted in a massive, “WHOA!” Fifteen seconds later the video was back, and in the center of the screen, one of the buildings was a mass of rubble and dust.

I looked over at Colin and said, “I guess these things work after all.”

“Mister President, if you thought Desert Storm was high tech, you ain’t seen nothing yet. In a few years we’ll be able to do live reconnaissance before, during, and after one of these things. You and me? We’re dinosaurs with this stuff.”

“Colin, not to be rude about it, but I would guess that you were saying the same thing right before you went to Viet Nam, and we lost that one. Let’s hope these guys don’t get the same rude awakening.”

“Touché!”

I turned back to the Watch Officer, a colonel. “Colonel, what was it we just saw happen there?”

“That was the headquarters of their Army, such as it is, in Kabul. The Taliban is relatively low tech and doesn’t have a lot of formal headquarters and such, but this was the closest we could come to it.” He pointed at another screen. “The B-2s also took out what radar they had, mostly at what they had for airports and airstrips. The Bones are on final approach. They have a heavy load of Mk 83 Snake Eyes with a mix of fusing options.” On another screen was another black and white image of something, I guess a valley of some sort, with various black dots on it. Suddenly, from right to left, something streaked across the screen, and then behind it massive clouds of dust rose up. There was more yelling and congratulating from the watchers.

I watched a little longer, and some reports were coming over from the Pentagon. It was well after one in the morning when I stretched and said, “I am going to bed. Colin, I suggest you do the same. Tonight I need to make a speech.” I made a final look around the room. “These guys are playing video games and it feels like we are playing Pong on a black and white television in my aunt’s basement. Get this place updated before somebody sees it and laughs themselves to death.”

He laughed at that. “I’ll pass that along. Good night, sir.”

“Good night, Colin. Thank you for being here tonight.”

I slept late, and Josh had the writers do up a speech for me. Ari was going to put me on television tonight at 7:30. Ari wasn’t in the need-to-know loop, but he would understand, and I didn’t expect the speech to take long. It would be half rah-rah patriotism and half real information. Actually, that wouldn’t be fair, to anyone. Americans were angry and scared, and up until now it didn’t look like their government was doing jack shit about a disaster that had killed about 3,200 of their fellow citizens. They wanted something done, and they wanted it done sooner rather than later. A decent speech and solid action would help bring my fellow citizens back to an even keel.

Mindy and the staff knew I was reserving today for something critical, and not to schedule me for much. We had maintained fairly tight security on the operation so far. Josh had known what was going on, but all Ari had been told was that he had to get me time on the air. I was in my office, in khakis and a sports shirt, by 10:00. I asked Josh, Ari, and Matt Scully into my office at that time. Mike Gerson was out of town on a long weekend, which he had earned.

After they came in, I asked, “Josh, anything new on the operation?”

Ari interrupted and asked, “What operation, Mister President?” I glanced at him in surprise, and he continued. “I was asked a question by the Washington Post a little while ago, something about some unusual explosions or something going on in Afghanistan. It wasn’t very clear, but something happened over there.”

I had a half smile on my face as I asked, “What did you tell them?”

“That I didn’t know what he was talking about. What is going on, Mister President?”

I looked over at Josh. “Well, security seems to work sometimes around here.” He snorted at that. To the others I said, “This is why you are here and why I need to speak to the nation tonight. Last night, around midnight our time, we launched quite a few bombers and blew up quite a few targets in Afghanistan. A terrorist group there, called Al Qaeda, and the Afghan government, the Taliban, were the ones behind the 9-11 attacks. Tonight I need to tell the nation.”

Ari looked very distressed. “Mr. President, how can I craft the appropriate response if I am kept in the dark like this? I have a top secret clearance!”

“Ari, you do have the clearance, and I do trust you. This is a matter of military security. If anybody had said something to anybody, and it had gotten out, lives could have been lost. I will never compromise that for the sake of not looking bad. For weeks now people have been asking you when we are going to do something. You’ve told me that. What would you have done differently if you had known this?”

“I could at least have said we were working on a response. Instead everybody thinks we’re a bunch of idiots who don’t know what we’re doing,” he replied.

I nodded. “Ari, we have known who did this since the first night I spoke to the nation, that night, 9-11. We had to wait to get everything ready and get men and ships and planes into position. If I had given you more of the details, you might have inadvertently said something and, they would have disappeared. I can afford to look foolish. I can’t afford to let them get away.”

He stared at me in shock. “You’ve known all along?!”

“Now you know why I got rid of a bunch of people. All those times they told you that it was Iraq doing evil things?” I shook my head and finished. “Iraq had nothing to do with this, and Cheney and the entire crew around him knew it. They are finished. We need to talk more on this, and it isn’t quite as secret, and you can’t release it yet, but there is so much more going on. I promise you, talk to me alone some time later this week. Book some serious sit down time, and I promise to fill you in on everything. Today was all about security. I won’t keep you in the dark unless I have a damn good reason.”

“Yes, sir.”

I looked over at Matt. “Ari is going to get me some time on television tonight. I need to tell the public what we have learned and what we have done about it. I am going to get somebody down in the Situation Room up here to give you two some details. My overall thrust is that we knew what happened, but needed to delay our response until it could be massive and overwhelming and a surprise. I want a positive tone to everything, and a warning to anybody else who might get too big for their britches. Getting my drift?”

“Yes, sir.”

I picked up the phone and asked for the Watch Officer in the Situation Room to come up. He was there a couple of minutes later, an Air Force colonel this time, as opposed to the Army colonel I met earlier. When he came into the Oval Office he was surprised at the presence of others. Regardless, he came to attention and said, “Colonel Oliver, sir. You asked to see me?”

“At ease, Colonel. Yes, thank you. This is Ari Fleischer, my Press Secretary, and Matt Sculley, one of my speechwriters. Tonight I have to address the nation and let them know what we have done. Before they can do that, they need to know what’s been going on. You are going to have to help them with some information.”

“Yes, sir. We can figure something out. Uh, sir, you need to know…”

“Yes, Colonel?”

He had a pained look on his face. “We lost a plane, sir.”

I sat upright at that. “Where? How?”

“It’s not definite yet, but highly probable. One of the second wave B-52s. From everything we can tell, the mission went as planned. They radioed feet dry when they hit the Pakistani coast, sent the signal when they made their bomb run, and sent another signal for feet wet when they hit the Pakistani coastline on the way out. We verified they hit their target from satellite imagery. From the coastline they were to link up with a tanker for a refuel before flying to Diego Garcia. They never made the linkup with the tanker.”

“Any idea what happened?” I asked.

“No, sir. They never gave any of the code words for being under attack, either over Afghanistan or Pakistan. In addition, the Navy reports the Pakistanis have stayed at home. They have sent out a number of reconnaissance flights, but nothing was in the area, and the planes involved are not capable of attacking anybody. It just went down.”

“Shit!” I swore to myself.

“Sir, I don’t mean to make light of this, but this can happen. Those planes are my age or older. Sometimes they just break and stop flying.”

“Colonel, please tell me that we are searching for the plane. Actually, I don’t care about the plane, but I do care about survivors.”

He nodded. “Of course, sir. Both the Navy and the Air Force are flying recon flights and search and rescue.”

“That will be a top priority, but we need to make sure the mission is accomplished. What is the status on Afghanistan?” I asked.

The colonel looked at the others and then answered. “The targets were hit repeatedly and early BDA suggests a very high accuracy. We haven’t got all the reports in, but reaction out of Kabul is disjointed and confused. Whatever they had for a functioning government is seriously disrupted.”

I looked over at the two civilians. “BDA is Bomb Damage Assessment. It tells if we actually hit what we were aiming at. We went for a really massive assault, and it sounds like it worked.”

“Did we kill the leader of Al Qaeda?” asked Matt. “He’s the one who ordered the 9-11 attack, right?” I looked at him curiously, since we really hadn’t been pushing his name. “Hey, I’ve been listening to people around here.”

I shrugged and looked at the colonel. He answered slowly. “Sir, we just don’t know at this point. We hammered their training camps and bombed anything the CIA indicated might be a safe house or stopover. Still, trying to kill a single man in a foreign country who is hiding and on the run… I just don’t know.”

I sighed at that and nodded. I remembered on the first time through, it took us about ten years to kill Osama bin Laden. We tried numerous times earlier, but never really had his address. We would bomb or Tomahawk some place, and then might not know if he was dead or alive until he made another video and released it from somewhere else. “I understand the difficulty, Colonel. Really, I do. Try to work up some information on that for me, please.” I looked at Matt and Ari. “I know it will be difficult, but we can’t focus on a single individual. We need to focus on the organization and the radical philosophy they espouse. This is just the start of a new and long war. It’s not going to be like World War II, where we can kill Hitler or Tojo and declare victory and go home.”

I picked up the phone and asked for one of the Three Amigos to be tracked down and to call me as soon as possible. We were going to have to get into that tonight as well, and Ari and Matt would need that briefing, too. When Basham, the Secret Service guy, called, I asked him to come over. I looked over at Matt and Ari and smiled at them. “I haven’t just been fumbling around for the last month guys. Stick with me and maybe we can get some stuff accomplished around this joint!”

Chapter 144: President Buckman

“Good evening.

Almost four weeks ago our nation was attacked by terrorists. Four airplanes were hijacked in a coordinated attack and flown to targets in New York and Washington. Two were crashed into the World Trade Center in New York, one was targeted at the Pentagon here in Washington, and a fourth crashed in Pennsylvania when the passengers managed to overpower their attackers, but lost their lives in the process. President Bush and over 3,200 other people died that day, and our nation changed forever.

At that time I promised you that we would determine who had committed these atrocities and that we would respond. Tonight I am able to speak for the first time about what happened that day and what we have done since.

Following the attacks I ordered a joint investigation by members of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the Central Intelligence Agency, and the United States Secret Service. I ordered them to find out who attacked us and how it was done, and whether we could have prevented it. The investigation is still continuing, but I can provide some information now. First, there is no indication that this was a planned assassination attempt on President Bush. The evidence all points to a conclusion that the attacks were planned before President Bush even scheduled his trip to New York.

I can now state that our intelligence services were able to determine who the attackers were within a matter of hours. That first night, when I spoke to you to tell you what had happened, we already knew who had attacked us. We could have attacked at that time, but our response would have been premature and ineffective. We needed confirming intelligence and information, so we waited until our armed forces were prepared to respond effectively. That response was made today!

A terrorist group named Al Qaeda, consisting of radical Islamic fundamentalists, was behind the attacks of September 11^th. They are based in Afghanistan, and have the support of the Afghan government, the Taliban. At 12:30 AM our time, and 9:00 AM local time, Operation Enduring Freedom commenced. American warplanes began a massive and coordinated attack on Al Qaeda and Taliban targets throughout Afghanistan. We targeted training bases, military assets, a wide variety of government targets, and terrorist safe houses and support facilities. Tomorrow, the Pentagon will release more specific information, but it will be limited. Military operations continue even as we speak, and I will not endanger the lives of our soldiers, sailors, marines, and airmen by releasing information prematurely.

I can say with a considerable degree of certainty that our assault was highly successful, although the exact degree is not yet certain. Unfortunately, a price was paid by our armed forces. Thomas Jefferson once wrote that the Tree of Liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants. I am not yet free to divulge all the details of Operation Enduring Freedom, but I can say that while our losses were extremely light, there were losses. Patriots shed their blood, to protect us from tyrants. I cannot promise there will not be losses in the future.

September 11^th changed our lives forever, and in ways that will probably take years to determine the extent of. Many of us believed that what happened then could never happen, or that if it happened, it would be somewhere else, in another country, with people we never heard of. We slumbered peacefully, and have received a rude awakening. We must now come to terms with a very different future than what we had planned. As I said earlier, we must change the way we handle our intelligence and determine new ways to deal with new threats. Our nation faces new enemies, enemies who wish to destroy the peaceful and free society we possess.

However, America is strong, not in spite of our freedom, but because of that freedom. The greatest amendment to our Constitution is the very first amendment. It states that we are open and free, in our religion, our speech, and our right to assemble. It is, in effect, the right to freedom of thought. We will not give up those rights. When I was sworn in as President, I swore to preserve, protect, and defend the very Constitution that says we will be a free and open people. Those who would try and change us will fail. We as a people are strong because of our beliefs, and working together we will remain strong, as individuals, and as a nation. Our nation has been challenged, and will grow stronger through this challenge.

Thank you, good night, and God bless America.”

I kept staring at the camera with my mouth shut until the director turned off the bright lights and began talking. I looked over at Ari Fleischer, who was standing in the corner with a copy of the speech in his hand. “Did I blow my lines?” I asked.

“No, sir, I think you got them,” he answered.

“Good.” I waited for some of the technical people to leave and said, “Remember how I said I wanted a sit down with you to go over some of the information on the intelligence problems we had?” He nodded, so I continued, “I had a call from Ashcroft earlier this afternoon. He and one of his investigators are coming over the end of the week for an update. I would like you to join us. The only reason I didn’t bring you in earlier was because I couldn’t take the slightest chance of a leak affecting the military operation. That doesn’t apply any more, and you need to know what is happening. I am not being sneaky for the sake of being sneaky.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you. What is going on? The Attorney General is involved in this?!”

I nodded. “Remember how during the summer all you heard out of some of the people surrounding the President was Iraq, Iraq, Iraq?” He nodded again, so I shrugged and shook my head. “Guess what, it wasn’t Iraq, and some people knew it. It isn’t completely clear yet, but it’s going to be a mess, and there are probably going to be some indictments. I would bet that there are going to be hearings on the Hill about this, just like with everything else about 9-11. We can’t be seen to be playing politics with this, so any announcements need to be out of Justice, but you are going to need to know what is happening. As for the timing, I have no idea. Maybe we’ll find out when John and his people come here.”

“Thank you, Mister President.”

“Ari, I just want you to know that if I have to be an asshole at times, it’s not for the sake of being an asshole. I’ll have a reason. I need talented people here, and you are one of those people.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.” He paused for a second and said, “Indictments?!”

“Ari, I could see it happening right in front of me and even I was surprised. For your information, if there are indictments, I won’t be issuing pardons on anything related to 9-11. People didn’t do their jobs, and now we have 3,200 dead Americans and a dead President and I ended up in the jackpot. No, I won’t be handing out any pardons.” I stood up from the corner of the desk I had been half sitting on. “Come on, it’s late. Go home and let me get out of here, too.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

The next step was scheduled to occur the next morning. Secretary Powell arrived at my office at 9:45, and the first thing he said was, “Are you really sure you want to do this?”

“Colin, people need to learn the consequences of their actions. When you were growing up, if you acted up, your mom or your dad would smack you on the butt and tell you not to do it again. Why should countries be any different?”

He crossed his arms and argued, “That’s all well and good, but don’t think there won’t be consequences for your actions, too.”

“Every day I think about those consequences, Colin, every single day.”

We were still discussing consequences when the intercom on my desk announced our guest was arriving. Colin went to the lobby. The Saudi Arabian Ambassador, Prince Bandar bin Sultan of the House of Saud, one of the innumerable Saudi princes and arguably one of their smarter ones, had been invited, and you don’t just let ambassadors wander around the place looking for the proper door to knock on.

Then again, while he wasn’t on my current list of favorite people, I didn’t need to be overly hostile. My actions in the next fifteen minutes would be hostile enough.

One of the agents at the door knocked and opened it, ushering in Ambassador Sultan and Secretary of Defense Powell. He approached and stretched out his hand and I shook it. “Thank you for coming to see me, Mister Ambassador.”

“It is my pleasure, Mister President. I hope you and your family are well.” We chatted about everything under the sun for about ten minutes, since it is considered rude to actually get anything accomplished. Eventually he came around to business. “I am sorry that I was not able to meet you a few weeks ago following President Bush’s passing. I can understand how busy you must have been, and still are, it would seem.”

I nodded. “Yes, yesterday was quite busy. Unfortunately, while I hope that our response to the attack on my country will deter future attacks, I seriously doubt that it will dissuade anybody. That sort of fanaticism does not truly believe in the power of consequences for one’s actions.”

“Actions such as we all witnessed on September 11^th are hateful to Allah, and an affront to Islam, a religion of peace,” he commented.

“It is good to hear you say such things, Mister Ambassador, but it seems to be at variance to the actions of your country. This is truly disturbing to me, and to my fellow citizens,” I replied.

“I do not understand. What do you mean, sir?”

“Well, in a very short time, the details of September 11^th will be publicly known, in full. Details such as the fact that of the 19 hijackers, 15 of them were Saudi citizens. Details such as the fact that the leader of Al Qaeda is a Saudi citizen. Details such as the fact that Saudi charities and financial institutions provide the funding for terrorist groups such as Al Qaeda and others. Details like the fact that the extremist religious doctrines that promote this sort of behavior are routine parts of Saudi culture and thought and government support. To the average American citizen there is little difference between the individuals that did this and the nation that, to all intents and purposes, sent them.”

“Mister President, you paint my nation in much too harsh a light. Groups such as Al Qaeda are banned in Saudi Arabia, and these terrorists have fled us, to other places where they can hide in rocks and caves from civilized people. My country categorically denies any participation in such hateful actions, and I am surprised you would consider this of us.”

Colin Powell was simply sitting there watching us, and wondering whether I was giving myself enough rope to properly hang myself. In for a penny, in for a pound. I kept going. “Unfortunately, Mister Ambassador, my country has a saying. Perhaps you have heard of it — actions speak louder than words. The actions of your nation are not the actions of a friend or an ally. What am I to think, and what is the average American to think, of these actions?”

“Mister President, for many years now our nations have been allied, and we have not allowed minor differences to detract from our joint mission of bringing peace to the entire region. Surely you cannot doubt the resolve of Saudi Arabia in this noble endeavor,” he countered.

“Mister Ambassador, I sincerely hope that you are not categorizing the deaths of 3,200 Americans and an American president as a minor difference! I am going to give you the benefit of the doubt and trust that was simply a poor choice of words!” interjected Secretary Powell.

Bin Sultan turned to face the Secretary and replied, “I do not mean to take this lightly, Secretary Powell, but the fact is that we have had differences in the past, and will probably continue to do so. Certainly your nation’s continued and uncritical support of Israel over the overwhelming and legitimate rights of the Palestinian people is at least as serious a concern to us as any concerns you might have as to my nation’s religious beliefs. Regardless, we have stood together in the past, and will continue standing together in the future.”

“Regardless, sir, we now come to the crux of the matter. As you are aware, the United States has not had an ambassador to the Kingdom since Ambassador Fowler left in May. Absent any change in the policies and behavior of your Kingdom, our replacement for Ambassador Fowler is being held in a state of abeyance for the foreseeable future. Inasmuch as this seems an inequitable state of affairs, we are requesting that you return to Saudi Arabia, to discuss with your government ways in which America’s trust in your nation can be rebuilt,” I told him.

The Ambassador was possessed of an excellent poker face, but this took him by surprise. “You are declaring me persona non grata!” he exclaimed. Being declared persona non grata, also known as being PNGed, was a diplomatic version of being told to get out of town, usually within 48 hours. Afterwards, they theoretically lose their diplomatic status and can be arrested.

“No, of course not. I have no wish for this to get any more ugly than it has to. However, I do think, and my advisers agree with me, that it would be best if you were to go home and discuss measures to reassure us in the future, so that your successor can someday return and we can put this painful period behind us.” Your successor, because you won’t be found acceptable. “Perhaps a convenient diplomatic illness?” I suggested.

“I am most disappointed, Mister President. I have watched you for many years, and throughout your history you have always been a voice of reason when others around you beat the drum for war. Yet here you are waging war on Islam, bombing countries that had nothing to do with what happened to your nation, and acting the madman. Certainly that is the impression my countrymen will take from such actions. They will not want to do business with people who cannot be trusted to behave according to international standards,” he said. Business, code word for raising oil prices.

I barked out a laugh. “Mister Ambassador, you obviously have drawn some very poor conclusions about me. I would suggest that once you land back in the Kingdom, you open your eyes and see what your nation has wrought on the world, and consider what the consequences of your actions are. We will be happy to reconsider things at some future date, but only if there is reason to believe that the Kingdom has changed its practices.”

I stood up, followed by Colin, and then finally, slowly, by the Ambassador. He looked at me, and said, “I cannot ask you to swerve from this course you seem determined to follow?”

“It is a course forced upon us by others, sir, not one I would have chosen on my own.” I reached out and he reluctantly shook my hand. “Farewell, Mister Ambassador. I wish you a safe trip home.”

“Farewell, Mister President.” He followed Colin Powell out the door.

Colin was back a few minutes later. “Well, I have to say, when you decide to piss somebody off, you do it in a big way. Like I said earlier, there are going to be consequences, and they are going to land in your lap.”

I shrugged. “So be it. I think they are survivable. They are pissed, but they don’t have all that many weapons to use against us. They will undoubtedly reduce the amount of oil they pump, so that is going to raise prices. That won’t be good for the economy, but that is taking a major hit anyway. It is going to take years for the airlines to recover, and some of them won’t. If oil prices rise, it will make it much more palatable to raise fuel efficiency standards on cars and trucks. In addition, it will spur oil and gas drilling here at home. Are you aware of just how much natural gas they are discovering right beneath our feet here in America? Once they figure out how to drill it and get it out safely, we’ll be able to convert every coal fired plant in this country to natural gas. Who needs the EPA to regulate emissions when the power companies will do it for them! The Saudis will cut back on purchases of our weapons? Fine! Who ever thought giving camel jockies billions of dollars worth of hardware was a good idea anyway? They won’t be able to get what they really want anywhere else. They want the most modern stuff available, to protect themselves from Iran and Israel. Neither country is overly impressed anyway.”

“So what?” he argued. “Everything you just mentioned slams our economy, and doesn’t change their behavior. They are going to continue funding these mutts no matter what. It’s cheap and it’s good local politics for them.”

“Very true. Colin, the problem with the Saudis dates back almost a century. King Faisal sold his soul to Satan. He made a deal with the only branch of Islam who would put up with him, the nut job Wahhabis. They supported him for king, putting him in front of all the other Bedouin princes. In turn, he gave them free rein over the mosques and the schools. They have been turning out more nut jobs ever since. The Devil is coming to collect, though. Most of the nut jobs hate the House of Saud as much as they hate the rest of us. Just watch. Wait until they start blowing up things in Saudi Arabia, and not just everywhere else. The Saudis need to clean up their own house,” I explained.

“Either way, you need to speak to Paul O’Neill about this as soon as possible. He is not going to appreciate you raising the price of gas.”

“Very true. Thank you for being here, Mister Secretary.” Colin took his leave and I went back to work.

Much of what we discussed unfolded slowly around us over the next few weeks. Prince bin Sultan was gone by the end of the week, concerned over his ailing health. The CIA contacts we had there indicated that he had promptly resurfaced high in their foreign intelligence office. Also, amid public pronouncements over the concern that America was overreaching in its foreign policy attacks on Islam, oil production was cut in the Kingdom by two million barrels a day, and prices rose by $4 a barrel, rising to just under $26 a barrel.

To a considerable extent, some of this was overshadowed by the other events going on. Combat actions in Afghanistan continued through the rest of October and into the first week of November. The Pakistanis had an entire infantry brigade in northern Afghanistan supporting the Taliban against the Northern Alliance. We had known about it, and hadn’t targeted them, but once we destroyed the airports and supply depots, they lost all their logistical support, and began driving south and east. We let them go. It was one of the dicier aspects to our operational plan. If I had given enough warning to Musharaf to allow him to yank his troops, I would have given the same warning to the Afghanis and Al Qaeda. In the end we decided that we could chalk any Pakistani losses up to accidents and if they pushed it, ask why they were there in the first place. Their disappearance considerably demoralized the Taliban forces left behind.

No more planes were lost. The BUFF which had gone down had left nothing more than an oil slick and a small debris field in the northern Arabian Sea. We did have more losses though. The Special Forces A-teams we dropped into northern Afghanistan were able to link up with groups in the Northern Alliance on training and support missions. The remaining Taliban and Al Qaeda fighters, now joined together, had a time honored technique for handling an infantry assault. They would retreat up the nearest hill or mountain and allow their enemies to try an assault. Since their attackers were irregulars and partisans they couldn’t afford any sort of serious casualties, so the attack would eventually peter out. Enter the high tech world of the American Green Beret. The fighters they were embedded with would make an assault, the Taliban would retreat up a hill, the irregulars would pen them in and make lots of noise down at the bottom, and then the Green Berets would call in an airstrike on the mountaintop. The new JDAM munitions were incredibly precise, and could be targeted right in the Taliban’s laps. Two or three would clear off a hilltop handily.

On the other hand — shit happens. There were two cases of friendly fire, where incorrect coordinates were sent to the orbiting bombers, and A-teams were caught in both cases. I remembered this had happened the first time, too, and the response was similar. Northern Alliance fighters had died, but since the Americans had died along with them, the locals simply considered it the price of doing business and it showed our solidarity and support for them.

Most of the bombing was confined to the first day, but as intelligence began to determine who was still around after the bombing, new targets were added. On the third day we dropped a pair of 1,000 pounders into a mosque being used as an Army headquarters. By then, foreign journalists had begun arriving and reporting from Kabul and Kandahar, and video was making its way out. Ari was questioned on this the next day at the morning press conference, and became combative with the press, much to my amusement. “You don’t want us to bomb a church? Great! Don’t put your soldiers in the basement of the church! And maybe you should stay away from schools and hospitals, too!” Later, after being asked what the civilian casualties were, he gave my response, which was, “The President told me he didn’t ask. Sort of like how Al Qaeda didn’t ask about the civilian casualties on 9-11.”

There was a huge furor about that! How could we be so inhuman as to bomb churches and schools and hospitals?! How could I not care about collateral damage? There were lengthy discussions by the talking heads of whether we were committing war crimes. I got the general impression that I wasn’t getting a Nobel Peace Prize out of this.

Some, but not all, of the complaints shut down two days after that. The Taliban in some shithole named Bamian had decided to use the local clinic/hospital as their headquarters when the doctors and nurses there decided to complain. They were all German and Swiss doctors and nurses working with Doctors Without Borders. The Taliban handled this by simply taking the doctors and nurses outside and putting them against a wall and shooting them, and then broadcast this as part of their jihad. This did not endear them with the Germans, who had been complaining about American imperialism up to that point.

Ari and Josh were watching my approval ratings all during this time, as well. I peaked at 91 % the Friday I was sworn in as President, and then began dropping slowly. I rebounded to 90 % when we began bombing Afghanistan. Ari and Josh loved it, as did the rest of my staff, but I just smiled and shook my head. It would never last. If I didn’t handle the economy and everything else, a war scare wouldn’t keep me where I needed to be to get things done. I would be lucky to stay above 50 % by the time of the 2004 election.

I spoke to John Ashcroft and he came up with names for two lawyers. He was appointing one of them, Patrick Fitzgerald, an Assistant U.S. Attorney in Manhattan who was familiar with everything related to 9-11, to be lead prosecutor and investigator on anything and everything 9-11 related. For some reason the name was familiar to me, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. That meant he was going to be involved in the Scooter Libby and Able Danger mess. A second name was somebody I had heard of but never met, Robert Mueller, who had been an assistant U.S. Attorney under Reagan and Bush 41, and then had a variety of jobs with either the Justice Department or in the private sector. I knew he had been considered to replace Freeh, but had gone through prostate cancer surgery over the summer, which had delayed the replacement. Now he was healthy and Freeh was gone. Barnwell, the Executive Assistant Director who was one of the Three Amigos, was a good man, and when the 9-11 investigation was over was going to find himself either a U.S. Attorney or Federal Judge down the road, but he was too junior to take over the FBI. Freeh’s Deputy Director hadn’t impressed me, and wasn’t going to be named as Director. I asked John to have Mueller visit to meet me. If I got a decent feeling for the man, we’d send his name to the Senate for confirmation.

The Senate confirmations were moving apace, which meant slowly. In a typical confirmation hearing, the candidate reads some sort of statement to start out with, and then gets questioned by the committee members. On some committees there might be a dozen and a half members, and each and every one of them gets to ask questions of the candidate. After that they vote on the candidate, and if he passes, then the full Senate gets to vote. In happy times this can go quickly. Right now we were benefiting from the need to ‘support’ the President by approving his choices. Colin Powell was a case in point. After his opening statement, each of his questioners started their little session with five minutes of singing Colin’s praises and then a few puffball questions. His confirmation hearing lasted a total of one day.

In unhappy times, or with a controversial appointee, things aren’t as pleasant. The praises are criticisms, and the questioning can go on for days, and the final votes go along strict party lines. If I got lucky I could keep the partisan bickering under control. On the other hand I was dealing with Congress, so intelligent action was not guaranteed. The one thing I had going for me was that the general sense in the Senate was that a President should be allowed employees of his choosing, so even the most controversial people usually got approved eventually. Right now the nation had a feeling of unity, and I needed to exploit it to get the people we needed in place.

It wouldn’t last, that feeling of unity. We were going to get hit with a recession, and once people started losing their jobs, it was all going to be my fault. The airlines were flying again, but were hemorrhaging cash, especially since the price of fuel went up. Meanwhile lawsuits were starting to pile up, and I knew we would need to somehow indemnify the airlines before survivors’ lawsuits broke them. I sat down with the replacement FAA boss and came up with the beginnings of a plan. As I suspected, there was a list of simple solutions that the airlines had all resisted on a cost basis. The easiest, replacing cockpit doors with something bullet proof that latched securely, would cost about $5,000 to install. As ugly as it sounded, even if the hijackers killed every single passenger and flight attendant, if they couldn’t get to the cockpit, they couldn’t crash the airplane. Regardless, the cheap bastards wouldn’t spend the money, and we saw how that worked out.

Some of the other solutions available were pricier, such as military grade anti-missile technology in case somebody decided to launch a Stinger or something similar at a plane. That was more in the million dollar range. My plan, at least until Congress got into it, was to offer some form of indemnification and monetary assistance with the conversions needed, provided the airlines accepted the security requirements demanded by the FAA. In other words, if you installed what the Feds told you to install, and somebody still managed to break into the cockpit or shoot down a plane with a Stinger, the airline was off the hook. Congress was going to water it down, or decide to give them money, or pay too much, but if I could get the FAA in control of security it would be a major step forward.

I wasn’t in the mood to give them too much money. Most airlines were run by money grubbing twits, along with equally rapacious unions. They could damn well raise their prices if the price of gas went up, just like everybody else in America. If they lost money, tough luck. Maybe they needed to change how they did business. Again, I knew the lobbyists would be out in force, but if I rammed some of this down their throats while they were still in shock and needy, I might get lucky.

I knew we were going to get involved in insurance to the surviving family members, which we had done on my first go. It was a shitty and horrendous job, and necessary. We would appoint a Special Master to handle it. Likewise there would be some loan guarantees for reconstruction, etc. Just add a few more billion to the deficit.

The one thing I absolutely did not want to do was start up any more major government bureaucracies! Homeland Security proved to be a disaster. The Transportation Safety Administration was even more disastrous. There were already calls for the government to do something, in this case make a single agency devoted to protecting the Homeland. It sounded to me an awful lot like the Russian Motherland or the German Fatherland, both of which sounded fascist. We got sloppy and the bad guys got lucky, but there was no reason to get stupid. We just needed to not be sloppy!

On the other hand, I was definitely in favor of a major overhaul of national intelligence. I was looking for a national counter-terrorism agency which could coordinate anti-terrorist stuff. That way if the DIA Able Danger team finds out about a sleeper cell, they send it to the new agency, which can get anything the CIA has on it, and then tell the FBI to track the assholes down. This could work, whereas Homeland Security very quickly became a bloated monstrosity overly impressed with its own importance.

By the end of October I began putting together a wish list of things to do. I talked these over with the Cabinet heads and Vice President Select McCain. He was also going through a confirmation process, and I told everyone we needed a new VP by November 1. I needed to do a foreign trip, and couldn’t leave without a backup. Otherwise my wish list would hold until January, when I dumped it on America in a State of the Union Address. I wanted something consistent and coherent by then, with a limited number of major points, addressing security, national defense, the budget, and a few very select projects. If I was all over the board on this stuff, nothing would get done. If I could focus on a limited menu, I might accomplish something. We’d just have to see.

Cheney had been thundering against me from the sidelines since the day I had fired him. Exactly what he expected to accomplish wasn’t clear, since he couldn’t get me thrown out of office. From some of what he was saying, he wanted all of my Cabinet selections thrown out, and hard core conservatives and chickenhawks put in place. I really think he was positioning himself for a run in the Republican primary in 2004. If so, it backfired on him. By November the appointment of a Special Prosecutor to look into intelligence failures was announced, as was the fact that the investigation was focusing on malfeasance by some of those involved. Fitzgerald was planning on taking depositions, and the White House Counsel’s office was figuring out the official position on ‘executive privilege’ as it applied to individuals no longer in the employ of the government. One of my problems was that the White House Counsel was Alberto Gonzalez, a former Federal judge who was a very close friend to George Bush. There was no doubt in my mind that anything I told the Counsel’s office would be reported directly to Dick Cheney. Gonzalez had zero loyalty to me, and I wanted to get rid of him as soon as practical. Our public position was that we looked forward to cooperating with the Special Prosecutor, and simply needed to determine the best way to do that. I figured this was an excellent way to get Cheney out of my hair. Even if he didn’t go to jail, he would probably go back to Wyoming, which was almost the same thing as far as I was concerned.

The only question we had inside the White House was how long it would take for Cheney’s political career to begin swirling around the bowl. The odds were running 3–1 it wouldn’t last past mid-November. By then I wouldn’t care. Mid-November would see Marilyn and me overseas, on our first official visit anywhere.

Chapter 145: Foreign Relations

Foreign trips are a mix of smoke and mirrors and public relations. What they usually aren’t is anything substantive. Nobody flies halfway around the planet to meet with the high and mighty without everybody knowing what is going to happen ahead of time. So why do them at all? For one reason, just like in any other form of business, it’s usually helpful to actually meet the guy you’re doing business with and look him in the eye. At the minimum you can start to get a sense of the other person.

We were scheduled for eight days in mid-November, visiting London, Paris, Moscow, and Tel-Aviv. Figure two days in each spot, and travel at night. I was not expecting miracles, but this could be interesting. I was the new kid, untested and untried, the billionaire playboy who had somehow managed to be in the right place at the right time when the real President died. Expectations were low. I think the State Department would be happy if I simply managed to use the right spoon and fork at the various state dinners we would be attending.

I was traveling with the Secretary of State, and he was a fairly well known commodity on the world stage. He had become very high profile back during the Gulf War, and had managed to avoid stepping on his dick in the ten years since then. In most foreign capitals he was much better known than I was. Marilyn and I were both going, and the kids were staying home. Colin’s wife, Alma, was also traveling with us.

I was fairly current on what our history was with each country, including what had been planned under President Bush. That didn’t mean I agreed with his plans. In particular, I was less than thrilled with his antagonistic view and tone concerning Russia. There were a bunch of people who longed for the good old days of the Cold War, when we only had one enemy, the dirty Commies. They were evil people you could point to and say were bad. Since a lot of the more hard core neo-conservatives dated back to the Reagan and Bush 41 years, when the ‘Evil Empire’ was given its nickname, they still thought that way. It was easy to point at Russia; it wasn’t so easy to point at radical Islamic terrorists.

I had argued this out with both Bush and Cheney. We had spent fifty years in a European-centric world view. Certainly the army I had served in was all about fighting the Soviets. The Russians were going to flood the Fulda Gap with T-72s and BMPs, and the 82^nd was going to be dropped in to stop them. That was the theory, in any case. In reality, for fifty years the Russians never attacked in Europe, and the 82^nd went everywhere but Europe! However, World War II had ended in 1945, and 56 years later, we still had armored units facing Eastern Europe, even though the Soviet Union had collapsed 12 years earlier. Worse, nobody seemed to think this was a strange idea! The Russians couldn’t successfully invade their refrigerator right now, let alone a foreign country. Their tanks were rusting to pieces in the fields, they didn’t have the money to pay for gas to fly their planes, and their ships and subs were being slowly sold to other countries, at least the ones that hadn’t rusted out to the point they sank at the docks.

It wasn’t helping that Vladimir Putin was taking a more international stand than his predecessor. Boris Yeltsin had been almost exclusively focused on internal Kremlin politics and policies. Putin had a much firmer hold on power in Russia, and was able to focus on foreign affairs. He had a very good grasp on the fact that Russia was in the crosshairs of more than a few Islamic radicals, and it was a lot easier to get to Russia than it was to get to America. They had been fighting in Chechnya and Dagestan for most of the last decade. Meanwhile the neocons were yapping about the need to strengthen NATO by admitting former Soviet Bloc client states, and moving anti-ballistic missiles and armed forces closer to the Russian borders. If nothing else, I needed to ratchet down the nonsense. We could start by at least being a lot politer to each other.

Powell didn’t agree with me completely. He still had a European focus, though that had changed somewhat. Like me, however, he was not possessed of an overwhelming desire to get pushy with the Russians. I had a much more realpolitik view of the world. I had to live with the world as it really was, and didn’t have a burning desire to replace it with something else, especially something that wouldn’t work. I remembered how on my first trip through, the Bush crew had allied themselves with the Republic of Georgia, and then looked like they were pulling their puds when the Russians invaded in 2008 and gave them a quick spanking. The entire world knew we weren’t going to have a nuclear confrontation over Georgia, but we certainly managed to look stupid during the process. The harsh truth was that most of Eastern Europe and the Caucasus were in the Russian sphere of influence, just like the Western Hemisphere was in ours. There was no need to get pissy about it.

So the plan was to visit England and France and meet and greet the powers that be, go on to Moscow and tone down the rhetoric with Putin, and then head to Israel. Sharon had invited me twice so far. He was on the front lines, so to speak, and dealt with the crazies on a daily basis. I wanted to ramp up our intelligence capabilities, and he wanted some money for weapons and for us to shut up about settlements and other shit. We basically just needed to do business, and I had spent a number of years doing business. We could get along.

Great Britain and France were the first two stops. In some ways they were the easiest and most ornamental. Tony Blair was the British Prime Minister, and I was now his third American President to deal with. He was Labour Party, which was closer in sympathies to the Democrats than the Republicans, but they ran a Parliamentary system in any case. Most importantly, unless the Americans got really stupid and crazy (and sometimes even if they did), the British would back us up.

The French were a different matter. There was a real love-hate relationship there, and they tended to do things their own way and be rude about it in the process. Jacques Chirac was the President, and I was his third American President as well. In some ways I didn’t really need to go to Paris, but Marilyn made some comments about visiting there when she was in high school, and we had never gone before. Maybe I could get a few minutes and take her to see the Eiffel Tower.

This was really our first trip to anyplace exotic for political reasons. Marilyn and I had flown together around the country during the election and before, when I was in business. As the Vice President I was mostly sent to the drearier parts of the planet as punishment for being outspoken, and Marilyn stayed home for those trips. I offered to let her stay home rather than meet the Queen at Buckingham Palace, and was promptly asked, “If I sue you for divorce, do I get to keep the White House?” Frank and Ari both heard her ask that and both just about rolled on the floor laughing.

It’s a seven hour flight from D.C. to London, but you are also traveling east five time zones, so it actually takes twelve hours to get there. Before we left, I saw John McCain, now officially sworn in as Vice President, and asked him not to start any nuclear wars without me. He gave me an evil laugh and sent me off. We left Andrews on Wednesday, November 7, at 8:30 PM, and landed at Heathrow the next morning at 8:30 AM on Thursday the 8^th. One nice feature was that the President and First Lady have their own suite in the nose of the plane. Colin and Alma would catch a few winks in some really nice first class seats that leaned way back, but it still wasn’t the same as a bed. I teased Marilyn about that. We hadn’t fooled around on an airplane since I began using security details back when I got into Congress. I don’t think we slept more than five or six hours, but it beat an airliner seat all to hell. We were even able to take showers and clean up before changing for landing.

It was more than a little weird leaving Air Force One at Heathrow. The only other time I had flown in the plane was as the Acting President when I flew to New York right after 9-11. There had been zero pomp and circumstance involved, and I had traveled with just a few people. We had an emergency and decorum be damned. We flew in, went down the stairs, and moved out.

Now it was nothing but pomp and circumstance! According to the briefing paper I was given, Prince Charles was standing in for his mother the Queen, and would greet us at the airport. I would review some ceremonial troops, and then we would be taken to the Hyatt Regency London, where we were staying. We would freshen up and settle in, and then Marilyn and I would split up. I would meet with Prime Minister Blair while Marilyn was taken on a tour of London and a visit to an elementary school. Somebody had figured out that my wife had a degree in teaching, even if she had never taught a day in her life.

The one thing I really wished we had kept when we threw the Brits out all those years ago was a separate Head of State. In Britain the Queen was the Head of State, while the Prime Minister was the Head of Government. This is very common in parliamentary systems. The Queen gets a nice paycheck and has to deal with all the ceremony. The Prime Minister doesn’t have to do that stuff. I was constantly switching back and forth between running a country and shaking hands. It was not uncommon to leave a budget meeting and have to congratulate the top selling Girl Scout cookie salesperson who had won a trip to Washington, go back to a different budget meeting, get yanked out to meet and greet the Wisconsin Dairy Princess, and then head off to meet the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

It’s a major pain in the tail. I know it’s important, but it really makes you lose focus, and takes an immense amount of time. In Britain, it lets them do something with all those otherwise unemployed princes and princesses.

Marilyn had looked over at me while our trip was being reviewed prior to our leaving Washington, and asked, “Just what am I going to do on this trip?”

I shrugged and replied, “Something First Lady-ish, I guess. Whatever you do, try not to get me in trouble.”

“You’re no help!”

I wasn’t overly sympathetic. “So you really didn’t want to visit Buckingham Palace and meet the Queen? I mean, we can always send you home…”

“Will you behave!? I never said that!”

I shrugged some more. “I wonder what Charlie and the girls would do over here. Think they might get into any trouble?”

“We’d probably end up with another War of 1812! Maybe that wouldn’t be so good,” she laughed.

“So, don’t piss anybody off. Just smile and say how everything is wonderful. Sort of like I had to do when campaigning,” I told her.

“Just as long as nobody serves us lutefisk. Your sister told me about that. Even Stormy wouldn’t eat that!”

I had to laugh. “Could you imagine Stormy rampaging through Buckingham Palace? God help those poor little Corgis the Queen likes!” Marilyn had to laugh at that vision, too.

So, while Marilyn and everybody else went out the back door, I went out the front, smiling and waving at everybody and went down the stairs. At the bottom I met up with Prince Charles, who shook my hand and led me over to a small podium. Beyond that was a double line of fairly smart looking troops, with a red carpet between them, heading over to the limousine. Off to the side, out of sight of the cameras, were a pair of C-5 Galaxys that had brought in the support. First the Prince made a short speech welcoming me to the United Kingdom, and then I returned the favor, saying thank you and how I looked forward to getting to know the British people better. I simply read something the State Department trotted out every time we did this. I would do the same thing at every stop, and simply change the name of the country I was visiting.

It really was a lot like campaigning for office.

Afterwards I marched down the line of troops, the Prince at my side, and being trailed by a colonel. Nothing was out of place, not that I expected it to be, and I commented positively to the colonel. Then it was time to head out. The Prince got in his Rolls Royce limo and headed back to the Palace, and Colin, Alma, Marilyn, and I got into the Presidential Cadillac and went to the Hyatt Regency. The Ambassador and his wife would meet us there, and accompany Colin and me to meet the Prime Minister.

Marilyn teased me and asked, “So, were the troops up to snuff enough for you?”

I chuckled at that. “You’d probably better ask Colin that one. I never made it past captain, and he was a four star general.” Colin smiled and chuckled too, and nodded in response. “Still, they seemed okay. They’re ceremonial troops. They are supposed to look clean and shiny. You never know how good they actually are until the bullets start flying.”

Colin commented, “That’s true enough, but the British are better at that than most. I’m no expert on British medals, but a few of those men have seen action. I’d say they were good troops.”

I nodded in agreement. Turning to my wife, I said, “The real test is when they are out in the field. If the troops are dirty but their guns are clean it’s usually a much better sign than the reverse.”

“Worst of all is when the troops are dirty and the guns are dirty! You see that, just get out of there before somebody does something stupid!” added the Secretary of State. I nodded in agreement.

Marilyn looked over at Colin’s wife and said, “He’s been out of the Army almost twenty years and he still thinks he’s a paratrooper!”

Alma sympathized. “Colin’s the exact same way.” Both Colin and I snorted at this, and she added, “You two boys are retired now. You can stop acting like little boys playing soldier now.”

The Hyatt Regency is a very nice hotel, and I think we were renting damn near every room in the place. For certain we were renting several entire floors. For security reasons, the Secret Service had rooms above and below our suite. Add in the Powells, the guy with the football, Josh Bolten, Ari Fleischer, and the traveling staff, security and communications — we probably had an entourage of a hundred people or more. We would repeat the process three more times before heading home again.

Ambassador Farish and his wife greeted us and ushered us into our suite. He was a Republican businessman and contributor with no previous State Department experience, but he seemed adequate to the task. I assumed he actually had employees at the embassy who did the real work involved. I couldn’t recall ever meeting the man, but we moved in different business circles and he was a Texas friend of George’s.

I was still piecing together a coherent strategy on foreign relations, and my advisers were shooting holes in it left and right. Vice President McCain didn’t completely agree with me on what I was working towards. That was fine with me, because they might just be smarter than me. I certainly hoped so! Maybe I could learn something from them. What I was working towards was some form of containment towards radical Islamics.

The predominant form of foreign policy that America had was formulated shortly after the end of the Second World War, when the true nature of communism and Soviet expansionism became obvious, was containment. Originally articulated by George Kennan, it envisioned that western governments, led by the United States, would enter into alliances that would keep Soviet influence limited to where it was, and prevent it from going further. This was the Cold War, and lasted for roughly fifty years until the Soviet Union collapsed. It wasn’t pretty. It was actually fairly messy, and the Cold War had a disturbing tendency to heat up at times, like in Korea and Viet Nam. Regardless, we managed to stabilize the world and keep from going to nuclear war, and to ultimately win.

The biggest threat to civilization now wasn’t communism, but radical Islamic fundamentalism. Al Qaeda wasn’t so much a specific group of nut jobs as much as it was a philosophy. Why couldn’t we in the West figure out a way to contain the nut jobs? For years we had been backing one local strongman after another, to keep the peace. They would take our money and weapons and either use them to start a war, use them on their own population, or use them against us. It might be cold blooded but why bother with trying to keep the peace? As long as they didn’t bother us, why should we care how many of each other they killed? In effect, cut them off from the rest of the world. Buy their oil, don’t sell them weapons, don’t support them with charity and donations, and don’t let their fundamentalists loose.

There were problems with actually doing this, of course, and every country had different answers and problems, both in the West and in the Muslim world. The country with the largest Muslim population in the world, Indonesia, considered itself an Asian country, not an Arab country, and their entire outlook was considerably different than the countries in the Middle East. The fundamentalists varied from country to country, and some countries had them locked down better than others.

The Western European countries had their own issues. Muslims were a much higher percentage of the population in many European countries than in America, running 5-10 % in some countries. They generally hadn’t done well assimilating into the local culture, and were generally not appreciated. France had Algerians, Italy had Libyans and Tunisians, Germany had Turkish nationals, some were there illegally, some were on work visas, some had overstayed their visas. It was very messy. Furthermore, it was very easy to say that we shouldn’t sell Muslim countries weapons, but weapons manufacturing was a very high profit business and very competitive. France was going to sell the Arabs planes and ships and such, no matter what they might promise publicly.

On the other hand, some form of containment had some real benefits, both in terms of lives lost and dollars spent. The locals might not like us occasionally bombing them when they started getting too big for their britches, but they really didn’t like us when we landed on their doorstep. Forget about picking sides in the local version of a civil war! The Sunnis hated the Shiites, the moderates hated the radicals, the Muslims hated the Christians and the Jews, but everybody hated foreign invaders! Unless you embraced Genghis Khan’s solution to the problem when the Tartars rebelled against him, in which he lined the entire Tartar nation up in a line and slit the throats of everybody over the height of a cart handle, you would never get anybody to go along with you.

This was the total antithesis of the neocons battle cry. We needed to go into these countries forcibly, throw out the dictators, hand them the Constitution (suitably translated, of course), and install free elections and a two party democratic system. Never mind that nobody in most of these places understood the idea of an election. Never mind that 40 % of the population in some countries was illiterate and couldn’t even read a ballot, let alone understand it. Never mind that women were still considered property and that in some of these shitholes they still had slavery in place. America was a burning flame of freedom, and if some of these places got singed, so be it! Once one of them fell in a quick and glorious and cheap campaign, the neighbors would immediately understand the wonders that we had brought, and overthrow their leaders to get in on the freedom.

We spent ten years, tens of thousands of casualties, and trillions of dollars in Iraq and Afghanistan, and all we did was piss off a huge part of the world. We certainly didn’t bring democracy to these places; both ended up in civil war. My thought? They hate us already! We don’t need to invade them to piss them off. They’re already pissed at us. Let the bastards rot. It’s cheaper.

I knew it was more complicated than that. We couldn’t embargo dozens of countries. We would still get drawn into fights, much like we had to just do in Afghanistan, and what we were still doing with Saddam Hussein in Iraq. We were going to need to keep armed forces around the world. However, the mix and locations needed to change. Our military was one that was designed to face off against the Soviet Union. It was very high tech and very expensive — much too expensive to use against raghead assholes. We didn’t need invisible fighters and bombers, but we did need tankers and cargo planes. We didn’t need multi-billion dollar destroyers, but we did need some corvettes and frigates to do convoy duty and antipiracy patrols. We didn’t need self-propelled push button one man howitzers, but we did need commandos and high quality infantry.

Force locations were in the same fix. Why were we defending the German border when the Iron Curtain had rusted to pieces? Why were we involved in Bosnia, when it was right next door to NATO? We needed to pivot our forces from Europe to Asia, from the Atlantic Ocean to the Pacific and Indian Oceans. We needed new alliances, and to reformulate old ones.

It was complicated and sophisticated, not an approach suitable for sound bites and political grandstanding. Worse, while I understood the costs of a failed approach, having seen it originally, I knew that others wouldn’t believe me. Besides, what if I was wrong? No matter how smart I was, if terrorists managed to make another spectacular strike, the nation would put boots on the ground somewhere, and I wouldn’t be able to stop it. We were going to have to play smarter than ever before.

I discussed these ideas with both Tony Blair and, a few days later in Paris, Jacques Chirac. The results were fairly predictable. Britain thought I had a good idea. France would give it some thought, but they were smarter than us (and everybody else, too.) Neither wanted to invade anybody, though both had capabilities to do so, at least nearby in Africa and in Europe. Both lied through their teeth about limiting arms sales.

Otherwise, the trips to Britain and France were fairly successful. Neither Marilyn nor I insulted anybody or spilled soup on the Queen. We said nice things about the British and the French, and didn’t stick our noses in any sort of local politics. We took boat rides on the Thames and the Seine, and got to see the Eiffel Tower. There was a huge amount of residual sympathy from the devastation of 9-11, and since we had stopped our campaign in Afghanistan before we left home, that wasn’t an issue. France was surprisingly sophisticated regarding that, since they had done similar things with the French Foreign Legion over the years. Yes, there really is a French Foreign Legion, and they are as tough a bunch of bastards as you are likely to find. I had seen a few of their officers once while I was in the 82^nd, when they were doing some cross training and familiarization. The Frogs used them as expendable mercenaries in all sorts of shitholes.

So, anyway, London and Paris went okay. In a lot of ways it was simply a chance for the old pros to get to meet the new kid on the block. He was different than the last kid who lived in that house across the street, but he looked like he would be there awhile. Even if we didn’t solve the problems of the world, I thought we had accomplished something, and Colin Powell indicated that I hadn’t stepped on my crank. And besides, if I ever started thinking that living in the White House was like living in a museum, all I needed to remember was that little side trip through Buckingham Palace. There are some fascinating things that never make it into the usual tour itinerary! Amazing place!

Russia was a more interesting trip. Vladimir Putin was Russia’s latest strong man, and even though they had nominally embraced democracy, it was a thin embrace. All of the pre-trip briefings had stressed that it was a nation of contradictions. They rejected communism but preferred a strong ruler. The Russian Mafia vied with billionaire oligarchs to control the economy, so you had a kleptocracy challenging a plutocracy. Parts of the country were modern, parts were Third World, and the only reason anybody feared them was that they had nukes. I remember how my parents visited there on my first time through, and my dad came back and told me about the trip. His comment? “Why in the world were we afraid of them for fifty years?! They’re broke!”

Part of Putin’s political calculus was to use foreign affairs to deflect the public’s attention from domestic problems, a surprisingly common tactic around the world. In this he was aided by the fact that the Russian economy was just starting to rebuild after the economic collapse of the ’90s. Both he and Russia were feeling stronger.

So far, Bush had simply been tossing around ideas and talking about the need to ‘rein in’ Russia, but we hadn’t really done anything yet. We had brought Poland, Hungary, and the Czechs into NATO during the Clinton years, but so far we had just been talking about bringing in the rest of Eastern Europe. I knew once we did that, the Russians would begin treating us as hostile again, which would only be exacerbated when we started moving Patriot anti-missile batteries towards the Russian border. I could see no possible reason to piss them off just for the sake of pissing them off.

Colin did have some good ideas. We had a meeting in early October, after we had decided on the trip. “Okay, so you are planning on caving in on NATO and the anti-missile issue.” I opened my mouth to protest, but he held up a hand to stop me. “That’s what it’s going to look like. What do you want in return? We need some specific points to ask about, and at least get a discussion going. What do you want from the Russians?”

When he put it that away, it made sense. We were going to do some negotiating, so what was going to be the bid and offer prices. “Cooperation on anti-terrorism, for one thing, and not just some speeches. We are going to be setting up some form of counter-terrorism intelligence center, and I am going to want active cooperation with them. We send a request, they respond, and vice versa. If they want to send people to help, we will return the favor. I want real cooperation. This is what is going to be the problem for most of the next century.”

Colin nodded. “What else?”

Pushy bastard! “They need to play nicer with their neighbors, at least their European ones. I don’t care what they do on the backside of nowhere, but they can’t be as pushy with the Baltic States and the Ukraine. I know it’s complicated, but if they ratchet their shit down, so will we. They also really need to cut any ties with Hugo Chavez. They stay out of our back yard and we can stay out of theirs.”

“They are going to claim that is interference in their internal politics.” Again, he held up his hand to slow me down. “I know it’s not, but that will be their response. Okay, so we need to firm up some of these ideas and get specific. I’ve never heard that you were a big poker player…” I shook my head at that, and he continued, “… but I know you are used to making deals. We need to make a deal with them.” We worked on that prior to the trip.

The schedule in Russia was that we left Paris late and landed in Moscow very early. It’s only a three-and-a-half hour flight, and Moscow is only two hours ahead of Paris. We left at 10:00 PM and arrived 3:30 AM, and headed directly to the Moscow Ritz Carlton. International travel was beginning to wear on us, and we all got some sleep before heading to the Kremlin mid-morning. The formal state dinner was actually for the next evening. We would be in discussions with Putin and Kasyanov all day, and then take in the ballet at the Bolshoi that night, more meetings tomorrow, and then the fancy dinner.

According to my State Department briefing, Putin spoke Russian and fluent German, which was probably why a big chunk of his KGB career had been spent in Germany. Supposedly he was taking English lessons, although to what extent he was fluent was questionable. We would definitely be using translators. So be it. My Russian was limited to da, nyet, sookin sin, and yob tvou mat! That worked out to yes, no, son of a bitch, and go fuck your mother. (It’s amazing the junk you pick up and store in your memory.) I didn’t figure to use the last two phrases anywhere in public, and Marilyn would probably smack me if I used them around her, especially since I would have to translate them for her.

We met at 11:00 AM for a small photo session, to be followed by lunch, after which we would have a working session. During the photo session you sit there side by side and smile and don’t say anything more important than “Do you get a lot of snow here?” The answer is “A whole shitload!” or something to that effect. Whatever you do, don’t actually say anything meaningful while the cameras and recorders are running. More than one American President has stepped on his dick by saying something private and having it run on the air that evening. I kept asking about the weather until everybody had left, and we were able to get down to business.

Putin started off by having his Prime Minister, Mikhail Kasyanov, review a litany of complaints about George Bush’s speeches and actions related to NATO. He argued with the NATO expansion with Poland, Hungary, and the Czech Republic (even though that had been done by the Democrats under Clinton) and argued strenuously against any continued expansion into the Baltics or further east. Secretary of State Powell and I kept our mouths shut and listened. The complaints were nothing new.

Colin responded with complaints about Russian heavy-handedness in regards to interference in the politics of the Baltic States — Lithuania, Latvia, and Estonia. The Soviets had ruled them during the post World War II era, and they had a sizable minority of Russian citizens stranded there when the Soviet Union collapsed. Economically the nations were marginal but improving. Culturally, they considered themselves distinct from Russia and more European, and generally didn’t like Russians.

Putin and Kasyanov sat there stone faced while Colin went through our complaints. They were on the verge of a rejoinder, none of which was overly helpful, when I decided to intervene. The Secretary and I had worked this out ahead of time; it would give me the appearance of breaking through a road block. “Mister President, Mister Prime Minister, allow me to make a few comments, if I might,” I asked before they could begin responding to our response.

The translator said this to them quietly, and Putin and Kasyanov looked at each other for a moment, and the Putin said, in heavily accented English, “Please.”

“Thank you.” I nodded towards Colin and said, “Secretary Powell and I have considered your interests, as previously stated, and we would like you to consider a possibly different future. We cannot change the past…” Well, you can, as I discovered, but better to not bring that up. “… but we can change the future. Perhaps if the United States were to step back from urging additional eastern expansion of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization, perhaps then your nation might ease on your legitimate concerns over your citizens in the Baltic region.” And there we were; let’s dicker.

Putin and Kasyanov looked at each other, and now there was a glimmer of interest on their faces. We could have sat there for two days arguing past history and who was right and wrong. None of that mattered. Fix the damn problem. If we backed down and they backed down, and gave each other a little bit of face saving, we could get to something much more important. We spent the rest of the afternoon discussing various complaints related to our positions, but it was meaningless. Likewise, Putin and Kasyanov wanted us to shut up about any human rights violations regarding Chechnya and Dagestan. I snorted out a laugh and told him bluntly that after 9-11 they could do whatever they wanted to the bastards, and that we had some suggestions for the next day’s meeting regarding our mutual problems with radicals and terrorists.

There would be no agreements to sign on this. The proof was in the pudding, and would take effect after we got home. At the next NATO meeting, we would announce that we considered further expansion ‘premature at this time’ and add a few other weaselly comments. Likewise, we could pay attention to how bellicose the Russians remained over the Baltics, and know if they were backing down. A few quiet words to our ambassadors in those nations might ratchet down the tensions. We would never get them to love each other, but maybe we could get them to stop yelling as loud.

The afternoon ended with considerable surprise, however. The plan for the evening was to attend the Bolshoi ballet after dinner with the Putins, and that had been known since the trip was planned. However, he gave me a curious look and asked, “I understand you are a patron of the symphony back in your home. Is that correct?”

My eyes widened at that, and I nodded. “Yes, that is true. I have helped to support the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra for many years. Baltimore is a city near Washington, and I grew up and live very close to it,” I explained to the others at the table.

“Well, I am sure you will enjoy the ballet then, but I also understand you enjoy the martial arts,” he said.

My eyes popped open at that. “That’s quite true. I have black belts in both aikido and tae kwan do. I understand you are quite adept in judo.” That was also in the briefing, as were several photos of him tossing people in hip throws while bare-chested. I gathered he thought it played well with the public. Where was he going with this? I flicked my eyes towards Secretary of State Powell and he looked confused as well.

“I simply was thinking about this evening. I know we are scheduled to go to the ballet, but I am a member of a dojo here in Moscow. I understand this is very much at the last minute, but I was wondering if you were interested in changing your schedule. I will understand if you can’t, of course.”

I sat back in my armchair and studied President Putin. There was a ghost of a smile on his face. It was a challenge, plain and simple, and a chance to see what kind of opponent he had in me. According to the CIA dossier, he was quite highly ranked. On the other hand, I probably hadn’t been in a tournament of any sort since I got out of the Army, although I had continued training and practicing. Even now, as the President, I usually managed an early morning workout with a few Secret Service agents every other day. They had even begun teaching me Israeli Krav Maga combat, which I thought went well with my nature. It’s a violent take-no-prisoners training, and the real fights I had been in, especially that one in the Bahamas, had been that style to me. Regardless, this was definitely a personal challenge, and my response was important.

Next to me Secretary Powell was stirring, and commenting, “It seems rather doubtful we would have time for both, and I am sure the ladies would like to see the ballet.”

Putin, however, kept his eyes focused on me, and I looked back, not blinking. I nodded. “Da!” Then I pointed a finger back and forth between us, and then wagged it side to side. “You, me, no fight. Nyet!”

He barked out a laugh and smiled broadly. “Da!” and then rattled off some more Russki. “No, practice and some sparring, and we won’t fight each other. Let us see what we are made of.”

I grinned and nodded. “We fight and somebody loses, we end up in World War III! Not a good idea!”

He laughed some more. I glanced over at Colin, who looked horrified, and then turned to face one of the Secret Service agents in the background, who looked even worse. I gave them both a thumbs-up, which simply caused Putin to laugh harder.

We broke apart at that, adjourning our meetings until the morning, and we left to tell our wives the ballet was off. That was fine with me, since I’m not real big on ballet. It’s better than opera, though. Regardless, once we were out of the building and back in the limo, Colin said, “Have you lost your mind?”

I smiled. “I think you meant to ask, ‘Have you lost your fucking mind!?’ Colin, he’s testing me. It’s a personal thing. He wants to know if he can back me down. I lose face if I don’t.”

“You’ll lose face if you lose! What then?”

“I’d better not lose, then.” I looked over at the agent riding with us. “Think I’m going to lose?”

Most of the time these guys are just in the background, but here I was putting him on the spot. He thought for a second, and said, “I don’t know. Do you have to stick with straight judo? Or can you use other martial arts?”

“Good question. I don’t know. We’ll have to find out tonight.”

He shrugged and smiled. “You’re pretty good, sir. Not as good as us, but you’d give somebody in a tournament a run for their money.”

“Oooh, money! Tonight, get the best odds you can, and put me down for $500. More if you can find a sucker.” I looked at Colin. “Some bets you just can’t lose!”

“Good Lord!” he muttered to himself.

Marilyn’s comment when we got back to the hotel was a little more succinct. “You’re an idiot!” Most everybody else seemed to agree.

I simply smiled and reiterated that there was a lot of face involved in this. On the other hand, I knew Marilyn wasn’t going to enjoy watching a tournament. Not only did she find them generally unpleasant, but she didn’t like seeing me at my most brutal. She looked rather unhappy. I looked over at one of the embassy staffers and said, “Call over to the Kremlin and tell them there has been a slight change of plans. Secretary Powell will escort both his wife and mine to the ballet. I will visit the dojo on my own. Make up some excuse if you have to. Tell them I don’t want to lose in front of my friends.” I turned to the others and grinned. “Maybe we’ll get better odds.”

Marilyn gave a quiet shriek and glared at me. Colin simply said, “You need to win, or you are going to look like a horse’s patoot.”

I nodded. He was right.

Marilyn calmed down quickly enough, and after a pleasant dinner in a private dining room with the Powells and the other staff, we broke apart to go our separate ways. Much of the conversation was about my planned idiocy, although nobody was quite ballsy enough (aside from the Secretary of State and my wife) to call it that. I did get a bit more info from a CIA type on Putin, who was the president of his judo club back in St. Petersburg, his home. He was considered quite good, but it was questionable if he had ever actually been in a real fight of any sort. In that regard I had much more experience.

We left about the same time. Alma gave me an amused look but didn’t say anything. Her husband told me to not screw up. Marilyn told me not to hurt anybody. I just laughed and headed out with my detail and Ari Fleischer, who wanted to see how bad this was going to be and how he was going to have to spin it. “Nervous, Ari?” I asked him.

“Rule of thumb Mister President. Never do something unless you already know how it’s going to work out. It’s like what they teach you in law school. Never ask a question you don’t already know the answer to.”

“You’ll never accomplish anything if you don’t try something different. Either way, I can spin this to win the cooperation of Putin,” I countered.

“He doesn’t vote.”

I shrugged at that, but he was right. We both knew that this was going to get out. We had a big chunk of reporters with us on this trip, and while some of them would be decoyed over to the Bolshoi, some busy little beaver was going to figure out they were being snookered and find out about my little side trip. If they didn’t get into the tournament, they would find somebody with a video camera.

I hadn’t been in a real martial arts club in almost twenty years, but the smells brought me back. You could smell the perspiration from years of men working out and the industrial cleansers trying to combat it, scents that permeated everything, like a really clean locker room. You knew it was clean, but you knew that smell. I was directed to a locker room in the rear, where several other people were already changing out of their clothes and putting on their gis. Several looked at me curiously, but was it because I was the American President, or simply somebody new that they didn’t recognize? I was shown to a locker, empty except for a gi that seemed to be in my size, and began changing. I was belting the black belt around my waist when President Putin, with an interpreter, came up to me.

“I am glad you could make it. I understand Secretary Powell and your wives couldn’t make it. I am sorry to hear that,” he told me.

“Marilyn is not a big fan. I need to keep some peace in the family,” I admitted.

“Da! Very important!” he told me directly.

I smiled and agreed. He led me out of the locker room, side by side, and there was considerable applause from a packed bleacher section and from other members of the club when we appeared. This was a real club, and there were a number of different colored belts around the floor mats. Camera flashes began blinking, so I knew somebody had leaked the evening’s festivities to the press. Too late to back down now.

It was actually a very enjoyable evening. I joined in with some warm-up katas, even though my rhythm was off due to my unfamiliarity with their routines. Then there was a general training session, and that was very interesting. In addition to judo, Putin was an expert in a discipline called sambo, which was a Russian variation on judo and wrestling. I watched as he showed me several moves and then I attempted them on a couple of the club members, with Putin giving some expert instruction in his accented and broken English.

Then we got into the sparring, with the club members and Putin and myself sitting on the floor mats surrounding the circle. I had told him that we couldn’t fight, but that simply meant several others wanted to try me out. It wasn’t really obvious to me how they selected opponents, whether it was by a scoring system from previous matches, and where I would fit into the system. Vladimir was quite good, and handily mastered his first opponent. Then I found myself facing a rather large fellow with mixed Mongol features who was about twenty pounds heavier and twenty years younger. I could see in his face a slight sneer. Several others had been egging him on to teach the brash American how things were done in Moscow. Great! This guy was fighting for Holy Mother Russia!

I glanced over at one of my protective agents and saw him holding up his hands, three fingers on one, and a single finger on the other. I guessed that he meant we had three to one odds against me. I flashed all five at him, meaning the full five hundred, and he nodded, and went back to the one of the Russians.

I could see that Putin had a bit of a set to his jaw. It was obvious that he wasn’t amused by how things turned out. If I got hurt, it was going to be on his ass. I just smiled at him and shook my head slightly. In for a penny, in for a pound. I climbed to my feet and went to the center of the ring, exaggerating my limp. My opponent’s sneer became more pronounced, and he said something in Russian to a friend, and I am sure it was rude. I glanced at the clock, wondering how long this was going to take before I got hurt. We bowed to the referee, and then bowed to each other, and the ref clapped his hands and it was on.

And it was over, almost as fast. We circled to the left for about five seconds, and then he came in on me. He threw three quick punches and I blocked them, and then he stepped back and we circled slowly a bit more. I feinted with my bad right leg, and that suckered him in. He came in throwing another couple of punches and I had him. I blocked two punches and then slipped to his right side and behind him. I backhanded him, medium hard, to the back of his neck, stunning him, and then used my ‘bad’ right leg to kick his feet out from under him. I grabbed the front of his gi and rode him to the mat, hard, where he landed with a thud. I pulled my right fist back but held it, because he was out cold. I glanced at the clock again. It had lasted 27 seconds.

I let him lay there and climbed to my feet. Over us the ref was simply staring down in disbelief. I cleared my throat, drawing his attention, and I bowed to him. Then I moved back to my seat next to Vladimir, as a couple of fellows came out of the circle and slapped his face and roused him. He was helped out of the room to the lockers.

The room was quite silent, and then suddenly a cheer went round. Putin slapped me on the back and smiled, saying, “Good! Good! He nekulturny!” I blinked at that and nodded. I understood that to mean uncultured, rude, or boorish, and that seemed to be true.

That was the climactic moment of the evening. Both Vladimir and I had two more matches, and we won them both. Neither of mine was as brutal or as quick as that first one, but both of my opponents behaved better, and didn’t allow themselves to get suckered in. I took a couple of thumps from my last opponent, but beat him on points anyway. At the end, I groaned loudly and shook his hand; I groaned again when we all went back to the locker room to shower and dress. I definitely had a few bumps and bruises.

Vladimir came over in the locker room with a big smile on his face, and carrying an icy bottle of vodka and two small glasses. I smiled back. I’m not a big vodka drinker, but a drink would be good. He poured the glasses to the brink and handed one to me. “Nostrovia!”

“Mud in your eye!” I downed mine, and then watched as the translator tried to translate that.

Putin looked confused, but shrugged and refilled the glasses. “Mud in your eyes!” he toasted.

I chuckled and replied, “Nostrovia!” This time we did the linked arms toast I remembered from seeing Patton a million times, as a cameraman took some shots. Afterwards I told him that if he were to visit the U.S. in the future, I would make sure to take him to see the orchestra I supported and that way our wives would remain happy. That earned me a laugh.

On the way back to the hotel, Ari looked incredibly relieved. “Happy now, Ari?” I teased.

“You have no idea, Mister President!”

I smirked at him. “Oh ye of little faith… Ari, I’ve been doing martial arts since I was 13. I had my first black belt before I even went into the Army. I’d have never have done this if I didn’t think I could hold my own. By the way, who told the press? We’re going to have to put up with their foolishness on this, aren’t we?”

The agent riding with me handed over a folded wad of bills. I grinned at him and said, “Ooh, goodie! I can pay for Christmas presents now!” That got me a laugh. I unfolded the bills and saw they weren’t American greenbacks. “Please don’t tell me we were betting in rubles.”

“Euros, sir.”

I handed them back to him. “Good enough. That’s hard currency, too. When you get a chance, find a bank, either here or in Tel Aviv, and swap it for dollars. Did you guys get in on the action, too?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Excellent!”

Ari looked horrified at all of this. “Please don’t tell me you were gambling!”

“I guess I won’t tell you, then.”

He groaned. “You are going to be the death of me, Mister President.”

“Think of the great book you’re going to be able to write when you leave the White House! ‘I Survived Carl Buckman’, by Ari Fleischer. You’ll make a fortune!” I replied. Ari simply groaned again.

It wasn’t all sweetness and light that night. By the time we got back to the hotel, I had a problem back home. United Airlines had decided that the new FAA requirements were too onerous, and they had a lawyer who told them to fight. They were ‘FAA guidelines’ and not ‘legislation’. In other words, they wanted to delay things and get them watered down or eliminated in Congress. A few campaign contributions would be cheaper than actually preventing another crisis. The new guy at the FAA had bucked it up to Transportation.

I ended up on the phone with the Secretary of Transportation Norm Mineta. “What are these guys up to, Norm? They figure with me halfway around the world they can stop this and present me with a fait accompli when I get back?”

“That’s really it in a nutshell, Mister President. Their theory is that the FAA has no authority to order these changes, and they won’t accept them without Congress passing a law requiring them to do so. They can delay that to their heart’s content,” he answered.

“This is something they already agreed to, right?”

“They would have agreed to butchering babies in Times Square if it could have gotten them flying again after 9-11, Mister President. Now that they see what the bills are, they’re balking,” he replied.

“What bills? The anti-missile systems will require Congressional funding. The only thing they have to pay for now is strengthening the cockpit doors,” I said.

“They don’t even want to pay for that, sir.”

I said something that probably wouldn’t go down well in a Presidential memoir. “United is just the front on this. If they can do it, the others will do it, too. We’re only talking a few million dollars! Cheap bunch of bastards. All right. Let’s see how they like playing in the big leagues. Call Greg Paulson over at the FAA back, and yank their airworthiness certificates, each and every one of them, for every bird in their fleet. Shut the bastards down cold. Now! Tonight! Tell them Greg is doing it on his own authority, and when they go up the ladder to you, back him up. They can complain to me when I get home. Let’s see how expensive a complete shutdown is to the dumb bastards. When I get back, I’ll play dumb, and then back you up.”

I heard his voice catch. “Sir, they might not survive that. Let’s be honest. There isn’t an airline right now that isn’t losing money. Between 9-11, the rising cost of fuel, and the new changes, some of them are hemorrhaging cash!”

“Norm, either you regulate them or they regulate you. That’s how we got into this mess in the first place. Shut the sons of bitches down. As soon as we get back we will rush through an airline rescue package. I should have enough votes to ram it through. You and I both know it will be watered down, but we need to set the precedent that safety is more important than what they want,” I told him. “Meanwhile, get your staff together and write a quickie bill to help them. Go talk to the head of the House Transportation Committee, too. We can punch it through when I get back.”

“Yes, sir. Understood. Just come back home before I get lynched.”

“Thank you, Mister Secretary. I promise I won’t pardon anybody if you get lynched. Feel better now?”

“Not particularly, Mister President. Good night,” he answered.

I hung up, smiling. Some industries around the country needed a wakeup call.

Our next day’s itinerary went quite well. I don’t know whether it was because Putin had taken a fancy to me or not, but he seemed to agree with my thoughts that we didn’t need to antagonize each other, and that the radical Muslims needed to be monitored closely. I discussed my plans to create a counterterrorism agency to coordinate this, and suggested that when this happened, I would be interested in inviting Russian participation and help. I stressed that this was an international problem, not just a Russian or American problem. He countered by suggesting that when we created this agency, we could cross-assign agents.

After that we held a joint press conference, with Putin and me standing at twin podiums a few feet apart. We had prepared a very standard press release simply stating we had discussed a number of issues relating to both our mutual relations and concerns over international radical terrorism, and that our talks had been friendly and fruitful. Ari commented rather drily to both of us that none of this really mattered, since the only thing anybody was going to ask about was the judo competition last night. When this was translated into Russian, Vladimir laughed and nodded in agreement.

We started off with my reading a statement and then Vladimir reading a statement similar to the press release. The talks had been friendly and fruitful, and we planned to follow up our discussions over the next few months. Standard blah, blah, blah. Then we went to a question and answer period. As expected, ninety percent of the questions were about our visit to the judo club the other night. Some of them were downright silly. Who was tougher, me or Putin? Why didn’t we fight each other? Why didn’t my wife attend? Did that mean we were getting a divorce? Was this some sort of ‘karate summit’?

I wasn’t sure whether it was more hilarious or exasperating. I noticed Putin was getting a little peeved by it all, and not just by the American reporters. He had cultivated a certain persona as a ‘fighting man of Russia’, fighting and riding and hunting, all shirtless. Now it was biting him in the ass to an extent. Whenever we tried to bring the subject matter back to the actual things we had talked about, they would sidetrack us back. Eventually we ended the press conference and I commiserated with Vladimir back stage. He normally didn’t get this much grief. His press was tamer, and Russia was tough on reporters. They printed what you told them to print or they ended up in a ditch somewhere. Investigative journalism was distinctly frowned upon in Mother Russia!

Israel was happily anticlimactic. It was somewhat less formal, and Ariel Sharon made sure to introduce Colin and me to senior people in the Israeli Defense Forces and Mossad, their intelligence organization. For Colin it was probably old hat, but it was new to me. I tried not to sound too stupid and kept my mouth shut. On the plus side, the Israelis had a very positive view about the way we handled Afghanistan and Al Qaeda. They preferred a very direct approach to such things.

I did find out that they were looking for any intelligence they could on Al Qaeda. We had killed a lot of bystanders when we took out their safe houses and city locations, but it seemed that we took out a lot of their senior cadre. Nobody knew yet if we had killed Osama bin Laden, but I vaguely remembered that had happened the first time, too. We never really knew until he eventually began releasing videotapes showing him inciting the faithful to violence. Even then we weren’t sure until CIA analysis of the tapes showed they were new, and not just recycled stuff from the past. So far no tapes had surfaced, but it was still early.

On the plus side, there was definite evidence we had given the Taliban a death blow, at least in their current incarnation. The barbaric bastards had lost damn near everybody at senior ministry level and above, and most of the second and third tier players as well. Mullah Omar, the titular head of the Taliban, was confirmed dead in Kabul, along with the rest of the Kabul City Council. The Taliban were attempting to regroup, but they were basically a part of the Pashtun tribe, and were simply the largest minority in a nation of minorities. Otherwise they were a creature of Pakistan’s ISI, which used Islamic fundamentalists and extremists to act against India in Kashmir and elsewhere. There were already reports that Pakistan was trying to rebuild them. Joy!

Sharon commented to me at one point that these were the people who invented the saying, ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’ Also he reminded me that when dealing with Muslims to always remember that they had invented the concept of taqiyya, where it was perfectly legal and moral for them to lie to an infidel if they felt it would advance the cause of Islam. It wasn’t hard for them to justify a lie to us for any reason whatsoever.

Regardless, we needed any intelligence assistance we could get, always bearing in mind that the Israelis played a very deep game, juggling their interests against everybody else’s, and there were always two or three levels at whatever they were up to.

One thing I mentioned to Colin and a few of the others on the way home was that we also had to take the Israelis with a grain of salt. They were wizards at using the hugely influential American pro-Israel lobby, and loved the current hard right fundamentalist Christian theory called Christian Zionism. Many fundamentalist Christians believed that before Jesus would come back for the Second Coming (and all the various Rapture variations) it was necessary for the Jews to triumph in the Middle East. Only then would Jesus return, the Anti-Christ would be thrown down, and all the unbelievers would be thrown into the Pit. Of course, if things got to that point, the Jews would go into the Pit as well, since they were also unbelievers. The Israelis took a rather tongue-in-cheek approach to all of this. They loved anything that would keep the American crazies firmly on their side, and since they didn’t believe in Christianity, the Rapture wasn’t real anyway. Ari gave a wry smile and agreed with my commentary.

We landed in Washington late that night and were thoroughly exhausted. I promptly announced I was taking a day off, and Marilyn and I took Marine One back to Hereford. The Veep could call me at the house tomorrow to find out when I planned to come back.

Chapter 146: A Special Broadcast

Monday, December 10, 2001

We had flown back on a Thursday, so I took a long weekend back home to get to know my daughters again. Charlie was at sea again, deployed on the U.S.S. Fort McHenry, which I thought was nicely poetic, since Fort McHenry was in Baltimore. She was a Whidbey Island class gator, just out of dry dock and a lengthy refit, and was going to be at sea for a good six months. He had left right before we flew to England and we wouldn’t see him again until late spring.

We had talked before he went to the ship. He had been in now for about two years, and he still didn’t know if he wanted to make it a career. It was interesting, and he did like the sense of purpose it gave him, but floating around on a boat with nothing but a bunch of guys was getting old. Also, he was smart enough to know that as my son, he would be limited in his assignments. He still thought himself more an action and outdoors guy than a college kid, and if he left the Corps, he would probably go full time pro in bike racing. He wasn’t a little kid anymore, but was talking like a young adult. I asked how it was going with people knowing who his dad was, and I got a grin and a shrug. “It is what it is, Dad. I mean, people know, but nobody makes it a big deal. Nobody is trying to suck up to me, in any case. I’m kind of glad you got me to go in under my middle name, though. At least then I really wasn’t known.”

“Well, we’ll see you again when you get back. Try and call or write your mother! She worries about you…”

“And you don’t?” he teased.

I ignored him and went on. “… and she misses you. When you get back, if you wanted to bring some friends, that would be fine. If you don’t want to stay here, you can stay at the place on 30^th Street.”

The day before we flew home from Tel Aviv, I called Norm Mineta and Greg Paulson and relented on United Airlines. Hopefully they had learned their lesson. Shutting them down had been like a thunderbolt from Mount Olympus, and I had pointedly refused to take any calls on their behalf from any Congressmen or Senators. Once home, however, I gave everyone the go ahead on the Airline Safety and Security Act of 2001, which would provide some loan guarantees and indemnifications. Everyone expected two things, that it would get watered down, and that it would pass quickly. I could deal with that as long as it left the FAA able to demand safety related changes. If that was left intact, I could live with a lot of other Congressional horseshit thrown in.

At Thanksgiving I took a small break and spent a long weekend at home. We still had the girls with us, for at least this year, so we did the big turkey and stuffing routine with all the fixings. I commented to Marilyn that this might be the last time we did this. Next year the twins would be in college, and might not even want to come home. At the same time, once they were out of the house, Marilyn would be moving full time to the White House with me, which I much preferred. We were on the verge of becoming empty nesters in the biggest house in the world! (Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but it would still be a big change.)

We were finishing up 2001 and it seemed the nation was still in turmoil about the events of three months ago. Congress had finally gotten around to announcing that hearings would be held after they reconvened in 2002, probably sometime in February. It would be a joint Congressional and Senate hearing, conducted by the Select Committees on Intelligence. I told the leaders that the Administration would cooperate, and that their first witnesses were going to be the Three Amigos. I also told the Three Amigos to make sure they had their report done by then, and I expected some suggestions for the future. I also told John Ashcroft to see if he could get his Special Prosecutor in line with what was going on. If Congress started questioning people at the same time Fitzpatrick was questioning them, was there double jeopardy involved? If one team gave somebody immunity, did it apply across the board? I’m glad I never became a lawyer!

I also told them that if they expected a statement from me, to let the White House Counsel’s office know. While I was perfectly willing to make a sworn statement and answer questions, under no circumstances was I going to let them swear me in and go on a witch hunt through my past. Before I ever gave any form of testimony, there were going to be some ground rules.

Meanwhile, while all this was going on, Enron collapsed. I had known it was going to happen, but I couldn’t remember the specific date. I also knew that it was just the first of several big name business collapses that could be traced to inadequate regulation and supervision. I gave a speech to the U.S. Chamber of Commerce in which I laid the blame for the collapse at the feet of the unfettered laissez faire attitude prevalent among far too many businessmen and political leaders.

“Americans believe, just like you, that capitalism is the best economic system for them and their families. They know that the best chance they have to improve their lives, and the lives of their children and grandchildren, is through capitalism. Even more important to them, however, is a sense of fairness! People think of business as a great game, and they want to play the game! They also know that games have rules! If you throw away the rules, if you throw away the referees, it’s no longer a game that people will want to play, but a racket that people will avoid! If you want the respect of your fellow citizens, there must be changes. If you want to keep making money, there must be changes!”

That was just part of it, and the applause was underwhelming. If they didn’t like my speech, they were just going to hate the idea that I planned to increase funding for the SEC and the Justice Department. I wasn’t at all sure I was going to win this battle, but I was very sure that it was going to cost me and the American Renaissance Initiative a whole lot of money to fight!

Then again, this was going to be just the first of many salvoes across the deck. I had already told Alan Greenspan that I wanted the banking system tightened up. The Federal Reserve is fairly independent, but that didn’t mean I didn’t have some influence. I told him that I felt that we needed to increase capital requirements on bank reserves, and also to begin running some ‘stress tests’ on some of the bigger banks. That earned me a few raised eyebrows from the Fed Chairman, but I just reminded him that the ‘irrational exuberance’ remark that he had used to describe the dot-com bubble, now applied to the housing markets and financial sectors. I would let him face the markets on that one. They liked and respected him; I was just a fucking zillionaire, so what did I know.

On Monday, December 10, we had a rather interesting day. Marilyn and the girls had been down to Washington for the weekend, and we kept the twins out of school for the day, and they stayed in town. We were approaching the mystical hundred day mark in my Presidency, and there were lots of requests for a lengthy interview in the White House with me and the family. I don’t know how Ari made his selection, but he settled on an interview with Bob Schieffer of CBS. We would be interviewed in the White House on Monday the 10^th, and it would air in a two hour special Sunday night the 16^th.

A lot of this was due to the manner in which I became the President. The American system of selecting leaders is screwy, in that the character traits which are best suited to winning elections are not the character traits best suited for being the President. There is no chance in hell I would have ever actually run for President. George Bush pulled me and my $20 million out of total national obscurity and dropped me in the VP slot. If he had his way, after four years he would have put me back into obscurity. Now I was the President, and most of the country didn’t know that much about me.

There had been a flurry of reporting back after 9-11, but to most of the nation, they didn’t have a real sense of me. I had only hit the national stage four months prior to the election, and aside from the fact that I liked dogs and killed prisoners, they didn’t know me. A regular candidate would have been running for at least two years by now, and doing interviews morning, noon, and night in order to keep their name out there. The same could be said of the rest of my family. One of Ari Fleischer’s jobs was to let the world know who I was.

The CBS interview would take place in the Map Room, which was on the ground floor of the Residence just off the main reception area. From what I understood, it was named that because FDR used it to track the progress of World War II on maps. It hadn’t been used for maps since then and was now just one more of the innumerable cul-de-sacs around the joint. I wandered by on Sunday afternoon and found a few CBS technicians and White House technical types hanging some lights and mirrors on scaffolding. I just hoped they wouldn’t fall on us, which actually happened to Bill and Hillary Clinton once. They had already moved out the Chippendale furniture normally in there and brought in a few armchairs and a matching love seat.

We were to be ‘on the set’ promptly at nine the next morning, and would be there most of the day. There would be times with just me, times with me and Marilyn, and other times with all four of us. Every thirty minutes or so we would break, so I could go back to my regular day job of solving the planet’s crises. If it was a big crisis, they would just do Marilyn and the girls. Needless to say, Ari was going to be hovering around nervously in the background the entire time.

I was wearing a light charcoal suit, and Marylyn had on a nice pair of designer jeans with a belted tunic over it. I gave her a little whistle before we got on camera, and she smiled at that. Holly and Molly were in jeans also, along with tank tops. They looked tight to me, but I was told that was the style. Thankfully none of their bra straps were showing. How that became stylish was completely beyond me.

When we showed up the twins decided that Stormy was part of the family and could watch. I wasn’t sure how that would work out; she was well behaved and used to being around strange people, but she never met a camera she didn’t like. She promptly lay down in a corner and curled up for a nap. We made it through makeup just fine, and we met and talked to Bob Schieffer (I had known him for years and Marilyn had met him at various dinners and parties, but it was the first time for the girls) and they wired us up with our microphones. Then we sat down in the chairs, with Marilyn and me on the love seat, and the twins in the armchairs on my left. Then the lights went on, and Bob began by thanking us for the interview. As soon as that happened, Stormy’s ears popped up and she looked around for the cameras. It was show time! She liked this game! It made the opening segment of the show.

Bob: “Mister President, I’d like to thank you and your family for allowing us this glimpse inside the Buckman White House.”

Me: “You’re quite welcome. It seemed a good time to…” (Stormy trotted over to us and jumped up on the love seat between Marilyn and me.) “Wait… WHAT! Stormy, what are you… Oh, Good Lord! Will you get out of here!?”

Holly and Molly started laughing, while Marilyn and I tried to push the gigantic beast off our laps. We were noticeably unsuccessful, and Stormy ended up sitting between us facing the camera.

Me: “Idiotic mutt! Will somebody go get us a soup bone?!” (I looked back to Bob.) “This thing really is a publicity hound, in every meaning of the phrase!”

We had to wait a couple of minutes while somebody scurried off to the kitchens and returned with a big bone, which the kitchen staff made sure we had plenty of. Stormy had made a lot of friends around the place, and they kept a stockpile for her. He handed the bone to Holly, and suddenly Stormy perked up and turned to look at her.

Holly: “Come on Stormy, go get the bone.”

Molly: “Go get your bone, girl!”

Me: “It’s a nice fresh bone, Stormy, from a nice juicy Democrat!” (Marilyn snorted at that, and Stormy hopped down and took the bone into the corner of the room, off camera.)

Bob: “You feed your dog nice juicy Democrats?” (He was laughing at that.)

Me: “Only when we run out of nice juicy reporters.” (Marilyn and the girls giggled at that.)

Bob: “I walked into that one, didn’t I?”

Me: “With your eyes wide open!” (More laughter.)

One of the cameras panned out a touch to show Stormy now gnawing her bone quietly in the corner. Then it was back to the interview.

Bob: “Just what kind of dog is Stormy?”

Me: “She’s just an American dog, a big hairy mutt. You know how we got her, right, down in that basement in Springboro? She’s as mixed a mixed-breed as you can ask for. She’s an All-American dog.”

Bob: “How do you mean?”

Me: “Well, it seems like every country has its own breed of dog. You have the English bulldog, the French poodle, the German shepherd, so what’s the American dog? I would argue that the American dog is a mutt, a mixed breed, because that is what Americans really are.”

Bob: “The melting pot as applied to puppies?”

Me: “Exactly! I mean, all I have to do is look at my own family. We’re as mixed as you can ask for. My father’s side of the family was English and Lutheran. My mother’s mother was of German descent and Lutheran, but her father was English, and half Anglican and half Jewish. Marilyn’s family is French Canadian and Roman Catholic, but somehow a Scotsman snuck in on her father’s side. At our generation it gets worse. My sister married a fellow with a Norwegian and Swedish background, and half of Marilyn’s brothers and sisters married Polish-Americans and Italian-Americans.”

Molly: “Don’t forget Aunt Kelly. She’s Irish-American!”

Me: (Nodding towards my daughter and smiling.) “See? Heaven only knows what our kids will end up dragging home someday! Let’s face it, all across the country there are families just like ours, with all sorts of heritages. We make it work, we really do, but you sure can’t call us pure blooded. We are a mixed breed sort of nation.”

Marilyn: “Carl, nobody wants to be called a mutt!”

Me: (I waved her off with a smile.) “I’ve had mutts my whole life. Good dogs, hardy, healthy, live a long life, loyal… Lots of positive attributes. I like the melting pot. It’s a good thing.”

Holly and Molly looked at each other and barked out a couple of ‘Woofs!’ and we all laughed.

I wasn’t quite sure how this was going to end up being edited. Was it all going to be puff pieces, and then get serious, or was it going to be mixed together somehow? We’d have to wait around until Sunday night to find out. I was told by somebody that they would be running ad spots on the special starting this evening.

While Marilyn and the girls were still there, Schieffer decided to ask them a few questions.

Bob: “So, how have you two been adapting to life in the White House?”

Holly: “Okay, so far. I mean, Dad’s been in Washington since we were like in the first grade or something, so we’ve been going back and forth between home and Washington for years.”

Molly: “It’s a pretty cool place. There are all sorts of different rooms and places. It’s like living in a museum. It’s kind of weird that way, too, I mean, who lives in a museum?”

Bob: “How much time do you spend here? You actually live in Maryland, correct?”

Molly: “Yes. During the school year we live in Upperco, that’s near Hereford, which is where we go to school. We really only come down here every other weekend or so. When Dad was in Congress, he came home most nights. Now it’s like every couple of weeks he comes home.”

Holly: “Yeah, Upperco is really our home. Once school is out, I know Mom plans to move down here full time. We’ll both be in college next year, anyway.”

Bob: (Looking at Marilyn.) “Is that the plan? You are going to move to Washington full time once your daughters have left home?”

Marilyn: “Yes. When Carl was in Congress we lived close enough that he could commute, sort of. Carl was able to come home at least every other night and almost every weekend.”

Bob: “By helicopter.”

Marilyn: “It was a little unusual, but we were able to make it work. We like where we live and like having the kids in school there, and we didn’t want to change things too much for them. Things got more complicated when he became the Vice President, but he was still able to get home every few nights. We always had the idea that when the girls left home I would be able to move down here full time.”

Bob: (To the twins.) “Where do you plan to go to college?”

Holly: “The University of Maryland, in College Park.”

Bob: “Why there? I would think you could go to any college in the country. Why not Harvard?”

Molly: “College Park is just outside of Washington, and has a much better reputation for engineering and science than Harvard. I want to study engineering.”

Holly: “Physics.”

Bob: “Engineering and physics! Why those fields?”

Molly: (A bit of a perplexed look on her face.) “I don’t know why, exactly. Dad was a mathematician and could program a computer, and Charlie was always taking apart his motorcycles and we got to watch him do that. I don’t know, but I always wanted to see how things worked. That’s what engineers do.”

Holly: “Same here, but with a slightly different focus, I guess. I like the science part of it.”

Bob: “Somehow I never pictured you two as, I guess you would be called nerds. Somehow it didn’t fit the cheerleader image, I suppose. How do you see yourselves?”

Holly: “You can call us nerds, I suppose. Why is that such a bad thing? Mister Gates is a nerd and he invented Microsoft and is the world’s richest man, right? Dad’s a nerd, and he ended up as the President!”

Molly: “If you think you can live without nerds, just turn off your television and your computer and your lights and your furnace, because without us nerds you are going to be sitting in the dark and being cold! Who do you think invented that stuff?”

Bob: (To me and Marilyn.) “Your daughters are real true believers, aren’t they? Did you push them towards the sciences because of your backgrounds?”

Marilyn: “Oh no, absolutely not. That’s really not my interest at all.”

Me: “No, not really. I’m happy they are interested in science and engineering. I think they are important fields, and I did well with them, but it’s really their lives, not mine. I just want them to pick something and do well at it, whatever it is. Charlie, for instance, didn’t want anything to do with going to college. We just wanted him to pick something and settle down and do the best he could at it. Marilyn and I can’t live their lives for them.”

Some of the questions were just for me, and Marilyn and the twins took off for a bit, with Stormy following.

Bob: “We are coming up on your first hundred days in office. For most Presidents that is when you start getting graded on how well you are doing. Is that going to be a good way to gauge the Buckman Presidency?”

Me: “I don’t think I’ve ever thought about it in that regard. I would have to say that most Presidents, when they get sworn in, they have an agenda and legislation already planned, and have been planning the transition for over two months. They can hit the ground running. When I got sworn in, I had none of that. I had a missing President, a nation under attack, a burning Pentagon, and a gigantic hole in lower Manhattan. My agenda has simply been to get things back up and running properly, and to prevent what happened from ever happening again. Do I have an agenda of my own? Yes, I would say that I do, and I’ve been working on it. I plan on laying out some of it next month during the State of the Union Address. Maybe you should count the hundred days from there.”

Bob: “What is that agenda?”

Me: (Smiling.) “Ask me in January.”

Bob: “Do you plan to run for reelection in 2004?”

Me: “Ask me next summer.”

At that point we took a break while I returned some phone calls. When I returned, Schieffer asked if I would lead him around with a camera on what would be a typical day. That was nothing but puff, so Ari happily agreed to it.

Bob: “So how does your day typically start?”

Me: “Well, I’m normally up sometime around 6:00 or 6:30. I don’t think you want to show pictures of me in my bathrobe brushing my teeth. It’s not a pretty sight.”

Bob: (Laughing.) “I think we can skip that.”

Me: “Good idea. Anyway, at that point I usually put on some workout clothes and head down to the basement.” (We headed over to an elevator and rode it down to the basement, where I showed the gym.) “I usually do a workout here every other day, and on the days in between I do some martial arts training with some of the Secret Service agents.”

Bob: “Do you ever beat them?”

Me: (Laughing.) “Only when they let me. Seriously, I’m good, but these guys are really hard core. I would not want to meet them in a dark alley.” (Off to the side I saw a couple of agents smiling at that.) “Some days I head outside and use the pool and swim some laps. That’s good exercise for my leg.”

Bob: “So you work out every day? What about the First Lady?”

Me: “I certainly try. If I’m on the road, it can be difficult. Marilyn often joins me but she’s not quite as serious as I am. She’ll play hooky if she can get away with it.” (We left and I took him up to the Oval Office.) “After the workout I’ll go back upstairs and shower and shave and get dressed. Sorry, no filming that, either. Afterwards, I am down here in the office, and my schedule is pretty much whatever the secretaries and staff tell me I’m doing that day. Plus whatever comes up I need to work on. It never seems to work out quite the way the schedule says it will.”

Bob: (Pointing to my desk, where a large metal box with a big red button on it was sitting in the center.) “Is that the button to launch the missiles?” (Laughing!)

Me: (Looking innocent.) “Push it and find out.”

Bob: “Seriously?”

I just looked innocent and waved him forward. He pushed the button and suddenly it lit up, flashing bright red, while the sound of a klaxon horn came from the bottom. Bob jumped backwards! I laughed and reached over and hit the button a second time, and the ruckus stopped.

Me: “Right after I got here, a buddy of mine, Marty Adrianopolis, sent me that to lighten things up a bit. The first time I showed it to Frank Stouffer I told him it was a direct line to NORAD and he almost had a heart attack!”

Bob: “You’re a cruel man, Mister President.” (We both laughed for a moment.) “So, you spend most of your time working in here?”

Me: “A lot of time. If I don’t have a lunch meeting, I’ll grab a quick sandwich from the kitchen or the Mess. I try to meet with Congressional leaders and members at least once a week, but that’s a tough thing to do at times. It’s very easy to get caught up in things. I might also be meeting with Cabinet members or my staff. After lunch I’ll keep going until dinner. If Marilyn and the girls are here, I’ll knock off around six or so, but if I’m a bachelor, which is often, I usually come back here after dinner for an hour or two. After that, I go back up to the Residence.”

Bob: “You make it sound rather mundane.”

Me: “It is anything but mundane. Things can change, quickly. There’s always a problem somewhere. By the time you land in this job, you had better have learned how to prioritize and manage your time.”

Bob: “What’s the one thing you find most difficult getting used to about the Presidency?”

Me: “Hmmm… interesting question. I think it’s the entire public fishbowl aspect to my life now. Everything I do now, no matter how mundane, has some sort of political aspect to it, and everybody has an opinion on it, and whatever I am doing is always wrong. It’s very strange at times”

Bob: “How so? Give me an example.”

Me: “Well, take Stormy, for instance. Earlier we were playing with the dog and gave her a bone and whatnot. You filmed it, and while I’m not a reporter, I know a human interest piece when I see one. You’re going to run parts of that on Sunday night, right? Well, I can guarantee you that by lunchtime on Monday, the phones are going to be ringing off the hook and the emails and telegrams are going to be pouring in about how I am raising my dog the wrong way. By Monday night the news shows are going to be doing interviews on the subject. Tuesday is going to get worse! The purebred dog lovers are going to complain that the Presidential dog is a mutt, the cat lovers are going to want equal time, the hamster and guinea pig coalition will complain, and PETA is going to demand an end to interspecies slavery or some such nonsense!”

Bob: (Laughing.) “It won’t be that bad.”

Me: “You just watch! By Wednesday morning the New York Times will have weighed in, called it a scandal, and given it a cute name like Puppygate. By the end of the day, some Congressman is going to demand hearings, on Thursday there will be a call for a Special Prosecutor, and on Friday we’ll have the impeachment vote!” (I looked at the camera.) “Guys, give me a break! I’m just playing with my dog!”

Bob: (Still laughing.) “I think you are exaggerating a touch, Mister President.”

Me: (Smiling.) “Not by much. You’ve been in this town for a few years. Ask Ari sometime. One of these days he’s going to take some of the letters that get sent here and write a book and make a fortune!”

We broke for lunch, and I took Bob down to the Mess. It’s not glamorous but the cafeteria is available to staffers, though they have to pay. Marilyn joined us, since the next segment, after lunch, we were supposed to be together. After lunch, it was back to the Map Room. Thankfully Stormy was with the twins.

Bob: “Before you got into politics you were a very successful investment banker. Would that investment banker approve of the current state of the economy?”

Me: “I was never an investment banker. I was a venture capitalist.”

Bob: “What is the difference?”

Me: “Bankers loan money, by definition. We never loaned money. We used our money to buy stocks and options.”

Bob: “Would that venture capitalist approve of the current state of the economy?”

Me: (I smiled.) “He would certainly approve of the plans being developed by the current administration.”

Bob: “Which we will learn about at the State of the Union Address.”

Me: “You got it.”

Bob: “What kind of credit rating did you have to have to be a venture capitalist?”

Me: (Giving Schieffer a curious look) “You mean, what was my credit rating?”

Bob: (Wryly smiling) “One of our producers is getting a mortgage and was curious.”

Me: (I laughed at that.) “Ha!” (I looked at Marilyn and shrugged.) “You know, I have no idea, really. It’s probably lousy.”

Bob: (Astonished!) “You have a bad credit rating? How can that be?! You are a billionaire!”

Me: “But that’s only part of a credit rating. A big part is your past history at repaying loans. I’ve never had a loan, so I have no past history to judge if I would pay it back.”

Bob: “You’ve never borrowed money? What about credit cards or car loans?”

Me: “Nope. You have to remember, I got my start investing in the market when I was only 13. Minors can’t sign contracts, so it was all done with an account that had my father’s name on it along with mine. Everything I did had to be paid for by cash. By the time I was old enough to legally be able to borrow money, I didn’t need to. I have an American Express card, but that has to be paid back every month. That’s it.”

Bob: “I’d like to ask the First Lady a few questions now. Mrs. Buckman, what was going through your head the morning of 9-11? Where were you?”

Marilyn: “I was at home, our home in Hereford. It was a Tuesday morning, and it was a school day, so I had seen the girls off on the school bus…”

Bob: “Excuse me, the school bus!?”

Marilyn: (Smiling.) “We live out in the country, and the girls go to public school. They’ve been riding the bus to school since they started going to school. I probably shouldn’t say this, but they get tailed by the Secret Service. Their friends are on the bus and we didn’t want to make the change too big.”

Bob: “So you were at home? Did you know what was happening?”

Marilyn: “Not really. I had the news on, the Today Show, while I was putting some clothes in the washer, but I can’t say that I was paying any attention. Suddenly the door blows open and all these agents come in and drag me out. I was thrown into a car and we went flying down the road to Hereford High, and we got there just as this gigantic helicopter landed on the soccer field. We drove out to it, and I just had enough time to see the girls being run out of the school. Then we were flown to Fort Meade, and taken somewhere there.”

Bob: “Did anybody tell you what was happening?”

Marilyn: “Sort of. I got some of it when we were driving to the high school, and more when we were on the helicopter. Nobody would tell me what had happened to Carl, though, and that was what really frightened me. We didn’t hear from him until after he was made the Acting President, maybe early afternoon sometime.”

Bob: “So you were at home doing the wash?”

Marilyn: “It won’t get done on its own, and Carl sure doesn’t help! Neither do the girls, for that matter.”

Me: “Hey, I was in Florida. It wasn’t like I could rush home to empty the dryer, you know.”

Bob: “I’m just surprised you don’t have somebody to do that sort of thing.”

Me: (Marilyn and I looked at each other and I shrugged.) “You want to answer that?”

Marilyn: “You can.”

Me: “Very early on, we decided we wanted our children to have as normal a life as we could manage. Yes, I am extremely wealthy, and I could have servants follow them around to do whatever they wanted, but that’s just a lousy way to raise kids. At our home in Hereford we simply try to raise them like the normal middle class kids we started out as. We don’t have servants. We cook our own meals. The kids all have chores. They go to school like their friends. Someday they are going to have to do these things on their own, so they better get used to it now. We know it’s not perfect. The kids are smart, and they know that Dad doesn’t have your everyday job, but we try.”

Marilyn: “I am a stay-at-home mom. I want to be there when they go to school and I want to be there when they get off the bus in the afternoon. The last year has been a bit strange. When Carl was in Congress, I often went over to his office in Westminster and worked as an intern, but Cheryl is the Congresswoman now, and I don’t want to stick my nose in. I also spend some time helping out with the PTA and Our Lady of Grace, that sort of thing. We try to stay grounded.”

Bob: “I don’t see you running off to the grocery store.”

Marilyn: (Sighs.) “No, not anymore. It wasn’t too bad when Carl was the Vice President. Nobody really pays attention to you then, but it’s very difficult now. I am almost trapped at the house. I’m going to be glad when the girls go to college and I can move to Washington with Carl.”

Bob: “Are you going to have the girls do chores here?”

Me: “No, I think that would be a bit much.”

We talked a bit more about what happened on 9-11, and Marilyn’s role. She was a much lower key First Lady than some of her predecessors. On the other hand, after eight years of the ‘Bill and Hillary Show’, I think the nation would be happy with a low key First Lady!

Bob: “You are far and away the richest man who has ever been President. You used to commute to work in your own helicopter, and you own a jet and a beach front estate in the Bahamas. That’s not really a middle class household.”

Me: (Shrugging.) “I was certainly born middle class, maybe upper middle class, just like Marilyn. I never really set out to become rich. I knew when I was young that I was going to have to support myself, that I wouldn’t be getting any help from my family. So you start out thinking, I just need to make enough to go to college. Then you figure, I just need to make sure my kids can go to college, and I can afford to pay for my daughters’ weddings. Then it just got bigger.”

Bob: “How so?”

Me: “Well, I remember how, right after I got out of the Army, and I was worth about forty or fifty million, and I took Marilyn on a second honeymoon, a nice private resort in the Bahamas. Anyway, we both really liked it, and I just told her casually, not really thinking about it, that if she liked it, some day I could buy a place like that for her.”

Marilyn: “I remember that! I asked if you were serious and you were like, I guess so, but I would really need to be worth about $100 million or so.”

Me: “That’s right. So, that became my next goal. After that, it was to be able to buy a plane. That was my reason to become a billionaire. It’s not just about how much you have. It’s not just a scorecard. It’s what you can do with the money. It’s just a tool. I have a few toys, that’s true, but I give away to charity every year more than I could ever spend on planes and helicopters and such.”

Bob: “You are in the Forbes Top 10 for American wealth. You are certainly the richest American to become President.”

Me: “You know, I’m not quite sure of that. Oh, I agree that in absolute dollar figures that is undeniably true. Still, we have had some awfully rich Presidents. Washington was extremely wealthy, and what was his share of the American economy of the period, compared to my share of the economy now? What effect has inflation had? If you look at Mount Rushmore, you are looking at some pretty wealthy guys. Washington, Jefferson, and Roosevelt were all quite wealthy, and while Lincoln was born in a log cabin, he became a very successful trial lawyer and married the daughter of a wealthy man. He really wasn’t hurting either. This is one of those questions we’ll have to wait for some economics grad student to figure out.”

Bob: “You said you weren’t expecting any help from your family. Why is that? When did you realize that?”

I glanced over and saw that Holly and Molly had snuck into the back, so they were going to hear this stuff. I sighed. They would see it on television Sunday night regardless.

Me: (Sighing.) “I learned as a very young teenager that I was a considerable disappointment to my family. To them I was a failure, and they would not support a failure. If I was going to make my way in the world, it would not be with their assistance.”

Bob: (With considerable surprise.) “How can you say you were a failure!? By all accounts you were a prodigy in science and mathematics. By the age of 14 you were being published in scientific journals. At 16 you were attending college. You were a millionaire by the time you were 18. That sounds like anything but a failure!”

Me: “To most normal families, that would be very true. My parents… my mother had a vision of me emulating my father. I was to do exactly what he did, go to his college, become an engineer like him, work for a big company like him, settle down, live in the suburbs, marry a nice girl and have 2.3 children, everything just like my father. Unfortunately, I learned very early on that I had no interest in that sort of life. In my mother’s eyes, and thus my father’s eyes too, that made me a failure.”

Bob: “They were that controlling?”

Me: “Quite. I remember when I was 14 telling them I planned to become a mathematician, and my mother was so distressed that she ordered my father to punish me, as if she thought she could have him beat some sense into me or something.”

Bob: “Can you give me an example?”

Me: “One of my earliest memories, from when I was five or six, was when we made Valentine’s Day cards in school. That must have been kindergarten or first grade, I suppose. Anyway, I had a word misspelled on the card. When I gave it to my mother, she gave me a lesson in spelling and then sent me to my room to write the words twenty times. I became a very good speller.”

Bob: “That sounds crazy. You were punished for giving your mother a Valentine’s Day card?”

Me: “No, I was punished for poor spelling. The card was not important to her. It was expected that I would give her a card, so when I gave her a card I had fulfilled that expectation. It was similar when I was in junior high and high school. If I came home with straight As, it was expected, and you don’t praise when somebody does what you expect of them. Praise would have required something better than straight As; I have no idea what. Instead I was ordered to do better on the next report card, and then scolded for not having straight As when I was younger.”

Bob: “Your sister has been quoted as saying that you suffered abuse from your parents. Is that true?”

Me: (Grimacing.) “I think that’s a little overstated. It wasn’t like they were whipping me with chains in the basement. It was simply that they had a very regimented view of how our lives were supposed to be. There was only one proper path to becoming a proper adult Buckman. My brother and I were to follow that path, and there were to be no exceptions. They took a carrot and stick approach, only without the carrot. It was sort of logical, in a bizarre way. You were praised if you behaved better than expected, and got spanked with an oak paddle if you behaved worse. However, since the expected behavior was perfection, and you could never be better than perfect, you were never praised, but only got spanked.”

Bob: “And you got spanked. How big was the paddle?”

Me: (Holding my hands about a foot apart or so.) “About like this. I got hit probably every other day. When I hit 13 I told them to stop, or I’d leave home. Dad stopped, but Mom never really agreed to that. By the time I was 14, though, I was too big for her to hit.”

Bob: (To Marilyn.) “Did you know about this?”

Marilyn: “Not directly, but by the time I met Carl we were halfway through our freshman year at college, or my freshman year — Carl was already a junior by then. Still, I knew that he had moved out of his home and had been supporting himself since he was 16. I did meet his family once on a visit to his home, and it was pretty horrid. I never went back. I’ve talked to his sister, Suzie, and she pretty much backed up everything he ever told me, or you just now.”

Bob: (To me, again.) “Your brother was a paranoid schizophrenic, and your mother has been diagnosed with severe episodic depression.” (I nodded at this.) “Have you ever been treated for, or suffered from mental illness?”

Me: (Sitting bolt upright in surprise.) “Now, that’s a very interesting question, isn’t it? I don’t think anybody has really asked me that before. The answer is no. I have never sought treatment or been recommended for any treatment, nor have I ever had any signs or symptoms of mental illness. Yes, my brother and mother have had problems, but my father and sister never did, nor have any other members of my family, as far as I know. I can’t say for sure, since I haven’t seen any of them since I was 22.”

Bob: “So, no depression.”

Me: “Nothing clinical. Have I ever been depressed? If you take that to mean sad, then I have certainly been sad in my life, as we all have. There have been many sad times in my life. That doesn’t mean I ever needed medication or counseling.”

Bob: “What have been the most depressing times of your life?”

Me: (Glancing at Marilyn.) “Hmmm. Being forced out of the Army was depressing. I had already decided to go career at that point, and instead I was thrown out and a cripple to boot. It seemed that way, anyway. A few years later, when we had a madman stalking Marilyn, and it turned out to be my brother, and I had to shoot him — that was a very bad time, almost half a year.” (Marilyn reached over and took my hand in support, and gave it a good squeeze.) “I think the worst time we had was when we were in a terrible car wreck a few years later. Marilyn was pregnant and almost died, and we lost the baby, and she couldn’t have any more children. That was very bad, for both of us. I had been driving and I blamed myself for a long time, but it wasn’t really my fault, it was just bad weather and icy roads, an accident.” (Looking at Marilyn.) “Were those the worst times? For you?”

Marilyn: “Mostly. I wasn’t too worried when you left the Army. I knew you’d bounce back. When your brother was stalking me, I wasn’t so much depressed as I was scared. The worst was definitely when we lost the baby.”

Bob: “How did you get through that? That sounds pretty much like depression to me.”

Me: (Shaking my head.) “We get through our problems like most everybody else does. We had each other, and we had friends. Just because you’re sad, it doesn’t mean you need to take a pill. We had each other. No matter what happens, we have each other.” (I brought my wife’s hand up to my lips and kissed the back of it.)

Holly and Molly were brought back and took their places. I think hearing about some of this was a little sobering to them. Then things got a little screwy. He decided to have some fun with the girls.

Bob: (To the twins.) “Who’s the better cook, Mom or Dad?”

Holly: “Oh, Dad, for sure!”

Molly: “Yeah, he’s great!” (Marilyn was looking rather peeved at this.)

Me: “Might I remind the pair of you that Christmas is only a few weeks away, and that your mother is in charge of presents.”

Holly: (Looking at Molly suddenly.) “Uh, actually, Mom is much better as a cook!”

Molly: “Yeah, Dad is awful!”

Marilyn: (She snorted at this and rolled her eyes.) “Give me a break!”

Me: (Crossing my arms.) “Might I also remind you two that while your mother is in charge of selecting presents, I am in charge of paying for them!”

Molly: “They’re about equal.” (Holly simply nodded.)

Me: “See? Who says you can’t get a bipartisan outcome in Washington!”

Bob: (Laughing.) “So which is tougher, dealing with twin teenage daughters or dealing with Congress?”

Me: “Two teenage daughters or 535 Congressmen and Senators… hmmmm… Let me get back to you on that.” (More laughter.)

Marilyn snorted some more and wagged her finger at me and the twins. Then Schieffer switched subjects.

Bob: (To the twins.) “Have your parents ever told you how they met? I’ve heard a lot of different stories.”

Holly: (Her face lighting up and grinning.) “No! What’d you hear!?”

Molly: “This ought to be good.” (Marilyn and I were looking at each other, perplexed.)

Bob: “I’ve heard several different things. They met at a bar. They met at a party. There was a duel, a bar fight. Your father won your mother in a drinking game. What’s the real story?”

Molly: “A duel!?”

Holly: “This we have to hear!”

I started laughing and buried my face in my hands while Marilyn protested her innocence. After a moment, I looked up and just shook my head.

Me: “Dare we tell them the truth? Do you think they are old enough to hear what really happened, all the sordid details?”

Marilyn: “You can behave!”

Me: “Okay, here’s what really happened, the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God!” (My wife groaned at that point.) “We met in January or February at a party at my frat house at Rensselaer.”

Bob: “What kind of a fraternity was it?”

Me: (Grinning.) “Have you ever seen Animal House?”

Bob: “Yes.”

Me: “We could have given them lessons.”

Marilyn: “That’s not something to be proud of!” (Wagging a finger at me.)

Me: (Shrugging) “So, anyway, I was one of the bartenders…”

Holly: “You were a bartender?! Cool!”

Me: (Looking at Bob.) “I’m the President of the United States, and they think the cool thing is that I used to sling beer in a frat house! Good grief!” (Back to the girls.) “Anyway, it was the first party of the spring semester, I remember that much, and your mother came to the party and came up to me and I served her some punch. Then I asked her to dance.”

Molly: “What was in the punch?”

Marilyn: “Never you two mind!”

Me: (Snorting in laughter.) “Punch. Leave it at that. Anyway, later on, one of the other guys at the party started hitting on your mom, and she wanted to stick with me. He was getting pretty nutty, and I didn’t want a fight, so I got him to challenge me to a duel.”

Bob: “So there really was a duel?”

Me: “Sort of. I wasn’t going to fight the guy, so after he challenged me, I got to choose the weapons, and I chose flaming shots.”

Marilyn: (Groaning.) “That was one of the stupidest things I have ever seen you do!”

Bob: (Laughing.) “What is a flaming shot?”

Me: (Looking at the camera.) “Kids, do not do this at home. This is for professionals only.” (Back to Bob.) “I am going to get in so much trouble over this. Okay. I set up a pair of shot glasses, filled them to the brink with Southern Comfort, and set them on fire. First guy to down his wins. He chickened out, I drank both, and I won the girl. End of story. We’ve been together ever since.”

Holly: “This is so cool!”

Bob: (Laughing, to Marilyn.) “Is that true? Is that how it happened?”

Marilyn: “Yes, I am ashamed to say, that is precisely how it happened. I am simply going to say that I was young and naïve at the time.”

Me: “You were impressed, admit it!”

Marilyn: (Smiling.) “Never!”

On the other side of the cameras I could see Ari and Frank laughing. Great! This was going to be all over the White House long before Sunday. Then it got worse!

Bob: “What was it about the First Lady that attracted you to her?”

Me: “Well, the obvious thing to start out with, she was pretty hot…” (I held my hands up to protect myself from her.) “You still are, so don’t hit me!” (Back to Bob.) “That only goes so far, though. After I got to talking to her, I found that inside is simply a good person, with a good heart, and that’s what I found truly attractive. It didn’t take me long, not long at all, to realize there was a piece missing inside of me, a hole in my soul, that I didn’t even know about, and that Marilyn had that piece of me.”

Holly: (To Molly.) “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Marilyn: “You two can shush!”

Bob: “What about you, Mrs. Buckman? What was it that attracted you to the President?”

Marilyn: “Well he wasn’t the President then! Carl was… it’s hard to put into words. He was a big guy, much bigger than me, and almost sort of cute…”

Me: “Almost sort of cute?!”

Marilyn: “Behave. You’ve said yourself you have a face made for radio! Anyway, Carl had more a sense of power and presence, a sense of confidence. Probably the thing I remember most about him was how he made me feel safe, how nothing could ever get to me without having to go through him. Long before he ever told me that he loved me, he told me he would protect me. It doesn’t sound romantic, but it was.”

Bob: “Did the President have a pickup line he used on you?”

Marilyn: (Laughing.) “Yes!”

Me: “No! I didn’t have a pickup line! Did I?”

Marilyn: “It was so bad! I asked who you were, and you answered, ‘Oh, darling, I am your Daddy’s worst nightmare!’ Oh, that was so bad!” (Laughing!)

Holly: “Daddy! That’s awful!”

Molly: “Pretty cheesy, Dad!”

Me: (Laughing.) “Did I really say that?” (Marilyn nodded.) “Hey, it was almost thirty years ago. It worked, right? That’s what counts!”

Bob: “I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt on this one, Mister President. I don’t think it’s anything worse than I used when I was that age.”

Me: “Thanks.”

Bob: “Back during the election, quite a few women reported that they had dated Carl Buckman before he met you. How did you feel about that?”

Marilyn: (Smiling.) “Oh, I know about them. I’ve met quite a few, in fact.”

Bob: (Shocked.) “You have?”

Marilyn: “Oh, yes! That was back in high school and before. We only live about thirty minutes from his high school. We’ve been to several reunions. We get together and compare notes.” (It was my turn to groan!)

Bob: “Really? What did they have to say?”

Before I ever had a chance to shut my wife up, out it came!

Marilyn: “He was a popular date. They used to call it the Carl Buckman Experience!”

Me: (Blood draining from my face.) “I can’t believe you said that!”

Holly: “That is so disgusting!”

Molly: “I think I am going to barf!”

Me: “Somebody please shoot me!”

Marilyn: “Oh, behave, the bunch of you.”

I was facing a lifetime of Saturday Night Live jokes! They actually had to shut down for a few minutes while everybody stopped laughing. Ari and Frank were laughing so hard the tears were coming. The girls kept repeating how it was so disgusting, and Marilyn wasn’t helping when she asked them how they thought they got here.

I knew it was going to get worse!

Chapter 147: State of the Union

Tuesday, January 29, 2002

I was right, of course. It was going to get worse, a lot worse! By Sunday night everybody in the White House, and seemingly half of Congress, knew about ‘The Carl Buckman Experience.’ All week long CBS was running blips and teasers from the interview, and I knew that little segment was going to be a big piece of it.

Ari was a little more even on it, surprisingly. Yes, it was going to be a bit embarrassing (A bit? You think!?) but was it really that bad a thing to be known as a great lover? I just groaned at that. I began getting grief about it well before the broadcast, because somebody from CBS got in touch with Marty Adrianopolis and asked him about the party where Marilyn and I met. Then he was asked if he had ever heard about the Carl Buckman Experience. I gather they didn’t get a great interview because he was laughing too hard to answer the questions. Afterwards he called me and gave me a major ration of shit on the whole thing.

I went home that weekend to watch it. Sunday night the special ran from 8:00 to 10:00, and even before the show was over the phone was ringing off the hook. At one point I had Tusker on my cell phone, Suzie on the house phone, and Tessa on Marilyn’s cell phone. Meanwhile the girls were on both their phones. Marilyn was laughing and the girls were making gagging noises. Tusker told me I deserved whatever happened to me. What a friend!

The Monday morning press briefing was a lengthy and hilarious exercise in futility. Ari ordered me, under pain of arrest by the Secret Service, not to be anywhere near the Press Room, and the agent nearest me damn neared died laughing. Ari got hit with all sorts of questions and could barely keep a straight face throughout it. He was hit with the expected questions about what the ‘Experience’ involved (“You’ll need to ask the First Lady that one.”) along with questions about whether the White House was getting complaints about how I played with Stormy (“Yes.”) Some fellow out in LA named Cesar Millan was calling himself the Dog Whisperer and was telling people how bad I was at raising a dog. PETA tried to organize a protest out in front of the White House.

The list of complaints was endless. Native Americans, anti-immigration groups, and pro-immigration groups began arguing about the melting pot and whether I was a racist — somebody took the comment about ‘Heaven only knows what our kids will end up dragging home someday!’ as somehow insensitive and racist. Mothers Against Drunk Driving complained about underage drinking (“It wasn’t underage in 1974.” — that went nowhere!) Donald Wildmon, a preacher who ran a ‘family values’ group complained about my lewd and lascivious behavior and ran down fraternities as houses full of drunken hooligans! (Ari’s response? “I asked the President about that, and he told me that was why he joined!”) Drug companies were complaining that since I wasn’t an expert in psychology I obviously didn’t know how wonderful their pills were. It seemed as if I had spent the entire two hours offending the entire nation.

Meanwhile, the late night comics had been granted a gift from the gods! On the Daily Show, Jon Stewart ran an experiment setting booze on fire (He actually did two flaming shots, like I had done. His judgment? “Holy [bleeped.] He’s one tough son of a [bleeped!]”) One night he put Stephen Colbert in a dog suit and labeled him their ‘Senior Canine Correspondent’. Leno brought out Santa Claus and a couple of good looking actresses in sexy elf costumes; Santa put me on the Naughty list, while the elves put me on the Nice list. Letterman made the Experience a Top 10 List, straight from the home office in Omaha, Nebraska.

It culminated on Saturday, December 22. Saturday Night Live started the show off with the Carl Buckman Experience. Forget Santa Clause! They had a Christmas present from the President of the United States! Darrell Hammond was the designated Carl Buckman impersonator. He had already done Bill Clinton, and Will Farrell had been doing George Bush. Darrell was the closest to looking like me, I guess, as long as he put some sort of skull cap on with thinning hair. He had done a few bits on me, but hadn’t been too tough, since 9-11 was only a few months ago, and it was too raw to make fun of me bombing the Afghans in response. There had been one segment of me firing everybody I met one day, done shortly after I got rid of Dick Cheney.

The show opened in a replica of the Oval Office. It was late and ‘I’ was meeting with Tina Fey. I was behind my desk and she was sitting in front of it, playing the part of a Congresswoman. I was arguing for her to support my position, while she was refusing to support me.

Darrell: “What can I do get you to support the bill, Congresswoman?”

Tina: “I am sorry, Mr. President, but I just can’t do it.”

Darrell: “Nothing at all? Are you sure?”

Tina: “My mind is made up, sir.”

Darrell: “This is critical, Congresswoman!”

Tina: “No, Mister President, I won’t change my mind!”

Darrell: “Then I have no other choice. You’ll just have to receive the Carl Buckman Experience!”

With that a large red button rose magically up through the desk. He pushed it, and suddenly the lights began to dim. Overhead speakers dropped down and “Love Is In The Air” began to play. A disco ball dropped down and colored lights began sparkling. A Murphy bed dropped down from the wall. Darrell stood up from behind the desk, and it was apparent he had been sitting there in boxer shorts with hearts on them.

The camera began to pull back, moving backwards through an open door flanked by two ‘Secret Service agents’ who closed the door and stood there stone-faced. From behind the door could be heard loud sounds of passion. After about thirty seconds the door opened and Tina Fey came through, her hair messed up and her lipstick smudged, her blouse half buttoned, and carrying her high heels in her hands. She was panting, and gasping out, “You have my vote, President Buckman, but first… LIVE FROM NEW YORK, IT’S SATURDAY NIGHT!”

Marilyn was dying of laughter while this was going on. We didn’t normally watch the show, but I knew something was bound to happen. The next morning the Sunday morning talk shows made hay out of this. John Boehner, who was on ostensibly to talk about the Airline Safety and Security Act and was known to be a friend of mine, was asked if he knew about the Experience and if it had ever been necessary for me to use it. He just started laughing and said, “Not with me! Maybe you should ask one of the lady Congressmen or Senators.” Barney Frank, the openly gay Massachusetts Congressman who was talking on another show about financial reform, reported that I wasn’t his type in any case, and they needed to ask some of the ladies on Capitol Hill. Finally, Frank Stouffer, who was appearing on behalf of the airline bill, upon being questioned about it by Tim Russert, admitted that when Marilyn and I went on our next vacation the Oval Office was to be remodeled to include a disco ball and a Murphy bed.

Wonderful!

On the plus side, and it was the only plus side I could find, Marilyn’s reputation soared! She had come across as funny and loving and a good wife and mother. Most First Ladies have higher approval ratings than their husbands (with the exception of Hillary) and Marilyn was going to be no different. By the time we left on our Christmas vacation, the networks were clamoring for interviews just with her.

The Christmas vacation was a disaster. One year ago I had been a simple Congressman, the Vice President Elect. We had a Secret Service detachment, but it wasn’t too big, and we had used my Gulfstream, first to go to Utica and see Marilyn’s family and drop off the girls, and then to fly to Nassau. Nobody gave a shit. Now, one year later, I was the President of the United States of America, and they don’t just take vacations!

On Sunday, December 23, we flew in Air Force One to Griffiss Airport in Rome, New York. This was an old SAC base which had been shut down, and was being considered to replace the Oneida County Airport in Oriskany. They actually sent a crew up there to reactivate the tower and runway ahead of time. No little visit this, I was greeted by the Governor of New York and the Mayor of Rome, despite my request that I didn’t need any formality. Then it was off in the limo to the Radisson in Utica, where I was greeted by the Mayor of Utica. WKTV covered both locations. We probably were renting out half the Radisson. We debated visiting Marilyn’s family at their home on the Parkway, but that would just be crazy. We dined on room service that night.

The next morning, Christmas Eve, we went over to the house. Security was over the top! It had snowed overnight, and some of our nephews decided to toss some snowballs at Aunt Marilyn and Uncle Carl; one agent actually began to reach for his gun and stopped in time to keep from shooting our relatives. That was just a sign of things to come. An advance team had come through and ordered everybody off the street, and somebody had complained to Harriet, who complained to Marilyn, who complained to me. Shit flows downhill, I guess. I ordered the Secret Service to lighten up. They simply were not set up to handle the giant family coming and going. We had agents patrolling around the yard, an agent at each door, checklists of who was invited… one of our nieces decided to bring over her boyfriend and they almost didn’t let him in.

The only thing remotely amusing was that the Lieutenant Commander with the football parked himself in the downstairs family room, where he was found by some of the littlest kids. They found it fascinating that he had a briefcase handcuffed to his wrist, and the little girls promptly decided to have a tea party with him. I wandered through at one point to find him sitting in his shirtsleeves drinking fake tea with a pair of four-year-olds. I told him he was having more fun than I was.

It became too much. Nobody was enjoying themselves, and by mid-afternoon we had apologized and gone back to the Radisson. We managed to have dinner in the restaurant, which got us a lot of stares. By that time the Observer Dispatch had a reporter tailing us, too. After dinner we called Marilyn’s parents and apologized for the foolishness. We couldn’t put them through this! We passed the word to the 89^th and cut short our visit by a day. We dropped our daughters off with their grandparents, along with their detachment (a shitload smaller than ours!), and flew to the Bahamas on Christmas Day.

It was the first time we had been there as President and First Lady. I knew they had upgraded the security when I became the Vice President, and that must have been adequate. I didn’t see anything obvious about the changes, although we had more of a permanent staff. Also, the Coast Guard cutter off the beach had been replaced with an Arleigh Burke class destroyer. The Prime Minister greeted us at the airport, but we told him to go back to his family and then call us in a couple of days. He refused, and insisted that we come by Government House in the morning and join him in watching the Junkanoo, the Boxing Day parade. We didn’t have a reason not to, so we agreed to visit and participate. We had seen the parade a few times over the years, but it was the first time we would see it with such an important guide. We also agreed to a small dinner, and invited him and his wife to Hougomont in return.

I told Marilyn that next year we would stay home. This was simply too much.

Marilyn was still teasing me about the Carl Buckman Experience, so as soon as we got to Hougomont and were alone, I undressed her and tossed her clothing in the closet. All she was allowed to wear was a long silk robe. She protested some, but not too hard. The next morning she did protest when I made her attend the Junkanoo commando style, in a long halter topped sundress.

This turned out to be a remarkably short-lived idea. It turns out that even on vacation I am surrounded by advisers and people who have to see me right away. I had the National Intelligence Officer every morning with the Daily Brief, Deputy Chief of Staff Frank Stouffer, Deputy Communications Director (Ari had picked a guy from the Cato Institute to back him up) Will Brucis, Secret Service agents, and so forth. Marilyn tried hiding in the bedroom the first time somebody barged in, but after that she just laughed and got dressed while I grumbled. So much for romance, or any facsimile thereof.

We flew back to Washington New Year’s Day and spent the night on our own, and the next day the twins flew down on an Air Force C-20, a Gulfstream much like mine. It’s a damn good thing I’m rich. The rules are such that since it isn’t fair for the taxpayers to have to pay for the President’s vacations and travel, he has to pay for his trips — on Air Force One! However, if he can come up with any sort of excuse — giving a speech or ‘foreign relations’ or ‘fact finding’ — he doesn’t. That’s why, no matter where they go, Presidents always give a speech. As a result, every time I flew home to Hereford, or Marilyn and the girls flew around, I footed the bill. At least I didn’t have to pay for all the support personnel and Secret Service agents. Since they were all required by Federal law to accompany us, the taxpayers paid for them. As it was, I suspected that being the President was going to cost me a damn sight more than they paid me, and since my paycheck was going to the American Red Cross, the experience was going to cost me dearly.

And then it was back to work. My next big project was going to be the State of the Union Address. This was scheduled for Tuesday, January 29, which had already been selected by George Bush before his untimely demise. I could change it, since there is no specific Constitutional date for the Address. Theoretically I could have simply mailed it to them. The Constitution simply states that ‘He shall from time to time give to Congress information of the State of the Union and recommend to their Consideration such measures as he shall judge necessary and expedient.’ From Jefferson through Taft the Presidents simply sent a report to Congress and had a clerk read it into the record. Wilson revived the practice of making a speech, and I suspect if I tried to mail it in I would probably be impeached.

In practice, the State of the Union is supposed to lay out for Congress and the public the President’s themes for legislative action through the coming year. In between the soaring rhetoric and grandiose pomposity, you need to highlight the various things you want to accomplish in the next twelve months. Some Addresses have worked out better over the years. Some Presidents used it as a grab bag, throwing all their plans into the hopper, stunning everybody with their overblown interests, most of which would be ignored or go down in flames. In the hyper partisan Clinton and Obama eras you occasionally had half the Congress standing and cheering while the other half sat there in stony silence or even heckled. By all accounts, the best Addresses were those in which you chose only three or four themes and hammered those alone.

The first theme was the easy one, at least in picking it out. It was only four months since the 9-11 attacks. People wanted to hear how I was going to personally hold their hands and protect them from evil. I needed to outline my plans to increase security and improve intelligence. In this I was outlining my plans for a new counterterrorism center (already under operation via an Executive Order) as well as mentioning the about-to-be completed report by the Three Amigos. We would also need to raise spending on preparedness and security, and at least change some priorities. Of course none of this would affect civil liberties, or at least so I told people. In reality, probably somewhat. On the other hand, I didn’t want to say out loud what I was really thinking, that some fancy new weapons programs would need to be cut to pay for some of this. Congress might not like approving new weapons programs, but it hated cutting them, since the manufacturers would spread the subcontracting across as many Congressional districts as they could, and nobody wanted to be seen cutting jobs. Tom Ridge and I were going to have to sit down for this.

So, what was left? Defense was number one on the list, but what would be number two, or three, or four? Anything beyond that would be simply wishful thinking, and probably counterproductive. The only thing I could figure was along the lines that a strong defense required a strong economy. We were already heading into recession, much as I had pointed out with Paul O’Neill months ago. Unfortunately, the last thing you really want to do during a recession is get Congress involved. Recessions are part of the regular business cycle, boom and bust. It had been a number of years since the last major correction, and we were due. Economists know it, businessmen don’t like it, politicians don’t understand it. What politicians understand is campaign contributions and votes. They understand that when campaign donors and voters complain, they have to do something to show they are concerned and are fixing the problem.

As a general rule, they almost always end up doing the wrong thing. Recessions are nature’s way of saying the economy was overheated, and now we are taking a breather. For instance, everything is going great guns, but wages are rising too fast and interest rates are getting too high. At some point the economy collapses, some people lose their jobs and some companies go out of business, things calm down, interest rates and wages drop to a point where they make economic sense, and people get new jobs and new companies are formed. It’s painful, but it happens, and in general things will be better after than before. Every time a bubble collapses, there is a fundamental reason it failed. Meanwhile, there are certain things that can be done to alleviate the problem. The Federal Reserve can fiddle with interest rates and bank requirements and the money supply, and the Fed is fairly quick to respond to problems. Congress, on the other hand, is anything but quick and is usually pretty ham-handed when it does get involved. A typical response to a recession is that everybody hoots and hollers for six months before passing some sort of stimulus bill. Nine times out of ten, the stimulus is for the wrong part of the economy, and by the time it passes, the recession has peaked, and we are now stimulating a growing economy. The other typical choice Congress makes is to decide to cut spending just as the economy starts tanking normally, thereby aggravating the recession.

Now we were going into a recession. As such, there was no reason it would be a killer, but it would be uncomfortable, and there would be loud cries that we needed to do something. That was a given, and if I didn’t handle that, somebody in Congress would, and not necessarily to the betterment of the nation. Still, there are good ways to goose the economy with government spending and bad ways. One of the bad ways is to simply cut taxes or give people checks; the money is used to either pay off credit cards (debt reduction) or is spent buying things (consumption.) Debt reduction is a good thing, but generally is only temporary. Most of the consumption goes overseas, as payments on oil or finished products — does Wal-Mart actually sell anything made in America? Good ways to spend on the economy require a longer term view. The best ways to spend would be infrastructure and research. Fill some potholes and fund some R&D projects. The money tends to stay in America and you get a much better bang for your buck. So, to fight the recession, let’s invest in America, and send Congress a spending bill to do so, and make that a point in the speech.

What else do I talk about? I don’t know who said it first, but it really applied here. Never let a perfectly good crisis go to waste! We had a crisis, and I needed to milk that sucker for all it was worth. I had a golden opportunity to do it, too. What I could do was dust off some of George Bush’s ideas, fix them so they weren’t as fucked up, and ram them through. In so doing I would be appealing to the newest Republican icon, St. George of Bush. Dust off his ideas, tweak them, wrap them in a mantle of compassionate conservatism, hoist an American flag over them, and away we would go! All I had to do was hold my nose.

It wasn’t that outlandish an idea. I had high popularity right now and a lot of credibility from destroying the Taliban and Al Qaeda. That translated into political capital, which I could spend on various votes and projects. The same had occurred with George on my first trip. Unfortunately he wasted his on various horrendous efforts, setting up Homeland Security and the Transportation Safety Administration, neither of which was all that popular, and dragging the nation into a couple of losing wars. He drove a stake through his heart during Hurricane Katrina. By the end of his administration, he couldn’t get Congress to agree that the sky was blue, let alone give him what he wanted.

Case in point — immigration reform. George had proposed his DREAM Act in 2001, but had then allowed it to dither around while he focused on other things. It was a great idea, but he lost focus and it died slowly and painfully. It never did get passed under any subsequent President, either. Dust it off, push it hard, and keep repeating, “We need to do it for President Bush!” Then throw in the idea that by controlling our borders, we were fighting terrorism, and the whole thing would make us safer. It needed to be done.

What I needed to do in this speech was to canonize my predecessor, and wrap what needed to be done in his mantle. If I could only figure a way to have his image smiling down at me from above, I would be all set. So, there we were — counterterrorism and security, infrastructure, research, immigration. At that point start feeding it to Matt and Mike, and get them to start writing. We weren’t just going to polish that turd, we were going to fucking gold plate the son of a bitch!

A big question at these speeches is who I will invite as my guests. Marilyn and the girls would be there, of course, and I knew Charlie was thankful he was out at sea, because otherwise he would be with them also. I had to give my staff some names and suggestions very early on, weeks before the speech in fact, so they could be properly vetted. For instance, I was planning on having some of the family members of the victims of 9-11 in the gallery, but if we brought somebody in, the press would immediately crawl up their butts and take residence. What if somebody was a criminal or sex offender, somebody who blamed me for 9-11, or a secret Democrat planning to unveil an anti-Buckman banner? The guests are screened by Ari Fleischer and his staff. I had several dozen guests, and at various appropriate places, I would mention them and the cameras would show their faces.

I don’t know how many drafts we went through preparing for the speech. I promised the fellows that when it was done they would each get a week at Hougomont, my treat. Regardless, they were both kind of bleary eyed by the 29^th, and when Frank decided to joke with them and told them we needed another revision, they started throwing things at him. I took pity on them and put a stop to any changes that morning. “Guys, unless somebody attacks us in the next twelve hours, this is just going to have to do. Now, go home, get some sleep, and watch me tonight on television fucking up my lines.”

Matt groaned and Mike shrieked, and they sent everything off to the printers and to Ari for the teleprompter in the Capitol. A courtesy copy was also sent to the Democrats in Congress, so they could prepare their official response. Why the hell they were allowed to rebut the State of the Union Address was a complete mystery to me. It’s not a Constitutional requirement, and I have always thought it was rude as hell.

Regardless, Tuesday the 29^th rolled around, and Marilyn brought the twins down as soon as they got home from school. The speech would start at 9:00, but that was simply the time when I was scheduled to start down the aisle to the podium. I wouldn’t begin pontificating for another five or ten minutes. We actually got to the Capitol a little after 8:00, and relaxed in John Boehner’s Whip’s office. I had a copy of the speech and was reviewing it, although I already knew it by heart, and it was also going to be on the teleprompter. Knowing my luck, the damn thing would break, I’d forget to say something, and the Democrats would rise up in revolt. Or worse.

The twins were totally bored at the waiting. They had been in the office before, when it had been mine, so it wasn’t like they could get a grand tour. We ignored them. Marilyn looked at me and said, “You are too tense. You need to relax. It will be just fine.”

“It’s only the most important speech of my political life, that’s all!” I replied theatrically.

“You have said that about every speech you have ever given. They can’t all be that important.”

I snorted and laughed. Lowering my voice, I said, “I know a way I can relax.”

My wife blushed and her eyes lit up. “And ruin my makeup?! Forget it!”

“Hmmmppph! Maybe I need to hire an intern after all.”

Marilyn smiled and said, “I can always ask Carter to step in.”

That got me to coughing as Marilyn laughed at me. When I had my breathing under control, I answered, “I like Carter, but I don’t like him that much!”

“Good.”

Thankfully it was Frank and not Carter who stepped in tapping his watch and saying, “It’s time, Mister President.” If it had been Carter we would have probably died laughing. We got to our feet, and Marilyn gave me a quick kiss for luck, and I hugged my daughters. Then Frank escorted them out of the room.

There is a lot of ceremony involved in this that is never actually seen by the public. The Congress has to be seated first, and then in some sort of formal order, the Deputy Sergeant At Arms requests permission for the Veep, the Senate, the Justices, the Cabinet, and the other VIPs, like the Chiefs of Staff, to all be allowed entry. They all file in and take their seats. Finally, when everybody is in place, they get around to the President. He is the only one who actually does this on television. The Sergeant At Arms gets to call my name out and I get escorted down the aisle by one Congressman and one Senator, named by the Speaker and the Vice President (in his role as head of the Senate). Today I had John Boehner and Don Nickles, which was fine by me. I knew and liked both men and had worked with them extensively.

We were standing around the corner from the main doorway and I glanced at Don and John. “How the hell did I get myself into this mess?” I asked them.

John simply laughed. Don answered, “Clean living?”

“We know that’s a lie!” commented John.

I didn’t have a chance to respond, when suddenly the door opened, and I heard “Mister Speaker, the President of the United States!” I squared my shoulders and marched forward, flanked by my friends.

The roar of the applause was deafening. Almost immediately Congressmen and Senators from both sides of the aisle began to reach out to shake my hand. The cynical part of me knew that they were simply looking to get their pictures taken with me, and that they would happily turn on me like wolves on a wounded fawn if they thought it would help them. The not so cynical part of me enjoyed it. I knew that it wouldn’t last. This was my good time. I was still popular from punishing terrorists, and the recession hadn’t really settled in yet. This time next year my approval ratings would be a lot lower!

It took me almost ten minutes to snake my way down the aisle and get to the podium. My hands were sore, both of them, from reaching out and clasping others. Denny and John reached down from where they sat behind me and both shook my hand as well. Then I turned back to the Congress, and the room quieted down.

“Mister Speaker, Mister Vice President, members of Congress, distinguished guests, and fellow citizens. There are few greater responsibilities than that which I am about to undertake. It is the responsibility to fulfill the Constitutional requirement to report on the state of the union, and to recommend to your consideration measures I judge necessary and expedient. I report to you now that the state of our union is STRONG!”

I said this forcefully and proudly, and the room erupted in applause, with a standing ovation. I waited about thirty seconds and held my hands up for calm, and when the room calmed, I continued.

“More importantly, I report to you now that the state of our union will REMAIN strong!”

This time the standing ovation went on for over two minutes, and resisted my efforts to calm things down. I simply stood there and smiled and accepted it. Eventually it stopped.

“President Bush was to have had this privilege. He fell, doing his duty, along with 3,213 others on September 11^th. I last spoke to you here in this forum four and a half months ago, when I took up the mantel of responsibility he carried so well. In that time we as a people have come together to help the survivors, heal the wounds, defend our nation, and claim a justifiable vengeance on those who attacked us.

When I spoke to the nation on October 8^th, we were beginning our response to the attacks of 9-11. At that time we began a coordinated effort of our ground, naval, and air forces to destroy the terrorist elements that had waged war on us, and the Afghan government which had sponsored them. As I told you that night, and as we have reported since, that effort was extremely successful. The warlords in Kabul and the terrorists they supported have faced the severest retribution and punishment, and a more moderate government is now beginning to form and coalesce in that stricken nation.”

This was true, sort of, I thought as I waited out the inevitable applause. Most of the Taliban and Al Qaeda were dead. Nobody knew if bin Laden had died. Some videos had surfaced, but the CIA had determined that they were old, pre-October 8, just now being broadcast. As for the new moderate government, that was a bit of a stretch. Afghanistan simply had new warlords in place, and hopefully these ones would focus on killing their own people and not ours.

“The price of freedom is never cheap, and is paid for with a currency which is in ever short supply. It requires the sacrifice of our best and bravest, and the combined sacrifices of their loved ones. Tonight, here in the gallery, are some of those who have made such sacrifices. Mrs. Pauline Deveraux and her children Pamela and Charles are here tonight, representing her husband, Co-Pilot Justin Deveraux, and the families of the B-52 bomber Rusty Bucket, lost during the initial attacks. Also present are Robert and Maureen Wilson, the parents of Staff Sergeant Patrick Wilson of the U.S. Army Special Forces, who fell outside of Kabul, and Mrs. Janice Cornwith, the wife of Chief Bosun’s Mate Carl Cornwith, a Navy SEAL, who fell near Mahmud-e Raqi. These men were among those who made the ultimate sacrifice for the nation they loved, and we honor their families and the families of all those other heroes.”

More applause and another standing ovation.

“Seated with those families, are others, men who served in Operation Enduring Freedom. There are more people involved than could fit in this room, so we can only honor a small sample, but I commend them to you along with their brethren.”

At that point I read a half-dozen names, Army, Navy, and Air Force, as the cameras panned across some uniformed and bemedaled faces in the gallery. Again, we had more applause and another standing ovation. I had met all of the guests earlier in the day, at a lunch. It was a humbling experience.

“Part of the price paid was paid here at home. Whether it be a firefighter who rushed into the North Tower to rescue lives but never made it out himself, a corpsman in the Pentagon who suffered third degree burns while saving others, or a passenger on Flight 93, whose final thoughts were to prevent the carnage he had already heard of and decided that ‘Let’s roll!’ was a good idea, the list of heroes here was also too long to mention. We have some representatives of this group as well.”

More applause and a standing ovation. The servicemen had been very embarrassed by the support given them by the survivors of those who had died on 9-11.

“Now it is up to us to prevent this from happening again. We in this room, each and every one of us, have sworn a solemn oath, a vow to defend our nation and our people. What occurred on that awful day must not be allowed to reoccur. We must be vigilant, more so than at any time in the past.

I wish at this time to introduce three guests, Executive Assistant Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation Collins Barnwell, Assistant Director of the Secret Service Ralph Basham, and Deputy Director of Analysis of the Central Intelligence Agency Winston Creedmore. Within hours of the attacks, I ordered the three of them to determine what had happened and to report to me everything they could. Since that day I have met with them twenty-three times, and they will be finalizing their report to me this week. I urge you to consider their conclusions carefully. Their report to me was a sobering one, and showed that we, as leaders of our nation, can do better.

On September 11^th we entered a new era. For much of the last century our focus — militarily, diplomatically, and intelligence wise — was on the totalitarian regimes we faced around the world. America faced those challenges with courage, and we rose to lead the world to new freedoms. That was the world we focused on right through September 10^th. Now we face a new challenge, and we must change our focus and methods to meet it. I say to you now that this is a challenge we shall also rise up and meet!”

There was another roar of approval and another standing ovation. I waited for it to die down before continuing.

“We suffered a failure of our intelligence system on 9-11. It was a system that focused on the threats of the past, and not those of the future. Foremost among the recommendations for the future will be a national clearinghouse for terrorism related intelligence. Within a matter of weeks we will be putting forth legislation to create a National Counterterrorism Center, to be on a par with our other intelligence departments. This will be a joint system, so that if one department learns something action can be taken throughout the system. Sadly, this has been lacking in the past, and we have seen the price to be paid for this. No more! We can do better and we must do better!

My advisers and I will be preparing a budget to reflect these new realities. In so doing, we must consider that one of the costs of the attack on us was an economic cost. Our national economy is slowing, and some pain will be felt by all of us. This is also a cost that must be borne to build a stronger future. We cannot hope to have a strong defense without a strong economy to base it upon. Therefore we must make investments in our future, investments that will build upon the strengths that make America great, and that will make us greater still.”

I got some more applause, but no ovation at this. Nobody likes to hear about costs that might actually involve some dollars. More than ever it was time to trot out George Bush and tell them that these were his ideas. For the next ten minutes I spoke about how infrastructure and innovation would make lasting contributions, about the jobs they would create, and the dollars they would funnel to hard working Americans. I spoke about how previous challenges had prompted us to build railroads and highways that crossed the country, and how the investments in aerospace and technology had changed every American’s life for the better. Needless to say, these were all ideas George Bush had discussed with me frequently, and I was simply passing along one of our greatest President’s dying requests. There wasn’t a dry eye in the room when I was done.

Then I got to immigration reform. This actually was one of George’s better ideas, and I was going to demand his DREAM Act be passed. On my first trip through, he had taken his eye off the ball, and by the time he got around to it, his brand was so damaged that he couldn’t sell water in the desert. Meanwhile, over the next few years, under his less than inspirational leadership, the Republican Party and Congress ossified so much that the only strategy they could come up with was an unrelenting denial of anything the Democrats wanted to do — like immigration reform. Right now, though, I had a golden opportunity to ram something through, and almost anything would be an improvement on the convoluted mess we had now. Even better, I could tie border security in with the fight on foreign terrorists. We would increase border security, but the price would be a demand to fix the rest of the system and do something about the zillion illegals we already had here.

Above all else, it was necessary to create some good sound bites and a syncopation, a rhythm that would get the crowd rocking. It might be dry and boring, but if we could gloss over the details and focus on the wonderful things that would come from all of this, it would go a long way in moving the plan forward. Most importantly, I had to be able to flood Congress with some bills within the next thirty days. By the end of February, I had to dump some of this stuff in their laps. If I expected Congress to do the job for me, it wouldn’t work. Congress is like a pack of sled dogs, aimlessly barking and running around, playing in the snow. The only way to get them moving was to harness them and crack a whip. Back at the White House I had assigned each major task to a specific staff member, with Carter overseeing them, and was going to push them to work the problem. I would beat Carter like a rented mule as he oversaw things.

Finally it was time to finish, to wrap myself in an American flag and go out on soaring rhetoric and a good old fashioned American dream.

“These are more than proposals; these are the legacies of a great American President! We here all knew his plans and dreams! We know that he wanted to make this nation a greater and stronger nation! We know he wanted our people safer. We know those things because those are the same plans and dreams we have. We must build and protect President Bush’s legacy, not for his sake, but for ours! It is not I alone who calls on Congress to act. It is the American people who call on Congress to act!”

Everybody was back on their feet now, roaring and applauding. There is nothing like appealing to the better natures of people who generally don’t have them. I should know. I was one of those people.

“Great opportunity comes from great challenge. America is a nation that thrives on great challenges. Our history is that of one challenge after another, and in each case we have risen stronger than before! Now is no different! This is our challenge! This is our opportunity! This is our time! We will not falter! We will not fail! We will succeed!”

I was roaring it out to them now, and they were on their feet applauding and cheering. It was more like a campaign speech than a policy speech, but it was my opinion that a campaign speech was what the country needed now. Eventually they wound down, and settled back into their seats.

“Earlier, I said that the state of our union was strong, and that it would remain strong. I was wrong when I said that. What I should have said is that the state of our union will become stronger. Our nation possesses a strength unknown by our enemies, and envied by our friends. We will pay the price of freedom, and enjoy the strength of freedom, and harness the power of freedom. Now, with the grace of God, we move forward. Thank you and God bless you all.”

And that was it. They were back on their feet and cheering, and both Denny and John leaned over from behind to pound me on the back and shake my hand. I was curious what the Democrats would do in their response, and I knew a tape recorder was catching it back at the White House. Tomorrow we would go over it with a fine tooth comb. In the meantime, I could make a quick judgment by looking up to the gallery. Marilyn was still a Democrat, and from what I could gather, was training her daughters up in that evil creed. I caught her eye, and could see her smiling, sandwiched between and hugging the girls, and all three had tears in their eyes. Maybe it had worked after all.

Chapter 148: A Summit at Camp David

The speech had timed out at about forty minutes, which was considered short. Bill Clinton averaged well over an hour! I think that was because A) I limited myself to the most critical items I wanted to work on, and B) I’m not as good a speaker as Bill Clinton. I figured the longer I yapped, the more likely I would be to fuck up somehow. I finished the speech a bit before 10:00 PM, but between the congratulations and shaking hands, we didn’t get out of the Capitol until after 11:00. The twins were heartily exhausted by then, especially with the knowledge that they would have to fly home at the crack of dawn to get to school on time.

I would like to state that in my glorious power, I took my carnal pleasure with my wife, using her for hours in triumph. That wasn’t quite true. She was as tired as the girls. They all headed up to the Residence, while I took a last minute call. By the time I got to our room, Marilyn was snoring on the bed, with Stormy spooned up next to her. I chuckled and stripped off my suit, and crawled in next to Stormy.

We were all up early, with the girls grumbling and grabbing for some Danish as Marilyn chivvied them out the door. I kissed them all good-bye, and went about my bachelor lifestyle. By 8:00 I was in my office, with Ari and Josh giving me a critique on the night’s performance. Generally the reviews were positive. The Democratic response had gone about fifteen minutes, and the only complaints they had were with some of the spending bills I had proposed. They wanted more government spending, predictably. Otherwise they stressed the need to draw together as a nation, and pledged to work with me in a bipartisan fashion, if I would do the same. Likewise, the network anchors and pontificators thought I had done a good job, especially at rallying a country still in shock.

We didn’t have the final polling numbers in yet, but in general, I was still in the high 80s for popularity. My money, suitably washed and run through the RNC, could afford us a level of polling few White Houses could previously afford. We would get hard numbers by the end of the day, and the various networks would have theirs by their evening broadcasts.

On the other hand, some of the chickenhawks were complaining I wasn’t going far enough in protecting the nation. Cheney was leading a chorus of neoconservatives who wanted a much tougher response to the threat of Islamic terrorism. We needed a Cabinet level department responsible for defending the Homeland, with a stated mission of letting nobody in who could harm us. In addition to a vastly upgraded intelligence network, they would throw in everything we already had doing these jobs, such as the Coast Guard, Immigration and Naturalization, airport and port security, and so forth. In addition, we should be aggressively using our armed forces to drag the rest of the world into the 21^st Century, starting with everybody who was a Muslim.

In effect, they wanted a complete second CIA, FBI, Army, Navy, and Air Force to create a wall around us, while the first team would go out and conquer the world and make it safe for America. If somebody asked who would pay for it, the answer was simple, oil revenues from gratefully liberated nations would pay. It would be cheap and easy!

Meanwhile, the economic choices I was making were clearly both inadequate and wrong-headed. The only thing that could get the nation running properly was a massive and immediate tax cut, like what George Bush had proposed. I had touched on this the other night, but only to report that the Bush tax cuts would need to be postponed, so that we could pay for the investments we needed to make, both the internal infrastructure and research projects, as well as to overhaul our military. In the coming year we would probably be in a deficit situation, after three years of budget surpluses. I had spun this by stating that George Bush would have never have gone along with a deficit unless we had to; he had been a staunch supporter of the balanced budget, and his first year in office had proved that! I kept quiet my personal belief, that tax rates would probably stay where they were for the foreseeable future; we were going to get back to a surplus situation and go back to paying down the national debt if I had anything to say about it.

Cheney and crew thought differently. Massive tax cuts would be so wonderful that the economy would explode with activity! Deficits would melt away. If something needed to be cut, start slashing all the stuff not defense related, like education and health and social subsidies. If we really needed to cut spending, I should cut entitlements. Oh, and I should also defund any regulatory agencies, since only unfettered capitalism really worked.

I had already commented to Josh, when he brought this up. “They’re right, you know. The only way to really cut the budget is by scaling back entitlements. Social Security and health spending are going to break us someday.”

“Mister President, we are nowhere near that,” he protested.

“Not now, Josh, but that day will come. It will come a lot faster if we don’t have the revenues to pay for it.”

“So, do you plan to cut entitlements?”

I shook my head. “I think I’d rather slit my throat on national television. The Democrats are never going to go along with it, and neither will our party. The real problem is that everybody loves these programs; they just don’t want to pay for them. There’s a reason we put these things in place. No, as long as we stay out of a deficit situation, I’m not brave enough to tackle that stuff.”

The complaints from the neocons were getting louder, and Dick Cheney was positioning himself at the center of it all. He and several others were providing the counterargument the Sunday talk shows and 24 hour news shows were clamoring for. Cheney and Wolfowitz were only two of the prominent critics. William Kristol, Donald Kagan, and David Horowitz were showing up. They had previously had George Bush’s ear, but I had tuned them out. Most of them were academics, with either think tank experience or time spent in the Reagan or Bush 41 administrations.

For the next two weeks Cheney and crew tried to roast me alive. It was very clear that Cheney was positioning himself to my right, and was planning a primary challenge in 2004. I could smile and tell Ari and the others not to worry about him, but John McCain wasn’t going to be put off. He asked to see me about this. If I wasn’t going to run, he was, and he needed to plan his options. Well, I had promised the man I would discuss it with him, and give an answer by the summer, and I guess February is the summer in Washington. (You really don’t want to actually be in Washington in the summer, it’s miserable!)

On Monday, February 11, I had John meet me in my office in the morning. Other than the usual non-stop crises, it was a quiet morning. “John, I won’t beat around the bush. You want to know what I am doing in 2004, and what I am going to do about Dick Cheney.”

John nodded and replied, “Yes, Carl, I do. I need to know how to plan things. I think it is obvious that Dick Cheney is not planning on slipping away quietly.”

“That is very true. Well, I wasn’t planning on making any announcements this early, but I suspect it will have to come out. I will be running for election in 2004. I talked it over with Marilyn over the weekend, and she supports me. I am going to need your help, because I have never done a national campaign like this before. You will need to help with the planning.”

He looked at me and nodded. I am sure he was figuring that this was a real possibility all along, but he had also been hoping that I would decide not to do it. “Well, it’s not like you didn’t say you might. If Cheney stays in, it’s going to get ugly.”

At that I smiled. “I don’t want to sound too confident, but Dick Cheney is going to be the least of our worries. You’re right, he wants it so bad he can taste it when he drives past us on the street. It won’t matter. I plan to drive a stake through his heart.”

“You have said that, but I’m not sure I am going to buy it. I think I want to know what you are planning.”

“Okay, but you have to swear you are not going to say anything to anybody. Not your wife, not your girlfriend, not your priest — nobody! If you talk in your sleep, start sleeping alone,” I answered.

He smiled at that. “Okay. So, what can’t I speak about?”

“Have you had a chance to read the report from the Three Amigos? They issued it to me last Friday, and I plan to send it to Congress this Friday,” I asked.

“No, I can’t say as I have. I spent a long weekend with Cindy. I know it’s in my In Box. You’ll need to bring me up to speed,” he said, half apologetically.

“Here goes. You are aware that before 9-11 Cheney and Wolfowitz and Scooter Libby were all making Iraq war sounds. Everything, and I do mean everything, pointed to the fact that Al Qaeda was a subsidiary of Saddam Hussein and we needed to go in and finish the job. Richard Clarke and I disagreed. Clarke was fired, and they were trying to figure out a way to dump me.”

“Yes, I remember that. After the attack, the CIA showed it had been Al Qaeda, in Afghanistan, but with Iraqi assistance. We talked about this when you asked me on board. That was when you started cleaning house,” he said, accusingly.

“That’s true. Since then, the truth has come out. You’ve seen the latest intelligence, Iraq had nothing to do with this. Now these guys are beating a different drum, that Iraq has nukes and chemical weapons and bioweapons. Same story. They want a war with Iraq. What you don’t completely know yet is just how much they were gaming the intelligence. You’ve seen some of it, but not all. What you don’t know yet is that the CIA knew the names of some of the 9-11 hijackers ahead of time.”

John’s jaw dropped when I said this, and his eyes popped wide. He stammered for a moment, and then gasped out, “We knew!?”

“Not exactly, but close. The DIA figured out some names and sent them to the CIA. The CIA buried them, and then after the attacks, tried to bury the DIA program. Nothing could get in the way of the Iraq message. It’s all very embarrassing, but not necessarily illegal.”

“They killed the President and it’s not illegal? Are you insane?” he sputtered.

“Calm down, John! Save that for the press conferences we are going to have!” I smiled at him. “No, there is actually a distinct possibility that no laws were broken. The DIA simply found some names of suspicious characters and sent them to the CIA for follow-up. The CIA decided, for whatever reason, not to do so. They might have had a valid reason, or it might be a bullshit reason, but the guidelines were formal and specific, that the DIA report the names to the CIA, and the CIA could do with them what they deemed appropriate. It’s a subtle distinction, but enough to keep them out of jail.”

“Nobody wants to hear about subtle distinctions, Carl, not on this!”

“John, this is why I say we are going to drive a stake through their hearts! My hands on this are really clean. Richard Clarke and I can stand up and swear on a stack of Bibles that we warned them, and we’ll have plenty of witnesses and notes and minutes from the NSC meetings to back us up. You were in the Senate at the time, so they were in effect lying to you, too. What’s really going to hang them, though, is that they tried to cover it all up. Cheney ordered Libby to shut down the DIA program. Colin caught wind of it and shut down the shut down. Then he took it to Ashcroft. Ashcroft might be a Bible thumper, but the man has got his share of integrity. He’s got a Special Prosecutor chasing it down.”

John eyed me curiously. “So, if what they did was legal, what’s the prosecutor doing?”

“Technically, Libby had no legal right to order a Pentagon program to be shut down. Legally, State would come to me and I would go to Defense. The real problem is, at least according to Ashcroft, that Libby lied to an investigator about it. That’s perjury and obstruction of justice. That’s what they are going to nail him with, not the shut down,” I replied.

I could see the wheels whirling in McCain’s head. “Scooter wouldn’t do this on his own.”

“So, what happens when the Special Prosecutor issues a subpoena to Dick Cheney? What happens when the Special Joint Intelligence Committee issues a Congressional subpoena to Dick Cheney? Dick is too smart to lie, so he either takes the Fifth or refuses to respond and gets hit with a contempt citation. Either way, his political career is over. John Ashcroft has told me that his man has enough evidence to send Scooter to Club Fed. If you and I can’t bury Dick Cheney with this, we don’t deserve to be here another four years!” I told him.

“Huh!” John sat there in awe for a bit. “When is this all going to come out, anyway?”

“By the end of February. After that, Dick Cheney won’t be able to get a job as a school crossing guard! We are going to have to have a meeting with John Ashcroft, as well as the White House Counsel’s office, and a few other people. You will definitely have to be in the loop on this. John ordered me to keep my fat yap shut, so that’s why I haven’t said too much.”

“So we simply have to survive another few weeks.”

“Maybe less. My understanding is that the Special Prosecutor is preparing subpoenas for Dick Cheney and Paul Wolfowitz. If they refuse the subpoenas, he plans to haul them in on material witness warrants and do perp walks for the nightly news. They are probably going to claim executive privilege, and the Counsel’s office is figuring out that one. That works a whole lot better if I go along with it, and I’m not feeling all that generous.”

“Dick Cheney in handcuffs? That would make for a wonderful campaign poster, Carl!”

“Wouldn’t it? I gather the Special Prosecutor is an ambitious young fellow and likes to see his name in the paper. I want you to call John Ashcroft and ask to meet with him — I’ll back you — and let’s see if you can’t be brought up to speed on this. Just remember, you can’t even tell your dog about this, not until it comes out. Justice is going to handle this, not you and me. We are innocence personified.”

“I’ll be damned. I’d like to see that arrogant prick in handcuffs, too.” John smiled at that and headed back to his office, to start going through The Tripartite Investigation Report on the Terrorist Attacks of September 11, 2001. We were labeling it The Tripartite Report. The Three Amigos name was to be buried as ‘inappropriate’; they were now The Tripartite Commission. It would make fascinating reading, if you didn’t end up throwing up first. It was not America’s finest hour.

The Special Joint Intelligence Committee officially met for the first time two days later, on Wednesday, February 13. The Chairman was Bob Graham, a Florida Democrat who was the Chair of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. Vice Chairman was his Republican counterpart from the House Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence, also from Florida. They spent the entire day swearing themselves in and speechifying for the cameras and fiddling with procedure, and then adjourned in time to get on camera for the evening news. There were promises of bipartisan cooperation and transparency and then they all held hands and sang Kumbaya! It was wonderful.

That was perhaps too cynical a view. The reality was that while Congress as a whole was venal and self-absorbed, more than a few Congressmen and Senators were fairly honest and dedicated, and simply trapped in the system. Every once in a while they could draw together in mutual outrage and get something accomplished, and this was probably one of those times. If we played it smart, we could manipulate them appropriately.

That began Thursday morning. As soon as they opened their proceedings, Graham and Goss called for a vote requesting the White House to provide any and all information it possessed on the 9-11 attacks. The vote passed unanimously. On cue, there was a knock on the door, and the Three Amigos marched in, each of them carrying a copy of the Tripartite Report, with a flunky behind them pushing a cart with additional copies. The report was actually two parts, with a summary section that was all anybody was actually going to read, and a much larger addendum, the size of the Manhattan telephone book. The Three Amigos were sworn in, they each read a statement that had been prepared jointly, and the session was adjourned so everyone could review the materials provided.

The result was predictable. We had written the summary report with an eye towards television, with a fair bit of hyperbole and some phrases that would be great as sound bites. Congress, no matter what they swore to keep secret, could be counted on to leak like a sieve. Every network had received copies in plenty of time for the nightly broadcast, and it made for a compelling lead segment. Phrases such as ‘false and misleading’ and ‘negligence, malfeasance, and intimidation’ made their way into the bullet points. Ari made a few pro forma remarks about how we couldn’t comment on the ongoing investigation, and then referred a few questions to the Justice Department for their response.

By Friday it had gone ballistic! The Addendum had been examined, and even though some names and dates were redacted, there was plenty of damning evidence. Justice had issued a statement that they couldn’t issue a statement about an ongoing investigation, and then issued a statement that the Attorney General had appointed a Special Prosecutor, who had been working with the Tripartite Commission to determine if actionable offenses had occurred. By Sunday morning, the press was baying at the moon, and anybody named in the report, good or bad, had a microphone and a camera in their face.

The really amazing part? It was all true! Our intelligence agencies really had fucked up by the numbers, all across the board. Cheney and his bunch really had been gaming the system. We could sit there and look outraged and angry, and point fingers, and otherwise raise a righteous hoo-raw. As long as nobody overreached — on our side! — we were winners.

And yet there was a bittersweet aspect to all of this. John Boehner asked me if I was enjoying the destruction of these people. Was it really necessary to rip them to shreds on national television? Did I realize there was going to be a pushback, a righteous comeuppance somewhere down the road? No good deed goes unpunished, and what I was doing to the neocons was going to have consequences.

“John, believe me, I take no pleasure from this, but what would have been the consequences if we lied to the American public and killed off their children in a war we didn’t need to fight? That’s what they want, you know. John, there are an awful lot of people out there who think that war is some sort of high tech video game, and that if we don’t like what is happening, we can push the reset button and start over again. It’s not! That was the thinking that got us into Viet Nam, and we spent ten years there and lost fifty thousand lives, and our entire generation is still dealing with the aftermath. If I have to stomp the neocons into the ground to prevent that, then I will pay the price they demand,” I told him.

“Just you remember, there will be a price, and you will be paying it. You and I might be moderates, but that is a dying breed in Washington these days, and you would be well advised to remember that. If there is another 9-11, you will be history, and they are going to bring in somebody who breathes fire and eats babies for breakfast, and consequences be damned!” he warned.

The uncomfortable truth was that he was right. I knew what had happened on my first go, and the bitter truth was that Bush and company had kept the homeland safe. They had spent trillions of dollars and thousands of lives, trashed our civil liberties, and destroyed the economy of the nation, but we didn’t have another 9-11. Could I do any better? I just didn’t know.

Cheney and Wolfowitz ran the gauntlet of the news shows, and were hammered in the process. Libby was keeping his mouth shut. I heard that he was trying to broker a plea bargain, but that Justice had him dead to rights on perjury and obstruction. He wanted it both ways — no conviction and no squealing on his patron — but that was looking unlikely. Fitzgerald knew some of the people who had died in the Twin Towers and was not looking to make deals. The Joint Special Committee began calling people to testify, and both Wolfowitz and Cheney refused, citing executive privilege. The White House Counsel refused to allow me to completely hang them out to dry, but instead sidestepped it and told the Committee that this was best left up to the courts to decide. This was our weakest spot in the whole thing, in that Gonzalez was feeding everything he was learning straight to Cheney. It was a price I had to pay for a while longer. After the fuss died down, and the legal wrangling ended, I was getting rid of Gonzalez come hell or high water!

By April, Cheney was looking increasingly defensive. He hadn’t been given a perp walk yet, but Congress had issued subpoenas and contempt of Congress charges, and the Justice Department had done the same. Wolfowitz had caved, somewhat, and had testified to the Committee along the lines that A) no, he hadn’t lied but, B) it was very possible to interpret what had been discovered in different ways. Meanwhile, Richard Clarke had done an internal review at the CIA and had determined that almost all of the evidence for Saddam Hussein being behind 9-11 and owning weapons of mass destruction was, at the minimum, suspect. For instance, a report that yellowcake uranium had been bought by Iraq was reported to President Bush. In reality, the report was made up by a low level Iraqi looking for a payday, and every intelligence service around the globe had looked at it and laughed it off. We saw that everywhere. Often an Iraqi expatriate would concoct a story and sell it to multiple spy agencies, and then when they checked with each other, they had multiple ‘confirming’ reports. Only when you looked closely did you figure it out.

Meanwhile, 2002 moved along. In March I convened a ‘National Security Summit’ at Camp David. In effect, the National Security Council camped out in the wilderness for a few days and talked about keeping the country safe while we roasted marshmallows around the camp fire. Well, maybe not that rustic. For all that they call it a ‘camp’, Camp David is really an office and cabin complex set in the woods. Every amenity of civilization is there, along with office space and conference rooms, and multiple ‘lodges’ for residence. If you want to go for walks in the woods, fine. You have about 200 acres to wander around in, surrounded by razor wire, electrified fences, and at least a company of combat equipped Marines.

It’s only a little further to travel than from the White House to our house, but we had never been up there before. Marilyn and I stayed in the Presidential cabin, Aspen Lodge, and everybody else used the smaller lodges. We used Laurel Lodge for the meetings. A few people stayed overnight, a few went back and forth to Washington. Marilyn and I spent most of the week up there, without the kids, while some of the people came and went as needed. Evenings we had some nice dinners in Aspen with whoever was staying the evening.

I would go to meetings and Marilyn would kiss me goodbye. “I am going to catch a nap and catch up on my knitting,” she happily told me.

“Knit me up a solution for world peace,” I replied.

“How about some new slippers?”

I had to chuckle at that. “I’ll take what I can get.”

The subject for the week? Developing some sort of strategy for keeping the country safe, keeping the costs down, and keeping the bad guys somewhere far away. That all sounds wonderful, but how to do it? At one extreme you have the Festung America concept, Fortress America, a neo-isolationist viewpoint. Bring the troops home, shut down overseas bases, stop playing policeman to the world, fence the borders and electrify them, and shut down immigration. At a very simplistic level this sounds wonderfully compelling, but in reality it is impossible.

Take immigration, for example. Americans do not have a high enough birthrate to keep the population from declining. If the replacement birthrate is 2.1 children per family, Americans typically ran 1.9. We need immigrants, at least a million a year, legal or illegal, to keep the population and the economy growing. This gets very complicated by the fact that most of those new immigrants are coming from places the existing residents aren’t pleased about. The European immigrants who founded the country and provided most of the population are now being outnumbered by immigrants from Africa, South and Central America, and Asia. The country was going to be a lot tanner in a couple of generations. Furthermore, for all the people who screamed about illegal aliens in the country, the only way to get rid of them would be to adopt the same tactics the Nazis needed to rid Germany of the Jews — house to house searches by jackbooted thugs, and concentration camps — none of which would ever be accepted by Americans.

On the other hand, quite a few people had a viewpoint that might be seen as an American Leadership approach. We needed to stay out front, across the world, leading the way! The world needed a policeman and who better than us? Don’t react to the world, but be pro-active. Better to control the environment than be controlled by it. At the most extreme end of this spectrum you had those who thought that if the world didn’t embrace our values voluntarily, it would be best if we coerced them to do so. America, and the rest of the world, would be better served if we sent in the troops, replaced the government, and brought peace and goodness to the locals. This had been one of the arguments of Cheney and his crew. Strangely, the locals often had differing views on the wonderfulness of this approach.

I’ll be honest. I tended towards the neo-isolationist myself. Why in the world did we need to have troops still based in Germany, for instance? Couldn’t we be more sensible? Why did we care when the locals decided to kill each other off? Why try and police these shitholes? I was quickly and convincingly cured of my delusions. Isolationism was not even remotely possible anymore.

There had to be some sort of middle ground, where we didn’t bankrupt ourselves, didn’t view war as a legitimate foreign policy, and still kept the bad guys away. The summit proved unsettling at best. Certain aspects were accepted, in some cases grudgingly, but I learned a few things, as well. China was becoming increasingly bellicose and assertive, and they were rapidly increasing the size and quality of their armed forces. We would continue to need high end naval forces, and not be able to swap out Aegis destroyers with smaller and less expensive frigates. We would be able to manage a swing from Europe to Asia, but there would be costs. We would need to reactivate some of the Asian military bases we had shuttered, and costs would generally increase.

The generals and admirals were going to have to face some of the facts of life, too. They grumbled, but a lot of what they wanted was simply unsustainable. Invisible airplanes at $100 million a pop? Wait ten years and do what they could do with a drone at pennies on the dollar! I knew what the coming revolution in artificial intelligence and computing power was going to bring to military aircraft. I informed the lot of them that every branch was going to face some cuts in future hardware programs, but that I intended to move those funds into readiness and training and support programs. On the other hand, the Commandant of the Coast Guard was ecstatic that his budget would be increased. Of all the services, they got the most work and the least respect and the tightest budget. Since 9-11, Congress and the public were finally waking up to the fact that they were on the front lines.

One thing I stressed was that I was going to expect accountability! Weapons programs were going to be watched closely, and if they thought I was brutal with the civilian heads of the Cabinet, wait until they saw me working over the admirals and generals running procurement! The best way to stay in my good graces would be to bring programs in on time and under budget. If they needed to change the way they did business, so be it.

I sat down with each of the service chiefs and went over their Christmas wish lists of new weapons. It was not a happy experience for the generals and admirals. I was a veteran myself, with just enough experience to be dangerous, from their point of view. Compared to GWB, I did not hold these guys in awe and believe everything they said. The Army came out of it the best of the services. What they had now was really good stuff, and they weren’t going to lose a whole lot when the NLOS cannon got shut down, for instance. Some of their funding got switched from heavy armor, like M-1s and Bradleys, to Strykers and variants. Some of their brigades and divisions would get moved from Europe to Asia.

The Marines used a lot of equipment that the Army used, but the one thing that they had exclusively was amphibious vehicles. They were going to lose their Advanced Amphibious Assault Vehicle, an amazingly wonderful gizmo that fought like a tank and surfed on the ocean fast enough you could ski behind. It never really worked that well, and at this point, I could kill it off fairly simply. The last time the Marines had actually done a beach assault had been at Inchon — 52 years ago! Now they used helicopters and air cushion landing craft. I did let them keep the V-22 Osprey, though. Sooner or later they would get that to work, and it was too far along to kill it.

The Air Force and Navy took a pounding! Their Joint Strike Fighter, the F-35, was supposed to be an all-in-one wonder-weapon. It was a lot closer to an elephant, which is a mouse designed by a government weapons board. The last time we had a fighter that both the Navy and the Air Force liked was the F-4 Phantom II, which was originally a Navy plane but so good that the Air Force wanted them, too. Carrier aircraft are so specialized because landing them involves a controlled crash, and that is not generally something airplanes can do. All the variants of the F-35 were overdue and overpriced, and designed for fighting the Soviet Union, which didn’t even exist anymore. I promised a big budget increase on drones, but they squawked. Nobody gets medals for flying drones. Meanwhile, buy some more F-18s.

The Navy lost their Littoral Combat Ship. This was still in a proposal stage, unlike the F-35, which was now in a development stage. This was supposed to be a small and lightly manned ship designed to operate close to shore, so that if the bad guys took one out, it wouldn’t hurt. It would carry modules of mission packages, so that it could be easily turned from an anti-aircraft ship to an anti-sub ship to a mine countermeasures ship. In the future it would grow into a half billion dollar monstrosity, with two different hull forms since nobody could figure out the best way to build it and nobody had the balls to fire enough admirals to get them to make a decision. None of the mission modules were ever built on time, or could be made to work, and operating the ships took more manpower than they were designed to carry. Total clusterfuck of a ship. I also killed off the DD(X)/CG(X) class of stealth destroyers and cruisers, which were designed to fight the Cold War. They were projected to cost about three to four times what a quite suitable Arleigh Burke would cost.

In place, I told them to keep building Arleigh Burkes, and to figure out a conventional frigate or corvette design. The Perry class hadn’t been built in years, but why couldn’t they come up with a plan to build new and updated ones? For that matter, what was wrong with an updated and Americanized version of the Sa’ar V class that Ingalls built for the Israelis in Mississippi, or maybe build a version of some of the smaller ships some of the European nations built? I also approved plans for a guided missile submarine version of the Ohio class boomers, which replaced their ballistic missile tubes with seven-packs of Tomahawks. That sounded fairly sensible and budget minded. I would also be happy to purchase more gators and transport ships, and more transport and spy planes for both services. We needed to do things differently, and buy smarter.

The admirals and generals were not amused. Colin Powell and Tom Ridge told me privately that they were simply nodding agreement for now. As soon as they got back to Washington, they were going to meet with their favorite Congressmen and Senators and lobbyists to roll back my roll backs. I could expect a fight on my hands. This was not unprecedented. Carter had killed off the B-1 bomber, which the Air Force and Rockwell had kept secretly on the back burner until Reagan took office, when it resurfaced as the B-1B. I replied that I understood, but that I wasn’t afraid to fire people, and if the Congress got too uppity, I would be happy to unpack the Veto pen.

As for foreign relations, both Colin and Condi told me to behave and grow up about dealing with the ragheads. I didn’t have to like them, but I did have to deal with them, and politely, too. I was rather rudely informed that I was smart enough to learn that each country had its own issues and problems and cultures, and that Iran, Iraq, Syria, and Turkey, for instance, all had their own beliefs and interests, and just because they were Muslim, it didn’t mean they were all the same. I was also told by State that I needed to make nice with the Saudis. Lowering the price of oil would be helpful, too. I grumbled some, and replied I would behave, but that the Saudis would have to show some progress on taming their nut cases. We would end up waiting for some auspicious moment we could claim an agreement to, and then exchange ambassadors.

By the end of the summit we had the start of a coherent plan on national security and immigration. Meanwhile, all through the month of March we were preparing some new legislation based on the ideas I had pushed during the State of the Union speech. Carter and Marty Adrianopolis got together to hammer out some quick bills that would be pushed through Congress while people still liked me. Carter was heading my legislative drive. He would stay out of the spotlight, which was a good idea. The right wing didn’t overly like that I had a faggot (their words, not mine) working in the White House. They would have preferred Carter be the guest of honor at a bonfire. Instead, Carter was the eminence grise overseeing the legislation.

I had seen what had buried other Presidents over the years, and one big item was trying to pass gigantic all-in-one all-encompassing total omnibus wonder-bills. When you write that sort of thing it takes forever and nobody likes it. No matter which side you were on, there was always something to bitch about and vote against. No, we needed a bunch of little bills, which we could write quickly and pass quickly, and keep the individual costs down. Better to pass ten $50 billion dollar spending bills than a single $500 billion dollar bill. Marty fed Carter a series of bills related to infrastructure and research. We could fill some potholes, fix a few bridges, update water and sewer systems, and so forth. Most of the money would be funneled through the states, which all had an existing structure to do so. One of the more subtle bills had some wording hidden in it to cut down on the time spent in approvals, to move things along faster.

Then we had some bills for research and development. Quite a bit was funneled through the Pentagon and DARPA, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, on dual use technologies. Drones, for instance, might have a terrible name for dropping bombs on people, but were amazingly useful for things like border surveillance and monitoring pollution and wildlife in national parks. A lot of what the military uses can have some form of civilian application, and vice versa. What Wal-Mart brought to retailing through computers, networking, and warehousing made supporting the troops during Desert Shield and Desert Storm possible.

Other items to be funded included increased funding through the National Institutes of Health (basic research masquerading as bioweapon defense), some more money for NASA (more and better satellites for weather prediction and climate science, not that we ever said the word climate, all covered as border surveillance), and so forth. We also let the Department of Energy have some funding for alternative energy projects, couched in the phrase ‘energy security’. Some of these projects would fail, and many would take years to develop into new technologies, but they would all be worth it in the long run.

The PATRIOT Act (Protecting America, Tools to Restrict, Intercept and Obstruct Terrorism) had been rushed through back in November, just after the bombing campaign in Afghanistan finished. Congress had been terrified and rushed through a measure that basically loosed the handcuffs on any intelligence gathering in the U.S. I was of two minds on this. It was really obvious by that time that the general stove-piped nature of our numerous intelligence agencies had contributed to the disaster. On the other hand, it trashed parts of the Bill of Rights, and as I recalled, a number of succeeding administrations had gone way beyond what the Act allowed. I was able to redline a few things before it hit the floor of the Congress for a vote (We did not need to scan people’s reading lists at the library! For one thing, you could find the info you needed to be a terrorist easier on the Internet.) Otherwise, the thing sailed through with almost no objections and I signed it into law two days later. It had been the first piece of legislation I ever signed.

The first big bill was passed almost by acclamation. At the end of September I had issued an Executive Order (my very first) that created a National Counterterrorism Center, to be funded by the CIA initially, and run out of Langley. It was a temporary measure, and I had told Clarke I would move it out of there as soon as I had some legislation. In April we rammed it through, and he put Winston Creedmore, he of the Three Amigos, in charge. By now, Winston knew as much as anybody did about counterterrorism and the problems with interagency cooperation. I had a long talk with Winston, threatened massive and dire consequences if something like 9-11 ever managed to slip through again, and then we went on camera in the Press Room, where I praised him glowingly and introduced him to the nation. They would be clearing land for a secure complex in McLean by mid-summer.

In June I thanked Alberto Gonzalez for his distinguished service as White House Counsel, and sent him packing. He had been a direct pipeline from the White House to Dick Cheney for the last year, and the sooner he was gone the better. I instead appointed John Weisenholtz, a constitutional law professor at Georgetown that both John Ashcroft and David Boies thought well of. If those two men, so dissimilar and with different views, thought Wesienholtz was okay, that was good enough for me!

The recession we were in was uncomfortable, but not crushing. What was of more importance in the long term was the effect the tax cut we had, and the deficit we would be facing. In 2001 we still had the Clinton era tax rates in effect for the fiscal year, and we had run about a $150 billion surplus. This year, with lower rates and a slower economy, we were facing about a $150 billion deficit! Once the economy improved, that would bounce back, but we had to keep an eye on spending. On the plus side, we hadn’t invaded Afghanistan, with the huge expenditure that involved; that would help immensely.

This year, 2002, was also a mid-term election year, so everything we were doing was also being done with an eye towards what would be happening in November. If passing legislation normally was like tap-dancing through a minefield, in a mid-term year you have to do it blindfolded. (During a regular Presidential election year you don’t even try. Nothing gets accomplished every fourth year. What a system!) With all that being said, there was still a sense of national unity and a desire to get something accomplished. It looked like I would be able to get passed most of what I wanted.

There was a price to be paid, though. I had enough popularity at the moment that a lot of Republican candidates wanted to ride my coat tails. Beginning at the end of March I found myself scheduled for campaign trips around the country every few weeks. On a typical trip I might find myself flying to Topeka or Butte or Lexington, to be met by the local Congressman or Senator at the airport. We would visit some local factory or public works project or college, view with pride whatever it was they were doing there, and we’d both give a speech. No matter what we were viewing, my speech would have two distinct themes, that Congressman Wonderful is just the kind of fellow who needs to be sent back to Washington to continue his valuable leadership role, and that whatever we were pushing that week on the legislative front had something to do with what we were watching. We’d wave the flag and dry hump each other in a mutual love fest. Half the time Stormy would travel with me, because the idiotic mutt was even more popular than I was!

Afterwards, we would have a fundraiser of some sort, and I would do a meet and greet with whoever they could sell my soul to. Then we would have a delicious rubber chicken dinner. Chicken Topeka tastes pretty much like Chicken Butte and Chicken Lexington. I think Stormy had better dining some nights. The next day we would fly somewhere else and repeat the process. Do that for two or three days and then back to Washington. Wait three weeks and repeat.

On a personal level, if you are an unpopular President, nobody wants to be seen with you. The requests for personal appearances are dramatically reduced, as is any chance of getting any legislation passed. Like I said, there is a price to be paid.

Chapter 149: Springtime

Most of the spring was spent, by me at least, with the legislation I was pushing and with trying to tone down the idiots on both sides who were running around like chickens with their heads cut off. I was still being damned by Dick Cheney, but he was looking increasingly nervous. The Indians were circling the wagon train and getting closer and closer. It made his vitriol even more excessive, but it was taking on a very bitter and self defensive tone. Regardless, I had my hands filled with this through the spring, that and campaigning for my fellow Republicans.

Marilyn and the girls, on the other hand, were driving me nuts with their antics. The twins weren’t all that bad, in that you kind of expected a pair of seventeen year old girls to be nutty. They were graduating high school this semester, and between that, getting ready for the prom, planning to move to Washington for the summer, and then off to college in the fall, they were driving Marilyn and me crazy. Still, one particular morning at the beginning of April got extra nutty. It was spring break and Marilyn and the twins were staying at the White House. Monday morning, I was in a 10:00 AM meeting with Paul O’Neill from Treasury and Mitch Daniels of the OMB, along with a few aides, when we were interrupted by the intercom. “Mister President, your daughters are here and would like to see you.”

I glanced at the phone, and then at the others. I shrugged my shoulders and hit the speaker button. “We’re kind of busy right now.”

Molly squawked over the phone. “Daddy! It’s important!”

“What?”

“Daddy!”

I rolled my eyes and muttered, “All right,” and then stood to go to the door. Instead, the guard at the door must have heard that as an assent, because the door opened before I could get to it, and Stormy barreled into the room. “What in the…?”

The twins followed her in, their eyes popping to see it wasn’t just me. Molly nervously waved, and Holly said, “Daddy, you have to take care of Stormy. We’re going out.”

“Excuse me?” I couldn’t quite believe this!

“Daddy, we have to go out with Mom! We have to shop for dresses, for the prom! We told you that,” she pressed on.

I looked over at Stormy, now sitting on the couch next to Paul, who was scratching her neck. “So? What does that have to do with the dog? Leave her upstairs!”

“She didn’t want to stay. She gets lonely,” answered Molly.

I stared at the pair for a second. “This is the Oval Office! This is the White House! I AM THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES! THIS IS NOT BRING YOUR DOG TO WORK DAY!” I roared.

Behind me I heard a snicker. And a ‘Woof!’

Holly simply whined, “Daddy you have to do it!”

Molly settled it by going, “Bye, Stormy. You behave for Daddy!” Then she kissed my cheek and zoomed out, followed by her sister. They closed the door behind them, leaving me stranded with the dog.

I turned to find Paul and Mitch trying to hold in the laughter. Some of the assistants had their mouths hidden by their hands. “The first guy who laughs gets a direct ticket to the unemployment line! I haven’t fired anybody lately, and I’m due!” I warned them. The room simply exploded at that.

I sat down on the couch, next to my dog, and suddenly I heard a click and saw a flash. I glanced over and saw Eric Draper, the Chief White House Photographer, taking a picture. Most of the time you forget these guys are around. They keep their mouths shut and are constantly taking pictures, and they flit in and out of surprisingly sensitive meetings. He must have snuck in behind the girls, and now he got several shots of Stormy sitting on the couch between me and the Secretary of the Treasury. I gave him a droll look and he smiled and took off.

I never really thought about it. After a couple of minutes I pointed to the corner, and Stormy jumped down and curled up to take a nap. At lunch I walked her and then took her upstairs and put her in the Residence. What I hadn’t expected was that Ari Fleischer, in his role of humanizing The Most Powerful Man in the Free World, gave that photo the green light in the weekly dump of White House photos to the press corps. It was a cute shot; he released it.

That Saturday night, on Saturday Night Live, Drew Carey was on as the host. In the first third of the show, Darrell Hammond did a skit as the President — me! — with Drew Carey in a dog suit. They were both in the Oval Office, and Hammond would be giving orders to people, and then the office would empty out. At that time, ‘I’ would ask ‘Stormy’ what to do next! Carey would tell me what I was doing, and I would ask some really moronic questions, and be told off by my dog, and then I would follow my orders. It lasted about seven or eight minutes.

I didn’t watch it, but the next morning I found it cued up on the VCR by Will Brucis, and Marilyn and I watched it together. Clips from the show also were featured during breaks on the Sunday morning news shows. Marilyn found it funny, me not so much. I had already told her about the girls dumping the dog on me, and she promised to keep them under control a bit more. To what extent either of us could do that was questionable. Regardless, Stormy giving me instructions became a recurring gag on Saturday Night Live.

Ari’s humanizing efforts could only go so far, however. I refused to do talk shows or meet with pundits and commentators. Since when did the Presidency become daytime talk TV? I told Ari and Frank and Mindy that it was about time somebody reminded people that this was an august institution and not reality television. It was bad enough when Bill Clinton had played saxophone on Arsenio Hall and had been asked boxers versus briefs. That was just the start! Over the years you had Presidents going on Oprah and Ellen and Leno and Letterman, and candidates announcing their plans on Stewart and Colbert. I’m sorry, but I was the President, not a game show host!

A younger generation in the White House disagreed with me, and gave me an argument. Mindy said, “If you are trying to reach out to younger voters and sway them, you need to be on the channels they are watching. You can ask Ari and Bruce about this, but a certain percentage of viewers get their news now not from regular news channels but from the comedy news and late night talk shows, and that number is growing.”

I glanced at Ari, who shrugged and nodded. “It’s a small number, but it’s growing. The media is fragmenting, and this is just part of it.”

“Let me know when you plan to give Jon Stewart a White House press pass,” I replied.

“We’re not there yet, Mister President.”

Frank stepped in at that point. “Nobody is saying to go on the Late Show, boss. What about Bill O’Reilly or Oprah? They are fairly mainstream.”

I shook my head. “It’s one thing to do a press conference, even a small one, with real reporters, for real newspapers and networks. There is a certain level of integrity expected there. O’Reilly and Oprah are not journalists, they are commentators. They aren’t asking for information, they are hoping for fireworks! I don’t care what the topic is, at this level they are all grey areas. They don’t want subtle and sophisticated and thoughtful, they want sound bites. Sorry, not doing it.” The subject was dropped, but I knew it would arise again.

The twins settled in enough at the White House that they held a sleepover there with some of the cheerleading squad at Hereford. Thankfully they did it on a weekend. If I thought two squealing and giggling teenage girls was bad, I was assaulted by eleven of them! They bunked all over the Residence, and Saturday morning was bad. I came out of the bedroom in khakis and a polo shirt, intent on grabbing some breakfast and heading down to the Oval Office for some paperwork, and barged into a flock of nubile teenagers barely in their unmentionables! It sounds like a real delight, and it’s not! I don’t swing that way, and I scampered out of there and ran downstairs, where I grabbed a bagel and cream cheese in the Mess.

Marilyn was a very popular figure, and at the end of April she did a one-on-one show with Oprah Winfrey. Oprah ran things out of Chicago, but Marilyn didn’t want to travel, so the mountain came to Mohammed. To snag an hour or two with the First Lady, Oprah and her team flew to Westminster, and shot in our living room in Hereford. Her crew flew out one day and set things up, and then Oprah flew in the next day for taping. Unlike some First Ladies, Marilyn was much more of a homebody, and she didn’t have her own staff scurrying around to do her bidding. If she needed something done, or somebody wanted her to do something, she might get some part time help from my staff. In this case, somebody from the Communications Office was there to answer questions. Marilyn was quite excited, amusingly so. This was Oprah!

They taped the last week of April, and ran two shows the first week of May. I wasn’t there with her in Hereford during the taping, but Marilyn seemed happy with it. I did make time the next week to watch it. Some of it was quite amusing, and some quite emotional. Fortunately Stormy listened to Marilyn better than me, and slept in her corner throughout the show.

Oprah: “Thank you for having me here to your lovely home.”

Marilyn: “Oh, you’re quite welcome. It’s actually rather exciting.”

Oprah: “Really?”

Marilyn: “Yes. You’re Oprah!”

They both had a good laugh over that. Since the focus was on Marilyn, Oprah asked her about her background and upbringing, and Marilyn pulled out some scrapbooks and photo albums. She had some baby pictures and a few as a little girl at St. Mary’s Catholic School in Utica, dressed in her blue plaid jumper. Eventually they worked their way up through her teen years, and got to college. I was surprised by some of the photos Marilyn had in the albums, and that she showed them. There was one of her in a slinky blue dress with a long slit up one leg that I had bought her for a fancy evening in Vegas, and also some of the shots of her when she sent me some morale boosters when I was at boot camp. That was going to get Marilyn some very positive publicity among any straight male watchers of the show, if there were any.

Oprah: “Oooh! Hot stuff! When did you take these shots?”

Marilyn: “Oh, these are some old photos! Carl bought me a Polaroid camera as a present when we were in college, and asked me to send him some shots as ‘morale boosters’ when he went off to basic training. One of my girlfriends and I took photos and we both sent them to our boyfriends.”

Oprah: “They look like they would definitely raise a soldier’s morale, and probably his blood pressure as well!”

They both laughed at that. Then Marilyn opened a different photo album and a different conversation started.

Marilyn: “Oops, this one isn’t mine. This is an album of Carl’s.”

Oprah: “Well, let’s see what’s in it.”

Marilyn: “Well, I can tell you there won’t be any photos from when he was a child. His sister told me that their mother destroyed all his photos from when he lived at home. Hmmm, let’s see… these are from a road trip he and a few buddies took when they were in college. They drove across the country, to California and back.”

Several photos showed up in order from the trip that Ricky, Marty, and I took that first summer at Rensselaer. That was my last free summer, before I ended up in the Army.

Marilyn: “I always liked this one. My idiot boyfriend, who’s now my idiot husband, decided to try riding a mechanical bull! This shot is of him flying upside down after being tossed off! And he wonders why our son is an adrenaline junkie.”

Oprah: “Who are these other guys?”

Marilyn: “Well, this one has to be Marty Adrianopolis. He’s a really good friend of ours. He became Carl’s Chief of Staff in Congress and now he’s a lobbyist in Washington. The other guy… I’m not sure… Dicky, Ricky, something like that. Haven’t seen him in years.” (Flip to a different photo.) “This one is of him playing blackjack. I didn’t know it at the time, but he was already a multimillionaire, and yet here he is playing high stakes blackjack and making a profit! I hated it when he gambled!” (New photo) “Oh, Carl is going to hate this one! This is when he and the guys were arrested in Florida.”

Oprah: “The President was arrested!”

Marilyn: “They fell asleep on the beach, and that seemed to be a deadly crime wherever they were. They spent the night in jail, paid the fine, and got their picture taken by the cops. Not exactly hard core criminals. More like a bunch of nitwits if you ask me!”

Thank you, Marilyn Buckman!

Marilyn showed Oprah, trailed by a cameraman, around the house. She stayed out of the bedrooms, and it isn’t all that large, at least compared to the White House. They went out onto the back deck and shot some footage of the back yard and the pool and pool house. Stormy joined them so she could take care of her own business. No, that wasn’t recorded for posterity. The Secret Service wouldn’t allow any other exterior shots, like the landing pad or any of the bunkers on their slabs.

Oprah: “So this is the workout room.” (The camera panned over a Nautilus machine of mine, and a treadmill of Marilyn’s, and the large pad to the side where I occasionally did some katas. The room isn’t big enough to do any real aikido or tae kwan do.) “You look to be in excellent shape. What kind of workout do you do?”

Marilyn: “Thank you. I mostly walk on the treadmill. If Carl’s home, he sometimes gets me on the Nautilus, but that’s more his thing than mine. Mostly I watch what I eat. It helps that I have enough time to stay in shape. Otherwise, it would be tough. Stormy likes long walks, too.”

Oprah: “Does the President walk with you?”

Marilyn: (Shaking head) “He can’t, not really. His knee won’t take it. If he walks more than about a mile it really bothers him. I know he tried to play golf one time with John Boehner and some of the other Congressmen, and he barely made it through the first few holes.”

That was true. I had often worked out with some of the other ‘gym rats’ in the House gym, but golf was completely out for me. The best I could offer was to drive the golf cart and pay at the 19^th Hole. They went back to the living room and resumed taping.

Oprah: “Well, whatever you are doing, it’s working. You look to be in great shape.”

Marilyn: “Thank you. I appreciate that. Carl and I try to stay healthy, and we’ve tried to make sure the kids do the same.”

Oprah: “There have been some commentators who have reported that you maintain your figure through plastic surgery. Any comment on that?”

Marilyn: “It’s a lie, plain and simple. We watch our diets and work out. It’s just that it’s a whole lot easier to keep the weight off initially than it is to try and lose it afterwards. That’s all there is to it.”

Oprah: “So you’ve never had any work done.”

Marilyn: “Not really. Not like what you’re talking about, anyway. I did have some reconstructive work done after the accident in ’89. I had lost the baby and needed a bunch of other work, and had a lot of scarring.” (She waved her hands over her abdomen.) “At that time Carl sent me to a surgeon for reconstruction, but that was all.”

Oprah: “So, nothing else.”

Marilyn: (Laughing.) “No! Carl laughed and offered to pay for some work up top…” (She brought her hands up to her chest.) “… but I told him no and slugged him.”

Oprah: “You punched the President?! What did he say to that!?”

Marilyn: (Laughing.) “Well, he wasn’t the President then. He told me two things, that I punched like a girl — I slugged him again for that! — and that he had been a bottle baby and had issues! I told him tough luck, and to get over it!”

They both laughed at that, while I groaned. The First Lady of the United States was talking about her boobs on national television! Ari was going to be fielding questions in the morning! I was also going to end up being challenged by a bunch of female ass kicking karate champions!

Oprah: “So, nothing else. The girls are all your own.”

Marilyn: “All original equipment!”

Oprah: “Speaking of plastic surgery, how come President Buckman never had his nose fixed?”

Marilyn: “His nose?”

Oprah: “From when he broke it?”

Marilyn: “Carl’s never broken his nose, at least not since I’ve known him.”

Oprah: “We looked at his high school picture and his nose was straight then.”

Marilyn: “It’s news to me. I’ll have to ask him.”

They took a break and Marilyn found my high school yearbook, and they showed the picture on the air. It was definitely a different shape than now. Marilyn simply looked mystified.

Oprah: “Interesting. So he didn’t break it in the Army?”

Marilyn: “No, I’d have known. Not in college, either. Maybe it was in aikido or tae kwan do when he was younger. I’ll have to ask him sometime.”

Oprah: “Or in a fight when he was in school?”

Marilyn: “Maybe. I know he was in several.”

Oprah: “Why did he fight so much?”

Marilyn: “I don’t think it’s what he wanted to do. He told me once that up until about the ninth grade he was one of the smallest kids in his entire school, and got picked on constantly. He told me he either had to fight or get stuffed in a locker.”

Oprah: “I’ve heard he was in a lot of fights. Is Carl a violent man?”

Marilyn: “What?! Like abusive or something?! Never! Oh my God, no! Carl would never raise a hand to me or the kids! No, I’ve talked to him about the fights he was in. I mean, what kind of man did I marry, that sort of thing. If you mean is Carl an angry man, then the answer is no, not at all. Carl is not a violent man, but he is a man who has been around violence, and who is not afraid of violence. I have also talked to some of his friends from school, who saw some of the fights. Carl once told me, and I believe him, that he never started a fight in his life, but he also told me that he always finishes a fight, and he’s never left an enemy standing.”

Oprah: “You’ve actually witnessed this, haven’t you?”

Marilyn: “Yes, in the Bahamas once, when I had my purse snatched and Carl was in the way. He was outnumbered three to one, and they had knives, and were killers. It was terrifying! I was so scared, and he put all three of them down in a matter of seconds. I once had somebody ask me if having a man fight for me was romantic, and all I can say is that it was absolutely terrifying!”

Terrific! Ari was going to work overtime on this one!

Oprah: “I understand that you and the President are nothing alike, that it was a matter of opposites attracting. Is that true?”

Marilyn: (Laughing.) “Oh, that’s very true! We have absolutely nothing in common!”

Oprah: “How so?”

Marilyn: (Still laughing.) “Oh, everything! He’s Lutheran and I’m Catholic. He’s a Republican and I’m a Democrat. He’s a Southerner and I’m a Yankee. He’s a city boy and I’m a country girl. Oh, the list goes on and on!”

Oprah: “But you’ve made it work for you.”

Marilyn: “Very much so! We met in 1974, so that means we’ve known each other for, what, 28 years now.”

Oprah: “Did you ever have a breakup when you were dating?”

Marilyn: “Oh, Carl is going to hate me for this!” (Laughing.) “Yes, back when we were in college he said something stupid and I dumped him. He’s not very good at groveling, but I made him!”

Oprah: “What did he say? You have to tell us!”

Marilyn: (Still laughing.) “No, I don’t think so, but it required a lot of groveling, and an engagement ring, to boot!” (She held up her left hand and showed her engagement ring.)

Oprah: (Now laughing, also.) “Groveling is good, but groveling and diamonds are even better!”

Marilyn: “That’s so true!”

Oprah: “Is President Buckman a romantic man?”

Marilyn: “Hmmm, it’s really not his style. He can be very sweet and incredibly supportive, but he’s not really big on the whole grand romance thing. Still… there was this one letter… he didn’t write it to be romantic, but it was just about the most romantic thing I’d ever read.” (She held up her hand and stood to go off camera. She returned with her purse, and opened it and rummaged through until she found a plastic wrapped letter in the bottom.) “I always have it with me. This was Carl’s good-bye letter.”

Oprah: “What do you mean?”

Marilyn: “Carl was in the Army, in a combat outfit, and a lot of guys write farewell letters, you know, in case they don’t come home. Carl had one buried in the dresser, and when he was dropped into Nicaragua nobody knew what happened. The Army didn’t tell us for almost a week! There were all sorts of rumors, like the plane had crashed and they were all dead, and I opened his letter. Here, you read it. I always cry when I read it.”

With that she handed it to Oprah, who read it aloud, as Marilyn grabbed a tissue. Great! That letter was as maudlin as you could get!

Oprah: “Yes, it is romantic, and sweet, and more than a bit maudlin. It sounds a bit depressing, too.”

Marilyn: “Carl can get a little melancholy at times. I think he was thinking about his own family when he wrote it. Aside from his sister, I don’t think any of them would have really minded him dying. It’s a horrible thing to say, but I don’t think they would have cried if he had died. Carl’s family was truly horrible, except for his sister Suzie. She’s wonderful, but she managed to escape, too.”

Oprah: “They actually disowned him and didn’t even tell him? How was that even possible?”

Marilyn: “I think they filed a legal notice in the Baltimore Sun, but Carl was in the Army at Fort Bragg at the time, in North Carolina. That’s all we can figure. Still, what kind of parents could throw away a child? That’s what they did! Who could do that?”

Oprah: “According to the timeline, they disowned him right after you two married. Do you take any blame for that?”

Marilyn: “Not really. I think it would have happened anyway, sooner or later. I was just a convenient excuse. His mother never liked me. At our wedding she told Carl, with me standing next to him, and my parents in the background, that he could have done better. What kind of a mother does that?”

Oprah: “She didn’t!”

Marilyn: (Nodding.) “She did. It’s true.”

There was a bit more on this line, none of which I found either new or amusing, but I was sure it was wonderful human interest crap. I wasn’t surprised it made it to the air. Oprah finished with a sore subject.

Oprah: “So, you have to tell us. You’ve been married almost 24 years. What exactly is the Carl Buckman Experience!?”

Marilyn: (Laughing.) “Oh, please! Who says that’s so special! Maybe Carl was interested in the Marilyn Lefleur Experience! Ever thought of that one? Oh! Damn! My mother is probably watching this! Mom, there is no Marilyn Lefleur Experience!” (Laughter all around!)

The next day, at my early morning staff meeting, the idiocy commenced. As expected, Ari said, “You know it’s bound to come up, so I have to ask you. How did you break your nose?”

“Ari, it doesn’t matter. You’ll never be able to tell anyone anyway.”

“Mister President, we’re going to get the question. We need an answer.”

“Ari, there is no way in the world you’re going to be able to spin this. Trust me!”

He pushed some more. “They won’t accept no comment.”

I looked around the Oval Office. Besides Ari, I was meeting with Josh, Mindy, and Mrs. Hawthorne, the senior secretary. They were all looking at me expectantly. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. You want to know how I broke my nose? Okay, here goes! The summer after I graduated from high school, one night I was over at my girlfriend’s house and her parents came home early. Like, hours and hours early! Getting the picture? Got an idea how you’re going to spin that one, Ari?”

Ari groaned. “Don’t do this to me, Mister President!”

Mindy and Mrs. Hawthorne were laughing, and Josh kept pushing. “I thought you were a black belt by then?”

“I wasn’t exactly in a position to defend myself, Josh,” I answered.

“Exactly what position were you in, Boss?” teased Mindy.

“Never you mind, young lady!”

Ari was simply shaking his head in amused dejection. “Just how bad did it get?”

“Mom and Dad were not amused when they came home early. Dad was kicking my ass while Mom was throwing the crockery at me.”

Josh asked, “So what did you do? Please don’t tell me you punched out her father!”

“Jesus, no! No, I simply grabbed my pants and ran out of the house and drove myself to the hospital. It’s the only fight I’ve ever lost. He kicked the crap out of me!” I said, laughing.

“Great! How old were you at the time?” asked Ari.

“Underage. I was 17 and she was 16.”

“Great! Statutory rape! You could be charged as a sexual offender,” he continued.

“Ari, trust me. The only ones offended were her parents!” I told him.

Mindy and Mrs. Hawthorne were laughing loudly by now, as was Josh. Ari smiled and shook his head. “You’re not helping, Mister President! You could be called a sexual predator!”

“Considering the position I was in, I would have to argue I wasn’t the predator!” I replied.

Ari groaned and smiled. “Definitely not being helpful!”

“And that’s why I won’t be answering that question, Ari. You will!”

Mrs. Hawthorne had to ask, “Is this part of the Carl Buckman Experience?”

“Why don’t you ask Mrs. Buckman sometime? I can’t wait to hear the answer.”

“Final question,” added Ari. “Want to tell the world about the Marilyn Lefleur Experience?”

“OUT! All of you!” I pointed towards the door, and the laugh track for the morning took off to their own offices.

For utter nuttiness, though, nothing could beat the White House Correspondents Dinner, which was held May 4. This was the first Dinner I had ever attended. Last year, as a punishment for disagreeing with Dick Cheney and Karl Rove, I had been sent to Burundi, Rwanda, and the Congo for a week, to make nice and find some facts. The only fact that I found was that I didn’t want to be in the middle of Africa. Prior to that, I was simply a mere Congressman, and was not invited to dine with my betters. There is a certain protocol and format to the Dinner. It is very formal, black tie, and some of the correspondents (especially the print media) end up renting their tuxes. By tradition, the President and the Vice President, and their spouses, are invited. There is usually some form of entertainment, originally a popular musician or singer, but now that had morphed into a popular comedian, who did a stand-up routine that chewed on the President. Sometimes this was pretty good. Sometimes, like when Stephen Colbert skewered George Bush on my first go, it got pretty rocky. Colbert did almost twenty minutes that painted Bush as a moron and the press as kiss-asses, which became monumentally popular overnight with everyone except the White House and the press corps.

This year we were getting Jay Leno, who was funny and very much middle of the road. It was doubtful he was going to chew me a new one live and in person, but I was sure that I was going to be the butt of some jokes. I had Matt and Mike and everybody else writing some material, but how well that was going to work was questionable. I might have to wing it, and that was bound to be a disaster.

I should have known that there was going to be a problem when, as Leno came out to do his routine, a giant screen unfurled behind us. I was sitting next to the podium on the dais (the better to spill your soup down your shirt and have everybody see you do it) with Marilyn next to me. On the other side were John and Cindy, and beyond us were a few other important invitees. The lights dimmed, and Leno stood at the podium, and thanked everybody, and then lit into me.

He started off fairly simply. “I’ve always wanted to come to the White House Correspondent’s Dinner. I wanted to meet the people I watch on television to tell me what is happening in the world. I wanted to meet the people I see the faces of everyday, telling me what the most powerful man in the free world is doing. I wanted to meet the most powerful man in the free world. I mean, really, what an incredible privilege it is to live in a country where the most common of citizens can meet the person who leads his great nation! Let’s have a round of applause for this great country!”

There was a dutiful round of applause, and then it got crazy. “I came here to meet the President, and I now stand here at the podium, and I tell you all now, that this person seated here… he is not the President! This man is an imposter! He appears here under false pretenses, and the real President is elsewhere! Let me show you the proof!”

With that he hit the remote control, and a picture flashed on the screen, the picture of me, Stormy, and Paul O’Neill that Ari had flagged as harmless. “There, there is the real leader of the free world! There is the real President! You can see him sitting there, studying the documents, sitting in between the Secretary of the Treasury, Paul O’Neill, and his handler, one Carl Buckmouse, Buckhouser, Buckmaster, something like that, anyway. That is the real President!”

At this the place began going nuts! Leno did about eight or nine minutes with a string of Photoshopped pictures of Stormy doing various important things — Stormy greeting the Queen of England, Stormy addressing Congress, Stormy parachuting from a C-130. Each shot was more outlandish then the last. Over all of this, Leno was describing what a wonderful and brilliant President Stormy had become. Marilyn was laughing her ass off at all of this, and I just had to join in. I certainly hadn’t expected this.

Then it got worse. Leno finished with, “And now I would like to introduce you to the real President! Here tonight, joining us, is the real President of the United States of America!”

A spotlight came on and shifted to the back of the room. Through an open door, in stepped Drew Carey in the dog costume from Saturday Night Live, only now he was smoking a cigar and drinking from a cocktail glass. The room erupted. He slowly made his way through the place, and he must have been wearing a wire, because he was talking to people and making jokes as he worked his way through the tables and up to the podium. He continued his shtick right up to the podium, and then started telling the audience how I had messed up various things by not following his directions properly. “Good help is hard to find!” he complained.

Oh Christ! I had to follow this? Some days it’s just not worth getting out of bed.

Chapter 150: Graduations

June, 2002

Charlie came home about a week later, his latest deployment finished. The Tarawa Amphibious Ready Group, which consisted of the Tarawa, the Duluth, and the Fort McHenry, Charlie’s ship, had arrived back in Norfolk. I had Captain Miller keep us apprised of the dates. Charlie had a fair bit of accumulated leave, and we told him that we expected him to spend at least some of it with his ancient and creaky parents, before old age and senility took us from him.

So it was that on May 8, a Wednesday, I got a call transferred to my office. “Hello?” I said, answering the call. I hadn’t been told who it was, just that I needed to answer it.

“Is this the President of the United States? Really? Wow! You must be important!” sounded a familiar baritone.

“Smart ass! It’s good to hear from you. You back on solid ground, where real soldiers work?”

“Only the candy ass ones. Yeah, we just docked this morning. I’ll be out of here in an hour. We should be there by late afternoon,” he told me.

“We? Who else is coming?” I asked.

“You’ll know when you see him.”

“Don’t try and be sneaky. I could give you lessons. Your cousin Jack was on the Tarawa, right? You bringing him?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Sounds fine. I’ll see you then.” For my next call I called Marilyn, at home with the girls. She promised to bring them down for the night.

Proving that not all pigs are equal, once Charlie and Jack made it off the ship, Charlie called a phone number he carried in his wallet, and contacted the Secret Service. Within an hour a nondescript car picked them up and ferried the boys to the White House. It was probably a heck of a lot simpler that way. Charlie had a motorcycle up on blocks in storage outside of Camp Lejeune, and Jack had a car there as well. Without the car ride, they would have to travel with their compatriots back to Jacksonville, dig their vehicles out and get them running again, and then travel. We could cut out at least a day or two of that.

At about three in the afternoon, Captain Miller was admitted to the Oval Office. “Captain Miller, reporting with party of two,” he announced with a smile. Behind him marched in a pair of Marines in jeans and tee shirts.

I stood up from my desk and moved around it. “And a more disreputable party of two has yet to be found. Thank you, Captain Miller. I appreciate it.”

“Sir.” Miller took off and left me with my son and nephew. Jack Rottingen, Jr. was a little bigger and heavier than Charlie, and definitely took after his father. Both boys were tan and muscular, with that high-and-tight semi-shaved head look the Marines liked.

I shook both their hands. “Damn, you two look good. How was the cruise?”

“I’m glad to be home!” announced my son.

“Same here,” agreed Jack.

“Have you had a chance to call your folks yet?” I asked my nephew. I looked over at Charlie. “Your mother and sisters will be coming down as soon as school is out. We’ll grill something, if that’s okay.”

“Yeah sure,” he answered.

Jack said, “I called and left a message on the machine, but Dad must not have been home yet, and Mom must be at the hospital. We left a message to call you, if that’s okay.”

“Sure, no problem.” I led the boys towards the door. Opening it, I saw Mindy with my schedule in her hands. “Mindy, you’ve met Charlie before. This is my nephew, Corporal Jack Rottingen. I need you to do two things. Let housekeeping know Jack will be staying with us tonight, and cancel everything else for the day.”

“Welcome home, Charlie. It’s good to see you again. Nice to meet you, Corporal.” She turned to me and said, “Yes on one and no on two. OMB and the Council of Economic Advisers just got here for a meeting with you.”

I looked back at the two young men. “I sometimes wonder who is working for whom. Listen, I’ll join you as soon as I can. Charlie, show Jack around and get settled. We can figure things out when I get there.”

“OO-RAH!” was the reply, and they looked around and caught the eye of somebody who led them from the West Wing. I grabbed a few things and went to my meeting.

I can’t say as I remembered much about the meeting. I basically rubberstamped some plans to end the deficit and the recession. Military expenditures were much more in control on this go. We had ramped up certain items, cut back on some others, and the Coast Guard had gotten a major refinancing. On the other hand, while Saddam Hussein was still being a mouthy asshole, I wasn’t spending a fortune keeping him under control, and had no plans to invade. The Iraq and Afghanistan wars had cost us $200 to $300 billion a year all on their own, and none of that had been funded. In fact, Bush would have lowered taxes, and by some projections that would have created deficits of half a trillion dollars a year for as far as the eye could see.

Actually, most of my thoughts were on the two young men by now drinking beer on the Truman Balcony. Jack had already re-enlisted, getting a promotion from Lance Corporal (E-3) to Corporal (E-4) out of the deal. He was making the sounds of a lifer. Charlie was a Lance Corporal and was probably going to get the same offer in the near future. He still hadn’t decided if he wanted to go career or not. I was going to have to talk to him about that. Despite what I had told him about not interfering, that simply wasn’t realistic. It was much too dangerous to put him into a combat situation, not for his sake, but for the sake of those around him! In Afghanistan, for instance, if the Taliban and Al Qaeda knew that the son of the U.S. President was around, they would be making human wave attacks for the chance to capture or kill him, putting his entire unit into massive peril. Would he want to stay in knowing that for the rest of my term he would never be actually allowed to serve with his unit if they were sent into combat?

I was interrupted halfway through my meeting by a call from my sister, so I put her on hold and had the call transferred up to the Residence (“And if those two nitwits don’t pick up, call me back and I’ll go kick some Marine ass!”) Eventually I was able to break free from the meeting and head up to the Residence.

As I suspected, the two were lounging on recliners out on the Balcony, working on a cooler of beers. Jack was legal, Charlie not so much. He wouldn’t turn 21 until October, not that I intended to chew his ass over it. I grabbed a beer and headed into the bedroom to change, and then re-joined them. I was about to say something when we all heard the turbine whine and rotor flutter of an approaching helicopter. Marine One was bringing Marilyn, the twins, and Stormy in for landing on the South Lawn, right out in front of us. Technically, it isn’t Marine One unless I am personally aboard, but I have no idea what the call sign would be then. There are actually two type of helos flying for HMX-1, the Marine helicopter squadron assigned to carry me around. They flew either H-3 Sea Kings or, as was the case today, H-60 “White Hawks”, a fancy variant on the standard Black Hawks the Army used.

The women all disembarked and I could see my wife’s semi-amused look when the three of us stood up and waved at them with beer bottles obviously in evidence. She pointed at us to the girls and said something none of us could hear, but I was sure was snarky. They all came in, and a minute later pandemonium reigned for a few minutes. Stormy rampaged in and almost knocked over the cooler as she greeted us.

“Good Lord! This thing really is a monster!” commented Jack as Stormy tried to jump into his lap.

“I told you,” replied Charlie. “You just didn’t believe me.”

Marilyn said, “Starting without me?” as she picked up an empty bottle of beer.

“It was a long day. I earned this,” I told her.

“A likely story!” She turned to Charlie and gave him a hug. “Oh! I have missed you!”

“It’s good to be back, Mom.”

“You, too, Jack!” She hugged him next. “Have you talked to your folks yet?”

“Mom called a little while ago. She knows I’m here,” he responded.

“Well, tell me your plans and I’ll call her back. I haven’t talked to her in a week or two anyway.”

The boys looked at each other, and Jack said, “We’ve both got a couple of weeks of leave. We were thinking of hanging out here, or somewhere in town, and then going up to Rochester for a week. After that I need to get back to Jacksonville. As soon as my leave is up I transfer to Twentynine Palms, 1^st of the 7^th.”

“Huh. Twentynine Palms, that’s the middle of the Mojave Desert. Better take your suntan lotion,” I commented.

“OO-RAH! They also tell us it’s a dry heat, but I don’t know whether I believe that or not. Mom and Dad said they’d come out and visit after I get settled.”

I snorted at that. “Tell them to do it over the winter.” I looked over at Marilyn. “You might as well call Suzie and tell her the boys are safe but trying to drink Washington dry. We’ll fly them up on the G-IV when they want to go.”

She nodded. “If they fly up on Friday, I might want to take the girls up for the weekend. I haven’t seen your sister in months.”

“Fine by me. You two sort it out and get it set up. If it’s just you and the girls it will probably be okay. If I go it will turn into a zoo. Invite them down for a vacation sometime, too. We can put them in President Blue’s Room.”

Marilyn gave me a dry look. “Very funny.” Then she picked up the phone and got the switchboard to connect her to my sister.

The visit to Marilyn’s family had been a disaster at Christmas. The entourage surrounding me, and the security required, was simply beyond belief. You had to be present to understand it. It was far beyond what I had traveled with as the Veep, and light years beyond the private security I had used as a Congressman and businessman. Marilyn and the kids needed protection, but not like what went with me. It would actually be a fraction of the cost to fly Marilyn’s entire family to Christmas at the White House, compared to flying us to them. It affected everything, too. I couldn’t just drive over to Tusk Cycle to see my friends any longer, either. Leaving aside the apoplexy that the Secret Service would have if I wanted to visit a biker hangout, it practically shuts down a business when I make a visit.

I didn’t have a chance to speak to Charlie about his time in the Marines until after he got back from Rochester. I kept my mouth shut, but I was heartily thankful when he said he was getting out at the end of his hitch. “I like it okay, and I’m not sorry I joined, but floating around on a steel tub for months at a time isn’t quite as enjoyable as you might think.”

I smiled. “I never thought it would be. Leaving aside the seasickness part, that would have driven me crazy. At least your grandfather only had to go out for a few days at a time.”

“What do you mean? Your father?”

I nodded again. “Yeah, my dad was an ensign, and then a lieutenant jay-gee during the war. That would be World War II by the way, smartass. Anyway, he served on PT boats in the Caribbean. They weren’t much more than cabin cruisers with giant engines and some guns and torpedoes. They didn’t have enough fuel for more than a day or two.”

“You never talk about your father, not much anyway.”

I shrugged at that. “What do you want me to tell you about him, Charlie? The man disowned me, for Christ’s sake!”

“I don’t know. What was he like?” he asked.

I sighed. We had never really talked about my family. He knew my history, like practically every other American who could read, but that was it. His mother’s family was a part of his life, and so was his godmother’s. My mother and father, not at all. “Listen to the rest of the world, he was a great guy. He was the kind of guy you wanted living next door. He mowed his lawn, kept his house up, went to church, sent his kids to school, never cheated on his wife — you know, all the routine boring stuff. To me he was a royal prick. Mom was crazy and Hamilton was crazier, and as far as my old man was concerned, I was just collateral damage. I moved out when I was sixteen and I wished I had done it sooner.”

“Huh.”

“Hell, Charlie, go read a book. There must be a half a dozen biographies already written about me by now. None of the authors have ever spoken to me, but they are all experts.” I shrugged again. “Moving on to more interesting topics, what do you think you are going to do when you get out of the Corps?”

“I’m going to go back to motocross, but I might also try grand prix, you know, road racing. I had a chance right before I went into the Corps to try that and it was really wild. I’ve been in contact with Bucky, and he and his father are still interested in sponsoring me. At least long enough to see if I can still keep up with the younger guys.”

“You’ll be twenty-one, and you’re worried about younger guys?” I asked, incredulous.

“When I went pro I was sixteen, Dad.”

I shrugged at that. Twenty-one and over the hill? Ridiculous! “Okay. That should be a lot more interesting than the Marines, anyway.”

“Huh?”

“Charlie, if you wanted to stay in, the Corps is going to restrict your duty.”

He gave me a dirty look at that. “You promised you wouldn’t do that!”

“I lied.” I held up my hands to ward off any attacks. “Listen, I don’t worry about you, but think about what would happen if it became known to the bad guys that the son of the American President was around. Suppose you had been in Afghanistan? There ain’t a one of those bastards I would trust with a busted nickel. Both sides would have been gunning for you, and even if you stayed safe, how many of your buddies and squadmates would die keeping you alive. I am responsible to them, just like I am responsible to you.”

“Huh.”

“What kind of casualties would we take keeping you safe? I won’t take that chance. As long as I am the President, you can’t get anywhere near combat,” I told him.

He looked out the window and muttered a quiet, “Shit!” After a few more minutes he looked back at me and nodded. “I want to finish my tour with the 3^rd of the 2^nd. Can I at least do that?”

“Sure. I’ll try to keep from invading anybody through next fall.”

“Thank you.”

I wasn’t overly sorry if he didn’t get a chance to be a hero. In my experience, the only people excited by action were those who hadn’t seen any. Once you had been up shit creek, you never really wanted to paddle back up there. You went, because you had signed up and said you would go, but you did it with clear eyes and a clear head. Kids wanted excitement. Grownups could live without it.

As far as being Presidential was concerned, I had known that I was going to face opposition to the weapons program cuts, and I had known it was going to be serious. Even so, knowing intellectually was not the same thing as seeing it in action. For the last few months things had been building, ever since the National Security Summit I had convened in March at Camp David. The cuts had become official on April 4, when the individual Deputy Undersecretaries in charge of the Army, Navy, and Air Force announced the specific program cuts and changes. That made the evening news, for sure, as well as the Sunday news programs. It wasn’t just the military that was pissed, so were the chickenhawks and neocons, and every Congressman or Senator from a state or district where the stuff was being built.

It was by pure happenstance that the Army came out the best, simply because they didn’t have any gigantic spending programs planned. They had invested the money in the Eighties and Nineties, and their newest major acquisition program was the Stryker, which I was leaving alone. Still, since I had been in the Army, this was used as ‘proof’ that I was biased in the Army’s favor.

In some ways, the Navy hadn’t been as badly hurt as it could have been. Even the admirals knew that the DD(X)/CG(X) simply wasn’t needed and was just way too expensive to actually build. It was already projected to cost almost half of what a nuclear powered aircraft carrier cost, and would probably go higher. Likewise, the Littoral Combat Ship was still on the drawing boards, and was nowhere near any kind of production point. On the other hand, I was happy to keep funding the stuff that worked, like the Arleigh Burkes, and new transports and auxiliaries, and the Navy kept the Spruances and Kidds in commission.

The admirals and generals weren’t stupid, because dummies don’t make it to the top in any system. They knew they couldn’t fight me on every single weapons program. This was one of those useful rules of war, he who attacks everywhere, attacks nowhere, and he who defends everywhere, defends nowhere. You have to be picky. Some battles you can’t win, so be choosy and fight the battles you want to fight. They decided to fight for the F-35 Lightning II, the Joint Strike Fighter.

The F-35 was the latest and greatest aerial wonder-weapon, a state of the art airplane that could almost think for the pilot, and would protect him from anything while dealing out death and destruction to everybody. Well, that was the advertising spiel, anyway. On paper it looked great. We would take everything we learned from making the F-22 stealth fighter, and make it into an all-in-one fighter-bomber, capable of both attacking other planes and carrying bombs and missiles to attack ground targets. It would be somewhat slower than the F-22, so that would make it less expensive. Even better, it would come in three versions. One version would be owned by the Air Force, and would be a conventional fighter to fly from regular landing strips. Another version would be the same plane for the Navy but converted to operate from carriers, with a tail hook and the modifications to be catapult launched. Finally you had a version just for the Marines, which took all this whiz-bang wonderfulness and turned it into a vertical lift off and landing platform. You would get marvelous economies of scale from selling the three planes to the military.

That was the theory, anyway, and Lockheed-Martin was pushing it hard. The plane had been on the drawing boards since 1996, and the Pentagon had run tests on it and a competitor from Boeing. They had actually built prototypes, and in early October of 2001, shortly after I became President, the Pentagon had picked the F-35 over the Boeing F-32 and moved it into the next step of the system, which was a more detailed design and engineering program that would lead to a contract to build the planes. Now it was in my lap to kill it off.

I knew, from my knowledge from before, that this gizmo was going to be a monumental boondoggle. While I had never really followed the technical stuff then, the program had been such a disaster as to make all sorts of national headlines. The Navy version never really worked; the stealth features and the overall shape of the plane didn’t allow a tail hook to be installed, and by the time they fixed that it was a totally different bird from the Air Force version. The Marine vertical takeoff version was even more dangerous than the AV-8 Harrier it was replacing, and the Marines issued orders to not use that feature, which made it an incredibly expensive land based fighter. Only the Air Force version actually performed as expected, and at $100-plus million a plane was several times more expensive than the perfectly fine aircraft it replaced. Already foreign buyers were starting to ask some pointed questions about affordability, and the price was still less than half what it would ultimately become.

Lockheed-Martin fought back on several fronts. This was going to be a major moneymaker for them, and might well be the last manned combat jet ever made, before the robots took over. They were pushing on two fronts, one public and one political. The public front was the most obvious. The costs really weren’t that high, each plane was three to four times as effective as older planes, America had to stay Number One and this was the way to do it — if Jesus was going to fly a fighter, he would fly the F-35! There were a lot of numbers that could be spun to show that the F-35 was the plane to buy.

The political attack was much more dangerous. For decades now the weapons manufacturers had realized that the real buyer of their gear wasn’t the Pentagon, but Congress. As a result, they spread out subcontracting and parts supplies across as many states and districts as possible. The F-35 might be assembled in Fort Worth, Texas, but the parts were coming from everywhere, from Maine to California, and from Florida to North Dakota. In some cases they went to the extreme of buying parts from a supplier barely capable of making them, in a state farther away and for more money, simply to get the production into another Congressional district, and get that Congressman on board. Even the Maryland Ninth had seen this sort of thing. We didn’t actually build weapons in suburban Maryland, but we did build some electronics, some of which went into weapons.

When we announced plans to cancel the F-35, the pushback was immediate. Lockheed-Martin sent a representative, usually retired military, to each and every Congressman and Senator with any kind of production for it in their state or district, even if it was simply a ball bearing. They were informed that the F-35 was vital to America and that without it the angry hordes would be swamping our borders and eradicating our way of life. Worst of all, it would end up closing down a factory, and throwing thousands of people out of work! ‘By the way, Congressman, this other fellow I am with is representing a lobbying group for our nation’s defense, and he would like to discuss campaign contributions with you.’ The various military suppliers had this down to a fine art by now, and often used each other as subcontractors and component suppliers, so that we ended up facing a unified wall. More than a few politicians have caved in over the years.

I was willing to take a lot of heat over this, and our counterattack focused on things we could do cheaper, like continuing to buy newer, updated versions of the existing proven airplanes. The F-15, F-16, and F-18 all worked, so let’s keep improving them. Also, for times when you absolutely need stealth, or simply can’t risk pilots, let’s use drones, which cost a fraction of the price, and were getting more powerful and useful by the day. Above all, Congressman, which programs in your district should we cut to pay for this? Have you talked to the old folks there about closing that hospital they like, so the funds can be given to the Pentagon? No, well, I am sure you’d like to see taxes rise, because President Buckman is not going to pay for this stuff by borrowing the money from the Chinese!

Some of these conversations took place privately, and some took place on the Sunday news shows. A valuable ally proved to be the defense industry itself, since one of the things I was promising was that we weren’t necessarily cutting the budget, but we were certainly rearranging it. Lockheed-Martin was fighting for the F-35, but Boeing wanted all that money so it could build F-15s and F-18s, and there were a number of drone manufacturers who were promising things for their chunk of the change. A certain portion of my plan involved getting them to fight each other. Their plan was to increase the military budget, so that they could have their cake and eat it, too. They wanted the Pentagon to buy all those other planes and F-35s!

There were a number of political initiatives that spring aimed at forcing me to back down and reinstate the F-35 development program. First, by mid-May, came a non-binding resolution out of Congress urging a reconsideration of the program, which got overwhelming support. Even the most liberal of Democrats could vote for a resolution to keep studying something, especially if it came wrapped in a campaign contribution. I ignored it and didn’t budge.

The next step was a series of amendments to other spending bills. This is a marvelous and time honored tactic to get something passed, sometimes for good and sometimes not. You take an ordinary bill that everybody wants, say a highway spending bill, and then you tack on a rider or amendment, for something else. That other thing can be on anything under the sun, such as a subsidy for cotton candy manufacturing (sponsored by sugar manufacturers). Sometimes they are harmless. Often times they are controversial, like an amendment to ban Federal funding of birth control or a requirement to only teach abstinence. They could even affect overseas policy, by attaching a rider to a bill that would ban exporting condoms (right wing) or require the recipients of foreign aid to not be military dictatorships (left wing).

The big thing is to attach the amendment to something that has to be passed, or else! If you want the budget bill to pass, you have to sign it into law with all the riders still attached. I could sign something with a harmless rider (cotton candy support) but if I balked at an F-35 rider, then would I be willing to veto the budget bill? You were playing chicken with the national economy. This could really backfire! This is in effect what Newt had done when he shut down the government. He went head to head with Clinton, and Newt ended up blinking. In addition, you can have your side add a competing rider which is anathema to the other side, so that nobody wants the damn thing passed!

Nine times out of ten, this sort of crap never makes it out of committee to the floor where it can get voted on, or if it does get voted on, it gets yanked in the conference committee when the Senate and House reconcile their different bills. It has to be something that is really special to make it to the President’s desk, for instance, when the committee chairmen get enough of a payoff. In June, the F-35 development program was added back to the budget as a rider on a bill to increase spending on port security and infrastructure, and made its way through the committees and onto the House floor. It passed the House, and failed in reconciliation, so they tried it again on a bigger bill related to the overall budget, and this time it passed.

The gauntlet had been thrown down. I had Matt write me up a statement saying that the basis for a strong defense was a strong economy, and that there was only so much money to go around. I had no intention of going into a deficit in order to fund a program that promised to break every conceivable military budget down the line, especially when we already had perfectly fine weapons and defense systems available. Then I said that I planned to veto the bill. I took a limited number of questions, and then went back to my office and vetoed it before I could be talked out of it. Congress caved and stripped the rider.

Lockheed-Martin’s stock price tanked. Congress was actually happy, since they had tried, and gotten lots of campaign contributions, so it wasn’t their fault. They didn’t have enough votes to override my veto. I had won, but I knew I would face a nasty response somewhere down the line.

Meanwhile, while all this was going on, there were all sorts of other things going on. May and June were the months of graduations, and I had a couple of them to speak at. Friday, May 24, was graduation for the senior class at Hereford High, and the twins would be graduating with honors. Once I got my promotion to President, the school Principal had begun bombarding me with requests to speak at graduation. Normally I wouldn’t have done this. For one thing, I wanted to be in the audience, watching the girls. This guy was smarter than that. He didn’t ask me, he asked Marilyn! She told him she would ask me, and then told me I had to do it.

Unsurprisingly, the zoo descended on Towson University, which was where the graduation ceremony was to be. Nobody normally cares who speaks at a high school graduation. Some local county politician gets to say something that nobody listens to, especially the kids. They are so excited to be escaping they are half out of control to begin with! Not a one of them, my own daughters included, would give two shits about what I said. Again, normally the only cameras are the ones the parents carry. For this one, C-SPAN would cover it live. It would be a fucking zoo!

Matt Scully and Mike Gerson took one look at my old valedictory speech and both dropped it into the toilet. It wasn’t Presidential enough. Instead they came up with something incredibly boring and standard, something like what the assistant county commissioner would normally tell the graduates. I dropped that into the toilet. Then I sat up one night drinking Canadian Mist and wrote out something completely different.

“Congratulations, graduates! You have all managed to make it through 12 years of schooling and become high school graduates. Some of you did it in more than twelve years, and some did it in less, but in any case, you made it. Congratulations! Let’s get a round of applause!”

I knew there would be a dutiful round of applause, and then I would have a chance to speak some more. They would not be expecting what I was about to tell them.

“Well, that’s out of the way, anyways. Now, it is time for me to tell you how wonderful the future will be, and how you are all prepared to march bravely into that future. That has to be true, right? All your lives people have been telling you how exceptional you are, so you must all be ready to go and conquer the world, right?

Guess what? You’re not all that special! Here’s another thing to think about. Nobody cares about you, either. I’ll bet that sounds incredibly harsh and brutal. I’ll also bet that nobody has once told you anything like this. Let me explain what I mean.

The world is a harsh and brutal place. Up until this point, you have been treated as children. You have been coddled and fed and hopefully taught something that will be useful to you. That time is over! You are now eighteen, or will be soon. You are now adults, and you had better start acting like it. I am not trying to be mean or nasty or rude, but that is simply the truth.

What do I mean by this? Let me give you a few examples. A bunch of you are going to be going on to college this fall. If you think it will be Grade 13, you are vastly mistaken! If you don’t go to class, nobody is going to call home to Mommy and Daddy to let them know. If you don’t turn in your homework assignments, or you flunk your tests, nobody is going to send you to the Principal’s office or to the Guidance Counselor. Guess what, they don’t care! They have already been paid! They are going to flunk you out and send you packing!

Some of you will be going into the service. Let me tell you, sergeants and petty officers will have even less patience than the teachers in college! You want to goof off and act up and screw around; they will bounce you out so fast your head will spin. The same is true if you plan to go to work for a company out in the civilian world. It’s easy to get fired if you don’t act sharp.

If you think the world owes you something, guess again. The world does not owe you anything. The world does not give a tinker’s damn about you!

Just because somebody has told you that you are exceptional doesn’t make it so. However, that doesn’t mean you can’t be exceptional. You simply have to always remember that if you want to be exceptional, you have to become exceptional! Guess what?! You have an incredible opportunity to become exceptional. You simply have to rise to it. It won’t be handed to you. You have to go out and get it on your own.

I went to high school right here in this town.”

At this I knew I would get some groans or catcalls. Towson High and Hereford High were longtime rivals.

“Yes, that’s right. If you didn’t know, I went to Towson High. If you think I was exceptional or special, think again. I was a mouthy and troublesome kid who was too smart for his own good and who had a tendency to get into fights. My parents threw me out when I was 16 and told me I was on my own. It would have been very easy to blow my money and then spend the rest of my life washing cars or mopping floors or asking people ‘You want fries with that?’ Instead, I demanded that I become exceptional. I finished high school and put myself through college. I went into the Army, and then business, and then politics. I wasn’t exceptional, but I became exceptional!

Nothing was handed to me, and nothing will be handed to you! You have incredible opportunities right now. It is all up to you now! If you think you can coast, forget it! The world has no patience for people who coast along. The world can pass you by, or you can pass the world by, and drag it with you! It is all in your hands now! We can’t do it for you! Do not accept anything less than becoming exceptional! Thank you”

Did it have any effect on the kids? No idea. I was the President of the United States, which was pretty damn unusual, so maybe some of them listened. Their parents didn’t look amused, but I really didn’t care. If I had once thought that the baby boomers like me had been coddled, we looked like hardy explorers of the frontier next to this bunch! I also knew the commentators would have a field day with this, but I didn’t care about that, either. My remarks would end up on the national news, and probably the Sunday news shows as well. Maybe somebody might wake up who wouldn’t otherwise.

As a graduation present, we sent the twins and a bunch of their friends (all female) on the G-IV to Hougomont for a week. Charlie made a wry complaint that he hadn’t been able to do that when he graduated, and I replied that the press hadn’t been staking out the house he and the football team had been stacking beer cans in. At least at Hougomont the girls could have some privacy. He laughed at that.

Saturday, June 1, was the date when West Point would be graduating the newest bunch of Second Lieutenants, including one Roscoe Buckminster. George was originally scheduled to speak, but now I had the job, and John McCain got to speak in my place at the Naval Academy in Annapolis. Somehow that seemed right. John had graduated from Annapolis, and I was a soldier, so I knew about West Point, even if I didn’t attend. We would be switching off next year. Usually the President, Vice President, Secretary of State, and Secretary of Defense, and the National Security Adviser would rotate through Annapolis, West Point, Colorado Springs, Kings Point, and New London. Last year I was supposed to speak at the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs, and then was sent to Uruguay at the last minute. The Secretary of the Air Force spoke instead.

Service academy speeches fall into the category of ‘policy’ speeches. Serious people were attending, and serious things had to be said. This was different than a campaign speech, for instance, where you made a million grandiose promises and said nothing of actual import. Since you are dealing with the nation’s military, it is generally considered the time to say something about foreign policy and military policy. As this was the first graduating class since 9-11, there was no doubt about what people were expecting. I had to say something about fighting terrorism.

On the other hand, it is generally a good idea to be careful with foreign policy speeches. A major temptation is to overreach. One thing which almost always backfired on you was to explicitly name an enemy. ‘Evil empire’ and ‘axis of evil’ gets you nothing but grief in the long run. Sooner or later you are going to have to deal with these assholes. They generally have long memories and will remember your comments. Almost always they will use your words to ramp up public sentiment and popularity back home by labeling you as even more evil (’The Great Satan’ comes to mind.) Just as bad, when you do have to make nice and start dealing with them, your own supporters, on whichever side they might be, will take issue with you, using your own words to damn you.

Even worse is the temptation to start drawing lines in the sand. If they do X, we will do Y. Something or other ‘won’t be allowed’. It’s like you are back in the third grade and you are double-dog-daring the kid on the bus next to you to do something. Of course they are going to do it! If you say you won’t allow somebody to cross ‘The Line of Death’ they are going to stick a toe across it, just to test you. Are you going to start a full blown war? Or maybe draw another line, a few feet back? You either look like a warmonger or an idiot. On my first go we had told North Korea they couldn’t build nukes, said the same thing to Iran, told Syria they couldn’t use chemical weapons — the list was endless. In every case, the bad guys did what they were going to do anyway, we backed down, and we looked like idiots. Many times we stated a policy that we knew was bad simply because people back home in the cheap seats would demand you do something and you didn’t have the gumption to tell them to sit down and shut up.

I had already seen this in action in the days right after 9-11. Everybody and their brother wanted me to attack somebody, anybody, immediately if not sooner, in retaliation. I had simply refused, even going so far as to lie to everybody and look like an idiot until we had all our assets and plans in place.

So the plan for the speech was to simply reiterate the strategy we had been working on in the National Security Council. Ramp up counterterrorism and intelligence, stress diplomacy over war (as Churchill once said, ‘Jaw-jaw is better than war-war’), make some smart choices on weapons, and start pivoting away from Europe and towards Asia. I just hoped I was making the right bet. Dick Cheney was correct when he said the terrorists only had to get it right once; we had to get it right every time!

Mike Gerson had given us all a simple enough template for our speeches, so we were all working off the same page. Say hello and thank you, say how wonderful it was to be wherever we were, get to the guts of the policy, say something cute and amusing about the particular academy we were at, say thank you and goodbye. There was enough flexibility that we wouldn’t end up sounding like clones of each other.

It was curious in a way, because neither on this trip nor the last, had I ever been to West Point. I had been to Annapolis several times, if simply because it was only an hour’s drive on the highway from where I grew up, and it’s quaint enough and near the bay that it makes for a good date night. The afternoon before the graduation Marilyn and I took Air Force One to Stewart International in Newburgh. It used to be an Air Force base, and it was the closest airport to West Point, maybe twenty-some minutes away. We managed to avoid any local dignitaries, and were instead greeted officially at West Point itself. West Point is just like any other college, in that the entire weekend is taken up with graduation festivities. We would attend a reception and banquet that evening, and then we would stay the night, and I would speak and participate in the graduation ceremonies in the morning.

The boys (and girls, too — there were a lot more women in the Army now than when I had been in) were so starched and formal it was rather amusing. They all had that ramrod-straight I-can’t-smile I-am-an-officer seriousness that must have been drilled into them for the last four years. Even Roscoe Buckminster was like that, as he formally introduced his mother and brother to us at the reception. Marilyn stifled a snicker and Anna Lee rolled her eyes. “Roscoe, I have known you since you were in diapers, so don’t try to be so serious. If you don’t crack a smile, I am going to find your roommates and tell them things you don’t want them to know!” I told him. “This is graduation! You are supposed to be happy, not running around like you have a stick up your butt!”

His eyes popped wide at that, and his serious demeanor broke. “What!? No! I mean, you can’t!”

Anna Lee and Marilyn both started laughing at him, and one of the generals we were with snorted out a laugh, too.

“You just watch me, buster.”

“Uncle Carl! That’s not fair,” he told me.

“They still give out demerits here for misbehaving?” I asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Just remember, your old man and I, if we had gone here, we would have set a new record, and we both turned out okay. Have some fun, Roscoe.” Tyrone was standing there next to Anna Lee. I reached over and shook his hand, too. “You still want to come here, Tyrone?”

He smiled and stood a little taller. “Yes, sir!”

“Even after what your brother has told you about this place?”

That got me a laugh. “Yes, sir.”

“Well, if you can qualify, you come talk to me and I’ll see what I can do. Just promise me you’ll earn a few more demerits than Cadet Starchy here.”

“He will do no such thing!” countered Anna Lee.

“We’ll talk some more, later,” I said, laughing. They moved along and the mood of those remaining in line lightened up a fair bit.

Perforce, Marilyn and I stayed sober throughout the proceedings. We didn’t need pictures of the President and First Lady getting sloshed. We weren’t able to actually get a drink until after the banquet. I was actually able to sit down with Lieutenant General Lennox, who I had spoken to over by phone the night we learned about Harlan’s death. He was an artilleryman like me. We both had a laugh about how the kids seemed to take themselves so seriously. He had been a graduate of West Point also. A few weeks with a rough older sergeant or two would take the starch out of them.

The next morning it was out to Michie Stadium, for the graduation. The one thing that surprised me was that they graduated in those silly gray uniforms. I thought they would have graduated in their Army dress uniforms, like I had. Apparently not. Eventually it was my time at the podium.

“Thank you very much, General Lennox, Mr. Secretary, Governor Pataki, members of the United States Congress, Academy staff and faculty, distinguished guests, proud family members, and graduates. I want to thank you for your welcome. Marilyn and I are especially honored to visit this great institution in your bicentennial year.

A few of you have followed in the path of the perfect West Point graduate, Robert E. Lee, who never received a single demerit in four years. Some of you followed in the path of the considerably less than perfect graduate, Ulysses S. Grant, who had many demerits, and said the happiest day of his life was the day he left West Point. If you were to ask the First Lady, she would be happy to tell you which graduate I would have taken after.

That being said, let’s take care of a little business first. West Point is guided by tradition and I will observe one of the traditions you cherish most. As the Commander-in-Chief, I hereby grant amnesty to all cadets who are on restriction for minor conduct offenses. As somebody with a little higher rank than mine once said, ‘Go and sin no more!’”

At that point it was time to move into the meat of the speech. There had been the requisite laughing and cheering as I pardoned the miscreants and joked about demerits, as well as appropriate applause in various places. Now it was time to get serious.

“When you first arrived here four years ago, your nation was at peace. When your final year started we were at peace. Now, however, we are not. This has happened before to graduates, where the world they started out knowing changed during their time here. A year ago some of you had no idea where Afghanistan was. I can guarantee that is no longer the case now. On September 11^th the world changed, and you will need to change as well. From here you will report to various training bases around the country for advanced training, combat training. Pay heed to what you are taught. You will be on the front lines soon. If the need arises, I will be calling on you.”

At this point I segued into the policy section, how counterterrorism was the new game they had to learn, how we would need to be vigilant, always ‘striving for peace yet preparing for war.’ They would need to learn about and face new challenges, yadda, yadda, yadda. After that, it was back to something to emphasize why they were there, and finish things off.

“Part of the challenge we face is in juggling priorities and determining where best to invest our money and our manpower. One frequent target is military education and the service academy system. I have no doubt that many of you have heard the argument that for the money spent educating cadets, we could have gone out and hired graduates of the Harvard Business School and then simply run them through Officer’s Candidate School. That would be an excellent idea if what we wanted was managers.

I have no intention of allowing this to happen. What you and your counterparts at the other service academies are learning is not management, but leadership. We don’t need managers. The last thing in the world we need right now is more managers. What the Army, and the nation, desperately needs is leaders! That is what we have trained you to be, and that is what we expect you to be. Some day you will be faced with the difference between being a manager and being a leader, and it won’t be pretty. This can be a damn ugly business we are in. At some point you are going to have to pocket somebody’s dog tags, zip up the body bag, and stand up and say ‘Follow me!’ That will be when you learn if you are a leader.”

‘Follow me’ is the motto of the Infantry. There were a lot of somber faces in the audience. I let that sink in for a moment, and then continued.

“Well, I bet that was a sobering thought. Right now your mothers are crying, and your fathers are starting to get sick. Now, let me tell you the other side of the equation. It’s the best job in the world! You will never again be challenged like you are about to be challenged. When the brass gets together and starts talking about the ‘good old days’, they aren’t talking about the grand times they had as a major on a staff someplace, in charge of paperwork and PowerPoint presentations! The good old days for them were when they had platoons and companies. The good old days were when they were lieutenants, like you are about to be.

You will be facing the most awesome of responsibilities. By the time I turned 25, I was commanding 125 men, had six tubes under my control, millions of dollars worth of equipment, and enough firepower to devastate a small town. I can guarantee you that none of my classmates at Rensselaer had those kinds of responsibilities! By then they were grad students or junior account managers or management trainees somewhere. I can also guarantee that you’ll have a lot more to talk about at your high school reunions than your classmates will!”

Time to send them out with a laugh. Most of these I had cribbed from a list of Murphy’s Laws of War I had found somewhere, and I made sure to stop after each ‘Law’ to give people time to laugh.

“So before I let you go, here’s some final advice from a broken down old battery commander. Do your captains a favor and try to follow me on this. We sort of know you won’t, but if you do, maybe you won’t get chewed out so often.

Okay, here goes. Always remember, there are three ways to do things. There’s the right way, the wrong way, and the Army way. Do us all a favor. Try the Army way every once in a while. If nothing else, you can confuse your captain.

Here’s another important thing to remember — Never share a foxhole with anybody braver than you are.

If everything is going perfectly, it’s probably an ambush.

If at first you don’t succeed, call in air support.

Here’s a good one — never forget that your weapon was produced by the lowest bidder!

And finally, never forget the Law of War — Murphy’s Law. If it can go wrong, it will go wrong, and always remember that Murphy was an optimist.

So, congratulations, and welcome to the finest fraternity you can join, the fraternity of honorable officers. Thank you, and God bless you.”

Chapter 151: The Rose Garden of Hell

Tuesday, July 16, 2002

Unsurprisingly, several of the networks ran excerpts of my speech during their graduation speech highlight reels. They seemed to run about evenly between some of the last few laugh lines, and the section about zipping up a body bag. Comedy or drama, you pick. For his part, John McCain returned to Annapolis like a conquering hero. A decorated combat aviator who spent seven years in the Hanoi Hilton, he gave a nicely rousing speech, and then ordered that Navy had to beat Army in December. We had won last year, so I was going to have to bust John’s chops when we beat his team again.

Marilyn got into the act, too. Some early birds began requesting the First Lady speak in 2003. Plattsburgh State, her alma mater, got to her first, requesting that she speak at their next graduation, the 25^th anniversary of her graduation. When she asked me what to do, I told her to go for it. She could tell all of the other graduates how high they could climb if they married well. That cost me an elbow to the ribs and a lot of squawking and a very nice diamond bracelet. I should have learned by now to keep my mouth shut. It’s like she said with Oprah, groveling is good, but groveling with diamonds is even better.

After the graduations, it was back to Washington. Marilyn and the girls moved down to the White House. We had their 18^th birthday party there, and brought a number of the Lefleurs down, as well as the Rottingens. We kept it private and I don’t think the media even twigged to the fact that they had a birthday.

I also had to sign some bills into law. It was an election year, so the summer recess was extra long, so that everybody could go home and get about their regular job of running for reelection. I had about three weeks at the end of June, and about three weeks at the end of July to sign stuff, otherwise kiss it off. I spent a lot of time kissing Congressional ass getting stuff out of committee and through the voting process, so that I could sign it. Fortunately, if you schedule the signing ceremony in the morning, you can do it in the Rose Garden and it won’t be too warm. Summer in Washington can be damn hot and muggy, and heavy perspiration on camera is not photogenic.

Tuesday morning the 16^th I was signing the Safeguarding the Sea Frontiers Act into law. This was a massive recapitalization of the Coast Guard. For years they had gotten fuck all for respect from the other services, and fuck all for funding from Congress, and an ever increasing number of jobs from the Commander in Chief. Their ships were so old their bottoms were rust held together by paint, their aircraft were ancient and held together by baling wire and chewing gum, and their sailors and officers were overburdened and as tired as their equipment. Yet despite all that, they still managed to perform magnificently at an endless and varied string of jobs.

Never let a good crisis go to waste. In the name of protecting our maritime borders from crazy Islamic fanatics (which actually needed to be done, not being cynical about it) we were going to massively recapitalize the Coast Guard. New cutters, new helos, additional authorized personnel, upgraded facilities and electronics, even a brand new half billion dollar heavy ice breaker — billions were being authorized.

It was supposed to be warm, mid to high 70s and dry, so we wanted to do it before lunch. Later in the week was even hotter, up into the 80s or higher. It was a typical Rose Garden Ceremony, with a podium to speak from, a table to sign the bill at (a simple wooden table with the Presidential Seal on the front), and a semi-circle of VIPs behind me, while another semi-circle of cameras and reporters faced me.

The VIPs included the usual suspects, like the Commandant of the Coast Guard, Admiral Tom Collins, and the Secretary of Transportation, Norm Mineta. They had an obvious interest in increasing funding, and had been happy to cooperate. The real powerhouse behind the bill, however, had been the Vice President. Senator McCain had been the Chairman of the Senate Committee on Commerce, Science, and Transportation before the Dems took back the Senate, and he knew everybody involved, their strengths, their weaknesses, and where all the bodies were buried. If it was legal to let John sign the bill, I would have let him do it. Since it wasn’t, he was going to be standing right behind me, and would be getting the first ceremonial pen.

That was part of the weirdest of the Presidential ceremonies, the signing ceremony. I had to sign the bill, but nowhere was it specified whether I did it with a pen or pencil or even a goose feather quill. For almost a century and a half, Presidents were content to simply sign the bill and be done with it. FDR decided to spice things up, by using more than one pen and giving them to supporters. The worst was LBJ, who when signing the Civil Rights Act used 75 different pens to sign the bill. It is beyond me how he managed a stunt like that, since even at a pen per letter he was way, way short of 75 pens. As for me, I was quite incapable of writing my signature in a fashion even remotely legible, so I had developed a different trick. I would use the first pen to sign my name and set it aside for my own collection, and then initial at appropriate places throughout the bill (my initials — CB with a circle drawn around them). Those would be the pens I would give away.

At 11:00 I was waiting in my office when Will Brucis stuck his head in the door and said, “Mister President, everyone is ready.”

I stood up. “Thank you, Will. Now, watch me go out the door and trip over the door jamb on national television.”

“Just try to do it gracefully, Mister President.”

I went out the door and around the corner to exit the West Wing towards the Rose Garden. Thankfully, I didn’t trip going through the door. I walked over to the podium, where everybody was arrayed properly. There was a microphone at the podium, but I could see several more, long range and parabolic, over the heads of the audience and reporters… “Can everybody hear me?” I asked. A couple of technical types gave me a thumbs-up, and I nodded to them. Showtime!

“The United States Coast Guard dates back to our first President, George Washington, and our first Secretary of the Treasury, Alexander Hamilton. It was then known as the Revenue Cutter Service. Since then, it has grown, and is now rightfully considered the finest life saving and maritime law enforcement service in the world. In that time they have developed two mottos. The official one is Semper Paratus, Always Ready. The unofficial one is ‘You have to go out, but nobody said anything about coming back!’ Both mottos are equally true.

Today it is my great privilege and pleasure to sign into law the Safeguarding the Sea Frontiers Act. For too long the sailors and airmen of the Coast Guard have been laboring under the burden of overworked ships and aircraft, and a need for improved facilities in port. Now we can give them the support they deserve, and that they earn every day they protect us. Now we can… What in the world?”

That was the end of the carefully crafted presentation. Normally I would give a few more minutes of wonderful speechifying, and then move to the table. I would sit down, and with everybody hovering over me, would sign my life away. I had 20 pens today, each of which were Parkers which bore the Presidential Seal and were engraved with a serial number to prove they were not just some knock-off from the gift shop. After each signature or initial, I would set a pen into its case, and move on to the next. Afterwards, I would personally present each of the recipients with their pen, and shake their hand and smile for the cameras, all while saying something wonderful, warm, and personal to them. Politics 101.

Except for the fact that my eyes were drawn to a commotion at the far end of the Rose Garden, on the lawn behind all the cameras and reporters. I stopped and stared in disbelief at the interruption. Stormy had somehow gotten loose and made her way into the ass end of the Rose Garden, and was now playing a spirited game of keep-away with a pair of Secret Service agents trying to corral her. After a few seconds, nobody was watching me, and everybody was watching her! It got worse when one of the agents tried a flying tackle and Stormy jumped out of the way, leaving the agent sprawling on the grass. I decided to get my dog under control, so I stepped away from the podium and said,

“Stormy! Knock it off! Get over here, you dumb mutt!”

I gave a low whistle, too, and that got her attention. Her head whipped around, and she saw somebody else to play with, somebody who liked to roughhouse with her, and rub her belly, and play fetch and take her for walks. She jumped over the Secret Service agent and made a beeline for me.

That was when I got worried! Stormy doesn’t have a mean bone in her body — or a smart one. She is a very big and very powerful dog. When we are playing tug-of-war with a rope, or otherwise horsing around, she can easily knock a grown man on his ass. She had one trick with the girls, where they would sit on the floor, one behind the other and with her arms around the sister in front, and they would play tug-of-war; she could pull the pair of them across the room that way. Now, from almost fifty yards away, she began running towards me, and very quickly reached a full gallop.

“Stormy! No, Stormy… Stop! No… Stop! Wait… STORMY! AAAAGHHHH!”

All of this was carried to the video cameras recording our little ceremony, and picked up by the parabolic mikes. Stormy came running through a small gap in the reporters and vaulted onto the signing table. The bill went flying and pens scattered every which way. She didn’t stop there, but then leaped at her best buddy. I had been backing up as she came closer, but it was useless. The final ‘AAAAGHHHH’ cut off when she slammed into me and knocked me flat on my back. I wasn’t knocked out, or even dazed, but I had a sudden pain in my left side, and the wind was knocked out of me. Everybody was staring at the incredible scene, with me lying on my back while a monstrous brown dog sat on my chest and licked my face!

“STORMY! YOU IDIOT! GET OFF OF ME!”

I awkwardly pushed her off my chest and a Secret Service agent on one side and the Vice President on the other helped me to my feet. I was still being recorded when the world heard me ask of the agent, “I thought you guys were supposed to take a bullet for me!”

He laughed and answered, “Nobody ever said anything about taking a Stormy!”

“Great!” I reached down and took the mutt’s collar. Then it got really stupid. From around a far corner of the Garden I could hear a pair of teenage girl’s voices yelling ‘Stormy! Stormy! Come here, Stormy!’

The twins came running around the corner, with one of them carrying a leash, and found themselves blundering smack into the middle of the signing ceremony from Hell. In front of me, a couple of aides were trying to set the table upright and gather up all the pens and papers. I gave my daughters a dry look and crooked a finger at them. They came closer and were quite self-conscious and nervous as they did so.

They had excellent reason to be self-conscious! Both were wearing running shoes, very tight running shorts, and very tight tank tops. Holly’s was light grey, with a very large seven leafed marijuana leaf on the front, with ‘NORML’ on the back. Molly’s was even worse, being black with a big silver star on the front, along with ‘Porn Star In Training!’ on the back. Tremendous! However, that was the least of their sins! Up on top they were wearing New York Yankees baseball caps!

“The Yankees!? Are you kidding me? Since when do we root for the Yankees! We are fans of the Orioles!” I asked, perhaps too loudly.

Holly smiled and answered, “Uncle Mark sent them!”

“They’re cute!” added her sister.

“Cute, huh? You can tell your Uncle Mark he’s about to get audited by the IRS!” I took the leash from them and hooked up the dog, and handed it back. Bending over I had another sharp pain in the left side. At the minimum, I had a cracked rib or two. Wonderful! “Here! Go! Don’t come back for a few years!” I said.

“Bye, Daddy!” came from the pair of them, and I got a kiss on the cheek from both of them, and they ran out of the place with Stormy romping out in front.

I looked at the others and said, “I think the rest of the speech is shot.” The entire place was on the verge of a total breakdown into raucous laughter. I knew what was going to be on the news tonight. If aliens landed on the South Lawn, peeing free gasoline that tasted like chocolate and cured cancer, it would still have been only the second spot on the news. I went over to the table and sat down, feeling a sharp twinge as I did so. I picked up a pen, and it fell apart in my hands, leaking ink on my fingers. What else could possibly go wrong?! I stared at the pen for a second, and then looked back at the audience and cameras. “Have you ever had one of those days?” That was it. The place exploded in laughter.

I managed to clean my fingers with my handkerchief, in the process ruining the handkerchief and my suit, and signed the bill. Okay, it wasn’t pristine and beautiful, but it was the law. I gave John the signing pen and told him the broken pen was going into the Presidential collection, and he laughed so hard he started crying. Meanwhile my side was starting to hurt more.

The end wasn’t much more glorious than the rest of the day. I moved to stand up and my ribs protested loudly. By now I was in some real pain. I whispered over my shoulder to John and the Admiral that I needed some help. Once erect, they helped me inside to the clinic. I had always thought that the Physician to the President was a Navy doctor, but this guy was an Air Force colonel. My last physical was under the previous administration, when the Physician was a lady Naval captain. The White House Medical Unit is practically a small scale hospital, with almost a dozen doctors, nurses, and technicians. Ninety percent of what they do is actually care for the routine miseries of everybody who works there, plus the tourists who pass out while waiting in line for the tour.

In this case, I found myself stripped half naked and under an X-ray machine inside of about two minutes. The diagnosis? Two cracked ribs and one broken rib on my left side! Cannonball Stormy did a wonderful job on me. I would have to thank my daughters somehow. They taped me up and sent me up to the Residence, where I took a pain pill and had a drink. That pretty much blew the rest of my day.

That night, the evening news had me as the first few minutes, both with Stormy’s antics and then with Will Brucis informing the press corps about what happens when a 135 pound irresistible force meets a 195 pound immoveable object. Later that evening, on The Daily Show, Jon Stewart announced, “He signed the bill with broken ribs! I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, whether you like him or not, this guy is one tough son-of-a-[bleeped]!” There was also plenty of grief from Yankees fans, although Mets fans seemed to appreciate me, as did pretty much every Marylander (fans of the Orioles.) Ari informed me that I was going to have to attend a Yankees baseball game as soon as possible. Fine, maybe they could lose, the bastards! Then I got grief from some right wing preachers about my daughter’s immoral behavior — the pot and porn tank tops — and how I was a bad role model for the nation’s youth. For that one we simply said that the twins were both 18 years old and that I was their father, not their owner. Then I had Marilyn chew on them for a while. I couldn’t wait to see what trouble they got into in the fall when they went to college.

The worst part was poor Stormy. I think she knew she was in the doghouse, in more ways than one. She tried to climb up onto my recliner that evening and I had to push her away. She would have really busted me up if I had let her crawl onto me. She whined until I went to bed and let her lie down on my right side. For such a gigantic dog she could be so pathetic!

Chapter 152: Changes

2002–2003

I spent the rest of the summer letting my ribs heal, which definitely put a crimp in my krav maga training and workouts. Doc Tubb heard, probably from the Residence staff, that I had a beer with my pain pill, and promptly chewed me out and put me on ibuprofen instead of anything more amusing. Marilyn gave me an insufferably superior look when she heard that. The twins were actually concerned that after jumping on me and then landing on the ground, Stormy might have been hurt. They were less concerned about their beloved father. I simply looked at Marilyn and asked, “When do they go to college?”

She sighed and smiled. “Not soon enough!”

“Think it will seem lonely? Just you, me, and hundreds of staffers and servants?”

She simply rolled her eyes at that.

Dick Cheney managed to self-destruct over the summer. He could have been a major pain in the keister if he had decided to mount a primary challenge in 2004, and for quite awhile it sounded like he was going to do just that. By August, however, he was finished. The Special Joint Committee had issued subpoenas to damn near everybody with any link to the intelligence system prior to 9-11, and some people cooperated and some didn’t. Radziwill, the State Department flunky who had tried to shut down the DIA’s Able Danger program turned State’s Evidence in order to keep out of jail, and he fingered Scooter Libby. Scooter was caught perjuring himself, and ended up on trial by the end of the summer.

Also on trial was Dick Cheney, who refused to cooperate. He was too smart to lie, so he clammed up and claimed executive privilege. The administration said ‘No’ on this, which did not sit well with him, so he sued me. The U.S. District Court for the District of Columbia ruled that he had no standing to claim executive privilege, and a surprisingly fast appeal was turned down. At that point he went in front of Congress and after being sworn in, made a statement. “On the advice of counsel, I hereby refuse to testify and I invoke my Fifth Amendment right against self incrimination.” Then he stood up and walked out of the hearing room, while the rest of the room erupted in shouting and recriminations, with the gavel banging and demands to return under penalty of a Contempt of Congress charge.

The contempt charge passed the committee unanimously, though Cheney had enough friends in Congress so the House vote wasn’t unanimous. It made no difference. There was a lot of rigamarole surrounding it, and the Counsel’s office kept me apprised, but the end result was that Cheney pled guilty to the contempt charge but didn’t have to testify or admit to anything. Cheney treated it as an acquittal, but not so the rest of the country. Brewster McRiley, my long-time campaign consultant, told me that Cheney was sniffing around the Republican Party moneymen, and was getting nowhere.

The coup de grace came in August, when Scooter pled guilty to one count of perjury and one count of obstructing justice, and was sentenced to 8 months in Club Fed and a $100,000 fine. There was the de rigueur request for a pardon, which I refused. Cheney was invited on This Week to give his opinion. He stated that, “President Buckman’s cold-hearted and cynical refusal to pardon an honorable public servant was akin to leaving a man on the battlefield!”

At that point, Fletcher Donaldson, a guest journalist on their ‘Powerhouse Roundtable’ who was now Washington bureau chief for the Baltimore Sun and an accredited White House Correspondent, replied, “Mister Secretary, you received five military deferments during the Viet Nam War, and President Buckman earned a Bronze Star for not leaving men on the battlefield. Are you sure you want to be making a statement like that?”

Dick pretty much lost it at that point, and told Fletcher, Sam Donaldson, and Cokie Roberts that I wasn’t supposed to be the President, that George Bush had wanted me gone and wanted me to resign, and he should have been the President because Bush had promised it to him. Then he ran me down as a traitor to the office and to the Party. The looks of disbelief were astonishing. Ari brought me out to the morning Press Briefing the next day to refute everything Cheney had said, and I told the truth, that there had never been any such conversations, that no promises had been made, that I had never been asked to resign, etc. No, I couldn’t explain Mister Cheney’s bizarre behavior. All I had to do was look mystified, and refuse to speculate when somebody asked me if I thought Dick Cheney was suffering from something stress related.

So much for the current crop of neocons.

That didn’t mean any of us could relax. All it would take was a single incident to go bad for the conservatives to call for my replacement, with somebody who would ‘fix the problem, once and for all!’ We had almost had such an incident with the ‘Shoe Bomber’, Richard Reid, last December, when an Islamic nutcase tried to ignite a shoe filled with explosives on a plane from overseas, and he couldn’t manage to ignite the fuse. Dick Clarke was doing a decent job with the CIA, and Winston Creedmore with coordinating intelligence, and Congress had put the fear of God into a few bureaucrats with their investigation. We had managed to stop or capture at least a dozen bombers since 9-11, some foreign born and some home grown. One major help was that people had figured out all on their own that if somebody was fucking around, it was perfectly permissible to gang tackle them and let the authorities sort it out later. Thank you, Flight 93, for that valuable lesson.

One major discussion was about how much we let the public know. If we told people we had foiled a plot, the bad guys would invariably get information on how we foiled it, and then be able to change their tactics. If we didn’t tell people then they had no idea of the level of danger and would think the problem was over and we didn’t need to be careful. Whatever we did, we all pretty much came to the conclusion that we couldn’t tell Congress jack shit, since it would be on television before we ever made it home. The Congressmen who heard about that were not amused, and called on the Administration to be more forthcoming, not less, and how they were trustworthy. That made it to the press as well, and how anybody was able to read that and listen to it with a straight face was miraculous.

Nobody had heard from bin Laden, though plenty of old videos were still circulating. Had he been killed? Was he buried in the rubble or a collapsed cave? Was he in hiding? Nobody knew, or if they knew, they weren’t telling. Without a body, none of us dared claim he was dead; you just knew that five minutes after that were to occur, he would resurface on live television.

One thing popped up very quickly, and that was that the name Al Qaeda had lost its copyright status. Just like all copiers got called Xeroxes, now all Islamic terrorists were calling themselves Al Qaeda. Groups of assholes who had never heard of Osama Bin Laden before 9-11 were now calling themselves a branch of Al Qaeda. They figured it was good advertising, and a way to gain recruits and funds. CIA was reporting Al Qaeda groups popping up all over the world, most of whom had never met anybody in the original group.

Afghanistan had settled down into a low level civil war. Al Qaeda and the Taliban had taken a massive pounding, and the few survivors had fled across the mountains into Pakistan, leaving the country in the hands of the new warlords from the Northern Alliance. The Alliance was an alliance of convenience. The individual warlords had their own tribes and their own interests, and promptly settled down to low level fighting among themselves, usually over poppy territories and heroin distribution. Meanwhile, the Taliban was reconstituting itself in Pakistan, with help from the ISI, and was beginning to come back into Afghanistan, killing along the way. I would get reports from Clarke and Creedmore every few weeks, and it sounded like another low level civil war, much like what had evolved over more than a decade after the Russians left the country in 1989. All of our personnel had been yanked months ago, though Clarke still had a handful of agents present with the various Northern Alliance warlords. We funneled some arms to them to help them fight the Taliban, but otherwise kept our noses clean.

If Afghanistan didn’t exist, somebody on acid would have had to invent it. Why anybody in their right mind wanted us to be there was beyond me!

Iraq simmered along much as it had during the Clinton and Bush presidencies. Every few months they would make bellicose noises and violate the no-fly zones, or light up an American warplane with their fire control radar. Our response was predictable. We would shoot down the wandering intruder or destroy an anti-aircraft missile battery, and then toss a few cruise missiles at them. It was a low level of combat, enough to keep the Air Force and Navy pilots on their toes, and keep people well trained, and cost us a few billion dollars a year, but no lives. Compared to the cost of either invading the country, or letting Saddam Hussein run loose, that was cheap insurance.

As part of our surveillance on Iraq, Richard Clarke had what assets he had available, admittedly not many, on the ground in Iraq. One group of Arabic speakers was stationed in the Southern No-Fly Zone, where they spied on the Shiites and the Sunnis. They weren’t noticeably successful at this. The Sunnis were the people supporting Hussein, and the Shiites were friendly with the nutcases over in Iran.

Much more successful were the agents we had on the ground in the Northern No-Fly Zone, which was centered over Kurdistan. The Kurds were mostly Sunnis, like Hussein, but of a slightly different flavor. Much more important was the fact that the Kurds were not of Arabic descent, and did not consider themselves Iraqi. This was one of those wonderful examples of the Western colonial powers sorting things out by just drawing lines on a map. Kurdistan, the ancestral homeland of the Kurdish people, was centered on northern Iraq, eastern Turkey, western Iran, and the northern tip of Syria. They had been carrying on a low level guerilla war in most of these places, and really hated the Iraqis, who had gassed them on at least one occasion. Colin Powell and the State Department strongly recommended making nice with these people and trying to get them to make nice with Turkey, a NATO ally. I shrugged and went along with him. I still didn’t trust the ragheads, but that was what we were paying Colin for, to jaw-jaw and not war-war.

In late August we took another family vacation, probably our last as a family, at Hougomont. Charlie took a few days of leave and joined us the weekend before the girls were supposed to go to college. It was hot, but nice. We didn’t get there very often anymore. It was one thing when I was a Congressman. The Maryland Ninth was a fairly small district, and most of the residents knew I had a place in the Bahamas when I first ran for Congress. It was fairly simple for me to defuse the problem if anybody commented.

Not so as the President. It was an example that I was too rich and not one of the common people (like there were actually poor Congressmen and Senators who didn’t vacation well.) Worse, I was vacationing somewhere in a foreign country, and not in the good old U.S. of A! My God, I was damn near a commie! At least half a dozen state governors, on both sides of the aisle, made public comments that there were many wonderful places in their states that would have been even nicer. (North Dakota? Really? I must have missed the sandy beaches in the travel brochure.)

We managed to cover it as a ‘business trip’ by calling it a Caribbean Summit and inviting about a half dozen ambassadors to a nice dinner at Government House. We all smiled and shook hands and did some speechifying and posed for pictures. Meanwhile, while all the cameras were on me and Marilyn, Charlie took the girls over to Paradise Island. He dressed in civvies and a straw hat and sunglasses, and not too many people knew what he looked like. His sisters had been much more in the limelight since I had started campaigning for Bush in 2000. They had a great time figuring out disguises.

We warned them all about not doing anything stupid while reporters or cameras were around, and then sent them off with a small team of Secret Service people, right after Marilyn and I left the house in a limo and entourage. They went out in a very nondescript pair of cars. Charlie took them shopping in a few stores and then over to the casino, where he gave them a few bucks for the slots, and bought them too many drinks. They came back after Marilyn and I had gone home and gone to bed.

We woke up to hear a racket in the living room, and I grabbed a robe and wandered out down the hall to see what it was. I wasn’t expecting trouble, since the place is guarded 24-7 even when we aren’t around. Charlie and one of the agents were half carrying the twins into the house. I could smell the booze from across the room. “Didn’t I ask you not to drink too much?” I said.

He dumped Molly on the couch and held his hands up in surrender. “Hey, I’m the sober one. I tried to keep them under control, but they’re legal now, at least around here.”

I glanced over at the agent who had decided to simply put Holly over his shoulder and head for her bedroom. “It’s true,” he said, “Charlie was being the responsible party.”

“For once?” added my son.

“You said it, not me.”

Marilyn came down the hallway, looking bleary eyed. “What’s going on?”

“Your daughters tried to drink the island dry,” I commented.

“Don’t blame me, Mom! I bought them the first round, but they had their own money. If it had rum in it, they sampled it,” said Charlie. He picked Molly up and began leading her down the hall to her bedroom.

“Oh, dear. Well, they’ll learn, I suppose,” said my wife.

“Did anybody see you guys? Is this going to be on the front page of the New York Times tomorrow?” Ari was enjoying a few days in the sun with us; would I have to let him know about this?

The Secret Service agent shook his head and said, “Not that I could tell. None of us noticed anybody paying attention to them.” The security team had all been wearing casual clothing, and while I knew they were all armed, I had no idea how they were hiding their guns. “To be honest, they looked like a couple of girls who managed to get away from their parents for the night. It’s not like that’s never been seen on this island before.”

I just grunted at that. It wasn’t worth worrying about now. It wouldn’t be the worst scandal ever seen in the White House. I touched Marilyn’s elbow and said, “Let’s go to bed.”

“Will they be all right?”

“I sure hope not. I hope they have major league hangovers, so they know enough not to get stupid like this again.”

“You’re not a very loving father,” she commented, as we headed back to bed.

“Just a very practical one.”

Marilyn and I slept soundly and woke up our usual time, and dined out in the sunshine the next morning. Charlie was up then, too. We didn’t see the twins until almost noon, and they looked like death warmed over. They moaned and groaned and wanted to see a doctor. We just snorted and let Doctor Tubb examine them. He pronounced them fine, suffering from dehydration and excessive alcohol consumption, and prescribed orange juice and aspirin. In other words, major league hangovers. The girls denounced him as a quack, and we laughed and thanked him, and invited him and his team to dinner that night. Holly and Molly didn’t make it to dinner, but spent the rest of the day moaning and groaning in their rooms.

Charlie skipped out, too, but not because he was sick. He said that he had seen a few clubs he wanted to visit and see if he could get lucky. Marilyn gave him some motherly and disapproving comments, and I simply reminded him to take some protection. Charlie laughed and left, and Marilyn decided to chew on me for awhile instead. I just nodded and agreed with everything she told me, and then laughed. “Do you want me to tell them about that first trip to Ocean City we took?”

That earned me a finger wagging and her trademark, “You can behave!”

I just hoped the girls would settle down some when they went to college. I doubted it, but I hoped. That occurred a week later, when they had to report to the University of Maryland for Freshman Orientation. So, just like every other college parent, we helped the kids pack their gear and go to school. Marilyn took them up to Hereford for a few days to sort through things and pack whatever they were missing in Washington, and then they drove down and stayed a night at the White House. The next morning, bright and early, we tossed their crap into the back of a War Wagon and rode in a discreet convoy over to College Park. It was an informal day, so I was in khakis and a Hawaiian shirt, and deck shoes with no socks, and Marilyn was in jeans and a checkered blouse and flats. After checking in, the girls got their dorm keys, and off we went to dispose of our children.

The word of the day to the agents was, “Lighten up!” I didn’t need a phalanx of bodyguards in black suits, earbugs, and sunglasses shadowing us. They could dress a little more casually and blend in, and hide the War Wagons around the corner. The University knew the girls were attending, and there were some special security arrangements needed. For the first time in their lives they weren’t rooming with each other, but had regular college roommates. Across the hall from each room was a dorm room containing a young female agent assigned to each girl and commo gear, and they were already in place. Security would be light, but there would be security.

Thankfully my ribs were healed up by then, at least so that I could carry some boxes around. I didn’t have to carry many, though. Shortly after taking the first load up, several helpful young men magically appeared, offering their services, free of charge, to any of the pretty girls moving in. What wonderful examples of American youth! Marilyn and I quickly found ourselves abandoned. I don’t think they realized who they were helping until they went out to the War Wagon and saw what else was inside.

Marilyn and I just walked around the dorm area for a bit. She had been the one to take the girls on their college visits, and get them through the registration process. This was helped immensely by the fact that they were straight A students and we were paying cash. Still, I thought she had done a fine job getting them ready and told her so.

Our reverie was interrupted by a young woman bustling up to us with a notepad in one hand and a microphone in the other. I saw one of the agents move to intercept her but I waved him off. She was oblivious to this, and simply came up to us and stuck the microphone in my face. “President Buckman, how do you feel the Secret Service presence on campus will affect campus life for the rest of the students here? What about the chilling effect on academic freedom it will cause?”

I looked at my wife, who seemed perplexed, and I gave her an amused look in response. I held my hands up in a time-out signal. “Who are you?”

“Why do you need to know that?”

“Because I like to know who I am talking to. Don’t you?”

The girl’s brows furrowed at that. She looked a bit stumped. “Oh.” She thought for a second, wondering, I am sure, if by giving me her name she would be somehow violating the freedom of the press. I just stood there and waited for a response. After a moment, she capitulated and said, “Marcy Brennan,” and then thrust the mike back at me.

I smiled at Marilyn and shook my head. To Marcy I said, “Is this the first interview you’ve ever been part of? Who are you interviewing me for?”

“I’m with the Diamondback. Why won’t you answer my questions? What are you hiding!?”

“Oh, dear,” I said with a sigh. “What is the Diamondback?”

“It’s the student newspaper. We’re an independent student newspaper, protecting the freedom of the press!” answered Marcy, a touch fiercely.

“Good for you. I try to protect it, too, in my own way.” I turned to Marilyn. “She just has to be a Democrat!”

“You just behave yourself,” answered my wife.

“Yes, dear.” I turned back to the microphone, still in front of me. “Marcy, let’s make this simple. You want an interview and I want to sit down for a bit. My ribs are still bugging me. Let’s go sit down over there.” I pointed to a bench in a grassy area. Before she could protest, I led the way over to the bench and sat down.

Marcy was starting to figure out that she wasn’t the one in charge of the interview. She scurried along after us and stood there in front of me. I just pointed at the bench and she sat down at the other end. In so doing, she lost her grip on her notepad and I picked it up. Before she could grab it back, I looked over the questions she had for me. I showed them to Marilyn and said, “I don’t get this many questions from the Washington Post!”

I handed Marcy back her notepad. She was starting to look flustered. “Now, let’s do this the right way. You ask me a question, politely, and I will give you an answer, politely. You were asking me something about my daughters attending school here?”

“What do you feel about the dangers your daughters are bringing to the campus here?” she asked, reading from her notepad.

“What dangers? I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“The armed security guards who are surrounding your daughters,” she pressed.

“Have you actually met my daughters? We left the storm troopers at home. While there will be security around them, it will be barely noticeable. There should be absolutely no effect on the campus at all.”

By now a number of others had noticed who was being interviewed, and about a dozen students and parents were gathered around us in a circle. I smiled and waved at them, and did the politician thing. Marcy kept asking me questions, some of them ridiculous. I was guessing that the school paper had sent her out with a list, in the hope that she might find me. In between I would shake hands and say hello to those around us.

“Is anybody here a Republican, by the way?”

One of the mothers pointed at her husband and smiled. “He is.” Her husband blinked in surprise at being put on the spot.

“Oh, good! I was wondering if I had ventured into enemy territory. What about you?”

“I’m an Independent,” she answered.

“Well, there’s still hope for you.” Marilyn elbowed me at that, on my left side, and I winced. “Watch it! I’m still healing there.”

“Ooh! Sorry! I forgot!” she said.

“If you don’t behave, Marcy will get to report on how the Secret Service took you down!” I turned to the reporter and said, “I bet that would make the front page, wouldn’t it? If you have a camera you’d probably get a Pulitzer!”

Her eyes opened wide at that. I reached into a pocket and pulled out a business card holder, and handed her my card. “Listen, we need to go find out what our girls are up to and leave. If you want another interview, you call my office and ask for Ari Fleischer. Heard of him? Good. Ask for him and tell him I said you were the new White House Correspondent for the Diamondback. You can come over and get a nice formal interview, okay?” There is actually a protocol for this sort of thing, and it wasn’t unheard of.

Marcy’s eyes widened at the idea, and Marilyn and I stood up. We shook a few hands and headed back to the dorm, surrounded by our storm troopers. The girls were wondering where we were, so I told them I was out hustling votes. We kissed them good-bye and headed back to the White House.

The hustling votes remark wasn’t far from the truth. By now it was an open secret that I was going to be running for reelection. While I had been ducking the question and officially stating that I would make a formal decision in 2003, the word had gone out. John McCain was not running, and he had announced that, and while Dick Cheney wanted to, a convict was about as welcome as toxic waste. Nobody else was making any kind of noises about running, and if I announced early in 2003, I would block them from the moneymen in the party. Running for President was a whole lot bigger than running for the Maryland Ninth. In the ten years I had been in Congress, I had spent about $10 million in campaigning, and surprisingly little of that, under $1 million, was actually my money. Running for President in the 21^st century was going to start at $1 billion, and go up from there. I was not about to spend that kind of money out of my own pocket.

The actual announcement was somewhat anticlimactic. Unlike a regular election, where I would be vying with another dozen candidates, as the incumbent I was the presumed nominee. I didn’t have to do much more than actually say, ‘Yes, I’m running.’ After that it was just a matter of signing the paperwork to get me on the ballots. It was going to be a big job, and would involve a huge organization and a lot of help. For my main general, however, I called Brewster to the Residence one evening (not the Oval Office, since that would be electioneering on work time, a big no-no) and asked him if he wanted a shot at the title. If you are a political operative, running the Presidential campaign is playing for all of the marbles. The only bigger thing than my reelection would be a first time election of somebody else. If Brewster was campaign manager for me and I was reelected, he was automatically in the big leagues as far as politics went. He could name his price after that.

We decided to delay any announcements until 2003. None of us needed to screw up the 2002 elections, and in some ways the presumption I was running was a help. I had enough popularity that I had any number of opportunities to campaign for my fellow Republicans. In addition, throughout the summer of 2002, as the local elections moved into the down-and-dirty slog, I was able to give various speeches supporting legislation. We were still pushing any number of things related to 9-11 and the economy. We had gotten almost all of the national security related stuff handled, but the big infrastructure bill I was pushing was going slower. Everybody liked the idea, sort of, but nobody wanted to actually pay for it, and the Republican Party was pushing for the tax cuts that George Bush and his owners had promised them. It had made it out of committee, but the vote was going to be close, and we were pushing it for October, although I would happily accept a lame duck vote.

Running even closer was going to be the vote on the DREAM Act. The immigration bill we were pushing was essentially the same bill that George had proposed in 2001. We didn’t vary it much at all. This basically allowed children who had been brought to this country by their parents, often as babies, but were now here illegally, to gain residency status and apply for citizenship. Likewise, we added some provisions so that if they served a term in the services, they could get citizenship. It was not a blanket amnesty, and did not apply to the parents who brought them in, although it prevented deportation of parents who came forward to register their kids. It also didn’t clean up the rest of the immigration mess, but we tinkered with some of that around the edges. It was at least a start.

There was a lot of squawking about the whole thing. The Republicans simply did not like the idea of a lot of illegal wetbacks being rewarded for successfully sneaking into the country, especially when the economy was in a bind, but it wasn’t just the conservative Republicans. There were a few Democrats who wanted a payoff for making it happen as well, or wanted more than I was offering. I spent a lot of time wining and dining Congressmen and waving the flag and invoking George’s dream. I also spent half the fucking budget on earmarks for assholes who wanted something in order to go along with this. If the leadership in the House and Senate hadn’t been on my side, it never would have made it out of committee, let alone made it to the floor. Even then, some cantankerous individuals wouldn’t go along with it for any money. It eventually passed by only a single vote, but it passed. Meanwhile, I used up an awful lot of the good will I had accumulated.

In the meantime, however, we were preparing the way for the 2004 election. Over on the Democratic side, a slew of potential candidates were running around, visiting Iowa and New Hampshire, giving speeches and shaking hands, and most importantly of all, lining up local political bosses and moneymen. In effect it was what I had done for ten years in Baltimore and Carroll Counties, only nationwide. I had to do the same, though I had some advantages and disadvantages with doing this. The biggest advantage was incumbency. I was already the President and nobody else was running against me that we could see. I had co-opted my biggest rival, McCain, and destroyed the only other big rival, Cheney. There was nobody else for the locals and donors to choose.

The biggest disadvantage I had was that I had a full time day job already, running the country. You still need to shake hands and schmooze, and not do it in a way that discredits the office. If I had a trip to take or a speech to give, we needed to schedule meetings with important people along the way. The other disadvantage that I had was a more fundamental one. I was simply more moderate than the Republican Party was becoming. When I bought my position as Vice President, Bush let it be known to the conservatives that I was a sop to the moderate wing of the party, and that I wasn’t really one of them and he wouldn’t pay any attention to me. Well, guess what, here I was, in all my glory as the President of the United States, and they were stuck with me. While I had dismantled some of the neocons, the financial interests were not amused with me. They wanted the lower taxes and lesser regulation that Bush and Cheney and Rove had promised them and that they had paid for! When it was pointed out that the Democrats were even less likely to listen to them, they were not impressed. Some donors were cutting back their contributions, and some simply pocketed their wallets. A few of them had been donating to both sides in any case, and the Democratic National Committee was getting some surprising donations. I wasn’t sure how this was going to play out.

In between the girls going to college and the final run of the 2002 campaign, we had the anniversary of 9-11. Leaving aside the inevitable speeches and tributes, what really preoccupied us was the worry that the nutjobs would try something. Across the country police departments were on high alert, and even though we had never instituted that silly color scheme for danger levels, everybody knew there was a lot of potential for Al Qaeda or their buddies to do something either in support of the original bombings or in revenge for our response. I was in constant contact with Winston Creedmore and the new FBI Director, Robert Mueller. If anything happened, it would end everything I was trying to build. Nothing happened, but I was nervous for 24 hours.

The 2002 elections didn’t change much in the Congress. The Republicans lost a couple of seats, but we still had a handy majority. The Senate was more interesting. We picked up a seat, breaking the tie, and giving us a thin but real majority. Trent Lott was back to being the Majority Leader and Tom Daschle was out and now the Minority Leader. Harry Reid went back to being the Minority Whip. Curiously, Don Nickles was not reelected as the Republican Whip, but they voted in Mitch McConnell. That was after the election, though. Election night I was busy with lists of names to call, on both sides of the aisle, congratulating them on victories. It had come full circle. A dozen years ago, George H. W. Bush had been the one congratulating me.

In December Charlie shipped out again. He had decided this would be his last deployment, that at the end of his hitch he was getting out. There would be too many restrictions on him as an active duty Marine as the son of the President. This pleased his mother, and me, truth be told, but what didn’t please us was his plan to go back to motocross. Get killed by the bad guys or get killed in a motorcycle accident. What a choice! In the meantime, he could float around on the Fort McHenry and do whatever it was that Marines did when they floated around. We would see him again in June or July when they came home again.

In February the Space Shuttle Columbia fell apart during reentry over Texas. I knew it would happen, but not when, and there wasn’t much I could do to stop it. The Space Shuttle program was simply a lousy, over-complicated, and fragile way to get people to and from low Earth orbit. One of these days we would come up with a better way to do it. I knew that after the final investigation was concluded that I would be cancelling the program, just like George Bush did on my first go.

The girls managed to make it through their freshman year at college without a scandal. I’m sure they tried, but the Secret Service is nothing if not secret. They wouldn’t even tell me what my daughters were up to! I was informed of the theory that if they started telling somebody what their principal was up to, then the principal would be tempted to try to sneak around on their detail, and increase the risk. I grumped at that and told my wife. She sort of shrugged and asked me if I really wanted to know what they were doing, or who. It was better to keep my illusions. On a number of occasions the girls brought their roommates or other coeds over to spend a weekend at the White House. They didn’t bring any boys with them, so I didn’t really know just what they were up to on that score. I didn’t even know if they were still virgins! Some things I simply didn’t want to learn.

Marilyn and I celebrated our 25^th wedding anniversary that summer. Our daughters were packed off to Utica for the week. I would like to report that Marilyn and I went down to our Caribbean hideaway and played hide the salami for a week, al fresco. Didn’t happen. We took a week and went home to Hereford, where we received any number of visitors from D.C. It rained. I was able to cook us a few nice meals, but there ain’t much romance in the White House. Forget about taking your wife out to dinner and a movie. Reporters and photographers would be standing six deep around your table, and a dark movie theater is much too dangerous.

By Wednesday we went back to Washington. Friday was the 4^th of July, so I had to participate in any number of patriotic events, all with heavy security. It was chilling to hear from the CIA and the FBI about who they were stopping and catching. If they caught somebody inside the country, it was pretty straightforward; they would be arrested and tried in Federal court, and get put in a Federal jail. Overseas, things got trickier. One thing for sure, I was not allowing anybody to be held in an American prison overseas. No more Gitmo! Squeeze them for info, and then dispose of them. In some cases this meant handing them over to the authorities in their home countries. Some of them would be perfectly content to stick them in their own jails. Otherwise, maybe give them to a country who didn’t like them anyway. If that wasn’t possible, I would happily turn my head and not notice if some terrorist was taken out into a desert somewhere and didn’t come back. What I didn’t know wouldn’t hurt me, or if it did, it wouldn’t hurt me too much. I was not giving American civil rights to enemies in other countries.

On the plus side, foreign relations were relatively quiet. We made nice with the Saudis after they had a bombing in Riyadh by their version of Al Qaeda; we exchanged ambassadors and the price of oil dropped $2 a barrel. Otherwise, the assholes generally decided to stay home and kill their own people, rather than kill ours.

The economy rebounded, as I knew it would. People were hiring again and the market was up, the deficit dropped from $150 billion down to $8 billion, and was looking to become a surplus by the end of the year. It was looking like we would be able to announce I was officially running on schedule, with a July 20 appearance in Springboro, Oklahoma, the place I made famous three years before.

Yes, things were looking good. That meant everything was going to turn to shit.

Chapter 153: From the Halls of Montezuma

Wednesday, July 9, 2003

On Saturday, July 5, I was doing my normal Saturday morning routine in the Oval Office, which was basically catching up on some paperwork and reading some briefing papers. It was a Saturday, so I didn’t have anything official planned and was, in fact, working in khakis and a rugby shirt. I was contemplating lunch with Marilyn when I got a call from the Situation Room. I picked up the phone and said, “Hello?”

“Mister President, this is Colonel Withers. I am the duty officer in the Situation Room. We are monitoring a situation in Liberia that you should be aware of.”

So much for lunch. “Can you brief me here, or should I come down there?”

“It will be easier to discuss it here, sir.”

I nodded to myself. “Down in five.” I stood and slipped on my loafers, and then used my bathroom. When I left the Oval Office, I stopped at my secretary’s desk and told the Saturday fill-in. “I’m heading down to the Situation Room. Let the First Lady know I might not be around for lunch, please. Thank you.” She acknowledged the request, and I moved out, followed by an agent. I don’t think they are so worried about any danger inside the building, but they always want somebody who knows exactly where I am every second of the day.

I went down to the Situation Room and looked around it approvingly. Through most of 2002 and into 2003 the room had undergone a massive overhaul, and now actually looked like something from the 21^st century. Josh Bolten, on the other hand, had not been happy at all, since the room is directly under his, and the vibrations had been so bad that coffee cups would move around on his desk. I let him cut the ribbon when they reopened it, and made sure he got a picture, which only slightly mollified him.

I stepped inside and saw the usual staffers peering into computer monitors. One came towards me and straightened up. He had eagles on his Air Force uniform. “Colonel Withers?”

“Thank you for coming, Mister President.”

I reached out to shake his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Colonel. I don’t think I’ve had the chance until now.”

“Just in passing, sir.”

“You said something about Liberia?”

He led me over to a chair at the head of a conference table facing a wall screen with a map of West Africa on it. “Yes, sir. Uh, Mister President, I am not sure just how much you know about Liberia, but they’ve had a civil war going on for a few years, and it has been heating up lately. Over the last few days things have been getting ugly.”

“You’ll have to give me a bit of a briefing, Colonel. I’ve never been there, but I know the grade school version. Small country, west coast of Africa, we set it up by sending back some freed slaves, the idea never really panned out, and now the place is pretty much a basket case like the rest of the continent,” I told him.

“That’s pretty much accurate. Ever since the Eighties the place has been in a constant state of war, as one rebel group after the other tries to overthrow the government and get their hands on the goodies. There is not much on the way of goodies, but if you control the government you can rifle the piggy bank of any foreign aid money that comes in as well as control exports of illegal commodities like blood diamonds and timber,” he explained.

“Sounds about right. Don’t get me wrong, Colonel, but you just described about three quarters of the shitholes south of the Sahara. What makes Liberia important to me today?” I asked.

He nodded. “Sir, like I said, there has been a constant string of rebellions aimed at overthrowing the government. As a general rule, that means taking control of Monrovia, the capital, which is where our embassy is, and everybody else’s embassy. Right now the rebels are about to take over Monrovia and it is getting ugly. Furthermore, Liberia is considered as being part of the American sphere of influence.”

“Which means we need to send in the Marines,” I finished for him.

“It has happened in the past, sir. We’ve been monitoring the situation there for some time now, but the most recent cables from the embassy are indicating a higher than usual sense of alarm. You need to be briefed on the latest developments. We can do this here and now, or provide a more formal response later,” replied Colonel Withers.

I glanced at the wall clock. Lunch was shot, and probably my afternoon as well. “You’re doing fine so far, Colonel. Who do you have here? State? CIA? Can you give me a briefing?”

“Yes, sir.” He turned to somebody else. “Jerry, let’s go with the map of Liberia and move to the map of Monrovia and the surrounding area.” The map on the screen changed and I put my glasses on to see it better. A few other analysts came over to participate and I was introduced to them.

The long and the short of it was that the current government was under the control of President-For-Life Charles Taylor, a homicidal maniac if ever there was one. There were two separate rebel movements, one in the north and one in the south, both of which wanted to replace Taylor and take all the marbles for themselves. From what I was hearing, they were as equally murderous as he was. America had avoided taking any sides because, aside from the human rights aspects of letting murderous cutthroats run loose, we simply didn’t care. The general rule was to let them kill each other off just so long as they left the embassy people alone. When they started getting rambunctious towards the foreigners, we would send in the Marines and rescue the foreigners, and let the locals simply kill each other. Eventually things would settle down, and we would let the foreigners go back or go home.

I listened to this, and when it started getting too detailed I closed it out. “What have we been hearing out of State on this? Are they in the loop? They must be.”

“Yes, sir. We simply get their feed as far as it involves possible military action.”

I nodded at that. Just then, somebody else in the room said, “Hold for a moment, he’s right here.” He looked over at the colonel and me and said, “Secretary Powell is on the line and looking for you, Mister President.”

I nodded at Colonel Withers. “Speak of the devil.” I motioned to the other officer and he hit a button on the phone and it rang to the one in front of me. “Colin?”

“Carl, I am hearing some very disturbing things out of Monrovia,” stated the Secretary of State.

“You caught me in a briefing on that. If you hadn’t called me, I was going to call you.”

“I think we need to discuss some possible emergency measures,” he told me.

I nodded to myself. “I was just getting to that. Let’s get the NSC to meet first thing Monday morning. I will pass the word. In the meantime, you stay on top of it, and I’ll do the same.”

“Agreed. I thought you would be aware of this, but it never hurts to check.”

“Also agreed. Talk soon.” We hung up, and I turned back to Colonel Withers. “Okay, so what do you want me to do about this? Is it time to send in the Marines? Who do we have available, anyway?”

He turned to somebody else. “Jerry, give me the big map.” A large map of Africa and the Southern Atlantic went up on the screen. “We have a few options, Mister President.” Several icons for ships went onto the map. “The nearest is the Tarawa Amphibious Ready Group, here, off the coast of Angola. They were doing some readiness training with the Angolans, but we can pull them out and send them towards Liberia by this evening. They will be in place by tomorrow night.”

“Okay, let’s make that happen. I want a formal presentation for Monday morning, for the entire National Security Council. I want an update and options,” I ordered. “Let the appropriate people know. Also, pass the word to the NSC about the meeting.”

He smiled and nodded. “Yes, sir, we’ll make that happen.” Around him the others nodded as well.

“Thank you, gentlemen, ladies. With any luck, this will all blow over. Is that it or can I go?”

“That was it, Mister President. Thank you for coming down.”

I left and headed up to the Residence. I didn’t need to let Marilyn know how the world was falling apart, so I watched some television and played with the dog, while she worked on some knitting. I didn’t even think all that much of it on Sunday. Nine times out of ten, these things fade away and blow over, and even though Charlie was with the Tarawa group, the odds that he would get involved were extremely low.

Monday morning at 9:00 the National Security Council met in the Situation Room. Josh was with me, and we grabbed Ari and dragged him along for good measure. Unlike the informal shirtsleeve atmosphere of Saturday morning, today everybody was in their Class As. This time the briefer was a Brigadier General Smith, from the Army, although I saw Colonel Withers hanging around in the background. I started by saying, “I assume everybody knows why we’re here. Has everybody had a chance to get some background on this?”

Most of the people just nodded and said yes. Colin Powell, the Secretary of State, said, “Yes. Nothing much has changed since we talked Saturday morning, but the overall tone I am getting out of Monrovia is that things are deteriorating.”

Vice President McCain said, “Cindy and I were in Phoenix over the weekend. I only learned yesterday about this in the PDB, but I had my NIO give me a followup.”

“Good.” You don’t play the game at this level without being prepared. I looked at the general. “Well, is it good news or bad?”

General Smith answered, “If it was good, sir, we would have let you know so that you wouldn’t need to be here. No, it’s bad and getting worse.” He launched into a slicker and smoother briefing than what I got from Withers the other day, but he covered much of the same ground. Eventually he got to the specifics, which were worrisome. “So, we have two rebel factions, each of which is supported by a neighboring country looking to grab some land or influence. In the southeast you have the Movement for Democracy in Liberia, which is funded by Cote D’Ivoire. In the northwest you have the Liberians United for Reconciliation and Democracy, which is backed by Guinea. Mind you, none of these guys actually are interested in democracy or reconciliation. It’s more like a pack of hyenas fighting over an old bone.”

I grimaced and nodded.

Smith continued. “The real nasties are the ones in the northwest, the LURD. They’ve been at this longer, and they’ve been committing atrocities just as much as Taylor and his bunch have. Again, nothing unusual there. The problem is that Taylor and what passes for the government is collapsing. Both rebel groups are surrounding Monrovia and beginning to press inward. Nobody is paying much attention to civilian status or noncombatants, but they are just killing everybody they see. LURD is the worst. LURD is beginning to mortar and shell the city, indiscriminately at first, but then they began targeting white owned and foreign sections of the city, including the embassy area.”

“Are we getting any evidence of formal anti-foreigner or genocidal rhetoric out of these groups?” asked Condi Rice.

“Yes, ma’am.” Smith pointed to somebody and a slide went up on the screen, and some red dots appeared on the map of Monrovia. “We are catching some radio traffic directing rebel units towards foreign residential districts, mortar and artillery attacks have been reported by French journalists — here and here — and a Belgian convent hospital was attacked this morning and the foreign-born nuns were brutalized and killed. I would also point out that only the white nuns and nurses were harmed. African — black African — individuals were simply beaten and sent down the road. Many of the whites killed were also African, but they were labeled as colonialists and foreigners.”

Neither Condi Rice nor Colin Powell made any kind of comment on this. They were the most senior African-Americans in the Cabinet, but the emphasis was on American with both of them.

I looked at Colin and asked, “What are you hearing from the Ambassador?”

“The ambassador is a man named Bismarck Myrick. I’ve checked his background and talked to him a couple of times. He’s been a Foreign Service Officer for years. Before that he was in the Army and saw a lot of action in Viet Nam. He’s got a Purple Heart, four Bronze Stars, and a Silver Star. I simply point that out to show that he knows combat and he doesn’t get nervous easily. He told me the place is as bad as he’s ever seen a situation, and he’s carrying a pistol under his jacket. There is recurring mortar fire in the embassy areas, from which side nobody really knows or cares, and the city is descending into anarchy.”

Tom Ridge whistled and said, “He went through all of that, and he ends up back in a hellhole like this? Oh, brother!”

I muttered, “Shit!” to myself and shook my head in disgust. Then I looked at Smith. “All right, let’s get these guys out of there. Did that amphibious group get into position?”

“Elements are in position now, sir.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

The map of West Africa went back up to the screen. “The Tarawa group consists of the Tarawa, a helicopter carrier carrying Harriers, helicopters, and about 2,000 Marines, the Duluth, an amphibious transport carrying more helicopters and another 900 or so Marines, and the Fort McHenry, a smaller amphibious transport, which carries about 400 Marines. These transports are accompanied by a protective screen of cruisers and destroyers, and always have a dedicated surveillance element of P-3 Orions and, in this case, a Los Angeles class attack sub.” Several bright blue lights showed up on the map. One was off the coast of Liberia, but the other two were still near Angola. “When you gave the order, the Duluth was in port in Luanda, and had to recall her sailors and Marines from training. The Tarawa and the Fort McHenry were ordered to sail ahead of the Duluth, but the Tarawa suffered an engineering casualty and was delayed. The Fort McHenry, accompanied by the Burke class destroyer Cole, went on ahead. The Tarawa managed to transfer a significant helicopter element to the Fort McHenry before she left. She and the Duluth are expected to be on station by this evening.”

“Uh, pardon me for sounding stupid, but what’s an engineering casualty? Was somebody hurt?” I asked.

General Myers, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, answered, “No, sir, it means the Navy broke their boat. It happens, probably in the turbine or drive train assembly. My understanding is that repairs are being made and they are already underway, but at a reduced rate of speed. They will be in place by tonight.”

“And if we need to do something before then?”

“Then the Marines on the Fort McHenry go in. They have air cushion landing craft and helicopters for transport, and some of the helicopters will be rigged for fire support. The Cole also has guns and helicopters. We will also be pursuing very limited results. Unless you say otherwise, our goal will be to protect the embassy and rescue the staff. We have the resources ready to do that, sir.”

I looked around the room. “Is that the goal? Rescue the embassy staff and let the locals kill each other? Or does anybody want us to do more?” I asked.

“What about the other embassies in the city? The French? The Belgians? Anybody else?” asked Condi.

“We need to consider it, Mister President,” added Colin. “If nothing else, it racks up some serious Brownie points with our allies. None of them have any ability to get in there until the middle of the week.”

I saw Myers and Smith nodding at that. John and the others chimed in also, in agreement.

I was on the verge of saying something when there was a sudden stir at the other end of the room. An Army major wearing a headset began saying, “Repeat that!.. Is that confirmed?… Hold for one…” He looked over at us and said, “We are getting reports from the embassy that mortar fire is now hitting the compound… Wait, what…” The last was said into the headset as his eyes scanned a monitor. “The fire has stopped for the moment, but casualties are reported… no dead… repeat… two light wounds… hold, please…”

“Who are you talking to, son?” I asked.

“I have Ambassador Myrick on the line, sir!”

Colin Powell sat upright at that. Normally the Ambassador would report to him, so things must really be turning to shit. “Let me talk to him, Major.”

“Please hold for the President,” the major said. He hit a button and a phone in front of me rang.

I picked it up. “Mister Ambassador?”

“Mister President, this is Bismarck Myrick, the Ambassador.”

“Ambassador Myrick, I gather you have your hands full. How bad is it?” I asked.

“Yes, sir. We just got hit with some mortar fire, 82 millimeter, I think. We took half a dozen rounds. Nobody was killed, but a couple of people caught some shrapnel,” he reported. He sounded a lot calmer than I would probably have been.

“Mister Ambassador. You are authorized to take any and all precautions. Break open the armory and make sure everybody is prepared. This has gone on long enough. I will be sending in some Marines shortly. Get everybody ready to go. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir. We haven’t seen any hostile troops yet, but we’re keeping a watch out. We’re picking up some foreign nationals, Europeans mostly. I authorized the guards at the gate to let them in,” he reported.

Well, that made up my mind about rescuing other people. I couldn’t leave them behind, like the pictures of the last helicopter out of Saigon. “Take care of them, Ambassador Myrick. Help is on the way.”

“Thank you, sir.” The line clicked off at that.

I set the phone down. “Well, you heard that. I don’t think we need to discuss the response.” I looked over at Myers. “Get them moving, General. Oh, and while we’re here, General, General…” I said to the two generals. “… I just want to let you know that Colonel Withers here gave me an excellent briefing on Saturday. Really, the entire staff did a fine job. I just wanted to make sure I said thank you, and pass that along.” I stood up. There was nothing else to do now on my part, and micromanaging things from thousands of miles away was a terrible idea. “I think we are done here for now. Colin, keep me informed on the Ambassador and his staff, and anything else from our allies. General, a moment of your time privately, please?”

The others began filing out, and I buttonholed General Myers in a corner. I lowered my voice so that it was private, and then said, “General, I don’t want to delay your handling of this. I’m not sure if you know, but my son is on the Fort McHenry as a Marine. I’m not exactly worried about him, but it has been pointed out that if an enemy were to know the son of the U.S. President was around, they would make very strenuous efforts to kill or capture him, probably endangering the lives of those around him.”

“Yes, sir, that is very much true, I am sorry to say.”

“Now, Charlie is getting out at the end of his hitch, and I have explained this to him. He is not happy, but he understands. I am not sure about whether anybody else would understand. If word came out that he was being held back by his father, it would be devastating to him. It wouldn’t be good for me either, but I’m a big boy. I can take the heat if I have to. An accusation of cowardice or favoritism would haunt Charlie the rest of his life,” I continued.

“I understand, sir. Mister President, it isn’t going to be that much of a problem. By this time tomorrow we’ll have another 3,000 Marines off the coast. For today, we’ll simply have a few platoons secure the embassy. If the rebels can delay until tomorrow, we won’t even need the Fort McHenry and her Marines,” he replied.

“We can’t let anybody know about this. It would destroy him,” I repeated.

“Understood, sir. I will handle it.”

“Thank you, General.” With that I headed to my office to deal with everything else that had piled up over the weekend.

I didn’t give Liberia much thought for the rest of the day, as I was tied up in budget meetings and plans for the next fiscal year. At lunch I was quietly informed that the embassy had been secured. I just nodded and went about my business. Charlie was safe on his boat, the Marines had landed, the embassy was secure. By tonight the evening news would be reporting that Monrovia was safe for Americans or some such bullshit. Ari told me that none of the networks had any offices in Liberia, but that they had access to freelance stringers with camera equipment. We were sure that the Marines would be on the news tonight, either as heroic liberators or jackbooted thugs, depending on the leanings of the network. The Europeans, especially the French, tended to take a very distasteful view of ‘American interventionism’.

Through the afternoon the situation deteriorated. The Liberians were waging a three sided war on each other, and God help anyone caught in the middle. We began to get reports, not from Ambassador Myrick, but from other sources that foreigners were being targeted, and killed. Myrick was getting as many of them to the embassy grounds as he could, and then sending them out on Marine helicopters to the Fort McHenry. The embassy itself was secure, though under intermittent attack, and he had directed the Marine commander to send out patrols to other embassies and bring back any personnel who wanted to evacuate.

I talked to Colin Powell mid-afternoon. I commented to him that I thought Myrick was doing the right thing, but I wondered if he had the legal authority to give the Marines orders. I got an answer back that surprised me. As ‘Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary’ Bismarck Myrick was the President’s personal representative and spoke with the President’s voice. There was actually considerable precedent to taking command of local armed forces, sometimes for good and sometimes not. At least our guy knew which end of the gun the bullets came out.

By the time of the evening news, Liberia had managed to make top billing on most of the networks, and a local stringer for ITN, an English independent network, was reporting about widespread violence, and that American Marines were landing and taking control of most foreign embassies, evacuating noncombatants and family members, as well as any other white faces they could rescue.

By the next morning it was being reported, both in the PDB and on the news, that the Marines had secured most of the foreign embassies and had evacuated hundreds of people to the ships at sea. The video footage was disturbing, especially over breakfast, with a number of shots of dead bodies lying in the street, a few craters, and smoking burned-out vehicles and storefronts. In addition to embassy personnel, there were reports of a convent rescued, as well as several Red Cross groups, and also some French journalists. I commented to Marilyn that the Frogs would undoubtedly find a way to blame this whole mess on us. She stuck her tongue out at me, since I frequently tease her on her family’s heritage.

I made a similar comment to Ari Fleischer at the morning staff meeting. He was undoubtedly going to be getting questions at the morning press conference, and I knew the Pentagon would be having a big press conference as well. That was why I had dragged him into the Monday morning NSC meeting. This was the first heavy use of troops I had ordered since the Afghan/Al Qaeda attacks in 2001.

Ari disagreed with me. “I’ve had Will and a few of the other staff members monitoring some of the European feeds, the BBC, the French networks, German, and so forth. We aren’t coming off badly. Ambassador Myrick’s decision to send rescue parties after everyone paid off. There are several reports that American Marines ended up in firefights with rebel groups while evacuating locations with various noncombatants in tow. A Belgian broadcast team, in fact, was with a clinic operated by some French doctors and nurses, and actually has footage of some Marines rescuing them and getting them to safety. It won’t play badly, Mister President.”

“Really? Good! I am going to want to decorate those men when they get home. Anybody who did well over there should be decorated. It’s important to recognize them, and not just for the sake of good publicity,” I replied. “Get in touch with the State Department, too. That Ambassador of theirs, Myrick, he seems to know what he’s doing. He and his people need to be recognized as well, whether by State or by me.”

“Good publicity doesn’t hurt. I’ll talk to the Pentagon later, State, too, and follow up.”

Things remained relatively quiet for the rest of the day. Mid-afternoon I received a heads-up from Colin Powell, and then took a call from President Chirac of France, thanking me for saving his citizens. I also took calls from a couple of other ambassadors, and was assured that their bosses would be calling in the next day or so.

That evening Monrovia made the top of the news again, and by now there was more video available. Tom Brokaw introduced the show, and then promptly turned it over to a report by a correspondent from ITN. It wasn’t anything I hadn’t already heard, but I suppose it sounded more official in a British accent. Watching with me were Marilyn and the girls, home from college for the summer. They had survived their freshman year, and the University of Maryland had survived them.

The next segment was introduced as ‘disturbing and graphic, and might not be suitable for all viewers, which simply guaranteed that everybody would want to watch it. It was introduced as footage of the American Marines rescuing a team of French nurses from a clinic being overrun by rebels. It had been gathered by a Belgian video team which had been with the French clinic when it was rescued. The video was very jerky, and quickly edited for television, and the voiceover started out in French, before being muted with an English accent translation overlaid on it.

“Holy crap!” exclaimed Holly.

“No shit!” added Molly.

“Language!” chided their mother.

It was riveting footage. There were a few jerky seconds of the camera running along down a street accompanied by women and children of several races and heavily armored Marines, who would occasionally turn and fire backwards behind them. It was explained that they were escaping from a clinic being overrun, and heading towards a central collection point with more Marines. The camera rounded a corner to where a couple of Marines were setting up what I recognized was a temporary local strong point. They were laying down covering fire from behind a small concrete wall and directing people behind the wall. As more of the Marines herded their charges behind the wall, they were adding their fire to the mix. Once the cameraman got behind the wall, the video footage settled down and was able to focus on the scene.

The problem came with the last group of Marines and refugees. Two large Marines were bringing up the rear, laying down fire behind them wildly while herding their charges, a blonde woman and two children. Both Marines, filthy and sweaty, were limping and obviously wounded but they continued performing their duty. Suddenly an explosion in the middle of the street forced this little group to the opposite side of the street from the others, ducking down behind a broken down car. One of the Marines hiding by the car fired downrange, and then handed his rifle to the other Marine, grabbed the two children, and picked them up. He ran wildly across the street towards the strongpoint, and it was obvious that he was hurt and bleeding. He staggered once but kept going, and got to the wall and tossed the kids over. Then he turned back and ran back towards the car.

At this point, one of the other Marines jumped over the wall to join him. He only made it halfway across the street before collapsing, at which point the first Marine turned and grabbed him by the back of his protective vest and dragged him back over to the others. The announcer said that he told everybody to stay where they were, and that nobody else needed to die but him. He ran back to the car, picked the woman up and began running back towards the strongpoint as the last Marine was laying down covering fire. The running Marine was immediately fired on again, and an explosion like an RPG round hitting the ground just missed him.

This crazy bastard dumped the blonde off and then ran back into the hail of bullets a third time and ran back to the other Marine. They both fired some more, and then stood to run back. The second Marine was hit, and the first Marine grabbed him and threw him over his shoulder. He wasn’t moving fast, but he was moving, and he got about halfway when another explosion behind him knocked them both to the ground. Still, the Marine managed to get back up and finish carrying his partner to safety before collapsing. The scene ended at that point, with the voiceover explaining they were rescued by more Marines. I had a very bad feeling that I was going to be calling a mother very soon to thank her for her son’s ultimate sacrifice.

At the end of the broadcast, I went into my study and called the Commandant of the Marine Corps, General Jim Jones. “General, I just wanted to tell you that I was watching the evening news and saw some footage of some of your boys. I don’t know if you’ve seen it, but it was quite amazing.”

“Thank you, Mister President. Yes, I have seen some of the footage, sir. These kids are really great kids.”

“How bad are the casualties, General? From what I saw, I can’t believe that there aren’t some serious casualties.”

“Actually they are very light. We have no KIAs, at least not yet, and only a few wounded.”

“I find that very hard to believe after what I just saw.”

“Understood, Mister President. I will speak to you about this soon.”

“Thank you, General. I will let you go. I appreciate what they did, so let them know,” I told him.

Afterwards I went back to the living room, and told Marilyn that I had thanked the Commandant of the Marine Corps, and told him that the Marines were almost as tough as paratroopers. She laughed loudly at me and told me she’d tell Charlie about that when he got home.

Wednesday morning, the 8:00 staff meeting was interrupted. There was a knock on the door and a secretary tuck her head in. “Mister President, the Commandant of the Marine Corps is here and would like a few minutes with you.”

He must have brought over the butcher’s bill for Monrovia. “Let’s fit him in right after the meeting.”

The door closed, but less than a minute later there was another knock and it opened again. “Mister President, the Commandant really needs to see you.”

I shrugged to the others and stood up. Out in the hallway was General Jones, accompanied by a naval officer, a captain, who looked Asian-American. “General, I really didn’t expect you to get me those casualty figures this morning. It could have waited, or you could have sent a message.”

“Uh, sir, that’s really why I’m here… Jesus, I don’t know how to do this…”

“General, what’s the matter?”

“Mister President, Monday evening, your son, Lance Corporal Charles Robert Buckman, was wounded in action in Monrovia.”

Chapter 154: A Summer Cruise

Things swirled around for a second and I slumped against the wall. The general and the captain grabbed my shoulders, but I didn’t faint or collapse. This was my worst nightmare, that Charlie would get killed in the service. Marilyn might have tolerated me in the service, and even allowed Charlie to go in, but this was going to just kill her. She would never forgive me.

“How… how did it happen?”

The captain answered, “Mister President! Mister President! He’s not dead, he was wounded. He’s not dead!”

I focused on him. “Who are you?”

“I’m Captain Hmong. I’m a doctor over at Bethesda. I talked to the doctors on the Fort McHenry. Your son was wounded, but he’ll be all right. He’s not dead! He was wounded. He’ll be all right!”

I looked around and found that the hallway was filled with people staring at me. John McCain and Condoleezza Rice were scurrying around the corner. I was maneuvered back into the Oval Office and towards an armchair, with my morning staff shuffling out of the way. John and Condi came in also.

I looked at the Commandant and the doctor again. “He’s not dead? He’s wounded?”

“Yes, sir. He’ll be fine. I’ve talked to the ship,” repeated Doctor Hmong.

“What happened? He wasn’t even supposed to get off the ship!”

General Jones sighed. “There was a breakdown in communications, sir. The Marines knew, but not the embassy.”

“What?” That made no sense to me.

“They needed everybody, sir. Every time a helo came back on board carrying refugees, it would load up with Marines and take them back into Monrovia. Sir, there are a million people in Monrovia, and we only had 400 Marines. Your son was in one of the last units sent in, and he was only supposed to be security at the American embassy. Instead, the Ambassador decided they needed to set up a collection point elsewhere and diverted the helo at the last minute,” he explained.

“Jesus Christ!” I exclaimed. “So, what happened to him?”

“Sir, did you see the film of the rescue of the nurses? It was playing on television last night.”

“I watched the NBC news. There was a segment with footage of some guys running across a street and getting shot at. One of them kept running back and forth before he died. He was covered with blood. I couldn’t believe they showed that,” I said.

“He didn’t die! That was your son! He was the one who kept running back and forth pulling people out!”

“No, I watched that, he couldn’t… no way that kid made it!” I protested.

The doctor answered, “He was all shot up, but it’s mostly shrapnel and flesh wounds. He lost a lot of blood but he’s back on the ship. He’ll make it. He’ll be fine.”

The Commandant added, “His CO put him up for the Navy Cross.”

“The Navy Cross?” In the Marines, the only medal higher than the Navy Cross is the Medal of Honor.

“Yes, sir.” He shrugged. “Realistically, he doesn’t quite rate the Navy Cross, so it will be downgraded to a Silver Star, which is what he actually deserves. You were in the service, sir, so you know how the game gets played.”

I did, too. In order to get your people the recognition they deserve, you generally have to overrate them, so they look good compared to some desk warrior whose only combat injury involved a loose staple and some paper cuts. The same occurred at promotion time, when a scruffy but great combat leader had to go up against some picture perfect PowerPoint commando.

As it was, the Silver Star was rated higher than my own Bronze Star, and could only be earned in combat. The worst thing was that I realized that the higher up the medal rates, the more likely you earn it posthumously. To get the Navy Cross he would have probably had to die…

Suddenly my stomach lurched. I stumbled into my adjoining bathroom and just made it to the toilet before breakfast came up. I heaved until I was empty, and only then noticed that I had been followed by the doctor. He helped me to my feet, and I washed my face at the sink. I felt every day of my 100 years at that moment. A hollow man stared back from sunken eyes in the mirror. “It’s just nerves, Mister President. You’ll be fine. Your son will be fine. We can probably get him on the phone.”

He led me back into the Oval Office, which was getting crowded by now. The White House Physician, Doctor Tubb and a nurse had joined us when they got the word I was throwing up. Also, in addition to the regular morning briefing team of Ari, Josh, and Mindy, we also had Frank, Carter, and Will crammed in, along with a couple of Secret Service agents. The room was packed. Meanwhile, John was ordering Josh and Ari, politely, to keep a lid on this until I wanted it released.

I pulled myself together. I knew what had to be done first. “Where is the First Lady?” I asked.

Will answered, “She’s here, upstairs, I guess, getting ready. She has a lunch with the Daughters of the American Revolution.”

I snorted in laughter at that. “The DAR? Good Lord! My family sat out the war, and Marilyn’s was in Canada at the time!” I shook my head. “I’ll need to see her right now. Where are the girls?”

One of the agents responded. “They are running with Stormy down on the Mall. Hold one…” He muttered into a hidden microphone, waited a moment, and then added, “Stormy just jumped in the Reflecting Pool!”

“Good Christ! Well, get them back here. This is my doing. I need to be the one to tell them.” He began muttering into his mike again. The agents on the twins’ detail would drive up with a War Wagon and hustle them inside. They would be back here in less than five minutes. To the others I said, “Whatever my schedule is today, it just got cancelled. We don’t say anything about this until I say we do. I will let you know as soon as I know something. Right now I have to tell Charlie’s mother her son has been shot. I think I’d prefer it have been me.” The room erupted in discussion, but I ignored it. To the general and captain, I said, “Gentlemen, on me,” and led them out of the room.

We went to the elevator and rode up to the Residence, but I didn’t go beyond the vestibule. The girls weren’t back yet, but I expected them momentarily. I lowered my voice and said, “We are going to wait until they are back. I can’t do this twice.” They just nodded in understanding.

About two minutes later, the girls and the dog, all of them looking thoroughly soaked, came up the elevator. Molly saw me standing there and said, “Daddy, what’s going on?! Stormy was in the Reflecting Pool, and when we dragged her out she got us all wet!” In emphasis, Stormy shook herself all over the twins again.

Holly was more succinct, especially when she saw a pair of officers with me. “What’s wrong?”

“We need to go inside and talk with your mother,” I told them.

“What’s wrong?” added Molly.

“Is it Charlie? What happened!?”

“Charlie is fine. Let’s go see Mom.” I ushered them into the living room, where I found Marilyn reading a short speech she was supposed to give about motherhood and apple pie, or some such nonsense.

She looked up and said, “What are you doing here so early? And why do our daughters look like drowned rats? What did they do now?”

“Mom!” squawked both the girls. If that fazed Marilyn, it didn’t show.

Marilyn stood up when she saw the visitors. “Hello.”

“Marilyn, please sit down. Girls, you too.” I said. I went to my wife and moved her towards the couch.

She must have noticed the Marine uniform. “What’s wrong, Carl? Is it Charlie? I thought you said he would be safe!”

“Let’s sit down, honey.” I pushed her down onto the cushion of the couch and sat next to her. Both our daughters had terrified looks on their faces. As soon as she was seated, and with me still holding her hands, I said, “Charlie’s been wounded, but he’s alive and is going to be okay.” The girls went into an uproar at this, but Marilyn turned white as a ghost. I just pressed on. “This is General Jones and Captain Hmong. The captain is a doctor and has talked to the doctors on Charlie’s ship. Charlie will be okay.”

Marilyn turned an icy glare on the two men. “What happened!?”

The general repeated his review of what happened, and Captain Hmong reported that he had talked to the surgeons who had treated Charlie, and that our boy would be fine. When he mentioned calling the ship, Marilyn jumped at it. I directed General Jones to a phone in my study and told him to set up the call. Monrovia was 5 hours ahead of us, so it was early afternoon local time. He came back in after a few minutes and said that it would be a few minutes and they would call when they had the connection.

Marilyn fixed him with a glare and said, “I’m not going anywhere. Are you?” I actually got to see a Marine general blanch and turn white.

Ten minutes later the phone rang, and we all crowded into the study. I put the phone on speaker and said, “This is the President. Who is this?”

“Hey, Dad, how’s it going?”

The voice was weak, and the reception was scratchy, but that was probably the best sound I had ever heard. The girls started shrieking and Marilyn started talking to Charlie, and I just collapsed into my swivel chair. After a bit, I tossed in my two cents, but Charlie just kept repeating he was fine and don’t worry about him. After five minutes, Doctor Hmong got on the phone and asked to talk to one of the doctors, and they spouted medical jargon at each other for five minutes. After that, Charlie talked to us again until a doctor on the ship said he needed some rest. The connection broke down after that.

“Mrs. Buckman, Lance Corporal Buckman will be fine but he needs some rest and healing. He lost a lot of blood, but that has been replaced, and he has a lot of stitches and scars in unusual places, and he’s in some pain so they have him on meds and antibiotics, but his prognosis is excellent. In a week or two he will feel like a new man, and in a couple of months he’ll be as good as new,” said Doctor Hmong.

“What do you mean, unusual places?” asked Holly, beating me to the punch.

The doctor made a wry face and said, “There was a penetrating trauma to the left gluteus maximus muscle.”

The girls looked perplexed, and Marilyn wasn’t much better, so I translated for them. “Your brother got shot in the ass.”

“Carl!” protested Marilyn, as the girls giggled.

The doctor shrugged and nodded. “More likely shrapnel from an RPG or a ricochet fragment, but that’s about right.”

“When can I see Charlie?” asked Marilyn.

“Well, he’s confined to the hospital on the Tarawa right now. He’ll be there for a few days, and then will be able to come home. The Tarawa group is actually scheduled to return to Norfolk as soon as they clean up in Monrovia, maybe another week. It might be easier to simply bring the lightly wounded home that way,” said Captain Hmong.

It was my turn to receive the death stare from Marilyn. “I want to see Charlie now!”

“Marilyn, he can’t be moved yet!” I argued. “He’s in the hospital! On a ship!”

“TODAY!”

“Marilyn!”

“Do you still own a plane? Do you want to bet I can’t call and have that warmed up!?”

“Uh, yeah, sure.” I took the coward’s way out and turned to the Commandant. “General?”

“Give me a few minutes, and we will make it happen. I can probably arrange it from the Situation Room,” he replied.

I popped to my feet. “Here, let me go with you. Maybe I can help.” The three of us beat feet out of there.

Once we got out of the room, I asked, “When did this happen? I thought that rescue was on Monday? How come I didn’t hear about it until today?”

General Jones actually looked embarrassed at that. “It’s sort of your fault, sir. I mean, everybody here knows your son is a Marine, and everybody on the Fort McHenry knew he was a Marine, but the computers still had him down as Robert NMI Buckman of Washington, D.C. When they sent the signal through to the Pentagon, they pulled up his official address and sent a notification team there last night. That’s when they were told by the Secret Service where to actually go, and they turned around and went back to the Pentagon to figure out what to do.”

I grunted at that. We went down to the Situation Room, where the general did his thing, and I just sat there and contemplated my navel. It’s one thing to whistle up the G-IV and tell them to fly somewhere, but how do you get to a ship in the middle of the ocean? It was going to take some doing, but the Abraham Lincoln carrier group was in the process of rushing to the area, to relieve the Tarawa group and show the flag. If we got Marilyn to Naval Air Station Oceana, just outside of Virginia Beach, she could catch a COD flight to the Lincoln. From the Lincoln they could fly her on a helicopter to the Tarawa. She could be there in 24 hours.

The captain we left hanging around the lobby while General Jones and I headed back to the dragon’s lair. Marilyn simply nodded and said, “When do I leave?”

I needed to get in control of this clusterfuck at some point. “Marilyn, we can probably do this today, but you need to do something for me.”

“What?”

“I am going to get a lot of heat over this, about using the power of my position to send my wife halfway around the world on the taxpayers’ dime. How come she can do it when all the other mothers can’t? — that sort of thing. Now, I will pay the bill, and take the heat, but if we are doing this, you need to do some schmoozing while you are out there. You get on a ship, you do the tour and shake hands and wave and smile and take pictures, okay.”

“Oh, I can do that, I suppose,” she said, quite amicably. Suddenly I thought I might come out of this with my marriage still intact. (If the President and the First Lady get divorced, who gets to keep the White House? Maybe I should ask Bill and Hillary.)

I grabbed a phone. “Please send Ari and that doctor up to the Residence. Thank you.”

“What about us? Do we get to go?” asked Molly.

“No, and neither does Stormy. That would be all the Navy needs, the three of you loose on a warship! We’d probably end up at war with somebody!”

“Daddy!” protested her sister.

“No!”

When Ari showed up with the doctor from Bethesda, we gave him the rundown on what was happening. I simply figured he would want to issue a press release and say something at the press conference. No, that was not at all what Ari had in mind. “Mister President, let’s be honest here. Your son is a wounded in action certified hero as seen on national television! The First Lady is going to fly around the world on Navy planes to see him, when no other mother can do that. This is news! We need to handle this properly.” He turned to General Jones. “General, can we send a reporter or two on this junket?” He looked at me and held up a hand. “That’s what the media is going to call this, true or not.”

“Yes, probably several people. We’re going to send a Marine escort with the First Lady to show her around,” he replied. That was news to me, but I suppose it made sense.

Ari nodded. “Send both a man and a woman, and I’ll line up a couple of reporters. Nothing big, though.”

“Who are you planning on sending, Ari?” I asked.

“Depends on who I like and dislike when I get downstairs. General, this is going to break tomorrow morning. Have your press people call us here to coordinate our response. Doctor, you will need to brief me on Charlie’s wounds. Mrs. Buckman, give him our best!” He stood up and said, “I need to work on this, Mister President.”

“Go, Ari. I’ll talk to you in a bit.”

My day was totally shot by now, and Marilyn cancelled her lunch. I stayed with Marilyn and the girls as they all stewed and tried to figure out packing. After about an hour, I was rescued by the Marines, in the form of a pair of Marine Gunnery Sergeants, one of whom was a woman! That was probably the most surprising thing of all to me, and only went to show I was a hopeless dinosaur.

Ari called me down to his office before this was all done. In with him was Jennifer Loven, a reporter for the Associated Press, and Greg Kelly, from Fox News. Everybody stood up when I came in the office, and once inside, Ari moved around and closed the door. “Mister President, I found a couple of volunteers for you.”

Jennifer looked at Ari and said, “Is that what we are? Volunteers? What have I been volunteered for?”

“I used to be a Marine, Ari. I can remember being volunteered before. What’s going on?” added Greg.

Ari Fleischer deferred to me. “Mister President?”

“Mister Kelly, do you have a cameraman who can handle remote broadcasting by himself,” I asked.

Ari nodded and Greg said, “Yes. Why?”

“I am asking the both of you to buy a pig in a poke. I will explain what is happening but only if you both agree, right now, not to tell anybody, not even your bosses, the details, at least not until tomorrow. This will be a very exclusive story, but it needs to remain secret for one more day. If you say no, we will swap you out before we tell you. There will be travel involved.”

Greg said, “What the hell!? Excuse me, Mister President, sorry about that.” He looked over at Jennifer.

She just nodded and shrugged. “Okay, I’ll bite. I’m in. What’s up?”

I looked back at Greg. He threw his hands up and said, “Sure, why not?”

I nodded to myself and glanced at Ari, who shrugged his shoulders and nodded as well. “Okay, here’s the short version. My son got all shot up in Monrovia the other day. The First Lady is going to be flying out to see him. We don’t want to announce this until tomorrow, but she is leaving this evening. You two, plus your cameraman, Greg, will be traveling with her. This is going to be an exclusive for you. This won’t be your average trip, either. We are arranging to send her out to the ships, and you’ll report from the middle of the ocean.”

“Oh my G… Yes sir, I’m in!” he said.

“How is your son, Mister President?” asked Jennifer.

“He’s pretty banged up, but he’ll make it. Did either of you see the video footage of the Marine who was running through enemy fire to rescue people?” They both nodded at that. “That was him.”

“I thought that kid died!” she said.

“No, but he did get wounded. I pretty much thought the same thing. Now, are you two both going to keep quiet and go along with this? I am betting you’ll get some nice reporting out of it. You’ll probably be gone a week or more,” I asked.

“Can we tell our bosses?” he asked.

I glanced at Ari, who said, “Tell them you will be away on an assignment, and that they cannot release that information, and that I will confirm it if they call me. Then at the press conference tomorrow, when this comes out, it will be explained that two reporters are traveling with Mrs. Buckman.”

They both agreed to that, and I said, “Okay, then. Let’s get this show on the road. Both of you follow me.” We headed up to the Residence, and found the most astonishing sight. Marilyn was standing there in a Marine Corps BDU and combat boots, with one of those hats they call a cover perched on her curls, and wearing web gear and a backpack. She was grinning wildly as I came in. “Holy Christ!” I exclaimed. “They’re drafting midgets!”

“Who says paratroopers are so tough!?” she replied. She shifted around with her backpack.

“Well, now I can die happy, because I have surely seen everything,” I said.

Jennifer Loven began fumbling through her purse and came out with a small digital camera. “I have to get a shot of this!”

“What’s going on?” asked Marilyn.

“These are your ghost writers. They are going to help you write your book, What I Did On My Summer Vacation.” Greg snorted at that, and Jennifer laughed and kept taking photos. “They are a couple of reporters. If I am sending you to see the troops, they are going to go with you.”

“Good idea, Mister President.” That was spoken by a naval lieutenant off to the side.

“Who are you?”

“Lieutenant Patrick Swanson, Public Information Officer. I will be accompanying the First Lady and her team.”

I eyed him curiously. He was in his late twenties, and a naval lieutenant is the same as an army captain, an O-3. “Oh, okay. What’s the plan? What’s next? These two need to collect a cameraman and get some clothing and gear, I guess.”

“Let me handle that, sir. We’ll fly out of here at 1900. Let me talk to these folks for a moment, and then we’ll get out of your hair.”

I let him do his job, and went over to my wife. “Of all the ridiculous getups I’ve ever seen you wear, this has to take the cake!”

“Here, take this, it’s heavy,” she said, trying to shrug out of the backpack.

I grabbed it and she managed to wriggle free. “I’m not impressed. Paratroopers wear chutes heavier than this, and top that off with an even heavier combat load.”

“When will we leave and get there?”

I tossed the pack onto a chair and sat down with her on the sofa. I threw an arm around her shoulders. “You’ll leave at 1900 or so. They’ll fly you down to Oceana and load you on a transport and take off. No idea how long that flight takes, but I guess you’ll land on the Lincoln in the early morning. After that, no idea. I don’t know if you’ll be close enough to fly from there, or if you have to sail closer. Probably tomorrow evening.”

“I thought you knew this kind of stuff.”

“The Navy and the Marines aren’t as precise as the Army, dear.”

“I am going to tell your son you said that!”

“So what? He’s in the hospital. I can probably beat him up,” I replied. She laughed at that, and I added, “Now, seriously, I know the first thing you are going to want to do will be to see Charlie, but you’re not just a mother, you’re the First Lady. I want you to visit the ships, talk to the sailors and Marines, pose for pictures, all that sort of thing. Can you do that for me? It’s important.”

“Of course! It should be fun!”

I smiled to myself as I considered that. I had seen pictures of a C-2 COD landing on a carrier deck; it looked like a controlled crash. It definitely didn’t look like fun! Still, I let her prattle on, half out of nervousness. We had a light lunch, after the PIO guy took the reporters out, and the two Gunnies joined us and told us some more of the planning. They had both seen sea duty several times and seemed to know what they were doing. After lunch I went back downstairs and did some more paperwork and reading.

They actually didn’t get off the ground until about 2000. I received a call later, when the C-2 lifted off, and then I went to bed. I got another call in the morning that they had landed on the Lincoln, and would be transferring to the Tarawa that afternoon. In between, I would be having my own version of fun, a joint press conference with the Pentagon.

We went with the zoo to the Pentagon, and Ari and I met with their PIO. He would handle the initial press briefing, and then make the announcement that Charlie was wounded and the First Lady was flying out to meet with the wounded and the refugees. The good news came from a phone call right before the briefing, from Colin Powell. Charles Taylor, the President-for-Life had bugged out and surfaced in Nigeria. In the meantime, Ambassador Myrick was negotiating a ceasefire with the various rebel groups and trying to bring some order into the chaos that was Monrovia. Colin seemed to think he would pull it off, too, and I told Colin that when this was done, I wanted to see the man and congratulate him; we needed smart thinkers and he seemed to fit the bill. I was too cynical to believe it would last, but maybe the next time the place blew up it would be on somebody else’s watch. Depending on how well the talks worked out, Colin could do his own press conference in a day or so.

The Pentagon press room was packed, since the word had gone out that I would be attending. The initial briefing was presented by a Marine Corps colonel, with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the Commandant of the Marine Corps, and the Secretary of Defense and me standing off to the side. The briefing started out with a timeline on Operation Green Delta, which was named for the operational plan that ended up being used (Green plan, Delta variant.) We had thrown it together so hastily we didn’t have time for a fancy name. For this briefing, however, they were able to put together a slick PowerPoint and video presentation.

“Thank you for attending. My name is Colonel Ross Duvalier and I will be presenting this briefing. Following the briefing, there will be a question and answer period. I would request that you not ask questions until that time, and that you also turn off your cell phones or pagers. There will be handouts at the end of the briefing.” Colonel Duvalier waited a moment for the inevitable stir and buzzing as some people turned off their phones. “Now, let me begin with a timeline.”

With that the colonel threw up on the screen a brief timeline of when the embassy began signaling their concern and about when Secretary of State Powell and I were informed, along with when I decided to send in the Marines and the Navy, and right through to the present time. I figured Colin and a few people were watching this live, so they would know what they were going to have to respond to on the diplomatic side. This was going to be a big story again today, though by next week it would be ancient history. Duvalier finished with, “… the latest reports, still unconfirmed, indicate that Liberian President Charles Taylor has managed to escape from Monrovia to Nigeria. You’ll need to confirm that with the State Department.”

He continued, “As of this moment, a ceasefire is in place between the various factions in Monrovia, though there do seem to be isolated incidents of violence. That is probably to be expected. In any case the shelling of our embassy and the embassies of foreign governments has ceased, and the operations of nongovernmental organizations such as the Red Cross and Doctors Without Borders are no longer being targeted. I am pleased to report that Marine casualties have been generally light, with no, I repeat, no American forces killed in action. There have been several Marines wounded, some seriously, though they are all now being treated for their wounds and are all expected to survive. The most serious of these wounds came during a firefight during the relief and rescue of a French and Swiss medical clinic on the outskirts of Monrovia. In this instance a Marine patrol was sent to evacuate the clinic and did so, but in the process their vehicle was destroyed by enemy fire. They then evacuated the area on foot, while taking heavy enemy fire and sustaining several casualties.”

“When this Marine patrol rescued the clinic, a Belgian team of journalists was taking refuge there, and they recorded a lot of the rescue and escape, much of which has been played on network television. I have been asked to show this and comment on the situation.” With that he hit a button and the video of Charlie’s squad began playing, with Duvalier commenting occasionally over the recorded chaos. I was struck, much like I had been the night we watched this on NBC, by how chaotic it was, and by my disbelief that these kids remained alive.

When it got towards the end of the video, Colonel Duvalier stopped the movie and reported that the Marine who had jumped out to help Charlie, and was hit running across the street was Private First Class Tyrell Bird of Detroit, Michigan, and his condition was serious but stable, and he was expected to make a full recovery. He threw a picture up on a separate screen of Private Bird in his dress blues. Then he started it up again, and this time commented on the Marine that Charlie had helped across the street at the end, who Charlie had ended up carrying. That was Sergeant Harold Blackhawk of Cucamonga, California, and he was suffering from multiple shrapnel wounds but was also expected to make a full recovery. Duvalier then threw up a picture of Sergeant Blackhawk in dress blues. Finally he got to Charlie.

“The Marine who carried both Private Bird and Sergeant Blackhawk to safety, along with the last of the refugees, was also seriously wounded.” Duvalier hit a button and a shot of Charlie’s blood and smoke covered face came up from where he was getting up in the road to pick up his buddy, and then he hit a button and Charlie’s dress picture came up. “This is Lance Corporal Charles Robert Buckman of Hereford, Maryland. Lance Corporal Buckman suffered multiple penetrating trauma, including shrapnel, ricochet fragments, and two bullets.”

Nobody heard shit after the word ‘Buckman’ came out of Duvalier’s lips. Just enough people knew that was the name of my son, and everybody began calling out questions, not to the colonel, but to me. We all knew this was going to happen, and when it did, Colonel Duvalier looked over at me and I simply nodded to him. He stepped back and away from the podium and I stepped forward. I held my hands up and signaled for everybody to settle down. It was my turn.

“Thank you, thank you, now, I’ll make a brief statement and then answer some questions.” The room quieted down, and I was able to continue. “Yes, to the question whether Lance Corporal Buckman is my son, yes he is. Like most of you, I watched the video we just saw, an edited version, on the news Monday night, and like you, I couldn’t believe the courage of these fine young men. Marilyn and I only learned that Charlie was involved and was wounded yesterday morning, when the Commandant came to see me to inform us. Charlie’s wounds are serious, but he is expected to fully recover. We were able to speak to him yesterday. Now, one at a time, please.”

Instantly a sea of hands shot into the air. I picked one out at random.

“Mister President, when you saw the footage did you realize that was your son?”

I shook my head. “No, we had no idea. All we saw was a bunch of incredibly brave guys in body armor who looked really dirty and beat up. When I saw that footage, I thought for sure I was going to have to make a phone call to a mother somewhere to give her my condolences!”

Another voice spouted up, “Mister President, when were you informed?”

“The Commandant and a Navy doctor made the notification yesterday morning. We are Charlie’s next of kin.”

There were several more questions along this line, and then I was asked, “Will you be giving your son a medal?”

I sighed. I knew that was coming! “At the time the Commandant informed us that Charlie was wounded, he also informed us that Charlie’s commanding officer had recommended him for a decoration. I am sure that Charlie will not be the only Marine who is decorated. I have nothing to do with the criteria for the awarding of decorations and medals, and will not be involved in that. As both the President and Charlie’s father, I have to admit that if my son is to be decorated, I will be extremely proud to do so.”

At that point Colonel Duvalier came over and took my place at the podium. He gave a brief description of the method the Marines used to determine whether a decoration had been earned and the process involved. The fact of the matter was that nothing he said mattered. There would be people who simply would refuse to believe that Charlie being given a medal wasn’t a political move on my part. If Charlie were to die, they would claim I had sent him to his death to gain sympathy and win re-election.

I got back to the podium and took the bull by the horns. “I am perfectly aware that if my son were to be given a medal, there are plenty of people out there who will think he has gotten it because of who I am, and not what he did. Let me put it a different way, however. If Lance Corporal Buckman did act heroically, should he not be decorated because of who I am? I have to tell you, when Marilyn and the girls and I first saw that footage on Monday night, I thought for sure I was going to be giving somebody an award posthumously. We couldn’t believe that Marine, whoever he was, wasn’t killed saving those people.”

“What was the First Lady’s reaction?”

I had to smile at that. “I think you could say she was rather upset, as I was. That was her first reaction. Her second reaction, after we learned that Charlie would recover, was that she demanded to see him, like yesterday.” I looked over at the Commandant and smiled at him. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Marine general as nervous as when we told Marilyn the other day. I think he would have preferred charging into cannon fire, and I would have been right behind him!” General Jones laughed at that and nodded. “We compromised. I sent the First Lady on a tour of the Tarawa Amphibious Group. She and a few of your fellow reporters should be there later today. Now, while I am sure she is going to go see Charlie first, she is also planning on meeting with the sailors and Marines of the entire amphibious group, and to thank them and congratulate them all on a job well done.”

There was another hooraw over that! How could I send my wife, when none of the other mothers could go? (We didn’t have time to arrange it. We would be scheduling time to make sure everybody wounded would be able to call home, if they hadn’t already done so.) Why didn’t she take anybody else with her? (We didn’t have time to arrange it. We already answered this. They kept asking anyway.)

Why should the American public pay for this personal use of taxpayer funds? The last question was the easiest to deal with. Jim Miklaszewski of NBC News asked it, so I put him right on the hot seat. “Mik, that’s a fair question. The answer is that the American public won’t be paying for it. I expect to be getting a bill from the Navy, and I’ll have to pay that.”

“You’ll be paying it? It will cost millions to send Mrs. Buckman and a team of reporters to the middle of the ocean!” he exclaimed.

“Probably so. So now I have an assignment for you! At the end of this press conference you will be escorted somewhere here in the Pentagon, and somebody will figure out what this is going to cost. You are then going to report that number, and bring a camera crew over to the White House, where you can film me writing a check. That ought to be good for a few minutes on prime time, right?” I left him standing there open-mouthed and flummoxed. In fact, the Navy was going to have to scramble to figure this out, but it would get him out of my remaining hair.

The ‘Monrovian Rescue’ occupied a lot of news time, right through the weekend. By the next day Greg Kelly began reporting from the Lincoln and the Tarawa about the First Lady’s tour, as well as a variety of stock shots of F-18s flying combat patrols over Monrovia. The patrols began flying as soon as the Lincoln got close enough to launch them with adequate tanker support, and proved highly useful in settling down the locals. By Thursday all the networks had managed to get broadcast teams to Monrovia, and Bismarck Myrick proved an interesting sight, showing up in khakis, a short sleeve shirt, and combat boots, wearing a Viet Nam era flak jacket open in the front (rendering it useless, but it made for good video) and a pistol at his side in a web belt. At one sticky point during the negotiations, he ordered a flight of F-18s to do a low flyover with the afterburners roaring, which busted a bunch of windows and calmed things down again. I always liked Teddy Roosevelt’s comment about speaking softly and carrying a big stick, but it was a good idea to show the stick every once in awhile!

The Monrovia airport reopened the day before the gators were to leave. When it did, a lot of the refugees were shuttled to the airport, and rescue flights were sent down from Paris and Geneva to take people who wanted to leave to Europe. Not everybody did. Many people headed back to their embassies or wherever they started out. Either way, they left the ships, because they had several days of sailing to do.

Marilyn proved very popular with the Navy and the Marines! She has a sunny disposition at the worst of times, and is very good with individuals and small groups. As soon as the Navy saw her wearing that ridiculous Marine BDU, they scrounged up a set of enlisted coveralls and she rolled up the sleeves and legs on those. Marilyn’s a good looking woman, and what she did to the front of those coveralls was quite interesting! As expected, as soon as she could get to the Tarawa, she went down to see Charlie, and they both called me from his hospital berth (or whatever they call it on a ship — squids have to do everything differently!) After that, however, she managed to tour each and every ship in the little fleet as they sailed back towards Norfolk. Gators, destroyers, cruisers — she even got loaded onto a helicopter and put in a sling, to be winched down onto the Alexandria, an Improved Los Angeles class attack sub, which then dived and took her down to show her submarine operations. If somebody didn’t meet her, it was their own fault, because she seemed to be everywhere. She looked to be having a grand time cruising with the Navy!

The Sunday morning news shows focused on the Monrovian Rescue. Tom Ridge, Condi Rice, and Colin Powell made the rounds. This was the first ‘foreign relations crisis of the Buckman Administration’ (never mind that little thing we did destroying the Taliban and Al Qaeda) and we were on the hot seat. Despite the fact that approval for our response was in the high 80s, there were plenty of critics convinced that if they had been in charge we could have done it better, or without the Marines, or faster. A few other voices demanded to know why we had done anything; let the damn place go to hell, clear out our people only, and let the Europeans rescue their own people. Oh, and no matter what we did, we didn’t show enough ‘leadership’ in the crisis. It’s easy to criticize from the cheap seats.

One of the more interesting segments of it all was when Miklaszewski found himself escorted to the bowels of the Pentagon with a couple of Navy O-4s, who figured out the cost of flying Marilyn and the others out to the Lincoln, and then to the Tarawa, and feeding them for a week. He was presented a copy of the bill, and a separate copy was sent through different channels and I got it. Later, after Ari was questioned at a press briefing, he had to explain the rules about what the government paid for and what I had to pay for, and then reminded everybody that all of my paycheck went to the Red Cross, so I was a net loser on this.

One of the more pathetic episodes was when a commentator on CNN announced that Charlie wasn’t actually the Marine who had been wounded, and that the Pentagon was faking the whole thing to make me look good and get a bigger budget. He had this on the basis of secret and classified reports that couldn’t be actually shared, and eyewitness testimony from sailors, who couldn’t give their names out of fear of reprisals. ABC and the Washington Post then commissioned a study using facial recognition software that analyzed video captures from the combat footage and compared it to pictures of Charlie, and proved it was him after all. CNN stopped pushing the theory, but refused to disavow their pundit.

It was the following Friday when the Tarawa was scheduled to dock in Norfolk. Marilyn had stayed with the fleet the entire way home, and I promised her that the girls and I would travel down to greet them. They were scheduled to dock at about 0900, and disembark not too long after that. Ari let the networks know and that was my schedule for the day.

Tom Ridge flew down with us. I was eagerly looking out the windows of Marine One as we flew over the gigantic naval base. It was the girls who saw the ship first, out their side of the helo, and I twisted to look at what they were pointing at. The Tarawa looked huge, but I knew that compared to the Lincoln and the other attack carriers she was a lot smaller. As we closed in and slowly dropped in for a landing, I realized that they had some sort of platform and podium set up down at one end of the deck, and that the deck was crowded with what looked like hundreds of sailors and Marines. I was dressed in relatively casual clothes, of slacks, sport shirt, and a sport coat, without a tie. The twins wanted to wear skirts, but I told them that they would be on a deck fifty feet up in the air, in a stiff breeze, and in front of a thousand guys. Maybe they wanted to reconsider? Molly said ‘Yes!’ and Holly said ‘No!’ and I ruled in favor of jeans and conservative tops.

We landed on the Tarawa in a small circle near the stern, and after the Sikorsky’s engines started winding down, somebody with big earmuffs on and some kind of jumpsuit ran out and the door to Marine One opened. I unbuckled and stepped out and down, to be saluted by a petty officer of some sort. I returned the salute, and he yelled over the noise, “Welcome to the Tarawa, sir!”

“Thank you very much!” I yelled back. I waited a few seconds for the girls to un-ass the bird, and then we followed the petty officer away from the helo and towards the bow. There was a pathway cleared through the crowd, and I waved to the crowd, which was cheering wildly.

I had requested that most of the formal honors I could expect were to be dispensed with. If we were to be picky, I needed a band playing ‘Hail to the Chief’, a bunch of ‘Ruffles and Flourishes’, sideboys, a boatswain’s mate piping me aboard, and God only knows what else. It was pretty ridiculous most of the time, especially for an informal visit to see some wounded Marines. During most of my troop and ship visits, I requested this stuff to be cut back. We worked our way forward, and as we got to where the platform was, I saw that there was a rope line set up to keep everybody back a few feet. On the platform were several Navy and Marine officers, and probably the shortest and bustiest Marine in the Corps. Marilyn was there in that silly outfit. Off to one side were several wheelchairs, and seats, and Charlie was there, but he was standing, a bit awkwardly, along with the others, several of whom were supporting each other.

For some reason that made me angry, that these wounded men were required to come to attention. I went over to them, and hugged Charlie and shook hands, but I said, “You should be sitting down!”

I must have said it sharper than I should, because Charlie answered, “Dad, if it was you, would you sit before the President?”

That took the wind out of me. My eyes popped open, and I responded, “No, of course not. Gentlemen, I meant no disrespect. Please, for my sake, have a seat. I’ll talk to you all again in a few minutes.” I nodded to my son, and then climbed to the platform, where the twins were already hugging their mother.

Marilyn I hugged tightly, lifting her off the platform, much to the cheers and laughter of the crowd. “I missed you!”

“Me too!”

I set her back down. I shook hands with everybody up there, and was quickly introduced, but thankfully I had been given a list of important names before we took off, and they all had name tags on. Then I was directed to the podium.

“Sailors and Marines of the Tarawa Expeditionary Strike Group, I wish to welcome you home, and to say to each and every one of you, Bravo Zulu!” Bravo Zulu was a two letter code group used by naval forces to mean ‘Well Done!’ “Your nation thanks you, and I thank you!”

The place erupted in wild cheering. I smiled and waited it out a bit, and when it quieted down some, I held out my hands for some calm. “All right, then, I have no intention to keep you long. I know a lot of you have family waiting for you, and I don’t want to keep you away from them.” With that, I praised them some more, commenting on the thousands of miles they had sailed, all that had been accomplished on their deployment, and thanked them for the lives they had saved in Liberia. I finished with, “You have made your nation proud, and you have made me proud! Thank you!”

There was more cheering. I was figuring to turn it over at that, but none of the officers were moving, and there were a lot of very suspicious grins. In fact, several of the Marines and sailors spoke up and seemed to be egging my wife on! “Go on, Mrs. B, you can do it!” was heard, and several of them were pointing to the podium. I stood there curious, especially when one very young looking Marine hopped up to the podium, knelt and did something with some wires, and then stood and handed something to my wife. He pointed towards the podium, and nodded, saying, “Go on, say it, just like we practiced!” He handed her something that looked like…

… a remote detonator! She took it from him gingerly, and then stepped up to me at the podium. She had to stand on tip-toes, but she sang out, “FIRE IN THE HOLE!” and then looked at the kid. He nodded and pointed, and she hit the button.

Suddenly, behind me, I heard a series of loud bangs! I whipped my head around and saw puffs of smoke on the side of the bridge, where a big steel panel was. I thought it was part of the ship, but it slowly tipped forward and it was hinged on the bottom. It fell open, banging into the ship loudly, and a string of fireworks went off inside. There, painted in bright white on the side of the bridge, was:

HEY DAD! THE MARINES ARE TOUGHER THAN PARATROOPERS!

I just stood there in disbelief, my jaw dropped to the deck, completely flabbergasted! Around me the entire ship was rocking in laughter, and Marilyn was leading them. Behind me I heard my son crowing, “YES!”

Vaguely floating through my mind was that this was still a whole lot better than George Bush and his Mission Accomplished banner, but really! I just shook my head in defeat. This was going to be all over the news, and Marilyn came up and hugged me, even as she laughed at me. “Charlie’s told me he’s been wanting to do that for four years!” she said.

“You and Charlie are about to be kicked out of the house!” I replied.

I stepped back up to the podium, and grinned as they quieted back down. I glanced back at the grinning captain, and asked, “Do they still have flogging in this man’s Navy?” Everybody began laughing again, and the captain replied in the negative, though nobody heard him. “No? That’s all right, Ensign Bowling. I am sure we will find something to reward your service.”

There was a lot more laughter at that, especially from Captain Bowling, the commanding officer. I waited a moment and continued. “Well, there is only one way to settle this! We’ll do this the old fashioned American way, this fall, at the Army-Navy game! Sound good?” More cheering, and then I finished, “But we are going to make this a little more sporting! The winners will be invited to a delicious five course meal at the White House, my treat. The losers, however, will be eating cold MREs at our newest base, Fort Frostbite, located somewhere north of the North Pole! How about that?” More cheering! “And may the best Army win!” More laughter and a few boos.

Well, I had nothing to say after that. What could I say? My wife and children had kicked me to the curb! I turned it over to the captain, and he said a few things, and then the crew and Marines were released and given leave. Sick berth attendants wheeled the wounded back below, and Marilyn, the girls, and the dignitaries followed them. I needed to thank each of them. Marilyn introduced me to all of them, including Private Bird, who commented that ‘a sucking chest wound is nature’s way of saying to take it easy.’ Very true! He was the worst hit of the men, and would take a bit longer to recover. The others were all going to be given a final checkup and then released to their families. Charlie would fly back with us. While that was going on, Tom and I spoke to Captain Bowling about the deployment. He was going to be visiting the Pentagon, I was sure, and we needed to make sure he and the Marine commander were properly recognized, along with their men and ships.

After Charlie was released, we went back to Marine One and flew back to the White House. It looked to me like half the staff was waiting for us, and when Charlie exited the bird, he got a big round of applause. Also waiting for us was Stormy and the medical staff. Stormy rushed up and tried to lick Charlie to death, but didn’t manage to knock him on his ass. Doctor Tubb and one of the nurses grabbed Charlie and dragged him off to the infirmary for a quick review. Charlie needed rest and recuperation, and a daily visit to the infirmary until he was completely healed up.

Chapter 155: Muddling Through

Charlie was supposed to stay with us for about three weeks before he headed back to Camp Lejeune. I took a look at him one day when he was swimming in the pool and had on just a pair of swim trunks, and there were a lot of scars and wounds all over. I still didn’t understand how he hadn’t died. He commented that it was the clean living, and I told him that must have been somebody else, since he didn’t know the meaning of the words.

Charlie mostly seemed the same old Charlie I had always known, but Monrovia had left some other scars on him as well. Every few nights he would get moody, and Marilyn commented to me that our son was going through a lot of beer. A couple of weekends after he got to the White House, I was directed to talk to him, and not by my wife, but by the Chief Usher. A few of the staff people were worried about him. I found him just sitting in one of the gardens on a lawn chair, and sipping from a bottle of Jim Beam, and just staring off into nowhere. I grabbed a matching chair and set it down to his left, and took the bottle from him. Charlie gave me a dirty look, but I took a sip from it myself, and then capped it and handed it back to him.

“How’s it going, Charlie? Still in any pain?”

He snorted and uncapped the bottle and took a swig. “This helps.”

“No, not really. What’s up, Charlie? I’ve seen you busted up before. You never took too many pills or drank then,” I said.

“I was still living at home. I was a kid then.”

I shrugged. “Maybe so.” I took the bottle back and drank a bit more, but this time kept holding it. It was the same old sour bourbon taste that wasn’t my preference, but I was not about to send for a different bottle. “I worry seeing you like this.”

“Afraid somebody will see me?”

“That’s not fair, Charlie. I might be the President, but I am still your father. Don’t try and tell me that I shouldn’t worry about my children.”

“Yeah.” He looked at the bottle I was holding, but didn’t demand it back. “I know.”

“It’s not just the pain, is it? That should be pretty much gone by now. What’s going on?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I mean, I don’t know what to do anymore. I have to get out in a few months, but I didn’t want to get out, but now I don’t want to stay in, either. I don’t know what I want to do.” Now he reached over and took the bottle back, and had another sip. This time he closed the bottle and just stared off into space.

“Why don’t you want to stay in?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I liked it and everything, but when we got ashore…” He sat there for a few minutes, and then quietly, almost whisperingly, said, “I killed people.”

I took the bottle from him and had another drink. “I know, Charlie, I know.” He looked over at me bleakly. “I read some of the reports. I know it probably won’t make it any easier, but you had to do it.”

This time he didn’t grab the bottle back, but just turned and stared into space some more. After another couple of minutes, he said, “We train and we train and we train, but it’s just words. Then I had to actually service my target, and it was just a kid, and he was shooting at us, and I serviced my target. And then the target next to him, and then another target. And they weren’t targets. They were people, guys my age.”

“I know, Charlie. That’s the way it always is. I never liked it either.”

“I’ve heard some of the guys laughing it off, talking about blowing away guys, and I used to laugh, but they’re not just targets!” He kept staring, and then added, “I don’t want to service the target, and now they are giving me a medal for servicing the target.”

“No, Charlie, they are giving you a medal for saving lives, not taking them. Nobody would care if it was just you killing a bunch of gomers. They care because you brought your team home. That’s what you should always remember. You brought your guys home.”

He looked at me. “That’s what you did, isn’t it. You brought your guys home, from Nicaragua, I mean.” I nodded, and he said, “No, I mean, all of it. You actually killed those guys, didn’t you?”

It was my turn to crack the bottle and take a hefty swig. The nice thing about drinking booze you don’t particularly like? After you’ve had enough, you don’t care that you don’t like it all that much! It was good that I didn’t have to drive anywhere tonight. Or be very presidential, either, come to think of it. “Yeah, Charlie, all of it.”

“How do you live with it? How do you deal with it?” He wasn’t accusing me, but wanted to know.

“Just like I told you. I got my men home. That was my job, my mission. I couldn’t let anybody interfere with that. I still see those men, sometimes when I am alone, but I also see the faces of the other guys, the guys who I got onto the choppers and who flew home.”

“Does Mom know?”

I nodded. “She knows. She doesn’t know all the details, but she knows. She’s known since you were a baby. Your mother is how I survive my own madness, Charlie.”

He reached out and took the bottle from me. “I don’t have anybody like that,” he said quietly.

“You have us. You have me and your mother. You have your sisters, though they probably won’t understand. They love you, though.” I thought for a second. “Charlie, tomorrow I want you to come with me and see Doctor Tubb. I know you’ve been seeing him, but you need to talk to him. I don’t know if this is post traumatic stress or something else, but we can get some help. You are not alone. I have been where you have been. Others, too,” I told him.

“I’m not crazy!”

“I never thought you were. You want crazy, I’ll give you my mother’s address. Take this for what’s it’s worth, but on the scale of crazy, this barely breaks a sweat. I’ve seen crazy and you’re not in the big leagues. In fact, you barely make it into Little League!” He smiled at that, the first time I had seen him smile in weeks.

I talked to Tubb that evening, separately from Charlie, and explained what was going on. He told me the symptoms weren’t really PTSD, but more likely some form of guilt and depression, all mixed up with a realization of what had happened. Since Charlie was getting out of the Marines in a few months anyway, none of us cared if seeking treatment would be reflected in his records. He got Charlie transferred to the Military District of Washington, and enrolled him in an outpatient counseling program at Bethesda. That seemed to help, a lot.

At the end of August, we had a very nice ceremony on the South Lawn, and decorated the heroes from Green Delta. The Marine Corps band was present, and we brought in everybody who was to be decorated, along with their families and guests. Charlie was over the worst of his depression by then, and he was the final recipient. The Marines got another ribbon for their battle flag, and the Tarawa group did so, also. There were a number of Purple Hearts, a few Bronze Stars, a couple of Distinguished Flying Crosses, and a single Silver Star. I personally pinned that to his chest, as Marilyn cried and beamed at him. Equally impressive was the French Ambassador, who showed up and pinned the Croix de Guerre on him, including kissing him on both cheeks. Charlie simply had that stoic Marine look plastered on his face, standing there in his Dress Blues through the whole thing.

After the ceremony, I asked him about the rescue incident. “What was that bit about you were the only one who needed to die? Since when did you get so self-sacrificing?”

Charlie looked at me funny. “What are you talking about?”

“When you were in Monrovia, and your buddy got hit, you told people nobody else needed to die but you.”

“Huh?!”

It was my turn to look exasperated. “Charlie, I’m not making this up. We saw it on the video. Right after you rescued those two kids and were heading back, that other Marine tried to run back with you and got shot. Then you pulled him back and told the others to stay where they were. You were the only one who needed to die. I heard about that from a bunch of people! It was in the video!”

He stared at me for almost a minute, and then rolled his eyes. “Oh, you have to be kidding me!”

“Huh?”

“I never meant it that way! Sweet Jesus! I’m not that crazy! I was talking about Birdie, Tyrell Bird! I figured he had bought the farm! I didn’t want anybody else dying like him!”

I stared for a second and then began laughing. “Well, I won’t tell if you won’t. I wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation.”

Lance Corporal Buckman flipped President Buckman the bird. That was captured by the White House Photography Office, but was not released to the press, but only to Charlie and me. A month later he was out of the Corps, older and wiser, I guess.

While our son was getting his act back together again, he went home to Hereford with us for a few weekends. That seemed to help, too. He met with some old buddies from Hereford High, along with Bucky Tusk. Bucky was just out of Wharton, and was working for Tusker and Tessa, who were now planning on a third and fourth sales office. Charlie went down to Tusk Cycle and spent some time working on bikes with Bucky, and then rode around for a bit. Bucky came home with him, and we greeted him warmly. It had been several years since we had seen my namesake.

When they roared up the driveway, we came out and greeted them. For the twins, it had probably been several years since they had seen Bucky. “Hey girls, how you two doing?” He revved his engine for a second, and added, “Want to go for a ride?”

Holly laughed, and said, “No! How you doing, Bucky? Long time, no see!”

“Yeah, I know. How about you, Molly?”

Molly surprised me by saying, “Sure!” Charlie handed her his helmet and our youngest climbed up behind Bucky, and they peeled off down the driveway, with a War Wagon following. We went to the pool, and around ten minutes later, the thunder of a Harley announced their return. “Thanks, Bucky!” I heard, followed by some more thunder, and Bucky was gone.

“Too bad he left. I’m firing up the grill and doing some burgers,” I told Marilyn.

“He might be back. Tusker and Tessa are coming over. I got out enough for all of us,” she replied.

Bucky returned with his parents, and he spent a fair bit of time talking to Charlie. After dinner, they both came up to us and announced that Charlie was going to try racing again, with Bucky handling the details and acting as a crew, sort of. They were going to become an actual racing team, like in the big leagues. Tusker and I looked at each other. “Why does this sound familiar?” he asked me.

“Remember what I always used to tell you?”

“Yeah, and you still do, too.” He looked at the boys and said, “We aren’t saying yes and we aren’t saying no, but we want to see a business plan. I didn’t pay for you to go to Wharton and not be able to write a business plan. You want our blessing and support? We want to see a business plan!”

They looked over at me, and I just pointed back at Tusker. “What he said.”

Charlie looked at Bucky, who simply said, “Okay.”

“And you keep working while you figure it out!” ordered Tusker. “It does not mean you come out here and hang out at the pool all day!” Tessa and Marilyn giggled at this.

I smiled at my old buddy. “Wow, where have I heard those words before?”

“I would throw a beer bottle at you, but the Secret Service would probably shoot me if I did.”

“An empty bottle, I would hope,” I replied.

“I’m sure not throwing a full one!”

“You’re smarter than you look.”

By the time Charlie was out of the Marines, the two of them had cobbled together a plan that looked like it might succeed. They were giving themselves two years to make it happen. The plan was to get back into racing in smaller regional races and get back into the swing of things, begin winning again, and find a major sponsor. From that point, they could leverage up into the big leagues, so to speak, racing in the AMA Pro Championship series. If Charlie wasn’t in the top tier in two years, he probably wouldn’t ever be. The only way Charlie could actually make a living at this was to get a top tier sponsor who would pay him, and then land some endorsements. The initial sponsor was going to be Tusk Cycle, like when Charlie was still a teen. Bucky, the Wharton MBA graduate with a lifetime of experience in the motorcycle business, was working even longer hours at Tusk Cycle, as he opened a third sales center in Laurel and ran advertising and marketing for the entire company. What did Tusk Cycle get out of the deal? Lots of cheap ads with local hero Charlie Buckman!

They worked up cost projections for the two years, as well as a budget, and figured out an investment structure. Tusker and I reviewed it, sent it back to the drawing board a couple of times, ran it through our lawyers, and then pulled out our checkbooks. He and I split the investment 50–50. (Technically it was done through my blind trust. I had nothing to say about it. By the way, I have this bridge in Brooklyn, if you’re interested.)

It felt good, just like the old days. Now, all we needed to do was wait and see if we had backed a winning horse, or motorcycle in this case. Charlie just wasn’t a ‘college’ kind of guy. If he wasn’t trying to break his neck in the Marines, he was going to try to break it somewhere else. In the meantime, Charlie would live at the house in Hereford, so he didn’t have to get his own place.

In October I had my first assassination attempt. I suppose that’s a landmark of sorts. Most Presidents get them, and almost every President since Hoover. As far as I had heard, only Eisenhower and Johnson hadn’t been targeted. Most of them are incredibly amateurish and put together by a whack job, but they often get lucky and hit somebody, though maybe not the President. The Secret Service gets really paranoid about politicians, and politicians aren’t easy to protect. We can’t be hidden away 24/7, and the basic instinct is to meet and greet and shake hands.

Actually, the absolute first attempt on me occurred shortly after I took office, in January of 2002, when some of the hate mail I got was analyzed and a pattern was found. It’s illegal to even make threats against the President. A loony tune in Texas was investigated and taken into custody after a search warrant was obtained and his house was searched. The search found a lot of Semtex plastic explosive, some unregistered machine guns, and a bunch of maps of places in Washington. I guess I wasn’t his only target, but he never actually got to where he could hurt somebody.

This time, there was some actual violence. Martin L. Smusky, of Elmira, New York, decided to stop taking his meds, and then bought a gun and took the bus down to Washington. From the bus station he got a cab and took that over to the White House. He had on a baseball cap that was lined with aluminum foil. Rather than wait in line for the regular tour, he decided that the voices in his head wanted me to die right away so he simply walked up to the wrought iron fence around the White House, pulled a.38 snub nose Smith and Wesson through, and fired all five shots at the White House. This was totally nuts, since I wasn’t sure that a.38 snub nose could even hit the building from the distance he was firing from!

This all happened in the middle of the morning. He pulled the gun back and began fumbling out the empties, to begin reloading from a pocket full of loose ammunition, when he was captured by the Durands, a family of tourists from Bangor, Maine. Dad made a flying tackle on the guy, and then he and Mom sat on him until the cops and the Secret Service showed up a few seconds later. Meanwhile, their kids, three teenage boys who were completely bored with Washington, were taking photos and movies of everything. Washington suddenly was exciting!

It was over almost as soon as it happened. The Secret Service rushed into my morning meeting in readiness for the hordes breaking down the gates, but it never got quite that far. That’s not to make light of them, because all they knew was that somebody was firing on the place. After a few minutes they realized the fun was over and went back to their regular routine. Both Mr. Smusky and the Durand family were brought inside the gates for questioning, but the Durands were quickly released. The Secret Service told me about them, and I had them brought up to the Oval Office, where I thanked them and took some photos with them. They were pleasantly awestruck.

Mr. Smusky was not so quickly released. He was bundled off to St. Elizabeth’s, the Washington psycho hospital, pending whatever legal action was going to be taken. I was forecasting a lengthy stay, and not one of his own choosing. The whole thing was on the nightly news that evening, but then died out. The Durands were minor celebrities for a few days, especially after a German tourist was discovered to have made a video of the whole thing and then sold it to a German network. The Durands even made it onto the Today Show!

As we went through the fall and into the winter, Congress moved along at its usual glacial pace. Various legislation crossed my desk, generally of a conservative nature in its fiscal and military implications. I was avoiding the hot button Democratic social issues. I didn’t ban stem cell research or screw with abortion, for instance, and I stayed away from ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell.’ I thought it was wrong, but I could count noses, and it would be years before Congress would go for me screwing with the policy. I also pushed for Justice and DEA to stop pushing on marijuana. We had better ways to fight this losing war than by chasing pot smokers. That did not earn me any favors from Ashcroft, who pretty much ignored me and didn’t change their policy. I didn’t feel strong enough to challenge him. Maybe when I replaced him, eventually.

I didn’t get exactly what I wanted, since Congress has to fuck with everything. As the saying goes, it’s not soup until the cook has a chance to pee in it. With Congress, you have 535 cooks, so there is an awful lot of pee in the soup.

I also got the budget passed, this one the first that could be labeled as a Buckman budget; again, I got mostly what I wanted. I had to throw a screaming tantrum once or twice, but it got through the system and passed in both houses. It was pretty much a standard Buckman budget. Don’t screw with tax levels, no new programs, fund the programs we did have. One of the areas I made sure was funded was SEC and Justice Department prosecution of financial crooks. Congress might have been bought off by the securities and finance industries, but I hadn’t been. I let it be known, loudly and publicly, that financial crooks would be prosecuted by the Buckman Administration.

Holly and Molly found that fame was not all that wonderful at times. Playboy had a picture of them walking across campus in their ‘Girls of the ACC’ article. Thankfully, they were fully clothed, and they told Marilyn they hadn’t even known they were photographed, or been asked to do anything, not that they would have. Marilyn would have killed them! Meanwhile, Penthouse had a standing offer of $500,000 to each of them if they did a centerfold. The twins asked if I would match the offer not to do it; their mother moved to smack them both, but the girls laughed and scampered away.

That fall Ari Fleischer brought me a new crisis to deal with. Saturday Night Live had invited the twins to guest host in November! Worst of all, the girls knew about the invitation, so we couldn’t just sweep it under the rug and forget to tell them. “I don’t suppose that they are going to make our lives easier, and decide they don’t want to do it?” I asked him.

“I got the overall impression that they wanted to know how soon they could go,” he replied.

“Great! By the time those two are through with New York, we’ll end up with another Civil War!”

“Don’t be so negative, Mister President. I’m sure we’ll be able to limit the damage to your resignation or impeachment.”

“You are not making any Brownie points with me, Ari!”

I tried a number of things when we called the girls that night at college. First I suggested that Marilyn travel with them, but that went over like a lead balloon. They were 19 years old and didn’t need their mother to hold their hands everywhere! I played the ‘you’ve got classes’ card, but they trumped that by replying they would do it when school was out for Thanksgiving. Then we tried to guilt them into not going (Thanksgiving!), but they weren’t buying that one, either. We hung up in defeat.

Marilyn looked at me and I just threw my hands up in surrender. “What’s the worst that could happen?” she asked.

“I don’t know. They could be arrested? I could lose the election? New York could secede from the Union? Either one of them is bad enough, but together they are dangerous!”

Marilyn laughed at me. “Just tell them their Secret Service detail has been authorized to shoot to kill, and that you’ve promised them all executive pardons. Face it, Carl, your little girls are grown up.”

“Bah humbug! If they are grown up, what does that make us?!” That would make us old, was the answer.

“Wait until the press finds out they registered as Democrats, just like their mother,” she teased.

My eyes popped open at that! “No! They didn’t! Traitors!” Marilyn laughed even harder. I wasn’t sure if this was true; it would be just like her to lie about this in order to tease me. It would end up a running family joke!

Saturday, November 29, Marilyn and I watched Saturday Night Live to see what our daughters would get into. I should have gone to bed. Ari Fleischer was going to kill all of us on Monday morning, if he didn’t die of laughter before then. The opening sketch involved a variant of the ‘bring your dog to work day’ they had pulled on me, only ‘Stormy’ got loose, rampaged through the Oval Office, peed on the Chinese ambassador, and pushed the big red button on my desk, launching the nuclear missiles — “LIVE FROM NEW YORK, IT’S SATURDAY NIGHT!” The twins did an opening monologue about living in the White House, and then later were in a sketch where they were going out on a double date, and were being shadowed by their Secret Service details, only their bodyguards were literally so close they were rubbing shoulders, and stayed between the girls and their dates the entire time, even when dancing.

We called them after the show, and spoke to them briefly. They were very excited, and heading out to a party with some of the cast members. Their mother and I just rolled our eyes, and prayed they didn’t end up on the front page of the New York Post. It’s not like I was going to win New York in any case, but I didn’t need the grief.

A week after the girls went on SNL, I was back in the news. Saturday, December 6, was the Army Navy Game. Marilyn begged off, but Charlie and I took Marine One up to Philly for the game. I had a standing invite to the game, and had attended in 2002. This year it wasn’t an option; I had named the bet and I had to go! Charlie and I were escorted to the center of the field and flipped the coin at the start of the game. To reflect my ‘non-partisan’ position as Commander in Chief, I spent the first half on the Navy side, and then moved to the Army side at halftime. Charlie stayed on the Navy side the entire time, the rat! Worst of all, Navy handed Army their ass, winning 34-6! Oh, the shame of it!

Two weeks later I made good on the bet. Friday night, the Buckman family hosted the Navy team, players, coaches, and all, at the White House. We served coq au vin, which had been added to the White House repertoire of official recipes. I had Charlie wear his miniature Silver Star ribbon on his suit coat. He no longer looked like a hard core Marine, since he had grown a Fu Manchu mustache and his hair was now long and curly. Those boys were Charlie’s age, but they saw that Silver Star, and tended to stand a little straighter around him. The girls liked it too, since pretty young girls liked being around a bunch of big hunky guys in uniforms.

The next day I took Marine One up to West Point, where the staff had set up a mess tent in Michie Stadium. It wasn’t ‘Fort Frostbite’, but it was cold enough. I ordered that all honors be dispensed with, so the football team had no idea I was coming. The boys took it with a lot of humor when I showed up in a BDU and jump boots, complete to the black-on-camo rank badge of a captain, an 82^nd Airborne patch, and the appropriate qualification and award patches. They might have been dining on MREs, but the Commander in Chief was dining with them, and we had secretly set up a very nice dessert (cherries jubilee, complete with flaming Kirschwasser over ice cream) in Washington Hall. I sat with the cadets and they showed me how to eat an MRE. I told them, truthfully, that no matter how bad they were, they were still a whole lot better than the Lurps I had dined on in my time in the Army.

I had one interesting conversation with a few of the cadets over dessert. Cadet Lieutenant Miller asked me, “What is the insignia for a Commander in Chief, sir?” after looking at my captain’s railroad tracks.

I smiled. “No idea, Mister Miller. Five stars makes you a General of the Army, but I think Bradley was the last one of those. I don’t think we ever had more than that.”

Another cadet piped up and said, “Technically there is a higher rank, a General of the Armies, which has been granted to Pershing, Washington, and MacArthur, which is theoretically six stars, though nobody ever issued the rank badges.”

“Huh! Well, I suppose the Commander in Chief outranks them, so what does that make me? Seven stars? Eight? Sounds silly to me.”

Miller asked me, “You were a captain, right?”

I nodded. “Yep. Let me tell you fellows something. I’ve had people tell me that my money has bought me a lot of things. I bought my seat in Congress, the VP slot, the presidency,” I grinned and added, “… a good looking wife… you name it.” I reached up and tapped the rank badge. “Say what you want. I earned this. One of the proudest days of my life was when I pinned on these bars. My money had nothing to do with them.” I then tapped my qualification badges. “Same with these. Bullets can’t tell how much money you have. No matter how much money I will ever have, or how much crap I have to take from people, I can stand in front of a mirror and honestly say, ‘I earned this.’ That’s something I will always be able to say.” Then I grinned and added, “The good looking wife I also earned, but that’s a whole different subject!” That got a lot of laughs, but I could tell the boys were thinking about what I said. Then I told them about the time a New York financier tried to take over the Buckman Group back in the early days, and when we politely rebuffed him, he made a threat to bankrupt us. I had dryly told him that I used to jump out of airplanes in the middle of the night and kill people, so it was going to take a whole lot more than a jackass in wingtips to make me nervous.

Over the winter school break, we made the official announcement I was running for reelection. We all flew out together, Marilyn and me, the twins, Charlie, and even Stormy, and flew into Oklahoma City. Frank Keating was out of office now, and I met with the Democratic Governor, Brad Henry. After that, however, he was sent packing, since there was no way he was going to want to travel with me to Springboro. I was doing my official announcement at the place that had put me on the national political map, so we took the motorcade to Springboro, and did the announcement in the school gym, which is where I was speaking when the tornado alarm went off that day.

That had been three years ago, and Springboro took me to their heart. It didn’t hurt that Marilyn and the girls were looking pretty, or that Charlie was a certified hero, or that Stormy was the big idiotic mutt from Springboro. I gave a nicely rousing speech about the can-do spirit of ‘Oklahoma Strong!’ and how I was going to take that spirit with me as I toured the country and spoke to great Americans just like them. Big on emotion, soft on details. Politics 101. The Torquist family was there, front row center, and we greeted them and I introduced them to Charlie. Tom Torquist had been a Marine, too, so he pretty much got the local American Legion to swear out oaths of loyalty to me. Afterwards we drove over to their new house and looked around. Maggie the dog had another litter of puppies; this time I refused!

Afterwards I went to Shawnee and did another campaign stop at the hospital and spoke about the wonderful things they were doing, and then we went to Oklahoma City, did a fundraiser and speech, and stayed the night. Once we were back on the plane flying home to Washington, Charlie immediately begged off the campaign trail. “How do you put up with it?” he asked.

“It helps if you drink a lot,” I told him, at which point Marilyn punched my arm. Then I added some fuel to the fire, by saying, “It helps even more if you can fly around with a cute White House intern.” My daughters started to squawk at that, and Charlie just laughed.

“Your father thinks he’s funny,” said my wife.

“Hey, it worked for Bill Clinton.”

“Keep it up! Your arms will be black and blue by the time we land!”

“I’m not worried. You all hit like girls, anyway.” At that, all three started punching me, so I escaped down the aisle and went back to the press section on the plane. Most of the questions were about the coming election, and who was going to be running against me.

There were at least a dozen candidates on the Democratic side. The front runner seemed to be John Kerry, who had run against me as Vice President with Al Gore, but had not been a factor in the race. The race last time had been George against Al, and me against Bill Clinton. Everybody had ignored John. Also in the running was Joe Lieberman, one of the senators from Connecticut, Senator John Edwards of North Carolina, former Governor of Vermont Howard Dean, and even Dick Gephardt, the former Congressman and a perennial favorite in the Midwest. At least another half dozen names were tossed out, but nobody thought any of them had a snowball’s chance in hell.

It was an interesting field, and my entrance into history had probably changed the calculus. Kerry was a certified hero, and one of the few Dems with military experience. The historical perception was that the Democrats were weak on defense, so Kerry countered that. He was also better looking than me, and had blue blood credentials. Joe Lieberman also had foreign policy experience and was very conservative, but looked and talked like Droopy the Hound Dog. John Edwards, on the other hand, was devastatingly handsome, a smooth talking southern boy with solid liberal credentials and big supporters in the unions. Even Howard Dean came off well, with a youthful appeal and a freshness about him. Which of them would self-destruct first?

I refused to allow myself to be baited into saying something I shouldn’t. Instead, I parried a few questions about using my own personal fortune to bankroll my reelection. “It’s more complicated than that. It’s not just about the money. When people donate to a campaign, they aren’t just donating their money, they are donating their time and their interest. It’s not just the cash you get; you get to hear what they have to say, they can tell you what is important to them. I won’t lie to you and say the money isn’t important, because we all know it is, but even more important is to make that donor want to work for you. More important than their money is their time!”

“And you think you can do that.”

I shrugged and smiled. “I think so. The Maryland Ninth thought so, and they’re not so different from people everywhere else. They have local concerns, but they love this country just as much as the people everywhere else. No reason I can’t deliver the message that we are all in this together, and that I’m the guy to lead them.”

“Will your family be campaigning for you?” came up.

“Maybe. Marilyn will be helping me out, I know that already, and that’s good. Even the people who don’t like me, they love Marilyn!” That got a few chuckles. “The girls are in school, so they might not be able to help until the summer. We’ll have to ask them. I’m not sure about Charlie, though. He missed out the last campaign, and doesn’t seem too thrilled about the idea. Besides, he has his own life now.”

“What is he doing? Is he out of the Marines?”

“Yes, he is a civilian again. He and a friend of his are putting together a motorcycle racing team. Charlie was a nationally ranked motocross racer when he was a teenager, and wants to give the pros a shot.” There were a couple of questions related to that. “You’ll have to ask Charlie about that sort of thing. His mother and I don’t know which is worse, him getting shot up in the Marines, or him racing motorcycles!”

Afterwards, I went back up front, and sat down next to my son. “Don’t be surprised if you get some reporters asking you questions about going back into motocross. Some of them were asking and I told them you were getting back into the pros.”

“Works for me. Bucky was hoping to line up some sponsors. Maybe somebody will read about us.” He waited a moment, and then asked, “Is the fact that I saw a counselor going to come out?”

I sighed and nodded. “Yes, eventually. It won’t be from me, but sooner or later, some reporter is going to find the right person to pay off and it will come out. Trust me on this, but if you have any deep and dark secrets, they won’t be secret much longer.”

“Is that going to hurt you? I mean, in the election?”

I shrugged and smiled. “Don’t sweat it. I’m a big boy. If the biggest secret to come out of this family is that my son doesn’t like to kill people, I can handle that real easy. You’ll get the worst of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Wait until a picture of you shows up on the cover of The National Enquirer, wrapped up in a straight jacket, with the headline, ‘The Buckman Family Curse Strikes The Next Generation!’”

“Jesus Christ!” he exclaimed.

“Welcome to my life, Charlie!” I laughed. “You think being called crazy is bad? They call your mother and sisters sluts and bimbos!” He looked shocked at that, so he must not have heard about some of the stuff that had happened. “Just do me a favor, and try not to get into too much trouble on the tour circuit. Don’t get drunk in public and keep your pecker wrapped if you pick up a girl. Can you at least do that?!”

He laughed at me and said, “Yes.”

You don’t end up in the White House, at any position, unless you are a hard core political junkie. Watching the Democratic Follies, otherwise known as the primaries, was vastly amusing for us, and left me perpetually thankful I didn’t have to go through with it! We stayed out of it, biding our time and building a war chest. With the sole exception of Joe Lieberman, every Democrat running was considerably more liberal than I was. One of the big strengths I had was that I didn’t really need to pander to the Republican base, since I didn’t have a primary challenge and all the Democrats were too liberal for the base. We didn’t have a Tea Party movement yet, and if I did my job right, we wouldn’t.

This was just guesswork on my part. I believed the Tea Party was ultimately a judgment on the economy. Lots of people got totally screwed over when the economy entered the Great Recession. So far that hadn’t happened, and in fact the economy looked healthy. The 2001–2002 recession had been painful, but it was behind us, and jobs and wages were both rising. The nation also had a lot of structural problems, like jobs going overseas and the overall loss of manufacturing, but right now, the good economy was papering over these issues. During the Great Recession, which was far deeper and longer than anything since the Depression, those angry and screwed over people took their outrage out on their elected politicians, and sent a new batch to Washington. We weren’t there yet.

Would we get to that point? That I wasn’t at all sure of. This job was a lot like riding a tiger. You hang on for dear life and hope not to get eaten. Actually getting the tiger to go in a direction you want him to go is simply icing on the cake!

Currently things were good, but the housing markets and financial markets were both bubbles growing bigger and bigger. We needed to pop the balloons. My plan, which was not popular in all corners, was to increase financial regulation. I can remember being in the housing business with Lefleur Homes on my first trip. We would see these loans where you didn’t need any money down, and you didn’t even have to pay the principal, only the interest, and then had a balloon payment to pay off the principal when you flipped the property. I remember talking to a couple of bankers at the time and asking them who in their right mind thought these were good loans! These were disasters waiting to happen, which is precisely what happened.

I could see it happening again. The problem was that a lot of people liked things just the way they were. The finance companies loved it, and home buyers loved it, and Wall Street loved it, and home builders loved it. When the wheels came off in a few years, nobody would love it, and they would point their fingers at everybody else.

My solution, which I had been pushing for awhile now, was a two-parter. First, no new rules and regulations. All my life I had heard people complain, when something went wrong, “There should be a law!” Well, the odds were pretty good that there already was a law, but nobody was enforcing it. No new laws, we had plenty of them on the books already. Part Two was even simpler! We were actually going to fund the regulatory agencies! Many times Congress would pass a law to correct some sort of outrage, and mandate some new agency or program to fix something, but stop there. They wouldn’t actually fund the program or office, so there might not be any employees in the agency.

Pay for some inspectors at the FDA, and some analysts and investigators at the SEC. Slip some money to the Surgeon General and pay for some of the public health programs already mandated by law. Almost every one of these programs and regulations had a positive benefit in terms of cash, in many cases saving $3 or $4 or $5 for every $1 spent. On the plus side, the U.S. government is so big, there is almost always something breaking down and letting something happen. Crank up the appropriate outrage and force Congress to get the agencies some funding. Never let a good crisis go to waste!

I almost never got everything I wanted, but I usually got some, and then simply told people to not stop pushing and go for more the next time. It’s a never ending battle. I had used up a lot of my political capital getting the DREAM Act passed, and almost all of the rest of it in killing off a bunch of Pentagon weapons programs. I had gotten these bills through Congress, suitably watered down of course, but through the system, though with a fair bit of screaming. I had also lost some popularity by my refusal to lower taxes any further, and by continuing to run a modest surplus. I was going to face a backlash sooner or later over taxes, and probably sooner. On the other hand, Monrovia had built up my political capital and popularity again, by showing ‘leadership in a crisis’, and I was cynical enough to accept my son’s wounds as part of that.

Through the winter and early spring the Democrats scrapped like a pack of feuding cats. I would have enjoyed it immensely, except for the fact that I got sick! It started out with just a routine evening in the White House Residence in mid-February. Marilyn and I had gone to bed, and for once I managed to join her at the same time. Usually she would fall asleep in her chair with Stormy, and I would chuckle when she roused herself and headed into our bedroom. I would usually watch some late television, but for whatever reason, that night she stayed up late and I went to bed around the same time she did. I wasn’t feeling quite right, and had a crick in my upper back.

Marilyn snuggled up next to me, and ordered Stormy out from between us. She began running a hand across my chest, and I brought my arm up to let her rest her head on my shoulder. Somehow, doing that didn’t make me feel all that comfortable, and I moved my shoulders around and tried to get comfortable. “What’s the matter?” she asked.

“I don’t know. My back is bothering me, a bit, anyway.” I flexed my muscles and shrugged my shoulders, to see if that helped. It didn’t.

“Not feeling well?”

“I’ll be fine. Maybe I just need a good night’s sleep.”

“Okay.” Marilyn kissed me quickly and then rolled over, her rump pushing against me.

I mused for a moment about missing out a chance to sample my wife’s pleasures. After all these years, I still enjoyed making love to her, and never really felt any urge to stray. Still, we had been together long enough that we knew that if either one of us was feeling poorly, it wasn’t a time to push things. As it was, while Marilyn zonked off to sleep in a minute or two, I just couldn’t get comfortable. I twisted and turned, rolled from side to side, and kept moving. The pain in my back kept growing. It was in my upper torso, between my shoulder blades, and I was feeling a bit nauseous and sweaty. Something wasn’t right.

I rolled over and sat upright, groaning as I did so. That didn’t help much. I sat there on the edge of the bed, slumped over, as the pain scale kept moving up. Marilyn woke up, probably because I was moving around some, and she flipped on the bedside lamp, waking Stormy as she did.

“Carl, what’s wrong?”

“I don’t feel too good,” I told her.

“Do you want to see a doctor?” she asked.

Suddenly it all came back to me. Yes, I needed to see a doctor. My past history from my first life came roaring back. “I think so. I think I’m having a heart attack,” I told her.

Marilyn shrieked a little and scrambled out of the bed, grabbing her robe and running out of the bedroom. When this happened the first time, we had to call the ambulance and wait for them to show. Now, I had a doctor in residence, and an ambulance down below able to haul me away in a heartbeat. I had all sorts of amazing quality health care, probably able to give me a heart transplant at a moment’s notice.

I knew it wasn’t a heart attack.

I had gall stones. I was in the middle of a gall bladder attack. It is very painful and unpleasant, but not fatal. I was in my mid-40s when this happened to me the first time, too. The gall bladder is a small organ on the right side of the abdomen that is involved with digestion, and secretes bile into the intestinal tract. Every once in a while something goes wrong and the gall bladder accumulates some crystals that form into little stones, similar to kidney stones in the kidneys. When the stones work through the bile duct, it can be very difficult and painful. Nine times out of ten, that pain is located on the right side of your abdomen, somewhere near the gall bladder. You have pain there, the doctor figures it out quick, they yank your gall bladder, and you are back up and running. Okay, it’s a little more complicated than that, but you get the idea.

I am that one-in-ten patient. I don’t get pain near my gall bladder. I get pain up between my shoulder blades. I spent six months and three doctors going through gall stone attacks, visiting two separate hospitals, and God alone knows how many tests figuring it out. Every fucking doctor would examine me, tell me it sounded like gall stones, but it was in the wrong place, and order more tests. Finally I went to a surgeon who told me to stop screwing around. I could live without a gall bladder, so he would yank it, and if the pain stopped, we would know I was cured. It sounded crazy, but it worked.

Now, I had to go through the whole miserable experience all over again. Whoopee.

My health on this go had been much, much better than on my first trip through. Over the years I had skipped over some diseases I had on my first trip (for example, back then I caught pneumonia at 14 but didn’t this time, no idea why) and had a few I didn’t have then (terminal infections in that Honduran jail cell this time). I didn’t smoke, I kept my weight down, and I stayed in shape. When I was smoking I had seasonal colds, four a year (a winter cold, a spring cold…) along with frequent sinus infections, and my weight caused a bunch of other issues. Now, I only had colds every couple of years, and the biggest health issue I had was from eating all sorts of fried foods while campaigning at state fairs. I am a Southern boy and I love fried food! That stuff will kill you, but what a way to go! As far as anything else was concerned, my cholesterol was high, and I had been on Lipitor for ten years. Other than my right knee being shot, and gradually getting worse, I was a whole lot healthier than my first time around.

All of this flashed through my miserable mind as I sat slumped there in agony. The pain kept increasing, even as Marilyn ran back in, trailed by a pair of Secret Service agents. I knew these guys got all sorts of medical and first aid training, and they took a look and one guy started muttering into his sleeve. About thirty seconds later the night shift doctor and nurse came running in with a ‘crash cart’, everything needed to revive me.

Doctor Rhodes asked, “How are you doing, Mister President?”

“I’ve been better,” I told him. What was I going to say, that I had already diagnosed myself?

“What’s wrong?”

“I have got a lot of pain, in my back, up between my shoulders, and I feel pretty hot, and have been sweating and nauseous. I mean, it sounded like those warning signs, you know, like we used to teach the kids in the Boy Scouts,” I answered lamely.

I knew what was going to happen next. It had happened to me before, and these guys don’t fuck around with the President’s health. “That’s pretty smart thinking, Mister President. Let’s take a look. Let’s get your shirt off.”

I awkwardly peeled off my undershirt, and then lay back on the bed. Marilyn was off to the side holding Stormy by the collar, and the agents were hovering over me. A few more came through into the bedroom also, along with a stretcher. Meanwhile, Doctor Rhodes and the nurse hooked me up to a portable EKG machine, and examined it for a few minutes. Meanwhile, the pain just kept increasing.

“Well, good news, your heart is just fine. Whatever is causing this, it isn’t your heart,” he told me.

“Well, can you give me something for the pain then?”

“In a bit. I think we are going to want to run a few tests, though.”

Oh, crap. There was no way to avoid it, and I didn’t even want to try. “Like?”

“Maybe an MRI, an ultrasound, the stuff we can’t do here. I think we’re taking you over to George Washington University Hospital. Maybe we can do something about the pain there.” He motioned to the others, and about thirty seconds later I was loaded onto a stretcher, wrapped in a sheet and blanket, and rumbling out of the room. One of the agents was holding onto Stormy while Marilyn scampered along, still in her robe.

I looked over at my wife, and told her, “I’ll be fine. I’ll be back in the morning. Go back to bed.”

“Have you lost your mind!? I’m getting dressed and coming with you!”

“Ma’am, we need to go now. You should get dressed and have one of the agents bring you over,” interjected Rhodes.

“Okay.” Marilyn bent over and kissed me, and then I was on the elevator, heading downstairs.

Well, that was a fun ride. We didn’t have the sirens going in the middle of the night, but we did have the lights flashing on the whole fucking caravan, and about five minutes later I was being trundled into an exam room. The best part was that the White House is manned 24-7 by reporters with cameras pointed at every conceivable exit. This whole episode was going out live on the news channels right now. In the morning, the stock market was going to take a dive!

Marilyn showed up about ten minutes later, dressed and accompanied by a pair of Secret Service agents. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Like crap, if you must know. How bad are the reporters?” I asked.

“I didn’t see anybody. Why?”

I snorted, and that hurt, too. “I just came roaring over from the White House with everything except sirens. You watch. They’ll be pronouncing me dead by dawn. John McCain is warming up in the bullpen by now!”

“It won’t be that bad, Mister President. Come on, let’s get you to the MRI,” said, Doctor Rhodes.

Off we went, first to an MRI machine, and then to an ultrasound. Everybody looked at my heart first, and I simply told them to get pictures; my family was of the opinion I didn’t have one. I got a few dutiful laughs over that one. Finally they decided I could have something for the pain, and a hypodermic went into the IV line that had been already run, and the pressure magically began to drop.

My mind was going over my past history. I knew that part of the improvement in my condition was simply that the stone was passing and the attack was ending. An attack would last anywhere from two-and-a-half to three hours, unpleasant all, and leave me beat and wiped out. I was starting to slide down the end slope now. One particularly bad evening I had two stones pass in a row, and I went through it for six hours. The best I could hope for then was a few old Tylenols with codeine from the back of somebody’s medicine cabinet, and opiates mostly make me nauseous as hell.

If you ever have the chance to use the health care available to a President, take advantage of it. On the other hand, if you are the President, you don’t get an option. I wasn’t going home to go to bed. “Mister President, whatever happened seems to be passing. We still don’t have an answer for what happened, so we would like to run a few tests in the morning. We are going to have you stay overnight.”

I sighed and nodded. “All right. I suppose somebody ought to let the Vice President know, before he hears about it on the news in the morning.”

Doctor Rhodes smiled and looked over at the agent in the corner. He spoke up and said, “The Vice President has already been informed, sir.”

“Figures.” I looked over at Marilyn. “You’d better get in touch with the kids, so they don’t learn about it the same way.”

Marilyn glanced over at the agent, who nodded. She said, “Don’t worry. Let’s get you up to your room.”

I was too tired to argue. I slept until about 4:00 AM, at which point I was woken up so they could take my temperature and blood pressure, and then I crashed again for another four hours. When I woke up a second time, Marilyn was sitting there next to me. “How you doing?” she asked.

“Peachy! I’m in a hospital!”

“You can behave! You had me scared last night!”

I grimaced and shrugged. “Sorry. You knew it wasn’t my heart. You’ve told me often enough I don’t have one.”

“It’s not that funny when you’re in a hospital!” she protested. “The girls called when their agents told them. So did Charlie.”

“Did you tell them the inheritance is on hold for a little longer?” I asked.

“Well, Charlie did ask about your recliner, but I told him he had to wait.”

“Little bastard! I’m not even cold yet!” I protested.

“They’ll be over later on,” she replied with a smile. “They were properly nervous and worried. They’re good kids.” She nodded her head towards the door. “There’s some people here to see you. I told them you needed to take it easy.”

“Figures. Let ‘em in. Do me a favor and call Suzie. She’s probably heard about this too.”

“She can fly down from the Mayo Clinic to tell you what is wrong.”

I snorted and laughed. “That’s what happens when your sister is a nurse.”

Marilyn stood and gave me a quick kiss, and then opened the door to let in Josh Bolten and Ari Fleischer. No way was I going to be allowed to escape the job. I waved at them and said, “Hi, guys!”

“How bad is it, Mister President?” asked Josh.

“I’ll be fine, guys. Tell the Vice President he can head back to the bullpen, I’m going to make it,” I answered, smiling.

“What happened?”

I gave them a brief rundown, but right now nobody knew. I was scheduled for some more tests today.

“I’ll need to make a statement, sir. The networks have been running footage of you leaving the White House, and somebody managed to confirm that you are here,” said Ari.

I sighed and nodded. “Yeah. Listen, get together with one of the doctors and write something up. My heart is just fine. The President is resting comfortably and undergoing further testing. My family knows what is going on. Blah, blah, blah. Hell, tell them the Democrats are right, and that I really am heartless!”

Marilyn laughed at that. “Tell them the kids and I are arguing over the will already!”

I had another laugh at that. Still, Ari actually did have to issue a statement. There was an excellent chance the stock market would tank as soon as the markets opened. There had actually been cases where rumormongers had managed to plant credible stories and profited on the ensuing stock sales. I sent Ari off to speak to the doctors, and told Josh I was stuck here for a bit while they ran some more tests.

Those tests were scheduled for that morning. Again, when you are the President, you do not wait around in the hallway hoping to get fit into the schedule. Just like last night I had all sorts of senior doctors kibitzing over me, the same happened now. It wasn’t just any old technician; I had the Chief of Internal Medicine and the White House Physician overseeing the top technician in the hospital! I got another MRI scan, another ultrasound, and now got something new, a radionuclide scan of my gall bladder.

Maybe the problem before was simply that I managed to get sick in a small town in upstate New York. Anything serious that happened got farmed out to the big city, Albany or Syracuse or Rochester. Insurance wasn’t going to cover shipping my ass all over back then. In addition, there is a difference in the care you get with a small town clinic with a physician’s assistant versus a major teaching hospital in the nation’s capital. This bunch had a suspicion about my gall bladder before I even went to bed last night!

I couldn’t eat until after all the testing, which took up the entire morning, and after that I got a semi-decent meal. Early afternoon, I met with the doctors, with Marilyn next to me. The diagnosis? My gall bladder was shot. The thing had all these tiny little gallstones in it, but a few were large enough to cause problems. The cure was pretty basic, which was to remove my gall bladder surgically, via laparoscopy.

Nothing was new about this. I had been through it once before. The really good news was that this bunch figured it out a whole lot quicker than on my first go. I wasn’t going to have to go through months of guessing games while suffering. The surgery was scheduled for tomorrow morning. My lunch today was my last meal until after the surgery. Joy!

I sent Marilyn back to the White House, if simply to get her out of my remaining hair for the afternoon. She promised to bring the kids over later. I didn’t get all that much rest, however. Both Josh and John McCain came to visit. “How are you feeling, Carl?” asked the Vice President.

I looked over at Josh and smiled. “He reminds me of the Vice President at my frat house in college, the guy whose campaign slogan was ‘Only a heartbeat away!’” That got a laugh from both of them, and I told John, “I’m feeling a lot better now. Have you heard the latest?”

He shook his head. “Just what Ari told at the press briefing this morning. You were feeling better and spent the night comfortably, and that your heart is just fine.”

“That’s not precisely what he said,” added my Chief of Staff. “He told them that the reason they knew it wasn’t your heart was that the doctors had absolute medical confirmation that the Democrats were right, and that you were indeed heartless.”

I laughed at that. “He didn’t!”

He shook his head. “No, he didn’t. That would have made for a great press briefing, though, wouldn’t it? No, he just gave a standard briefing. Your heart is fine, you are resting comfortably, further tests are scheduled.”

“Blah, blah, blah,” I told him.

“Essentially. He did have a nice time informing Fox News that you were still alive.”

“Huh?”

McCain snorted and answered, “Fox News reported in an exclusive early this morning that you had a heart attack and were in a coma on life support.”

“Did they mourn or applaud?” I asked. John made a waffling motion with his hand. “Tremendous!” I said.

“So, what’s the plan, Mister President?” asked Josh.

I snorted. “My gall bladder has to come out. They are scheduling the surgery for tomorrow morning. I gather it is pretty straightforward, but I am going to be here for another couple of days, and then be stuck in the White House for a week or so. You’ll need to have Ari do some kind of a press briefing, probably with a doctor or two around. Big pictures, small words.”

“How’s Marilyn holding up?” asked John.

I smiled. “She was pretty nervous last night, but she calmed down when they told her it was my gall bladder. I sent her away, since she was driving me batty. She’ll be back with the kids sometime tonight.”

We chatted a bit more, but not of anything too important. After that, they left, and I watched some news and napped until dinner. Not that I got any dinner. Charlie, the wiseass, told me about the delicious lunch he had dined on, and how he was taking the girls out later for dinner. Then he asked, just in passing of course, not that he had any worries, what were my plans for the recliner back in Hereford. Marilyn and his sisters dutifully slugged him. After that, he took the girls out, and Marilyn stayed with me until visitor’s hours were over, and then she told me she’d see me in the morning. I went to sleep hungry.

The next morning, the doctors waited until Marilyn showed up. She told me that the Vice President was going to be an Acting President while I was in surgery, and I simply replied that he shouldn’t get too comfortable in my swivel chair. Twenty years ago, they would have had to cut me open and leave me with a big zipper. Now, with laparoscopic techniques, I would get a few holes and they’d stick robot arms in through them. I would be walking by that afternoon. It really is mind-boggling when you think about it. I signed a bunch of waivers, and then they began loading me up with some happy juice. They had me count backwards from 100; “100… 99…” Zzzzzzz! I was out like a light!

I stayed there until the next afternoon, and only managed to escape when I promised I would stay in the Residence and not sneak down to my office. Out in the real world, they would send you home the next morning, or sooner if they could get away with it. When Marilyn had her gall bladder removed a few years after I did, she was sent packing the same day, and she damn near collapsed just walking into our house. Hell of a system! When I left the hospital, there must have been a hundred reporters and photographers outside in the cold, waiting for me to die on camera. I simply walked out the door, shook a few hands, waved, and took off. We already had issued a statement where I was praising everybody and their brother at the hospital. Since the gall bladder attack had occurred on a Monday, and I wasn’t released until Thursday, I basically took the rest of the week and weekend off. The White House Residence staff, and a lot of the West Wing staffers came out and greeted me when I got back, and I made sure to thank them all. Then it was up to the Residence, so I could get something decent to eat.

The kids were there to see me come home. The girls fluttered around offering help and pillows and iced tea and everything else. That lasted all of five minutes, and then they kissed me on the cheek and went back to College Park. I’m not sure Charlie lasted that long. He gave me the latest on his motocross plans, and then took off. I went into the bedroom, where I was going to get some bed rest on a real bed, without any tubes sticking out of me. Stormy jumped up on the bed with me and tried to push me around, which hurt some, but I pushed her off me as needed. Marilyn made me a late lunch of a ham and cheese sandwich, which really hit the spot. Then she asked, “How are you feeling. Can I get you anything else?”

I smiled and a wicked thought came through my brain. “Well, now that you mention it… Remember Monday night, when this all started, what you were up to then?”

“What? I have no idea… CARL! You are a dirty old man!”

I laughed as her face lit up. “No, I am a dirty middle aged man. Big difference.”

“Forget it! You are on bed rest, remember? Besides, the doctors told me that you couldn’t move around much, and that was definitely out!”

I wagged my index finger at her. “Now that is a lie, and I can prove it!”

“How?”

“Because if you had actually talked about that sort of thing with a doctor, your face would have turned so red they would have admitted you to the hospital, too!”

Marilyn turned beet red at that, and sputtered, “You think you’re so smart!”

I just lounged back on the bed, and waggled my eyebrows at her. My wife simply rolled her eyes, but then smiled and sat down on the bed. “Stormy, get lost!” She pushed the dog off the bed, and Stormy wandered out of the room. “If you start bleeding and pop your stitches, I am going to let you tell Doctor Tubb!” She began to undo my pants.

“I’ll just tell him how insatiable and needy and demanding you were.”

“Now who’s the liar!” Marilyn pulled my pants down, and then tugged my briefs off, and began to stroke me fully erect. “Are you sure about this?”

“I am now! How about a blowjob, and let’s see how that goes.”

She snorted in derision at me, but then smiled and bent over. I wrapped my hands in Marilyn’s hair as she sucked me off, and she did a pretty nice job. I kept her in place, and when my hips started bucking upwards into her mouth, I decided I wanted to finish off this way. I just was whispering for her to keep going, and she began sucking harder, until I exploded.

Afterwards, I sighed happily. Marilyn smirked and asked, “Is that what you had in mind?”

“Honey, you know that a positive mental attitude is important to the recovery of the patient!”

“You are still full of shit!” Marilyn tossed me my pants and I pulled them on and took a nap. For the next few days, she had to be the one on top, but I do admit, my mental attitude stayed positive.

Chapter 156: Swift Boats

Monday morning I declared myself healed enough to go back to work. I was still sore, and still had some bandages over the sutures, but I was healing a whole lot faster than if I had gotten the big zipper. Monday morning I fronted the Daily Press Briefing. This proved an exercise in silliness.

For one thing, various assorted conspiracy theorists and websites were reporting that I was now dead, after suffering an aneurysm, and that the CIA had managed to clone me and were controlling me. At the same time, several of the cable channels played the movie Dave, where Kevin Kline played both a ruthless and corrupt President and his doppelganger, a mild-mannered owner of a temp agency who moonlighted doing impersonations for local ad agencies and TV stations and was hired by the Chief of Staff to fill in for the President when he suffered a stroke. Hilarity and drama ensue, and Dave Kovic, the impersonator, ends up making out with Sigourney Weaver, which isn’t all that bad a deal when you think about it.

I simply went out to the podium, thanked everybody for their concern and prayers, and repeated Mark Twain’s line about ‘the reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.’ I also told them that my name really was Carl Buckman, and not Dave Kovic, and that I hadn’t been cloned, both of which got some more laughs. There were a few questions about my general health, but I had already had several doctors report my overall health was excellent, and that aside from my bum knee I was in excellent heath for a man of my age. It would be a couple of weeks before I would be able to begin my workouts again, and another couple of weeks after that before I would be able to get back to martial arts. As for my work schedule, I would take it a little easy for a couple of days, but it was expected I would be back in my regular schedule by the end of the week.

Meanwhile, while I spent my time recovering, most of the Democrats running for President were gone by the end of February, when it became painfully obvious that they had even less of a chance with the Democratic Party than I did! In theory, this is the time when the populace learns about the candidates and how they react to the stress and strain of a high pressure situation. In reality, you watch this and you just know there has to be a better way! In a very short time it was down to a few front runners. John Kerry was the favorite, with the most money and the most backers. John Edwards was a strong second, with good looks, a winning smile, and a wife who was bravely battling cancer but standing by his side. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember whether he was going to have zipper problems in 2004 or 2008 and totally self-destruct in the process. Joe Lieberman was going nowhere, but was hanging in there for the moment. Howard Dean was another strong contender, with some interesting ideas and a huge youth turnout and Internet presence.

The Internet was actually one of our strong points. For years I had been pushing high tech and computerization on the Republican Party. We had massive databases of names of donors, and the ability to dun them for money relentlessly. What had changed was that the Internet was becoming more and more powerful. Some of the old fogies in the party couldn’t understand it (hell, I couldn’t half the time, and I was the guy supposed to understand this stuff!) and thought it was a passing fad or trend. I set up a parallel fundraising group in Austin, composed of a bunch of young and tech savvy Republicans, some still in college, and with some funding through ARI and Marty Adrianopolis. They had a simple job — figure out how to use the Internet and the still-in-the-dream-stage idea of social networking, to get people to commit time and money. Marty and I, a couple of old RPI grads, were going to show the other oldsters what the future looked like, and Austin was going to be our showcase.

We had already seen John Kerry, John Edwards, and Howard Dean split the vote in the Iowa Caucuses in January, with them finishing a close 1, 2, and 3. They went 1, 3, and 2 in New Hampshire later that month. February was a mish-mash, with everybody but those three dropping out over the month, and each of them winning a few and losing a few. The strongest was Kerry, and Edwards and Dean were in a much lower tie for second place.

After Super Tuesday, March 2, it was all over except for the convention. John Kerry had managed to win all but one of those primaries, and John Edwards managed to win Georgia. Howard Dean didn’t win anything. Both Dean and Edwards withdrew the next day, though Edwards was making all sorts of noises about landing a spot on the ticket as the Veep.

There were still a number of primaries to finish the spring with, but with almost everybody else dropped out, John Kerry only needed to spend enough money to keep his name out front and win the last few states. He hoarded his cash, and what money he spent was actually spent on ads attacking me, not any other Democrats. He was beginning his general election campaign early, though not with a lot of spending. That would come later.

That doesn’t always work, though. Presidential calculus has a strange mathematical basis, as I well knew. Kerry was a Northeastern liberal, with a patrician air about him. Edwards brought in a Southerner with strong blue collar and union support, and a scrappy personal history. Lieberman, however, was so conservative that half the time he voted with the Republicans, and was one of the strongest Dems on national security and the military. His downside? He was Jewish, and Orthodox Jewish, to boot. Was the nation ready for that? Dean was also young and scrappy, and quite liberal. Both Dean and Lieberman were from the Northeast, which did not do well for spreading the vote around. In the White House, and at campaign headquarters (located in an office building next door to the RNC on First Street in D.C.), it made for an amusing guessing game. I didn’t think we would learn until the convention.

On June 5 President Reagan died, and politics went on hold for a few days while we buried him. You never really have a whole lot of ex-Presidents hanging around, since we are generally in our 50s and 60s when we get the job. I was a definite aberration in that regard. All of us who were alive attended, of course. Jerry Ford was there, the oldest of us, along with Jimmy Carter, Bush 41 and Bill Clinton. It was pretty much the same bunch that had been present for Bush 43’s state funeral, and if anything, this was even bigger. I made an appropriate speech, as did most of the others. After it was over, however, we went back to the blood sport that was the 2004 election.

The Democratic Convention was about a month before ours, at the end of July, in Boston. That worked well for Kerry, since his power base was Massachusetts. From everything they were spouting and saying to each other, their focus was going to be that they could obviously do things better. We would be safer, have fewer wars, kill fewer bad guys, have more jobs, lower pollution, more savings, yadda yadda yadda! Not only was there going to be a chicken in every pot, it would be a bigger chicken, and there would be two of them!

Would they be able to pull it off? That was the big question. That was why they held elections, to see who would win. In practical terms, the election was mine to lose. The economy was relatively strong and unemployment was low. By every historical measure, that was a major benefit to the ruling party in a Presidential election. I still had ample opportunity to step on my crank. We had not had a major terrorist event since 9-11, but there were still lots of asshole ragheads who wanted Death To America! All it would take was for us to screw things up and take our eye off the ball. One bad event could undo years of rebuilding. A bad scandal would hurt, and in an operation as big as the Federal government, there was always something you could call a scandal. A sudden downturn in the economy would be very difficult to deal with, even if it started overseas and then slopped onto our shores.

Will Rogers once said that he wasn’t a member of any organized political party, but that he was a Democrat. They managed to prove it once again at their convention in Boston. They went absolutely bonkers on security, even to the point of creating a designated ‘Free Speech Area’ for the inevitable protesters — who were not allowed anywhere else! The ACLU took them to court over that and lost. Meanwhile every whack job in Boston showed up to protest, including the local police union, which was protesting their contract! They even threatened to withhold protective services from the delegates! Inside the Fleet Center things went considerably smoother. The Democrats promised to keep America strong, fight terrorism, strengthen the military, make us independent of foreign oil, and otherwise slavishly copy the Republican playbook.

The real message to the audience was quite a bit different! “If you’re not a white male, we love you!” The keynote speaker was a new fellow, the biracial junior senator from Chicago with divorced parents who had lived overseas and had an Arab name. Yes, Barack Hussein Obama was introduced to America that week, with an electrifying speech. Otherwise, it seemed like the only white male speakers were going to be John Kerry and his Vice Presidential selection, John Edwards. Everybody else was a woman, or a person of color, or gay/lesbian/something-even-weirder. They were trying out a strategy that might just well work! Let the Republicans keep the white male voters, and they would take everything else and beat our pants off.

I watched a fair bit of it in the evenings, with Brewster, Ed Gillespie, the Chairman of the RNC, and Marty Adrianopolis coming up to the Residence. The one thing I did was point this out to them, and in no uncertain terms! “You want to know why we needed the DREAM Act? There it is! If they get all the women and blacks and immigrants and gays, guess what?! They win!”

Marty had read my book, and Brewster didn’t care in many ways (a true mercenary), but Ed wasn’t buying it. He had seen the Republicans win a lot of elections when they appealed to the party base — white, male, Christian, rural, and Southern. “I am not buying it! You push for those groups, the party loses our core.”

“Where are they going to go, Ed? A third party? That just means we lose for sure! This country has never had a third party that was viable since the Republican Party was invented! They can bitch all they want, but if we want this party to be viable in the future, we have to appeal to somebody other than a bunch of crackers, and I say that with the full knowledge that most people think I’m a cracker!”

“They will split the party and we will lose anyway.”

“Then the party becomes irrelevant for another generation, until the crackers die off. We can be a regional party, and a spoiler party, but we won’t be a national party with a chance to win the Presidency or the Senate. We need an outreach program to immigrants. Look at the list of speakers they have! We’ll never get the blacks back, but there is no reason to lose immigrants, too!”

Brewster piped up at that point, “Ed, I don’t like it either, but the numbers don’t lie. It is very easy to run a primary to the base, but beyond that, it doesn’t work. You want to win the base, you just ramp up Limbaugh and Hannity and the rest of the bunch and turn them loose, but with anybody with an IQ above room temperature it will go over like a lead balloon. If this is the way the nation is trending, and the numbers don’t lie, we need to be out in front of it, or we will never catch up from behind.”

“We will be slitting our throats.”

“Ed, right now Texas is a solid Republican state, but if the Hispanics vote Democratic, in ten years Texas becomes a battleground state, and in twenty years it becomes solid Democratic. Ditto Arizona. Ditto ditto New Mexico. Wait until it’s Colorado or Florida or Kansas. It’s already happening, Ed.” I replied. “On the other hand, we show some respect and support, we have a chance. Latinos aren’t just a single voting bloc. Some are liberal, some are conservative. We have as much of a chance as the next guy.”

We argued it back and forth, and I don’t know whether we would win or lose this particular debate. Ultimately, I made the final decision. Brewster was ordered to ramp up Hispanic language advertising in all the various high Latino population states — even places like California, which we had no chance in hell of winning! The Kerry campaign would have to match us in a countermove, and they had more limited funds than we did. Furthermore, the campaign spots were to be tailored to what the focus groups were determining to be important to Latinos, not simply Spanish translations and voiceovers of our regular ads.

John and I simply had to keep our A game going. For all of 2004 we were planning a schedule of trips around the country. Every week or two one or the other of us would fly somewhere and visit a factory or infrastructure project, meet with workers, give a speech, and do a fundraiser with the local political bigwigs. We would always be stressing something that we had gotten passed. It might be a defense plant building ships or planes, it might be a lock on the Mississippi that was being rebuilt, or a highway in Minnesota that was getting repaved. We made sure to attend a few citizenship ceremonies, especially if it was a minority that we had a chance of swinging into the Republican column. We definitely focused on Latinos, regardless of what the base thought. We needed to keep them Republican, and not let the Democrats grab them. Marilyn called it cynical, and I called it realistic. It was one of those differences in our world views, I guess.

A lot of this is basic Campaign Politics 101, what I had done in northern Baltimore and Carroll Counties for years, only now across the entire nation. Thank God John had done this before, because he actually knew what he was doing. I could give a good speech, but after every trip he took to giving me a critique. It wasn’t enjoyable, but it needed to be done, and it’s the only way I would learn. By the summer I was able to critique him as well.

Politics got very ugly that summer. As the old saying goes, protect me from my friends, because I can take care of my enemies all on my own. On August 14 a television ad ran, from an outfit calling itself the ‘Swift Boat Veterans For Truth’, claiming that John Kerry was dishonest and lied about his service in the Navy, and hadn’t been fit to command a ‘Swift Boat’, one of the small river patrol craft in Viet Nam, and was unfit to command as the President. It was run in Ohio, Pennsylvania, and Florida, all states with a close race. The group claimed that they had served with Kerry, on his boat, in combat, and that he had never actually earned the medals he had received.

John McCain looked me up in my office the next day and asked, “Have you seen the ad?” He didn’t have to specify which ad. It was the only one being talked about in Washington that day.

I grimaced. I remembered the controversy from my first go through. “Ari had it cued up for me this morning. It’s not technically something the President has to do anything about, since it is campaign related, but he figured that there would be questions.”

“What’d you tell him to say?”

“What’s your take, John? You were Navy, even if you flew off the boats instead of sailing around on them.”

He flopped down in a chair across from me. “I think it’s disgusting. A bunch of armchair admirals, probably none of whom were anywhere near the war, telling us how it should have been fought. You?”

I nodded. “I’m just glad I was young enough to miss out on the whole thing. I can’t say anything bad about you fellows who served, but that was one screwed up war, and you know it.”

“So, what did you tell Ari?” he asked.

“I told him to say that while I had no knowledge of the ad or of the group that paid for it, I trusted the officers who commanded Lieutenant J.G. Kerry and recommended him for his medals. I figured that sounded both statesmanlike and neutral.”

“That won’t end it, Carl. This is going to keep going, and then Kerry is going to go after your service history and mine, tit for tat. I didn’t spend seven years in Hanoi so that it could be run down in a campaign ad. You have your own skeletons to keep buried, too.”

I snorted at that and agreed. “Do me a favor. Call Ed Gillespie and find out who this Swift Boat bunch is, and what their plans are.”

He stood and said, “And you figure out what you are going to do about it if they keep going.” I nodded agreement.

By that night I got the word from Brewster that the Swift Boat Vets were a 527 Group, so named for a section of the Internal Revenue Code that allowed political organizations to qualify for tax exempt status while raising money, as long as they didn’t advocate for somebody and spent the money on issue education. As long as they didn’t say ‘Vote for Buckman’ they could say any damn thing they wanted about Kerry and claim it was legal and protected tax exempt free speech.

John was right about this, in that if I couldn’t shut this down, it was going to bite us all on the ass. John’s service before he got shot down was not the stuff of legend. He had been a rebellious son and grandson of admirals and had graduated from the Naval Academy ranked 894 out of 899. As for me, I had already enjoyed the press pawing over my Nicaraguan adventure, and I had no interest in reliving it. I asked Brew and Ed to shut this thing down as soon as possible.

I was informed the next afternoon that the Swift Boat Vets did not plan to stop. They considered what they were up to a good idea and planned several more advertisements, along with books and interviews. Ed got the plans from some of the group’s leaders, and when he suggested this might backfire by bringing back my problems, they didn’t care. They figured the damage to Kerry would be worse than any collateral damage I might see, so I should tough it out. Brewster talked to several of the members. Most of them actually had no personal knowledge of Senator Kerry’s actions in the war, but thought his actions afterwards, testifying about the war before Congress and such, were bad.

A second ad was scheduled for Friday, August 20, although for legal reasons the group couldn’t directly reveal the ad’s contents. Brewster managed a different tactic. If the 527 group wouldn’t talk to us, maybe the production company that created the ad would. Brewster tracked them down and discovered the ad would include some rather questionable ‘true statements’ from supposed members of Kerry’s crew. Fact checking was decidedly not part of the production company’s mandate. Great!

John McCain was as disgusted with this as I was, and an informal poll I had among some of the other Cabinet level vets pretty much agreed with me. As far as the various campaigns were concerned, everybody had predictable reactions. The Kerry campaign was complaining about how the Buckman campaign was playing fast and loose with the truth, and how this was not something that should be expected of a President or decorated veteran. Meanwhile, the Buckman campaign was saying that they had nothing to do with the Swift Boat Vets, and they couldn’t control what dedicated veterans were saying.

I decided I had to nip this in the bud before it got any bigger. I picked up the phone and asked to be connected to John Kerry. The White House switchboard didn’t seem fazed by the request, but there was considerable surprise at the receiving end of the call. I didn’t get to the Senator, but it was reported back that he was in a meeting and asked if he could return the call. I requested a private call that evening. He called me shortly after 8:00 that evening.

“Thank you for calling me, Senator Kerry. I appreciate it.”

“It’s my pleasure, Mister President. How can I help you?”

“First, let me say that I am personally quite distressed by the ad about your naval service. I want to assure you that I find these ads as distressing as I am sure you do, and that I have nothing to do with them. I apologize for any pain they may be causing you or your family.”

Kerry answered, “Thank you, Mister President. I appreciate that, but I think that the best apology would be to arrange for the ads to stop. You may not have personally ordered them, but it is you now who seems to be benefiting from them.”

I sighed. “I am afraid that may be true, unfortunately I am in no position to order the ads to be pulled. As you are certainly aware, I have no contact with groups like this, and can only request they end them by way of a liaison. I have made the request, but it seems likely the ads will continue.”

“Mister President, I appreciate your personal apology, but that isn’t going to be much help otherwise.”

“I agree, sir. My understanding is that you will be speaking in Philadelphia tomorrow.”

That seemed to surprise him. “Yes, at a regional meeting of the Veterans of Foreign Wars.”

“John, with your permission I wish to join you tomorrow. I will issue a statement disavowing these ads and repudiating them. I would appreciate you standing by my side. Afterwards I will leave and you can continue with your meeting. I think this is the only way we can put this behind us,” I told him.

I could pretty much imagine the look on his face at hearing this, and I could also see the wheels turning in his head. In speaking to a veterans’ group he was attempting to shore up his military credentials and foreign policy experience with a group that historically voted Republican. Did he allow me to speak, and possibly turn them against him, or say no and risk being rude to a sitting President in front of an unfriendly audience? After a silent minute he responded, “Of course, Mister President, if you feel that would be helpful.”

“I think I need to do this, Senator. I do ask that you keep this quiet. I will meet you prior to your speech, and show you the statement I plan to give, but I don’t want or need the grief I would get between now and then. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I think I would trust your personal assurance over that of some of our political assistants.”

John Kerry’s response was slow to come, but he eventually agreed. He was speaking at the Spectrum in South Philadelphia. With any luck, he would get some coverage of a sound bite or two. I suspected that my butting in like this was going to get him all the coverage he could ask for!

Doing this quietly was difficult. Philly was close enough that I could take Marine One up. I told Brewster, Ari, and Josh — and no one else. Those three I swore to secrecy. None of them were amused. It would be vastly simpler to stay out of it, let the Swift Boat Vets do their thing, and take whatever lumps came our way. I was taking a big chance with this, and professional politicians don’t like taking chances. Josh simply shook his head and sent the War Wagons and the rest of the zoo to overnight in Philadelphia. Brewster would drive up with them; Ari, Josh, Marilyn, and I would fly up in the morning.

Marilyn was quiet while I told the others what I was doing. Afterwards, she came to me and sat down sideways on my lap. “They’re wrong. I understand why you are doing this, and I think you are right.”

I put my arms around her waist. “You do, huh? So why am I doing this? Even I’m not sure I should be doing it.”

“You’re doing it because you’re an honorable man and you are ashamed of what is happening. I am proud of you.”

I snorted out a laugh at that. “Marilyn, I am many things, but an honorable man is somewhere way down the list.”

“You are always too hard on yourself.”

“And you are always too idealistic.” I hugged her and added. “Maybe I’m just trying to live up to your expectations.”

“Well, I’m still proud of you.” She gave me a kiss that made me think tonight might be interesting.

We flew out in the morning, a little before the normal daily press briefing. Ari’s deputy, Will Brucis gave the briefing, and was simply told that if anybody raised any questions about where we were flying to, to simply reply it was a campaign event. Under no circumstance was he to say more than ‘a campaign event’, and since he didn’t know what I was up to, he couldn’t speculate anyway. To be fair, nobody would really know what was happening until the evening news showed anyway, so even if the reporters found out, it was too late for them to yap about it.

This was a very low key and quiet trip, so when we landed at the Philadelphia airport there were no brass bands and politicians to greet me. We landed, the limo came out to the helicopter, and we got in. Fifteen minutes later we were sneaking in through a back entrance. It was easy to know where to go, since Senator Kerry had Secret Service protection just like I did. One of his agents greeted us and took us inside.

The look on some of the Senator’s aides’ faces was priceless. It was as if they were witnessing Darth Vader coming to talk to Luke Skywalker. I whispered to Marilyn that a few of them seemed to be holding up crosses so as to ward off evil. My wife giggled at that and told me to behave. Brewster was already present, and you could see the eyes on him as well, worried that he might brush against somebody and suck their thoughts and plans out by skin-to-skin osmosis. He came over to greet us, and a Kerry staffer came up and asked me to follow him to see the Senator.

John was using a back room as a conference room for his people, but he was the only one present. I had known Kerry ever since I had gotten into Congress, dating all the way back to my first bill, on Gulf War Syndrome. He had been one of the co-sponsors, just like almost every other veteran in the House and Senate.

“Good afternoon, Mister President,” he told me.

“Thank you for letting me come, Senator.”

Kerry looked at his staffer and said, “I won’t need you for a few minutes, Tim. I’d like to speak to President Buckman for a bit.”

“Senator, you…” The staffer’s eyes flicked back and forth between us, as he faltered in his speech. “You are scheduled to speak in half an hour.”

“I’ll be ready then.” He politely showed the young man out the door and shut it behind him. Then he gestured towards a couple of chairs. “Please be seated.”

“Thank you, John. I hope this doesn’t put you behind your schedule. Perhaps I should have gotten here earlier.”

“I don’t think it’s going to be a problem. You said you were planning to read a statement. Was that all?”

I nodded. “I have no intention of high-jacking your speech. I just want to go out there, with you by my side, say what I have to say, and leave. No questions or answers,” I told him.

“Could I see your statement?” I nodded and handed it over. He read it several times, and looked thoughtfully off into a distance that I couldn’t see. Handing it back, he said, “Thank you. I would imagine that will cover everything.”

“Good. As I told you, I never wanted something like this, and I can’t seem to turn these jackasses off otherwise.”

We chatted about our families until there was a knock on the door. John called out for them to enter, and Tim came in and said, “It’s time, sir.”

We both stood up, and John said, “We’ll go out onstage together. I’ll go to the podium and introduce you, and then step back. Sound right?”

“Sounds fine.”

Out in the room with the others, Marilyn came up and shook the Senator’s hand, and then kissed me. “I am very proud of you,” she said quietly.

“Yeah? Then how come you keep voting Democrat?” I teased back. John laughed at that. I turned my wife over to the others. She would watch from off stage. Instead, I fell in after Kerry as he was led towards the stage.

I saw a lot of shocked and surprised faces on some of the VFW big shots as we neared the stage. I had to give credit to Kerry, though. This was a tough audience for him, medals or not.

The chief big shot was at the podium, and he must have been cued in on the upcoming festivities. We waited in the wings while he said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to introduce Senator John Kerry, the Democratic candidate for President, and President Carl Buckman, the Republican candidate.”

I followed the Senator out onto the stage. In the audience, there was massive consternation, although there was a lot of applause as well. When John’s name was first mentioned I had heard the beginning of some catcalls, but they shut down immediately as I was mentioned. John immediately went to the podium and said, “Thank you. It is always good to be here in Philadelphia, one of the true birthplaces of America. Before I say anything more, however, it is my privilege to introduce the President of the United States, President Carl Buckman.”

Kerry stepped back and I moved up to the podium. There was a fair bit of applause, but also an awful lot of confusion. I pulled out a copy of my speech from a jacket pocket and set it on the podium. We didn’t bother with a teleprompter, though one could have been made available, and instead simply had it printed double spaced with a big font. I waited a minute for everybody to settle down, and then began.

“I would like to thank Senator Kerry for graciously allowing me to speak to you today, and through you to the rest of the nation. This is a singularly appropriate venue because you, like the Senator, are veterans of a foreign war.

Several days ago a group calling themselves the Swift Boat Veterans for Truth began running a television ad claiming that Senator Kerry’s honorable service in the Navy during the Viet Nam War was anything but honorable. This group claims that Senator Kerry did not earn his medals, and never served in the places and times he claimed. I say to you now that these claims are false and misleading. John Kerry did indeed serve bravely under fire, was wounded multiple times, and earned the Bronze and Silver Stars awarded him in combat.

As you here in this room know, combat is never neat and pretty. It is actually quite messy. Nothing is ever black and white, but is often an ugly shade of grey. I trust the officers who commanded the Senator and recommended him for his awards. I, too, have had to face scurrilous accusations about my time in the service. It is not something I would wish on another. By attacking Senator Kerry’s honorable service, they actually attack mine, and by attacking Senator Kerry’s courage, honor, and sacrifice, they attack mine as well.

I know that many of you have seen these ads, and I am sure that you have been confused by these claims. The group that created these ads believes that what they are doing will help me in my election bid. I have requested that they stop the ads, but they have not seen fit to do so. I apologize to Senator Kerry for whatever pain this has caused him and his family, and I repudiate the ads and the group that created them. I can understand why some people feel that an attack like this makes good political sense, but it is not right.

Let me make it clear, Senator Kerry and I have serious disagreements on where we feel the country should be heading, and how we plan to lead the country in the next four years. Regardless of these differences, I firmly believe that Senator Kerry is an honorable man who has America’s interests at heart. Some of you will be voting for me, and some of you will be voting for the Senator. Make sure that your vote is influenced only by the truth, and not by malicious lies created by my supposed allies. Finally, I would like to thank you for your time, and to thank Senator Kerry for allowing me to speak here today.”

With that I stepped back from the podium, as the room roared into a standing ovation. I shook the Senator’s hand, and then waved to the audience and moved off the stage. Marilyn hugged me backstage and Ari, Josh, and I left the Spectrum.

“Well, you certainly stole the show, I’ll give you that much,” commented Josh. “John Kerry could do a pole dance out there on that stage right now, and he would still only get second billing on the evening news.”

“Of course, you probably lost the votes of the Swift Boaters out there,” added Ari.

I snorted out a laugh at that, and added in my best John Wayne accent (not a great one, but passable), “A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do!”

Marilyn simply groaned. “Enough out of you. Let’s go back to Washington. I want to watch the news tonight.”

The fallout was interesting. The Swift Boat Vets put out a statement saying that while they totally disagreed with my characterization of their group, they would acquiesce to my misguided judgment and stop running ads. The networks all dug up my history in Nicaragua again, and ran that mess for a few days, and some fact checking outfits began reviewing the Swift Boaters’ claims. Meanwhile I was being lauded for my political courage and statesmanlike behavior. I commented to John McCain and a few others that if you actually did the right thing every once in a while, you could get some positive coverage, since nobody expected it anyway! Within a week, well before the convention, it was old news.

The Republican Convention was at the end of August in New York. I wasn’t spending all that much time on it, but I was keeping an eye on things. Our overall plan was to run a very professional convention. Neither the RNC nor the reelection committee wanted any surprises! The neocons weren’t even being invited, not even at the 4:00 AM sessions. I might not be as conservative as some of my brethren wanted, but the economy was generally in good shape and we weren’t at war with anybody. The image we were presenting was that we were the professionals, the grown-ups, a couple of guys who had been around the block and taken a few knocks and knew what we were doing. Why mess with a good thing?

Our convention was held in the Big Apple, and was so slick and smooth as to be a snoozer. Mike Bloomberg had his share of crazies in the town, but they were under a severe security regime. Madison Square Garden was quiet. Most of the speeches pointed to the legislation we had passed, the solid economic performance of the nation, and the international respect we had maintained. ‘Four more years!’ was our mantra, and we repeated it with the devotion of a chanting mystic.

After the conventions were over, we examined the results. In most years, a party enjoys a surge in popularity after a convention of several points in the polls. This year was no different. The Democrats picked up 4 %, and then settled back down, and we picked up 3 % after ours. The next step would be the debates, to be held in late September and early October. John Kerry and I would meet Tuesday, September 28, in Houston, and John McCain would take on John Edwards a week later on October 5, in Spokane.

I managed to get into trouble shortly after the convention. Jimmy Carter, the ex-President, had become a Democratic gadfly over the years. He could be a real sanctimonious asshole at times, telling people how the Republican Party was a bunch of heartless bastards. He also thought he was a brilliant international negotiator. At the start of September, a bunch of Chechen terrorists took over 1,100 Russian adults and children hostage in Beslan, North Ossetia. By the time the Russians took control, hundreds of hostages were dead, along with the Chechens. Jimmy Carter managed to say, on camera, that the Russians had mishandled the entire situation, and that they should have negotiated and handled everything calmly and peacefully.

Needless to say, the Russians were not amused. Vladimir Putin called me and complained about the ex-President’s remarks. Putin wasn’t all that happy with America. Things might not be as warm as when he and I had our karate summit but we were still talking. The biggest problem was simply that Russia thought they were more important than they really were. They now were earning enough money through oil and gas exports to begin to rebuild their army and air force. It was still an incredibly inefficient system, but they had some money now and wanted more influence. Unfortunately for the Russians, they were still a second or third world economy at heart. Their only exports were oil, gas, and cheap but crappy weapons.

I sympathized with Vladimir without actually promising to do anything. I took his call while on a campaign swing in Tennessee, and afterwards, mentioned it to Josh Bolten. Unfortunately, I was overheard by a local reporter with a parabolic mike, as I said, “Somebody needs to tell Mister Peanut to shut his damn mouth and go build a house! It’s the only damn thing he’s ever been good at, anyway!” That made it to the news that evening, and I had to have Ari issue an apology the next morning. Mister Peanut was quoted the next day stating that the President of the United States should act and talk like the President of the United States, and not like the president of a drunken fraternity. At that point some of the networks dug up the fact that I had actually been the president of a drunken fraternity.

Like I said, a real sanctimonious prick.

The biggest worry we had in the campaign were the debates. At one point in American political life, political debates were considered high theater and a chance to actually argue your points of view with a contender in front of the populace. They would be written and published in newspapers, and discussed across the nation. Nowadays, they were nothing more than a chance to issue dueling sound bites and one-liners. Just like with everything else, we now had debate consultants to teach us what we were allowed to debate and say. Actual intelligence on the part of the debater was not considered important, and might be detrimental. If they were smart, they might try to actually answer the question rather than spout the canned response the campaign consultants wanted to deliver. Worse would be if they were stupid and tried to answer the question! As Abe Lincoln once said, “Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak and to remove all doubt.”

Did debates matter? The jury was out on that. It was considered universal political wisdom that they helped kill Richard Nixon in 1960. He was a jowly man, with a heavy five o’clock shadow of a beard, and was coming off a bout of the flu. On the black and white televisions of the period he looked pale and coarse compared to the young and healthy looking Kennedy. People who heard the debate on the radio, or read it in the papers, thought Nixon won, but on television Kennedy slaughtered him. Likewise, Ronald Reagan, a fine leader but decidedly no intellectual, learned his lines like the true professional actor he had been for many years, and blew away both Jimmy Carter and Walter Mondale.

Huge amounts of time and energy are expended by the campaigns on how the debates are setup and organized. How many would there be? What format would they be? Did we have a traditional debate, with the candidates standing in front of podiums and answering questions from a moderator? Would they be seated at a table facing each other? Or did we go with a town hall format, where we would be on bar stools in a surround setting, free to stand up and move around? Who would be the moderator? Would he simply ask questions, or would he be allowed to push back against the canned answers and demand that the candidates answer the questions? The last thing anybody actually wanted was a moderator who went off script and told the candidate that he was a lying sack of shit, which is what most of us were!

There was a lot of nervousness about this year’s debates. Nowhere is it stated in the Constitution that you have to have them. Typically you have two or three debates among the Presidential candidates, and one between the Vice Presidential candidates. The problem? I had never been in a debate — ever! It is rather unusual for Congressional candidates to debate, and we had blown off the Veep debate during the last election’s debacle over my Nicaraguan vacation. John Kerry, on the other hand, had been in several debates as a Senatorial candidate. I was considered the underdog, not a good position for a sitting President to be in, and was widely expected to walk onto the stage, trip over my shoelaces, and then pee my pants. One theory, posed by one of the drier wits in the bunch, was that John McCain would be able to pick up the pieces when I screwed up the week before. Nothing like trying to live up to high expectations.

I thought debates were bullshit, and I had better things to do with my time (like run a government) then spend days and days practicing sound bites in mock debates. We limited the debates to one for the President and one for the Vice President. Big mistake! This was considered a sign of weakness on my part, fear that I couldn’t cut it. Screw it! Maybe I wouldn’t piss my pants on television and be considered the winner!

My attitude must have come through during the debate prep, because Brewster chewed my ass out royally, most powerful man in the free world or not! I was to knock off my shit, stick around and not duck out, and learn my lines, or I was going to be a one term President! It didn’t help that John looked like a fucking perfectionist at this shit, either. I just reminded Brewster that I was legally allowed to write my own pardon in case I punched his lights out. He was not impressed.

That was the idea, anyway. The world has a way of screwing great plans up. On Tuesday September 14, Ari came into my office and asked me for a few minutes. I tossed down my pen and leaned back, nodding him towards an armchair in front of my desk. “Please! Have a seat. Rescue me from the budget, please!”

“Mister President, I just had a call about a story that was published in The National Enquirer.”

“Elvis is still dead and there are no aliens in Roswell,” I told him.

Ari didn’t look amused. “This is serious, Mister President. I just had a phone call from the Times about the cover story in this week’s edition of the Enquirer.”

“The Times? The New York Times?! I mean, not the Duluth Times or the Boise Times? Somebody at the Gray Lady reads the Enquirer? What’s going on, Ari?” I asked, giving him a curious look.

“I sent somebody out to pick up a copy, but the Times is asking for a comment on a report that you have an illegitimate child,” he responded.

“So? We’ve had these kooks and cranks for years. What’s new about that?” It was true, too. All public figures attract this sort of thing, and it always fell apart in the details.

“This is different, sir. They have a birth certificate and a diary of the mother from 1974.”

“1974! I was a teenager then! What are you talking about, Ari?”

“Have you ever heard of a Michael Petrelli?”

“No.”

“What about a Jeana Colosimo?”

Chapter 157: Fatherhood

Tuesday, September 14, 2004

I stared at Ari Fleischer, slack jawed and disbelieving. Suddenly he had a nervous look on his face. “Mister President?”

I took a deep breath and said, “You want to repeat that, Ari?”

“According to the story, Michael Petrelli is the son of Jeana Colosimo and you. There is reportedly a birth certificate, issued at Elmhurst Hospital in Queens, New York, on March 29, 1974. Did you know this Jeana Colosimo?” He was reading from a notepad in his hands.

I smiled to myself and shook my head. “Good Lord! Jeana Colosimo? I haven’t heard that name in thirty years.”

“Mister President? Did you know this woman?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Maybe, Ari. I knew a Jeana Colosimo back in high school, in fact she was my girlfriend for a couple of years. That was in Towson, Maryland, though, not Queens. Is there any proof on this? Where’d this Petrelli name come from?”

“No idea, Mister President. Could it be another scam?” We had been hit by a hoax about a year ago, also, when some dim bulb claimed I was the father of her love child. It took about ten minutes to determine that she was a hooker in San Francisco, and got knocked up when I was at the G-8 Summit in France.

I shrugged. “No idea. Probably. It’s obviously happened before. What do you think we should do about it?”

“First, tell me about the girl you dated. Were you serious about each other?” he asked.

I nodded. “This was all before I met Marilyn, of course. We met in college. This was high school. Anyway, yes, we were pretty serious. Let me think, we met near the start of my junior year, so I was…” I had to do the math in my head. “I probably had just turned 16. We dated until the summer after I graduated, not quite two years.”

“And you were sexually active?”

I smiled again. “Very!”

“How come she has never come up before?” he asked.

“Good question.” I thought for a second, and then snapped my fingers. “Of course! Jeana was a year behind me! When I was a junior she was a sophomore, and when I was a senior she was a junior! More than that, though, they built a new high school. Towson High was way overcrowded, so they built Loch Raven. At the start of my senior year, they split the school boundaries. Anybody who was a sophomore or junior in the new boundary went to Loch Raven. All the seniors stayed at Towson. She would have been a graduate of Loch Raven! That’s why none of the reporters who ever investigated me ever found her! She wasn’t a student at Towson High! They tracked down all my classmates, but she was a year behind me at another school. No wonder nobody ever stuck a microphone in her face!”

“I have somebody running out to get a copy of the Enquirer. Maybe they have a picture you can look at, see if it’s her. Why’d you break up?”

“Well, like I said, I was a year ahead of her. I was heading off to college, and she still had her senior year to finish. Besides, remember when you asked me once about how I busted my nose?”

It took him a second to remember that conversation, and then his eyes popped open. “NO! Don’t tell me!”

“Bingo! Her old man was running an armed guard around her the rest of the summer. I never heard from her again.”

“I don’t think I want to tell anybody that particular story!” he replied. “All right, let’s surprise them with the truth. If anybody asks about the story, I’ll simply say that we don’t know anything about this Michael Petrelli. If there is anything to it, they are going to figure it out for us soon enough. If it’s a scam, it’s better if the press figures it out, and not us.”

“Okay.”

“What if it’s not a scam?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

Ari looked at me and said, “What if it’s true? What if this is the Jeana Colosimo you used to date, and this guy really is your son? What do we do then?”

It was my turn to shrug. “No idea, Ari. It sounds pretty far-fetched to me. A thirty year old guy pops up in the middle of a Presidential campaign claiming to be my love child? He’s probably just looking for a payoff.”

He nodded. “Probably. I’ll let you know.”

Ari left and I sat there a few minutes more, reminiscing about my misspent youth. Jeana Colosimo! I hadn’t thought about her in years! She had been the love of my life at one point, but even then I always knew she was just a placeholder until I got to RPI and was able to maneuver my way to meet Marilyn. I couldn’t imagine Jeana getting knocked up, though. She had been on the Pill. I had never been that stupid!

Ari brought by a copy of the Enquirer after lunch. There I was on the cover, along with a picture of a very nondescript man in his late twenties or early thirties, and a picture of the mother. She looked vaguely familiar, but if it was Jeana, she had not aged well. The Jeana I had known was a centerfold knockout. The picture showed a middle aged woman who had put on a lot of weight. I just shrugged at Ari and told him I couldn’t tell.

I told Marilyn about it that evening, over dinner. (“How was work, dear?” “Fine, honey. I was hit with another paternity suit!”) The last time this happened, Marilyn was royally pissed and wanted the hooker put in jail. She wasn’t happy, but she understood.

“This might be real?” she asked.

“I have no idea. I dated a girl named Jeana Colosimo, that is a fact. Is this woman that person? Is this man her son? I have no idea. This was all thirty years ago. I have no idea what happened to Jeana after I went to college.”

“She’s the girl you told me about, the one you dated the longest in high school, wasn’t she?”

“Yeah, I suppose. You never met her because she was a year behind me, and ended up over at Loch Raven.”

She thought for a second, and then quietly asked. “Did you love her?”

I stood up from the table and came around to her side. I picked her up and gave her a big hug. “That was long before I met you. Okay, yes, I loved her. I also told you once, that you weren’t the first woman I loved, but you were the last. Nothing has changed since then, nothing.”

Marilyn hugged me back fiercely at that. I let her sit down again, and went back to my plate. She giggled for a moment and then asked, “Did this Jeana get the Carl Buckman Experience?”

I snorted my wine out through my nose, which caused a burning sensation. Marilyn was laughing at my discomfort, and I just pointed at her. “You are pushing your luck!” That just made her laugh even harder.

Unsurprisingly, Ari was asked the next morning at the press briefing about the story in the Enquirer. I was watching it on the closed circuit television.

Q: “What about the story in The National Enquirer about President Buckman having an illegitimate son?”

A: “Well, I can tell you that when I mentioned the words National and Enquirer, the first thing the President said to me was that Elvis was still dead and that there were no aliens in Roswell. I think that pretty much sums up the President’s thoughts on the subject.”

Q: “So the President is stating that Michael Petrelli is not his son?”

A: “The President is stating he has never met or heard of Michael Petrelli. I think it is pretty suspicious, though, that this Petrelli character pops up in the middle of a hotly contested and close election campaign.”

Q: “What if he is related to President Buckman?”

A: “I am not going to play the what-if game. What if aliens land on the South Lawn? Ask me when the aliens land.”

I smiled to myself. I liked the line about the aliens. That made it to the evening news. Meanwhile I had much more important things to worry about, like debating John Kerry, and, oh yeah, running the country.

The story didn’t go away, however. By the end of the week it was being reported in both the New York Times and the New York Post that the Jeana Colosimo in Queens really was the same Jeana Colosimo I had known at Towson High. The Colosimos had moved from New York City to Baltimore in 1971, which was when I met her, and they still had family in Queens. (Mr. and Mrs. Colosimo had died several years ago.) Then, in 1973, the Colosimo family sent Jeana back to New York City to live with several very strict aunts and attend a parochial girl’s school in Queens. That didn’t work out so well, since by the middle of the fall semester she was very obviously ‘in the family way’. The nuns kicked her out as a bad influence and Jeana ended up getting a GED right around the time she gave birth to a son. She named him Michael after her father, to try and get back into his good graces but that failed, and she ended up living with her aunts for a few months. Desperate to get away from them (they were from the old country and barely spoke English, and spent most of the time lecturing her in Italian) she hooked up with the first guy she met, Mario Petrelli. The marriage didn’t last even a full year, but by then she had been able to get out of the house and start getting a few college credits at the nearby community college. By that time she was calling the baby Michael Petrelli, but it wasn’t clear if Mario had adopted the child. Jeana had spent the next thirty years in Queens, working as a secretary in various office jobs, and had died in a car accident in June.

Meanwhile, Michael Petrelli was being investigated as well. Michael had grown up in Queens, and his most noticeable accomplishment was a total lack of accomplishment. He had graduated from high school with middling grades at best, and never gone to college. He had gotten some training in being an auto mechanic over the years, and had spent the last ten years working as a mechanic, occasionally employed, and occasionally under the table. He had alternated between having his own apartment and living with Jeana in her apartment. He had first learned about me when he was going through his mother’s things after her funeral, and discovered her diaries. His birth certificate didn’t have his father’s name on it.

The New York papers were able to track down a few cousins of Jeana, who reported that Jeana had been ‘knocked up by some guy down in Baltimore’ but they never knew the name. They also reported that Jeana had always had a diary and wrote everything in it. I began to get a sinking feeling in my stomach about all of this. One of the cousins reported that she herself had gotten pregnant as a teenager, and that Jeana knew it, and thought it was romantic, at least until she had to start taking care of a baby on her own. Is that what made Jeana go off birth control, a desire to emulate her cousin?

Mario Petrelli was tracked down. He turned out to be an insurance salesman in Hempstead. He had married Jeana, but it hadn’t worked out and ended almost as soon as it began. No, he had never adopted Michael, and no, he had no idea he was using his name. He hadn’t talked to Jeana in well over twenty years and didn’t even know she had died.

The biggest question in my mind was why Jeana had never told me. Okay, she was in Queens, and I had left Baltimore for a number of years, but it wouldn’t have been difficult to track me down, either at Rensselaer or in the Army. My lawyers informed me she had a claim against me for child support at least until Michael was 18, and maybe beyond, depending on circumstances. Maybe she thought I didn’t have any money, but by the mid-80s I was becoming well enough known as a businessman that she must have learned about me. Still, I had never heard from her. Shame? Pride? Now I would never know.

By Sunday morning, there was more than enough smoke floating around to start hearing the word fire. Will Brucis, who was appearing on Meet the Press, was asked point blank about the mounting evidence that I had an illegitimate child. “What evidence? All we’ve heard so far is that President Buckman had a relationship with a woman when he was a teenager who may or may not have been this man’s mother. He hasn’t contacted the President and he hasn’t asked for any DNA or paternity test. All we know for sure is that he sold a story to a tabloid that can’t even be called a newspaper.” The Washington Post gave the whole thing the nickname ‘Babygate’. How cute!

Will’s comments actually managed to move the ball, but not necessarily in a helpful direction. Michael Petrelli called a lawyer, one of those sharks who give ambulance chasers a bad name. I was informed that Angelo DeSantos had a series of billboards with his likeness on them near local police stations and jails, and also near any dangerous intersection he could find. Michael might be an idiot, but Angelo knew a gold mine when he fell into one. Michael had already sold his story to the Enquirer, cheap, for living expenses. Angelo was going to raise the bar considerably higher, and come after me. According to the about to be released Forbes 400, I was the 10^th wealthiest American, with an estimated fortune of just under $14.1 billion. By the end of that week Angelo DeSantos had filed a law suit for half of my assets, just over $7 billion, along with thirty years of appropriate child support and fines and other payments, for another $1 billion. What’s the Italian word for chutzpah?

It got better after that. Petrelli had promised the Enquirer that he would let them print Jeana’s diaries. DeSantos read one of them and shitcanned that whole deal. He was going to have them published as a memoir, ‘Secrets of a President’s Lover’, or some such crap. Jeana must have been very impressed, which isn’t all that hard to do with a teenage girl. Her diaries were extremely explicit, much more than could be printed in a newspaper, although redacted snippets were tossed out as teasers. There was just enough let out to make me think this might be legit.

Brewster McRiley and Ed Gillespie were beside themselves over this. Our carefully crafted message that we were the bunch that knew what we were doing was coming down around our ears. Everybody in the senior campaign ranks was wondering if this was the most incredibly perfect October Surprise ever invented, but nobody was going to kill a middle aged woman in Queens in June to screw up my reelection. No, Michael Petrelli, the greedy bastard, had managed to do that all on his own. John Kerry kept his mouth shut and looked Presidential, with that somber and mournful look he possessed. Instead he let his designated asshole, John Edwards, make all the jokes he could get away with, at least until I called Kerry and reminded him of the favor I had done him with the Swift Boaters. He shut down Edwards after that.

On Tuesday the 28^th, we had our debate in Houston, the same city where George Bush had announced to the country that I was his V.P. pick. It was a solidly Republican city, and I got a warm welcome. Still, Babygate hung over everything. There were no questions about it during the debate, and John Kerry never said a word about it. John Edwards, the philandering ass, had a team of joke writers that Mel Brooks would have been proud of, and made a few more jokes at my expense whenever he could get away with it. The best that we could say in response was that it wasn’t the behavior to be expected of a Vice President, unless Edwards was running for Vice President of a drunken fraternity. John McCain promised to chew him up as needed.

My debate performance was uninspired, at least to my way of thinking. We spent half the time on domestic issues and half on foreign policy. Neither one of us truly beat the other. Regardless, since this was the first debate I had ever been in, and expectations for me were extremely low, the fact that I walked out on stage without my pants falling down around my knees benefited me. The pundits ruled the debate a draw, and congratulated me on my performance in the face of personal adversity. Good grief!

The idiocy mounted through October. Angelo DeSantos was going full bore New York crazy on me. He filed an injunction against the Secret Service to prevent their harassment of his client, which was insane, since the Secret Service had never even talked to his client. He filed a paternity suit against me, claims against Marilyn and the kids so that I couldn’t hide my assets with them, liens on my home in Hereford and my jet, filed suit against Suzie and her family for some damn reason, and half a dozen different law suits against me for harassment and civil rights violations. I was going to be spending my fortune fighting the court cases.

I took a day off and met with my attorneys and the White House Counsel, John Weisenholtz. The Counsel’s office wouldn’t fight my battles for me, but they would protect the office of the Presidency. Their joint verdict, on everything, was that this was all smoke and mirrors. None of this would ever go to trial, and would all get thrown out in any pretrial stage. I could tie this up in court until we all died of old age. The claim for half of my assets was based on the nonsensical legal theory that Jeana Colosimo and Michael Petrelli formed a ‘second family’, and therefore deserved half of my assets, just like Marilyn, Charlie, Holly, and Molly who would split up the other half. There was no possible way that I owed thirty years of child support that had never been sought by his mother.

On the other hand, this was America. Anybody can sue anybody else for anything whatsoever. I could stand on my good name and spend the rest of my life fighting this asshole, or I could buy him off. I might have the law on my side, but Petrelli had a certain vestige of public sentiment, and he had some extremely racy diaries that I didn’t need to see the light of day,

We waited until about a week before the election and then flew DeSantos down to witness a cheek swab being taken for a DNA test. This was placed in the hands of a pair of Secret Service agents, who then escorted DeSantos off the premises and flew him back to New York. DeSantos protested that he wasn’t allowed to speak to the press in the Press Room, or from the South Lawn! Back in New York, they went with DeSantos and Petrelli to a lab, where a cheek swab was made of Petrelli, and they turned over my sample. Results were promised on Wednesday, November 4.

This all played fairly well in the press. My ‘openness’ in taking a paternity test was reassuring. Hogwash! I just wanted this over with. One thing I was sure of was that if this turned out to be an elaborate hoax, or the DNA test turned out to be negative, I was going to destroy DeSantos! He would be lucky to practice law in Cuba by the time I was done with him!

What would I do if it was positive? I just didn’t know.

The election was on Tuesday, November 3^rd, and for the first time I wasn’t sweating out the results at the Best Western in Westminster. No, this time we set up in the Hyatt Regency in Washington, which was just a few blocks from the Capitol. Marilyn, the girls, and I flew home to Hereford to vote in the afternoon after the girls got out of class, picking up Charlie at the house, and then took the motorcade to our regular polling place at the high school. We voted, and then drove back to the house. Charlie joined us as we flew back to the White House. He had stayed out of the campaign as much as possible. His opinion? “How you put up with this is beyond me, Dad!” Good question!

Despite all that had been going on with this sideshow, the economy was humming along, and the world was relatively peaceful. By the end of the evening it was obvious I had won reelection, or election as President. I had a 5 % margin in the popular vote, 63.5 million votes to Kerry’s 57 million. I had an even bigger margin in the Electoral College, 334 to 203. The only states Kerry had taken were the three on the West Coast (Washington, Oregon, and California) along with Illinois (Chicago, strong Democratic bastion) and Minnesota in the Midwest, the Northeast (Maine, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Vermont, and Connecticut) and a piece of the Mid-Atlantic States (New York, New Jersey, Delaware, and Maryland). I took the South, the Rockies, almost everything in the center of the country, and a big chunk of the Rust Belt. I lost Maryland, but favorite son or not, I hadn’t expected to win it anyway.

By 10:00, as the Rockies began reporting their results, the projections had me winning. They refused to call it until the West Coast polls closed, but it was a mathematical lock by then. John Kerry called me about 11:15, just a few minutes after the networks called it for me. He congratulated me for winning and I congratulated him on a hard fought and clean campaign. We kissed over the phone and promised to work together and make sweet, sweet political love on a bed of roses. Blah blah blah! Kerry had run a relatively clean campaign, as had I; if I ever saw John Edwards I would drop kick him into a greasy dumpster and weld the lid down!

Some of the pundits were calling it a mandate, but that can be a very slippery slope for a politician. The most dangerous thing a politician can believe is his own press clippings.

Any relief I had was short-lived. The following morning I got the results of the DNA test. I was a father again, thirty years after the fact. I showed Marilyn the results and we both shook our heads in disgust and disbelief. How I was going to explain this one to her parents was beyond me!

The election results were almost drowned out by Angelo DeSantos crowing the results of the DNA test on national television. By now he was playing the sympathy card, how being an absentee father had left my son without the support and guidance needed to make him a success. This was somewhat muted when the New York Police Department picked up Michael Petrelli with a bunch of his buddies while tearing up a bar in celebration of his soon to be billions in wealth. Petrelli was a moron.

I met with my lawyers and decided to put this all behind us. I would make an offer to buy out any claims from this clown and get him to shut up. Needless to say, DeSantos publicized this as my ‘surrender.’ What a putz! I agreed to a meeting the Monday before Thanksgiving in Washington. DeSantos wanted it in New York, and televised. We laughed that off and said if he wanted to see a payday while he was still young enough to enjoy it, to be at the Hay-Adams at 10:00 AM on November 22, and to have his client with him, or there was no deal.

I met with my staff briefly that morning, but simply to make sure the world hadn’t blown up overnight. At 9:45 I left the White House and went with the zoo over to the Hay-Adams, where we had a conference room booked. We entered the room at 9:55 to learn that DeSantos was still coming down with Petrelli; they wanted to be the last to arrive. I looked at the others and just rolled my eyes.

Angelo DeSantos came into the room first, looking oily and smarmy. He reminded me of a used car salesman. He looked like the kind of lawyer who chased ambulances, pleaded out mobster wannabes, and made bad deals with insurance companies. He was wearing a shiny suit, had some garish jewelry on his fingers, and his hair was oily and slicked back.

Michael Petrelli came in after DeSantos. He was in a suit, probably the only one he owned, and had a blank look on his face. If he were to pass you in the street, you would never even notice his passing. This was a guy who had lucked into the biggest payday he could ever dream about, and was otherwise completely clueless.

I had with me three lawyers, Tucker Potsdam, my long time lead attorney and tax lawyer, John Weisenholtz, the White House Counsel, and David Boies, who I had retained to handle this disaster if it ever went anywhere near a courtroom. I had used him before, and he was one of the finest legal minds, inside or outside of a courtroom, in America. I also had a couple of Secret Service agents standing post inside the room.

Tucker directed DeSantos and Petrelli to seats on the opposite side of the conference table. DeSantos tried to come around the table to shake my hand, but was blocked by Tucker and pointed back towards his seat. He looked at me and said, “We are just trying to be civil, Mister Buckman.”

I looked him in the eye and said, “Sit down, Mister DeSantos.” Once he was seated, I added, “We all know why we are here. You have ten minutes. What do you want?”

“There is no reason for hostility!”

“Time’s a’wasting, Mister DeSantos. Nine minutes fifty seconds,” I answered.

He blustered for a moment, but a tap on my Rolex and a “Tick tock!” from me got him on track. He took longer than ten minutes, but it didn’t matter. He was looking for a stupendous payoff, multiple billions of dollars worth. Petrelli sat next to him quietly, but he had an eager look on his stupid face, and was nodding along, like this was something that DeSantos had promised him, and now it was really going to happen. There really was a Santa Claus, and he was coming in November!

He kept rambling until I held up my hand and said, “Stop. Time’s up.” He wanted to keep going, but I simply said, “You’ve had your chance, Mr. DeSantos. Now it’s my turn.”

I glanced at the others, on my side for a second, and they had looks of incredulity on their faces. I shrugged and gave Boies a wry look and shook my head. Then, before DeSantos could start up again, I looked directly at Petrelli, and said, “I have no idea what this shyster has promised you, but let me tell you what is really going to happen.”

DeSantos jumped up and began to protest being called a shyster. I looked at him and bellowed, “SIT DOWN AND BE QUIET OR THE NEXT THING YOU KNOW THESE TWO SECRET SERVICE AGENTS WILL BE DRAGGING YOU OUT OF HERE IN HANDCUFFS!”

“You can’t…”

I motioned towards the agents and they moved up behind him. Suddenly DeSantos shut up. I held my hand up and they moved back. I began to speak again. “This is Mister David Boies. He is one of the finest trial lawyers in the country. He argues cases in front of the Supreme Court. Mister DeSantos here is not fit to shine his shoes on the courthouse steps! I am going to let Mr. Boies speak for a moment.”

Boies popped right up at that. He opened his briefcase and pulled out a stack of legal papers. He handed one of them to Petrelli. “This is a Federal injunction barring you from bringing suit against the President as long as he is in office. As of November 3^rd, that will be January 20, 2009.” Privately, Boies and Weisenholtz had told me that this was bogus. Jones v. Clinton had ruled that the President could be sued by private parties for acts committed before he was the President. We didn’t care; this was just the opening salvo anyway.

He handed over another document. “This is a Federal cease and desist order, barring both you and your lawyer from discussing this case in the press. You say word one and you can fight this from behind bars.” Another document. “This is a Federal warrant to seize any and all records and documents of one Jeana Colosimo, and to sequester them with the Federal court until their authenticity is verified. Until that time they may not be sold or published. That means you turn over your mother’s diaries to a Federal Marshal. We have one waiting downstairs, and he will accompany you to New York and take possession of any such diaries.”

There were several other injunctions and court orders thrown down in front of Petrelli and DeSantos. Boies had told me that these were only stopgaps, and in some cases, pretty weak stopgaps. Most of them were from favors that my legal team had called in from various Federal judges, since almost none of this was actually under Federal jurisdiction. If Petrelli wanted to fight it, he would ultimately get his day in court, although it would probably not be with DeSantos running his legal team. He seemed as contemptuous of Petrelli’s lawyer as I was. At that point, Boies turned things back over to me.

“Now, as to your claims against my assets. You have no claim! The legal theory that you and your mother form a second family and are thus entitled to half of my wealth is ridiculous on its face. No court has ever found this to be realistic. The same goes for any claim for back child support. Your mother had the claim against me, not you, and for whatever reasons she had, she never came after me for support. Maybe if she had I would have agreed to something. However, she didn’t. You, on the other hand, have no legal standing to make such a claim.”

I pointed over at Tucker. “That’s my estate lawyer. My lead estate lawyer, I should say. He heads a team of estate and tax lawyers larger than DeSantos entire firm. He’s the guy who wrote my will. So, since we’ve already established that you can’t get any money out of me in a lawsuit, let’s see what else you might get from me. Tucker?”

Tucker took off his glasses and tossed them on the table. “Under the provisions of Mister Buckman’s current last will and testament, any and all children of Mister Buckman will receive on his death $10 million each. Mrs. Buckman will receive much more, but inasmuch as you have no relationship to her, you have no claim against her. The vast bulk of Mister Buckman’s estate will be transferred to the Buckman Foundation, Mister Buckman’s charity. Again, you have no claim against that. Mister Buckman is currently 48 years old and has a life expectancy of another 30 years. You will be 60 years old before you ever see anything other than legal bills. Further, even as we speak, Mister Buckman’s will is being rewritten to specifically exclude any children not the issue of Mister Buckman and his wife Marilyn Buckman. In order to get anything, you will first have to invalidate Mister Buckman’s new will, which you will not be able to even attempt until after his death, during probate, again, in 30 years.”

That hit Petrelli like a bombshell! He had a look of horror on his face, and his head whipped around to stare at DeSantos. “You said…” The two of them began to argue with each other, snarling like a pair of loud Italian cats.

I gave a disgusted look to my team, and let them wrangle another moment or two. Finally I got sick and tired of them, and bellowed out, “ENOUGH ALREADY! SHUT UP!” The two agents stepped up behind the bickering assholes and they shut up. They settled down and turned to look at me. “So, you can’t sue me for any money now, and you’ll be an old man before I die and you can get any other money. Here’s my offer. This is a onetime only offer, and there will be no counteroffer. Take it or leave it.”

The two men looked at each other, and then turned back to me. I continued, “First, I will pay you $10 million. You will be explicitly cut out of my will. You are going to get the same payout as my children, only you won’t have to wait until I die.”

Petrelli looked horrified as he realized his free billions were gone. DeSantos however had a look on his face that said he still thought he was smarter than me. I continued, “That will be the payout for simply being a recipient of my DNA. Your mother also left you something. Obviously it was not her intelligence, wit, or charm, since you have none. She did, however, leave you her diaries. I am willing to buy those diaries from you, for another $10 million. You will turn over all the diaries. They will be destroyed without ever being published.”

Petrelli began to look hopeful again. I still wasn’t done. “Finally, in compensation for the loss of your mother, and the terrible pain of growing up without a father, there will be a lump sum payment of a further $5 million, to ease your suffering. That amounts to $25 million, to be paid out in four payments of $6.25 million a year. After that, I won’t be the President, so whatever embarrassment value you think this has becomes nil. You will agree to never discuss this agreement or the terms of the agreement. If you refuse to turn over all the diaries or violate the terms of the agreement it becomes null and void, and you will be required to pay back any and all payments, plus penalties.”

I nodded to David Boies, and he pulled out another document and slid it across the table. “These are the terms,” he said. “They are nonnegotiable.”

I had argued about buying the bastard off — in every meaning of the word! Maybe I could go along with the $10 mill inheritance package, since it was the same amount my other kids would get. The other $15 was blackmail and nothing more. I’d rather spend twice that to bury him.

Instead I was faced with a solid wall of my lawyers and senior staff, all of whom wanted this thing buried. I met with David Boies privately and he put it bluntly. “Carl, grow up! This guy can keep this going for years. You can make it expensive for him, but you can’t stop it. He can fight this forever, starting one law suit after another, and eventually he will win one. The stays will run out, the court orders will be overruled, the diaries will be unsealed. At some point a court somewhere will rule that the diaries can be published, and that the two of you will get to argue over who gets the proceeds. Do you want your wife and children reading about your sweaty fun and games in the back seat of your father’s car?”

“We never did it in my father’s car!”

“Oh, shut up! Nobody cares! Do you really want to spend the next four years of your Presidency as a late night joke? Who do you want to play you in the TV movie!?”

“Shit!” I muttered.

“Here’s something else to think about. The more you fight this, the more valuable the diaries become. The longer you fight, the more people will want to see what you are fighting about. I had some of my people look into the value of the diaries. Conservative estimate, $30 million, moving on up to $50 million. Like I said, grow up. Make the damn deal!”

So I made the damn deal. I offered $25 mill to a guy who figured $25 kay was a decent year. The papers sat on the table for a moment, and then Petrelli reached out for them. DeSantos’ arm snaked out and he grabbed them first. He began looking them over. “We need some time to review this.”

Boies looked at me and I nodded. He responded, “Twenty-four hours. In the meantime, the Federal Marshal downstairs will accompany you back to New York, where you will turn over the diaries. They will remain in Federal custody until this is resolved.”

DeSantos gave an almost imperceptible nod. It was time to end this. I stood up. “I have wasted far too much of my life messing with this idiocy. Mister Petrelli, I have no idea why your mother never informed us of your parentage. That was her decision, not yours and not mine. What most disappoints me is how anybody with half my genes could act the way you do. You may be my offspring, but you are certainly not my son. I hope to never hear from you again.” I left the lawyers in the room, and took the agents with me. Enough of this!

Chapter 158: The Calm Before The Storm

I wasn’t surprised when DeSantos agreed to the terms, and had Petrelli sign the papers the next day. The marshal returned to Washington with the signed papers and the diaries. The diaries were turned over to the Federal Court while the final paperwork was finished. Eventually the diaries were turned over to me. I went home to Hereford that weekend and left Marilyn in D.C. I never read them. I just grabbed a box of kitchen matches and went up to the helipad and threw the diaries into some old cardboard boxes, doused them with lighter fluid, and set them on fire. It was chilly, but I didn’t really care. I just stood there and watched, occasionally kicking unburned pages back into the fire, until nothing was left. I didn’t think I would ever understand why Jeana had never come forward, but I just didn’t want to read her diaries to try and find out. That just seemed too private and personal. It was so long ago, and so bittersweet.

The press was loathe to let a good scandal alone, though. John Edwards had mostly shut up once it became obvious he was staying in the Senate, and neither Petrelli, DeSantos, nor I were talking. Nature abhors a vacuum, however, so reporters began reporting on the lack of anything to report. It came to a head the first week of December. Brian Williams had just taken over the NBC Nightly News from Tom Brokaw, and had managed to finagle a one-on-one interview with the President as a big and flashy intro. It was big and flashy, all right, but not perhaps in the way he imagined.

We were set up in the Map Room, like on some previous interviews, but it was just me and Williams, without Marilyn or any other members of the family. It was supposed to be a discussion of my plans for a second Buckman administration, both personnel wise and about future legislation.

Williams: “First off, Mister President, congratulations on your victory in the election. Does it feel good to know you won’t have to ever run for office again?”

Me: (Chuckling.) “I think that’s a little premature, Brian. I might not be running for office, but there are certainly going to be plenty of elections coming up where I might be called upon for some influence. If I do my job right, maybe I’ll be able to help a few fellow Republicans.”

Williams: “And if something goes wrong?”

Me: (Smiling.) “Then maybe my fellow Republicans won’t want my help. We’ll just have to see, won’t we?”

Williams: “Do you consider the Petrelli scandal one of those things that can go wrong?”

Whoa! Where did that come from!? I was sure it showed on my face, because I stopped smiling or laughing and gave Williams a hard look.

Me: “That’s really not something I intend to discuss, Brian.”

Williams: “Mister President, you must admit that some voters were influenced by the scandal.”

Me: “I wouldn’t agree with that, and I think the final election results speak for themselves.”

Williams: “You have refused to discuss the scandal until now. Why is that?”

Me: “I have no intention of discussing anything of the sort, Brian. I am here to discuss the changes coming in the next four years.”

Williams: “Mister President, why haven’t you discussed what happened, and explained it to the American people? Isn’t it unrealistic to expect it to remain hidden after all these years?”

Me: “Let me put this to rest, then. I think it is painfully obvious that the American public has the ability to differentiate between my performance as the President of the United States and whatever occurred with a couple of teenagers thirty years ago. It was never anything more than a personal issue to the people involved. No laws were broken. There was no scandal and no cover-up. Since then the issue has been resolved and we have all put it behind us and moved on with our lives. There will be no more discussion of it than that.”

Williams: “What about the diaries? Was there a payoff?”

Me: “Move it along, Mister Williams. The topic is getting old.”

Ari Fleischer was leaving, effective January 1, with Will Brucis taking over his job. Once we were off camera, I told Ari that as a Christmas present NBC was losing their White House press privileges until further notice. He was alarmed and argued against it, but I didn’t much care. Williams had knowingly violated our pre-interview agreement. “An NBC reporter lied to the President of the United States! Actions have consequences, Ari, and not just for me. Maybe it’s time for a few reporters to learn that, too.”

I had won reelection (or election, depending on how you looked at it), but things were changing. Several top people had told me that if I won, they would be leaving sometime in 2005. In a way I was somewhat dismayed, but working at that level is incredibly wearing. Forget about having a family or a life outside of the White House. You are on call 24 hours a day, each and every day, and might be here today and around the other side of the world tomorrow. Ari was only the first to announce he was leaving.

Colin Powell told me he would stay until the summer, but he would be gone after the July 4^th holiday. He thought Condi Rice would be a good choice, and I thought so, too. She wasn’t incredibly high profile, and despite being a big fan of George Bush, had been relatively smart and moderate. She agreed to move over, and said she would think about a new National Security Adviser.

Mike Gerson was planning on leaving as my chief speechwriter. Technically he had been George’s speechwriter, while Matt Scully was mine. Matt was staying put, and Mike was leaving. He had proposed a replacement named Marc Thiessen, who used to be an aide and writer for Senator Jesse Helms of North Carolina. That made me really wonder. Mike was much more conservative than I was, and he had only stayed with me out of loyalty to Bush. When he mentioned Helms, I immediately got nervous. Jesse Helms was about a billion years old and was so conservative that he thought Abe Lincoln had been more than a little premature in freeing the slaves, that AIDS was God’s punishment on the faggots and queers, and that being a Democrat was akin to being an atheist. I told Mike I would meet with Thiessen, but that I was going to look at a few other candidates as well. Then again, a link to the conservative wing of the party might not be a bad idea. I was going to have to give that one some thought.

One of the toughest jobs in the White House is that of Chief of Staff. He travels everywhere with the President, works ludicrously long hours, and has no personal life. Josh Bolten had stepped up to the plate when Andy Card had died on 9-11. He told me he was leaving right after the inauguration. He also recommended that Frank Stouffer move up from assistant. Frank had been with me since the 2000 campaign, and was only 30 years old, incredibly young for such a senior position, but he had managed to impress Josh. I was happy with that choice. For a guy who started out as my body man, this was an incredible rise in just five years. By the time he left the White House, Frank was going to have his pick of Republican Party, K Street, or private sector jobs.

I made a major change in the Inauguration this time. I told people that I didn’t care how many Inaugural Balls there were, Marilyn and I were attending just one! I told John that if he and Cindy wanted to make the rounds, they were free to do so, but eight Balls in one night, which is what happened the last time, was simply ludicrous. I would be happy to speak to each Ballroom via closed circuit television, but driving from one to another was insane. John, on the other hand, told me he was going to use this as another chance to shake hands and line up supporters for 2008. Fair enough. If we did the closed circuit thing, I would make sure I mentioned the help he had been and how he was making the rounds.

As always, we invited my family (what there was of it) and Marilyn’s family (as many as wanted to come), along with some of my friends from back home. Tusker and Tessa came down, as did Bucky, who escorted both the girls. Charlie brought a blonde model he had met at a bike race. Jake Eisenstein, Jr. came with his wife. Marilyn and I attended a combination Maryland and National Ball, and Cheryl Dedrick was there with her husband, proudly representing the Maryland Ninth. She had won reelection twice now, and remained a loyal supporter. Maryland may have voted for Kerry, but the Maryland Ninth had voted Buckman by a landslide!

It turned out that Marilyn was the belle of the ball in more ways than one. She selected a nice scarlet red Versace gown with a slit up one leg to about mid thigh, and up top it featured a matching bolero jacket. The really interesting part was when she took the jacket off after we got to the Ball — under the jacket the top was a red sequined bustier, backless and strapless! Marilyn must have been tanning topless, and she looked good! I gave a wolf whistle that a few other people noticed, and Marilyn blushed and preened, twisting around to show me, and everyone else. Later on I discovered that she hadn’t worn pantyhose, but stockings. She whispered to me during our first dance that she wanted my inauguration to be memorable. It was! She also made most of the tabloids and women’s fashion magazines, and her dress became the season’s must-have for evening gowns. Versace ended up making it in about a half dozen colors, as well as black, and the just-above-the-knee length black version became that year’s LBD!

It was a lot more relaxing to be able to just attend the single ball, even if I did have to break off every few minutes to a sound room to make a televised appearance at one of the balls. At least this time nobody was going to take a snapshot of Marilyn snoring with her mouth open and drooling on my shoulder. We were actually able to dance, and I could have an extra drink or two. Unfortunately the guy carrying the football wouldn’t let me nuke John Edwards’s home town. He still pissed me off with his shit during the end of the campaign about Michael Petrelli. He was another putz I wouldn’t mind nuking. (If he had managed to contact me after Jeana’s death, and introduce himself in a civilized fashion, we might well have had a very different relationship. Selling the story to The National Enquirer and then suing me for billions was not a civilized introduction!)

Shortly after the Inauguration, I managed to tweak Marilyn on national television. One of the perks of being the President is being able to host musical groups at the White House. Sometimes this means wearing a tux to the Kennedy Center for a night of classical music (good) or opera (dreadful). Occasionally it means you get to dress casually while Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band rock the East Room — that was awesome! Whenever this goes on, of course, it’s going out on PBS, and for the good stuff, one of the networks. I remember when I introduced Bruce Springsteen that I commented on the air, “It’s a bit tricky for the President to get out at times, but one of the perks of the job is being able to call up Bruce Springsteen and ask him to come over to the house and play a set or two.”

In mid-February we had a night of bluegrass and country music, with Alison Kraus followed by Brad Paisley. Marilyn and I were definitely looking forward to this; we never asked the opinions of our children, who were under orders to attend and smile. My job in all this is to act as the host, to introduce the performers, make a joke or two with them, and then sit down and listen. Pretty straightforward and simple. First up was Alison Kraus with her band Union Station, and that was pretty cool. I’m not madly crazy about bluegrass, but I won’t turn it off if it comes on the radio, either.

The fun started when Ms. Kraus was finished and it was Brad’s turn on the stage. His music was a more modern country style. I went up to the low stage, and did a quick intro, but then, before I sat down, I decided to have a little fun. “Brad, before I let you perform, I need you to do something for me. Could you help me for just a minute?”

Paisley looked a little amused and confused, but he was a game trouper. “Of course, sir. What can I do?”

I turned towards my wife and said, “Marilyn, can you come on up here with me?”

Marilyn looked mystified, but she was game. She joined us on the stage and said into the mike, “I have no idea what he’s up to,” which got us some laughs.

I answered that with, “Brad, the First Lady and I have had an argument for years now, and you are qualified to settle it.”

He glanced over at Marilyn, who had a curious look on her face, but he was in too far now. “I’ll do what I can, sir.”

“Okay,” I continued. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you began singing and playing guitar back in high school, right? Back when you were a teenager, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

I looked towards his backup band. “How about you guys? The guys I mean, not the ladies, were you in groups then, too?” I got several agreements and thumbs-up from the band, though I doubt much of it made it to the microphones. “Okay, so here’s the question. You’ll see why I have to ask you, and why I couldn’t ask Alison earlier. Marilyn and I have been arguing for years about this. She says that performers like you join bands and musical groups because they love music and performing and I say that teenage guys join bands in order to meet girls.”

Paisley started laughing loudly at this, and his band pretty much broke down. Even the backup singers, all women, were laughing fit to bust a gut. Meanwhile the audience was laughing, as was Marilyn. “You are a rat!” she told me.

Paisley was grinning as he spoke into the microphone. “Nothing like putting me on the spot, Mister President! Who do I make angry, the lady of the house, or the guy who can order the IRS to investigate me?” I just smiled at that. “I’m going to have to say — the music and the performing. Sorry, sir, my mother would never forgive me if I got a lady angry at me!”

“Hah!” added Marilyn, giving me a superior look.

I wasn’t done, though. I looked back at the band. “Guys? The music or the girls?!”

“Girls!” roared out from the band.

Brad was laughing again, and Marilyn punched me in the ribs lightly. “Brad, I think you’ve been outvoted! I think I’ll let you get on with the music now.”

“Good idea, sir, and I’ll let you get on with your divorce!”

Marilyn laughed and hugged me, then went over and kissed him on the cheek, and we sat back down. Even the kids seemed to enjoy the evening after that, and clips ran on most of the comedy and news shows the next day.

I was hopeful that this year I would be able to get some stuff accomplished in Washington. Certainly last year, an election year, was a lost cause. Nothing gets done in D.C. every fourth year. Now, I wanted to head off a housing bubble, even if that caused a recession. A recession is nothing unusual, and was often the result of a bubble collapsing. The trick is not to let the bubble get too big. The Great Recession was caused by artificially inflating the bubble to monstrous size, and then suddenly popping it. I wanted some sort of increased banking regulation and to chew on Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac, make people look at them more realistically. If we had a mild recession in 2006, which was five years after the last one, then by the time the elections rolled around in 2008, we would be on the rise again, always good for the incumbent party. It’s a cold calculus, but a realistic one. It was still a lot less painful to work with than to keep blowing smoke up everyone’s ass until the wheels came off, and we suffered the worst recession since the Great Depression!

Oh, I also had to keep balancing the budget in the face of some heavy Democratic and Republican opposition! The Republicans were really pushing for a tax cut. I had been putting them off for three years, and running budget surpluses and paying down the debt. The Dems wanted to keep taxes where they were and increase entitlements. Everybody wanted to keep the gravy train rolling on biscuit wheels, especially with the gung-ho housing market. I knew what would happen and I desperately wanted to keep things under control.

Worst of all for me, I now had a split Congress. The House was still solidly Republican, but the Democrats had managed to take back the Senate, with 50 Dems and Bernie Sanders as an Independent, versus 49 Republicans. The worst part? Harry Reid was the new Senate Majority Leader, and Harry didn’t like me. We had never really jelled. He was a fair bit more liberal than me, and we disagreed on a number of items. Even when I had a liberal position, such as being pro-choice, he turned out to be pro-life! I could already feel an itch between my shoulder blades from where I knew the knife was going to go in!

One agency I really wanted to see get better was FEMA. I had been trying over the past few years to beef it up. It might have been a dumping ground at the top for political operatives in need of a job, but a lot of the people at the lower levels were quite dedicated. I had been pushing since 2001 for realistic and large scale exercises and disaster training. I remembered back during my first trip, FEMA had been sucked willy-nilly into Homeland Security, and it hadn’t done well there. One thing that Homeland Security had done was imbue everything it touched with antiterrorism. They no longer practiced for routine disasters like tornadoes or floods or earthquakes. Everything became terrorism related disasters, like nuclear drills, chemical attacks, biological attacks, and such. Never mind that none of that ever happened, and that we were hit with natural disasters on a routine basis. FEMA didn’t worry about those.

Well, this time around we didn’t have a Department of Homeland Security. FEMA’s main focus was still natural disasters, and I had hammered both Joe Allbaugh and Michael Brown, the heads of the agency. Allbaugh was leaving after the inauguration, and Brown was taking over, and I was stressing the need to handle disasters proactively. There was a really good reason for that. In seven months the largest natural disaster in U.S. history would be barreling straight for the Big Easy. Hurricane Katrina was coming, and it would not be pretty.

In April, however, my life turned upside down. It was a Friday night, and the twins were with us, having come over from College Park. Charlie was between races, and he was at the house in Hereford.

The girls were now juniors, and had selected majors. Molly had told us she wanted engineering, and had settled on mechanical engineering, which was my father’s field. Holly had bounced around a bit on the science side, first going with physics, then over to chemistry (like I had once been in another lifetime), and then switching back to physics. Molly was planning on staying at College Park for a fifth year and getting a masters degree, but Holly would be moving on to get a doctorate somewhere else. We were both pretty proud of them. They weren’t straight A students anymore, but still had GPAs that put them on the Dean’s List and probably had them graduating with some sort of honors.

Regardless, the phone rang in the Residence and a Secret Service agent announced that we had a visitor, Buckman Tusk. “Send him on up!” I told him. Bucky and the Tusks were on the list of approved ‘whenever’ guests. To Marilyn, sitting next to me in her lounger, I said, “Bucky’s here. I wonder what he’s up to.” She simply gave me a curious look.

There was a knock on the door a moment later, and I stood and opened it. I could see one of the agents standing post, and Bucky was at the door, so I let him in. “Well, look what the cat dragged in! How you doing, Bucky?” Bucky was wearing riding leathers and carrying a helmet, so he must have ridden his bike down.

“Good, Uncle Carl, real good. How are you and Aunt Marilyn?”

“I’m doing fine. Come on in. You can ask Marilyn herself.” I pointed him towards the living room.

“Hi, Bucky come on in,” my wife called out. She waved at him from her chair.

Stormy climbed off the two-person lounger where she had been laying next to Marilyn, and padded over. She stood on her hind legs and Bucky braced as she put her paws on his shoulders and licked his face. Big damn dog! After a moment he pushed her down. “Down, you mutt! You really are a monster!” he laughed. Stormy gave a pleasant woof, and nudged his legs, and then went back and jumped into my chair.

“What’s up, Bucky? Charlie’s back in Hereford. If you rode down here to see him, you two got your signals crossed,” I told him.

“No, I’m here to see Molly,” he answered, a funny look on his face.

Holly, who had just wandered in, said, “Hi, Bucky! I’ll go tell her you’re here.”

I shrugged. “I thought she was going out on a date tonight.”

Bucky gave me a really odd look at that. “I know. That’s why I’m here.”

I just stood stock still for a bit. “You are?”

“We’re going out, Uncle Carl. Didn’t you know that?”

“Huh?!” I could just feel myself standing there and staring stupidly at him.

Marilyn added, “Carling, close your mouth before the flies go in.”

“You knew about this?” I asked her.

“Carl, everyone knows about it,” she answered, rolling her eyes.

Molly came out of her room and she was wearing riding leathers and carrying a helmet of her own. She said, “Hi, Bucky!” and then stood on her tip-toes and kissed Bucky! On the lips! I stood there with my jaw flapping but no sounds coming out. After the kiss, my youngest daughter said, “Don’t wait up for us, we’ll probably be late.”

Holly had been watching and grinning at me from the side. “Make sure you use protection!” she called out as they left.

That woke me up! “Holly!”

“Well, Dad, we wouldn’t want any repeat of past family history,” she teased.

“HOLLY!”

She sat down in my lounger with Stormy. “Daddy’s angry. You’ll protect me, right, Stormy?” She got a loud WOOF from the mutt as she rubbed her belly.

I turned to my wife. “How long has this been going on?”

“What, dear?”

“This! Molly! And Bucky!?” I demanded.

“I don’t know. Since last year?” she asked Holly.

Our eldest daughter replied, “Since she went out with Charlie and Bucky last summer on that race tour in August.”

“I thought that was an unpaid internship.”

Holly smirked. “Maybe Molly got paid a different way.”

“HOLLY!” I thundered.

Holly just laughed, and Marilyn said, “Holly, you’re not helping.”

“Dad, don’t you remember her sitting on his lap at the Christmas party we had? And at the Inauguration?”

“They said there weren’t enough seats,” I answered lamely. Had they really been dating for almost a year without telling me?

“Daddy, for a guy who is almost as smart as me and Molly, you’re awfully dumb,” she replied.

“So, are you seeing anybody I need to know about?” I asked her.

“No, I just sleep around.”

“HOLLY!”

“Maybe I could help with the gays and lesbians if I started dating girls, too, Dad.”

“OUT!”

Marilyn laughed and pointed out of the room. “You’re really not helping!”

Holly just laughed and scrambled out of her seat, with Stormy romping behind her. They went back to her room. I turned to my wife. “You knew?”

“Everybody knows! Where have you been?”

“I don’t know. Running the free world?” I responded.

She snorted. “I think Holly is right! You can be pretty dumb.”

“Marilyn! It’s wrong! He’s like our second son. It’s like… like… incest!”

“Oh, please!”

“Well, he’s certainly much too old! He’s six years older than she is!” I argued.

From Holly’s room sang out, “I told her that he was already way past his sexual prime!”

Marilyn laughed again and I yelled, “HOLLY!” I sank down onto my chair again. “Shit! When did this start?”

“Last year, when they set up their racing team. Bucky hadn’t seen the girls for a few years. Guess what, they grew up! They weren’t the little girls who used to bug him and Charlie anymore,” she explained.

“And she and Bucky are… you know!”

“Mister President, ever heard of ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell!’”

I just growled and threw my hands up in the air. “Aaaaggghh! Daughters!” I looked over at her and pointed a finger. “This is all your fault!”

“My fault?!”

“I wanted sons, but you said, ‘No, let’s have twin daughters!’ This is all your fault!”

“Oh, puhhhleeeease! As I recall, it’s the male who provides the X or the Y chromosome, so don’t blame me!” was Marilyn’s reply.

“Yeah? I recall Henry the Eighth and what he did to a few of his wives when they didn’t provide some sons! You are on shaky ground here, your Highness!”

Marilyn just snorted and ignored me.

Thankfully the media never twigged to my daughters’ romantic liaisons, or maybe they just didn’t care. When the summer started and the girls were out of school, Molly went on an internship with Harley-Davidson that Tusker had arranged, and Holly spent the summer goofing off and visiting friends. If Charlie was anywhere near where we were, we tried to take an afternoon off and watch, but that is such a production to travel to that we mostly watched on ESPN.

It was still blood curdling to watch, but I knew enough about what he was doing to see that he really was good at it. The boys had made their business plan based on being in the top ten in the rankings after two years, and it looked like Charlie was there and more. Charlie had begun racing at the end of 2003 and had very quickly proved he could still outrace almost everybody on the smaller regional tracks. In 2004 he continued, and by mid-summer had been picked up by a pair of major sponsors. The first was Red Bull, the god-awful energy drink that tasted like kerosene, only worse. High energy, that was Charlie, all right!

Amazingly, the Marine Corps was the other major sponsor, and it had nothing whatsoever to do with me! The services often had NASCAR teams, and the presence of a certified Marine hero in the top ranks of motocross was definitely aimed at their demographic target. They actually built a recruiting campaign around Charlie, with ads and posters of him in his combat gear side by side with him in his racing gear. The Few, the Proud, the Hopelessly Insane!

In any case, it was beginning to look like Charlie might be able to make a go of this. He was going to begin racing in the AMA Pro Championship races, and was actually getting a real paycheck from his sponsors. If he continued at this pace, he had a chance to make it to national ranks by next year. He told me once what some of the top tier people made, and it was in the millions. Who knew!? To a considerable extent, however, this destroyed the Charlie-Bucky team, but both boys explained that that had only been a short term plan anyway. Bucky would go back to work at Tusk Cycle, and Red Bull would have professional handlers who would deal with the racing and transportation. Then Bucky arranged for an agent from Creative Artists Agency to handle endorsements and appearances.

As for me, I tried to stay on top of the tiger rather than inside him. In May we had a little war that nobody outside of the administration even knew about! For several years the CIA had been quietly supporting the Northern Alliance in Afghanistan against the Taliban. Things had begun heating up a hair, so we airdropped in a few Special Forces A-Teams to help and began flying a few more B-2 patrols. In turn, the Taliban complained to their bosses back in Pakistan, who decided a more active role was needed. In early May the CIA reported that an infantry brigade was slowly being prepared for action in Pakistan, much as it had been before 9-11.

We really didn’t want the Taliban to win, so I called in the new Ambassador from Pakistan, Jehangir Karamat. Karamat had been a four star general in Pakistan’s army at one point, so hopefully he would be able to convince his superiors of the folly of poking a tiger through the bars of a cage. I met Karamat with the Secretaries of State and Defense, and told him we knew about the planned ‘invasion’. Of course he denied everything, which was what we expected, and then he called home. Two days later a motorized infantry battalion crossed the border. We waited until they bedded down for the night, and then a pair of B-2s carpet bombed their encampment.

We didn’t broadcast this to the world, hoping the Pakistanis would take the hint and go home. Pakistan is really an army with a country attached, not the other way around. The remnants of the battalion did begin going home, but the Air Force and Navy decided to screw around. A large flight of French-built Mirages and U.S.-built F-16s lifted off from Masroor, near Karachi, and sortied towards the Truman carrier group in the Bay of Bengal. They tried to fly beneath the radar and completely failed. They were picked up almost immediately by airborne radar and warned off. About half turned back then, and the rest turned back when they were lit up by fire control radar from the F-18s which were shadowing them. Smart move.

Not so smart was the captain of the Pakistani submarine Khalid, a French-built submarine that was shadowing the Truman group. She was trying to maneuver into an attack position, though it wasn’t working, since the Scranton, an Improved Los Angeles class American sub was shadowing the Khalid! The Truman launched an anti-submarine equipped Sea King helicopter which positioned itself directly over the Khalid and then hammered her with active sonar to let her know we knew where she was. Unfortunately, that simply rattled the Khalid’s commander, who promptly launched a pair of Exocet missiles at the nearest American destroyer, the Kidd. The Exocets never even came close to the destroyer, but the Sea King dropped a pair of homing torpedoes and sank the Khalid.

We kept the whole thing quiet, to allow the Pakistanis to save face. They backed down, although diplomatically things were very frosty. We lost nobody, and only spent some money on ordnance and fuel. I heard later that Pervez Musharraf, the President of Pakistan, was on thin ice with his ruling junta of generals, and was drinking a lot. Ambassador Karamat was also recalled and replaced.

That was a relatively simple problem. Otherwise, it was becoming trickier, not easier. Condi Rice was good, but she didn’t quite have the gravitas and respect Colin Powell did. Still, I wasn’t going to get rid of her. She and Colin had developed a fairly decent team, and it was she who pointed out to me the problems developing in Iraq. It had been 14 years since Bush 41 had kicked his can down the road, and he was really feeling feisty again. The provocations were becoming more frequent and the rhetoric was becoming noisier. She thought that we needed to get proactive over there.

Since Bill Clinton’s time, we had been enforcing a no-fly zone over both the southern, Shiite, part of the country and the northern, Kurdish, part of the country. Every once in awhile Saddam Hussein would get to feeling aggressive and light up one of our planes with a fire control radar, and occasionally launch a missile at it. Our response was predictable, in that we would then destroy the SAM and radar sites. I had raised the bar, by adding a Tomahawk strike or two at one of Hussein’s innumerable palaces, razing it to rubble. It wasn’t an intentional attempt to kill him, but if he died, I wouldn’t lose any sleep.

Meanwhile, the Kurds up north were busy forging a national identity. Kurdistan was an area of the map that occupied northern Iraq, eastern Turkey, northwestern Iran, and northeastern Syria. The heart of it was in Iraq. Still in all those countries they were a generally oppressed minority. Now, under American aerial protection, they were developing an autonomous nation, and the central government in Baghdad was squawking loudly. We said (diplomatically of course), “Up yours!” to Hussein, and sent over a few teams of Special Forces trainers, and Bismarck Myrick as Special Envoy.

After Monrovia had calmed down in the fall of 2003, we had brought Bismarck Myrick back from Liberia to a hero’s welcome. Colin Powell had awarded him the State Department’s Distinguished Service Award, their highest honor, and had given him a nice testimonial dinner. Marilyn and I attended the dinner, as well, and I made sure to make a few nice remarks as well. “Ambassador Myrick, as you undoubtedly learned in both the Army and in the Foreign Service, the reward for a job well done is usually a bigger and tougher job. We haven’t quite figured out what that job is yet, but your nation is not through with you. I hope you enjoy your time here at home, but I can promise you that when the time comes, both Secretary Powell and I will be calling on you again.” By early 2004 I had sent him to the Middle East as my Special Envoy to the Turks and Kurds with a single order — Make peace!

Meanwhile, we extended the no-fly zone coverage to also ban helicopter flights. One of Bush 41’s mistakes after the Gulf War was to limit the no-fly zones only to fixed wing aircraft. He allowed helicopters for humanitarian assistance. Saddam Hussein didn’t have a humanitarian bone in his body, so he simply sent in gunships and troop carriers to kill anybody he didn’t like. We banned them up north (he could kill all the Shiites he liked, and then take it up with the Iranians!) and backed it up by shooting down a flight of three gunships strafing the Kurdish Peshmerga militia north of Kirkuk. That settled things back down again. Meanwhile, Myrick began shuttle diplomacy between the Kurds and Turkey. The Turks and Kurds hated each other, and Turkey was an ally in NATO, and had a Kurdish extremist problem. Myrick’s mandate was to get both sides to calm down and cooperate enough to begin construction of a pipeline carrying Kurdish oil through Turkey. The Turks desperately needed the oil and the jobs, and seemed willing to loosen their restrictions on the Kurdish minority to get the oil. We’d just have to see.

Chapter 159: Katrina

August 23, 2005

Hurricane season officially starts on June 1 and runs through the end of November. Most of the activity is in August and September, but hurricanes in the extremes are not uncommon. Agnes in 1972 was a nasty one, in June, and Sandy in 2012 was in late October and very bad. I knew what was coming, and was not looking forward to it.

It had been a long time, subjectively, since I had witnessed Hurricane Katrina, and while the details were a touch vague, the aftermath was not. Put simply, a massive hurricane blew in off the Gulf of Mexico and took direct aim at New Orleans. Despite all the time in the world to prepare, disaster preparations weren’t all that great, and somewhere around two thousand people died! There was plenty of blame to go around, including George W. Bush, who only days into the disaster had publicly praised his FEMA boss, and then fired him just a few days later. Coming on top of the disasters that the two wars in Iraq and Afghanistan had become, Hurricane Katrina buried any hope that history would remember George Bush kindly. It stood as a case study in how not to do disasters.

For the last few years I had been beating on Allbaugh and Brown to make FEMA a better agency. While the government is too large for me to actually oversee each and every little operation, I could demand accountability and request realistic and periodic updates. One thing I stressed to them was that they needed to run frequent and realistic dry runs. Get together with the state of California and the city of Los Angeles and practice what you would do during a major earthquake. Go to the Storm Prediction Center in Norman, Oklahoma, and pick a city to practice a tornado disaster in, and then go to that town and practice what you would do. Go find a city on the Mississippi and practice what would happen when the levees break and it floods.

This stuff happens all the time, and while you can never predict it will happen in any particular place, you can definitely predict it will happen somewhere on a regular timeline. Flooding in Dubuque will be different than flooding in Duluth, but a flood is a flood, and what you learn in one place will be useable in another. The same went for tornadoes, earthquakes, hurricanes, forest fires, and so forth. Furthermore, if you handle it right, the practice sessions get a huge amount of positive publicity.

As part of this, the agency had prepared a list of the Top 1 °Cities for various disasters. For floods that was mostly cities along the Mississippi, for hurricanes it was cities along the Atlantic and Gulf Coasts, for earthquakes there was a different list, and so forth. Then each city was provided a grant to determine the best ways to evacuate the city as needed, and exercises were planned around these lists. New Orleans landed on two lists, hurricanes and flooding. For real fun, they played a game in New Orleans called Beat the Feds. We would provide them a grant to study the problem, half the money would disappear, they would dust off the previous study and retype it, and report that they needed more money for another study. Actual preparation was secondary at best.

One of the overwhelming concerns I had was that Hurricane Katrina was going to smash into quite probably the single most unready city in the country. If New Orleans didn’t exist, we’d have had to invent it! It is easily the most corrupt city in the nation! Per capita it has one of the highest murder rates. The police in New Orleans have a national reputation for graft and corruption, and more than a few of those murders are committed by cops killing for hire. Other crimes weren’t far behind. Physically the city itself is mostly below sea level, and protected by a system of levees and pumps. Since an incredibly corrupt city and state government handled the contracts for most of this stuff, it was questionable whether it would function even in good times. As for the government, New Orleans had a black Mayor and a white Governor, neither of whom really cared much for the other one, and they were both Democrats and neither of them liked me.

In good times, the city had a certain reputation for fun. ‘Laissez les bons temps rouler!’ — Let the good times roll! — is the city’s slogan. Mardi gras is just an excuse for a gigantic party, and it seems like there is always a party. It’s a fun place for visitors.

In bad times, the place turns to shit!

Being informed of weather events takes up about 60 seconds in the morning when I get my daily brief. Most of the time it is fairly quiet and normal. In a nation the size of America, it is always raining somewhere, it is always hot and sunny somewhere, and it is always snowing somewhere. I am informed when things start going bad, but you can also always figure it’s going to go bad somewhere. There are certain criteria that need to be met to declare someplace a disaster area, and you can count on the appropriate Congressman or Senator to call me asking for Federal assistance. As a general rule, you pretty much rubberstamp the requests for assistance. After all, dealing with disasters is really the job of any government. You normally don’t say no.

Katrina became an official storm on Tuesday, August 23, though it was just a Tropical Depression in the Bahamas at that time. It was given a name, Katrina, the next day. By then it was obvious that this was a storm that was going to hit the United States somewhere, and not veer right and head into the middle of the Atlantic. I was informed that morning that we had a possible hurricane level event in the offing, named Tropical Storm Katrina. As soon as I heard that name, I knew I had to get involved.

Shortly after my briefing, and my early morning staff meeting, I called Michael Brown. “Michael, it’s Carl Buckman. How are you doing this morning?”

“I’m fine, Mister President. How can I help you this morning?”

“Well, have you been following the weather news?”

“To a certain extent, sir. It’s a big country. You’ve obviously got something in mind. What’s up?” he asked.

Okay, he’s right. It is a big country, and this thing hadn’t even made it out of the Caribbean. “There’s a brand new tropical storm and it’s aimed right at Florida. We don’t need another Hurricane Andrew,” I told him, reminding him of the hurricane that devastated southern Florida years before.

“No, sir, that would be bad. I will look into it with my forecasting staff.”

“That’s all I can ask for now, Michael. Hey, maybe you can use this as a live fire training exercise.”

“I’ll look into that, sir. Thank you, Mister President.”

We hung up. I could expect a response from him by the end of the day. Presidents don’t just call up to say ‘Hello!’ If I called, I would expect a positive response.

I heard from Brown late on the 23^rd that, as per my suggestion, they were going to use this as a large scale training exercise. I told him I thought that was a good idea, and if he needed me to give any appropriate orders, to simply let me know. I kept an eye on things over the next few days. On the 24^th it kept strengthening, and looked like it would clip southern Florida and head into the Gulf. It did that on the 25^th. The FEMA preparations for Florida went fine, and nobody died, but there was some property damage. Everybody gave a sigh of relief as it drifted into the Gulf and began to weaken back into a tropical storm. I went along with them, but I knew better. I simply told Michael Brown to keep the exercise running, since a big storm like that could still cause a lot of coastal flooding. I also brought it up at my morning staff meeting.

On Friday the 26^th, everybody took a deep breath and let out a loud, ‘Oh shit!’ That sigh of relief had been premature! All day long Katrina increased in strength, reverting back to a hurricane and heading towards the Gulf Coast. Predictions were that Louisiana was going to get slammed. The National Hurricane Center was officially predicting a hurricane level impact on the Louisiana coastline. In response, I ordered a conference call for that afternoon with everybody I could grab. I knew what was coming, and I knew that the locals were figuring this to be just another big storm that the Big Easy could ride out, with hurricane parties and a lot of bourbon and rum.

The conference call was a big one, with the Governors of Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana, the Mayors of New Orleans and Mobile, the head of the Army Corps of Engineers, the boss of the National Hurricane Center, and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. In my office, on speakerphone, I had John McCain, Frank Stouffer, Will Brucis, and Michael Brown of FEMA. You might not like the government, but by God we had a hell of a communications system! We started out with a briefing by Max Mayfield, the head of the Hurricane Center, on what the storm was doing and what we could expect. It wasn’t good. The storm was strengthening, moving back up to hurricane strength, and getting stronger by the minute. At current trends it would go from a Category One up to Category Three by the 27^th, and probably still be growing when it made landfall. It was aimed directly at New Orleans.

According to the head of the Army Corps of Engineers, Lieutenant General Carl Strock the levees were perfectly safe up through a Category 3 hurricane, but he made no assurances beyond that. New Orleans would be safe.

“You sound pretty positive, General. What happens if one of the levees fails?” I asked.

“In a case like that, you might expect to see some isolated problems, but unless the storm gets to a Category 4 or 5, we’ll be fine,” I was told.

“General, I am not going to tell you your business, but I would make sure that you plan on some immediate and major repairs if something goes wrong,” I warned him.

“We already have taken that into consideration, sir.”

That was not what I wanted to hear. “General, I am not reassured. From what Doctor Mayfield is telling us, Category Three might be on the low side of estimates. Anything higher than that is going to scrape New Orleans down to the original mud flats. Mister Brown, your agency has done some assessments. Is that a correct statement?”

Mike Brown nodded, though nobody on the call could see that, and he said, “Yes, sir. Everything we have seen says that there will be widespread destruction throughout southern Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama, and even into eastern Texas. If the levees fail in New Orleans, most of the city will be underwater.”

Governor Blanco of Louisiana immediately requested a state of emergency be declared, seconded by Haley Barbour of Mississippi. I went along with that, and promised any assistance we could offer. That was when it became tricky. Ray Nagin, the Mayor of New Orleans refused to issue a mandatory evacuation warning, and only wanted a voluntary evacuation. He wanted, instead, to set up temporary rescue centers on higher ground, just in case, and stock them with some food and water, if necessary.

“Mayor Nagin, let me make sure I understand you. Everybody else wants to shut down the area and get everybody out, and you don’t? Do I have that correct?” I asked.

“Mister President, that is hardly my position…” He was off and running. The bottom line was that if he ordered an evacuation, he would be causing chaos among the residents who were unable to leave, and there would be widespread liability for shutting down the city. If you read between the lines, he was worried about getting sued in case the storm wimped out or missed the city! I think he knew just how unprepared his city was for a disaster, so he was simply going to hope it didn’t happen. If it did, hey, not his fault!

I listened to him futz around for a bit and looked over at John McCain, who seemed as disturbed as I was. Finally I had enough, and simply cut him off. “Okay, I’ve heard what I need to hear. Let’s get to the heart of the matter. According to the Stafford Act, I have the authority to declare a state of emergency as needed. It’s needed. Governor Blanco, Governor Barbour, Governor Riley, let’s just draw a horizontal line through the middle of your states. All the counties or parishes below that line are emergency areas. If you haven’t already done so, call out your National Guard, all of them, every last one. Issue immediate and mandatory evacuation orders for anybody living on any body of water. I don’t care if it’s a duck pond; have them move inland and away from it. Mayor Dow, Mayor Nagin, issue the evacuation orders.”

“Mister President, you don’t have that authority,” replied Nagin.

“Mayor Nagin, we’ve never met, so you don’t know me. I’m going to make this real simple. When push comes to shove, you don’t tell me what I can do, I tell you. If it comes down to it, I will declare martial law, throw your ass in the stockade, and drop the 82^nd Airborne on your city to take control. Are we clear on that, or do I have to give you a demonstration?” I replied.

Nagin shut up, and a moment later the White House switchboard came over the line and reported his connection was broken. I stared at the others for a second. I was sure he would report that it was a communications failure, but the reality was that the bastard had hung up on the President of the United States! Unbelievable!

There was a stunned silence for a moment, and then I heard the voice of Hailey Barbour, the Governor of Mississippi, come over the line. “Uh, Mister President, were you serious about martial law?”

I grinned at the rest of the people in my office, most of whom also looked a little stunned. “Hailey, I really don’t want things to get that far, but I think this storm is going to get bigger, not smaller. I think it would behoove everybody involved to go above and beyond in taking precautions. Governor Blanco, New Orleans is your city. I would suggest that you talk to Mayor Nagin and explain things to him in a clear and certain manner. If he fights me on this, he will lose. I am expecting mandatory evacuation orders for the storm zone in time for the evening news. Is that understood, madam?”

I could hear the gulp in her voice. “Yes, sir.”

“Thank you. General Myers, you are authorized to prepare as needed for this event. I’ve been to Fort Polk a few times, but that was twenty-some years ago as a lieutenant. Do you have helicopters there?”

“Yes, sir, and we have already begun moving them away from the storm area,” he answered promptly.

“AWAY!? Why are you moving them away?!”

“Mister President, if a hurricane goes through that area, those birds will be destroyed on the ground. It is standard procedure to move them out of the area, and then move them back in as soon as the weather allows us. I would also add that we are beginning to move more equipment in from elsewhere in the South.”

John McCain chimed in at that point. “Carl, he’s right. Helicopters and airplanes are very fragile in high winds. We lost a lot of planes at Homestead in Florida during Andrew.”

“Oh, okay. I guess that makes sense. I was airborne artillery, so I never learned all that much about flight operations. When will they be able to begin flying rescue missions and supply deliveries after the hurricane goes through?” I asked.

“We’ll have to stop at least a day before the hurricane hits, and we won’t be able to start up again until anywhere from 36 to 48 hours afterwards, depending on weather conditions and wind speeds. The same goes for any fixed wing flights,” he told me.

“Huh!” So much for any ideas about flying missions right up to the hurricane and right after. “That settles it. We need to start getting people out now! Nagin wants to ride this out and hope he gets lucky. I don’t have that luxury. I am going on the air tonight to let people know. Is everybody clear on this?”

I heard a chorus of ‘Yes, sir!’s out of everybody, and I let them all go. Then I turned back to the people in my office.

John McCain spoke first. “If this thing wimps out, you are going to look like a five star horse’s ass!”

I nodded wryly at him. “John, I am going to look like an ass regardless. I am going to get the personal blame for not stopping a hurricane, no matter what. That’s fine. That’s why I get the big bucks. The difference is whether I look like a horse’s ass with a few hundred people dead, or with a few thousand people dead. Wait until the levees break and the networks begin airing footage of dead bodies floating in the streets!”

“Jesus!” muttered Frank lowly.

“Yeah! We do not need for that to happen! We have two choices here, bad and unbelievably worse!” I looked over at Will, who had been relatively quiet. “Get me time on the networks tonight, all of them, and get me Matt and Marc to help me write a speech.”

“Got it!”

I turned to John and Mike Brown. “I want you two to hightail it down there. We can’t manage this long distance. John, if I do need to declare martial law, or something else equally drastic, you give me the word. I will back you completely, and take the heat. Hailey and Bob won’t give us any trouble, but Blanco’s a lightweight, and I wouldn’t trust Nagin as far as I can throw his worthless ass.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that!” John replied.

“I’ll need to pack a few things, but I’ll be ready by the time the Vice President is, sir,” answered Brown.

“We’ll figure it out, Mike. Carl, I need to pack a few things, too,” added John.

I sent the others on their way, and jotted a few notes down for the speech. Matt and Marc came in a few minutes later. As we were going through the speech, I had to take a call from Jeb Bush, the Governor of Florida. We added the panhandle of Florida to the disaster area.

The biggest problem we had on the first go was that in most emergencies, assistance is requested at the local level, and then works its way up. A storm wipes out a town, and the mayor requests help from the state, and if enough of that happens, they request it from the Feds. This time I was ramming it down their throats, and not everybody appreciated it.

Will jumped through hoops and got me on the air that evening at 7:00. By then John and Mike were already on their way to Shreveport. I had spoken to John privately before they left. “Keep an eye on Mike. He tends to think like a politician, so make sure he stays focused. Otherwise, you can speak with my voice. If you need something done, I will back you fully, and take the heat.” We shook hands, and he left, to head with Brown over to Andrews.

At 7:00 PM I spoke from the Oval Office, looking as somber and serious as I could.

“My fellow Americans, thank you for giving me this chance to speak to you about a matter of national importance. By now, all of you must be aware that Hurricane Katrina is in the Gulf of Mexico and will be hitting our shores in the next few days. The potential danger that this storm imposes is so great that it will be necessary to take extraordinary measures to deal with it. Earlier today, I spoke with the Governors of Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, and Florida, the Mayors of New Orleans and Mobile, and the Director of the National Hurricane Center, and many others. As a result of those discussions, it is necessary to take some extraordinary measures.

As of this afternoon, I have ordered a state of emergency declared in the southern halves of Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama, as well as in the western panhandle region of Florida. In the counties and cities in those areas, a mandatory evacuation order has been issued for all residents. This is not voluntary. If you do not leave on your own, you will be removed to safer areas. As we speak, National Guardsmen and Army soldiers are being rushed to the area to assist in maintaining order and helping in the evacuation.

This is a major storm. I know that many of you in the area the storm will impact have been through other hurricanes before, and believe this will be no different and that you will be able to simply ride it out. This storm is far larger than anything you have ever experienced in the past! It will affect an area from the Florida Panhandle to Texas. Even if you survive the storm, roadways and bridges may well be washed out for days and weeks to come. You need to evacuate, and do it now! By the time the storm hits, it will be too late. I urge everyone in the designated storm emergency areas to immediately prepare an emergency kit and leave the area.”

I also gave them some emergency advice from the National Weather Service and FEMA, and then repeated the need to leave. I also told people without transportation to get to a refugee center immediately, as trucks and buses would begin ferrying them to safety. Then I spoke to that part of the nation which was outside the storm zone.

“Many of you now watching this, perhaps most of you, are asking yourselves why I am disturbing your dinner or your regular television schedule for something that doesn’t concern you. Americans in Maine or Minnesota or California are wondering why I am making this a national broadcast. It doesn’t affect them. The truth is that it does affect you, each and every one of you. This is not a Gulf Coast problem, this is an American problem.

The people in this coastal region are American citizens, as are all of us. We pull together in times of trouble, and now is no different. When a tornado hits the Midwest, a blizzard buries the Rockies, or an earthquake happens in California, we as a people draw together to assist, to help people that we have never met before and might never meet again. This is part of what makes America the great nation that it is. Now that time is coming again. We must all draw together to assist those impacted by this event, and I know, deep in my heart, that we Americans will do so.

So I will let you go now, as our nation’s emergency preparedness teams prepare to assist the Gulf Coast. I wish them the best, and my prayers are with them and with the people in the way of this storm. I know yours are as well. Thank you and God bless you.”

I sat there facing the camera until the technical people began fiddling with the lights and moving around the room. Marc Thiessen gave me a nod and a thumbs-up, and Matt Scully said, “Good job, Mister President.”

“Thank you. I just hope we have enough time to get people out of there. This is going to be bad enough without the networks broadcasting bodies in the streets and people screaming at refugee centers,” I told him.

“You really think it will be that bad?”

I nodded. “We’ll know for sure tomorrow. By then the storm will have figured out where it is going to make landfall and what area gets destroyed. The problem isn’t really the winds, it’s the water. New Orleans is mostly under sea level, like Holland. If the levees go, the city washes out to sea.”

“Shit!” he muttered.

“Exactly!”

“If that happens, they are going to be picking people up off the roofs of whatever is left standing with helicopters.”

I nodded. “Probably every single one in the inventory, and it still won’t be enough.”

Marc looked thoughtful and commented, “You know, not every helicopter is owned by the government.” I shrugged and looked at him curiously. Where was he going with this? “It’s just… one time I was at a cocktail party, and this friend of a friend said that one of the biggest air forces in the world was actually all the helicopters owned by the oil companies to service the oil and gas platforms out in the Gulf. Now, I am sure that right now they are hauling guys off those platforms, but what about after the storm? Maybe they could help in the rescue?”

I looked over at Matt, and he looked back, equally confused and curious. “Really?” he asked.

“It might be worth checking on.”

“Okay,” I said. “Marc, you call who’s ever in charge over at FEMA now that Mike Brown is heading down to Louisiana. Maybe they’ve already thought of this, but let’s find out. The oil companies might not want to do it, but maybe they’ll want to bank some good will for when they have an oil spill or something.”

“Sounds like a plan,” he agreed, standing.

I sent the pair of them out, with orders to keep an eye on the weather in the Gulf, and plan on a few more speeches as needed. If it became as bad as I knew it would, I was going to have to make a ‘fact finding’ trip down there after the storm. I fully expected to find the fact that New Orleans had been well and truly trashed, along with everything else in the area. Afterwards I went upstairs and simply sat with Marilyn for the evening.

Saturday the 27^th, I had a conference call with John McCain, Mike Brown, and Max Mayfield from the Hurricane Center. It wasn’t a good prognosis. The storm had already been upgraded from Category One last night, and was now at Category Three, which is a whole lot more storm. It was a big storm, and was guaranteed to hit a stretch of coastline from the Florida Panhandle all the way west to Houston. It was still aimed dead center at New Orleans. John and Mike filled us in on the latest, and Mike told me he had heard from his people in D.C. about the helicopter idea.

The problem was that the helicopter support companies were under long term contracts to the oil companies and their support companies. It was more than a little fragmented, with hundreds of offshore rigs and dozens of refineries ashore, simply a gargantuan industry. I decided to cut the complaint off mid-stream. “Mike, let me make a phone call and see what I can do. Be prepared to follow up afterwards.”

I hung up and told the switchboard to get me Lee Raymond, the Chairman of the Board of ExxonMobil, the biggest oil company in America. It always amused me to hear the awe in people’s voices when they heard the operator say, ‘Please hold for the President of the United States.’ I was sure that today would be no different. It wasn’t.

I had known Lee for a number of years, though I couldn’t say we were friends, rather more like acquaintances. We had met a number of times, he was a Republican and very big on corporate citizenship. “Hello?”

“Lee, it’s Carl Buckman. How are you doing, sir?”

“Just fine, Mister President. How can I help you?”

“Lee, I need your help. I know that you know just how bad this storm, Hurricane Katrina, will be. One of my people told me yesterday that the oil and gas industry has one of the largest fleets of helicopters in the world. What I am looking for is assistance after the storm passes through.”

“Uh, yes, sir. The industry as a whole does have lots of helicopters, but I can assure you they are all busy right now. I can guarantee they are pulling people off the rigs as they shut down, and moving out of the path of the storm. It would be much too dangerous to be out on a rig in this kind of weather,” he replied.

“I’m sure it is. No, I am talking about afterwards. I am speaking to you not just as the head of ExxonMobil, but as the head of your industry. I know you’ll be moving people back out to the rigs, to get them up and running again. I won’t insult your intelligence and claim to know your business. Still, I know that there has to be some slack in your operations, some sort of surge capacity. You’re too smart a guy not to do that, and you know everybody in your business better than anybody in Washington does. What I am asking is that after the storm, if you can free up some of that capacity to assist in rescue operations, to do so,” I said.

“Yes, sir, I understand what you are asking. I will see what I can do.”

“Feel free to use my name. Call who you have to call in your company and elsewhere. Your nation needs your help, and that help will be remembered.” That was the quid pro quo, of course. He was going to have a big marker to call in at some point in the future, and I was going to have to concede on whatever it was.

“Of course, Mister President. I’ll get right on it.”

“Thank you, Mister Raymond. After this is all over, we can meet here and you can tell me how you did the great job I know you’ll be doing. Thank you sir.” We said our good-byes and hung up. I smiled to myself. I knew that three things were going to happen. After the storm some of their helicopter capacity would be offered to the government, that some wonderfully heart warming commercials would be generated about how they were helping, and that before I was out of office Lee Raymond would be knocking on my door for something worth billions of dollars and I would give in.

I spoke to General Myers later in the morning, and I got a little testy with him. He was looking for permission to move some men and supplies from well outside the storm area into pre-positioning sites. I told him not to ask in the future, but to simply do it. We had money and manpower; we didn’t have time! In that regard, we worked up a letter to every state governor, asking for assistance in the crisis. They were to assume that if there was a request for National Guard assistance from their state, even if they weren’t in the storm zone and hadn’t been affected, that the request was in my name and they would be looked to for immediate assistance. I did a little editing, and made sure we took out anything mandatory, and used lots of phrases like ‘request’, ‘assist’, ‘support’, and ‘national emergency’. The letter was sent to every governor that day, hand delivered by the local ranking military leader. It was also leaked to the press.

Results were generally positive. Three governors of mid-western states promptly activated their National Guard units and ordered them to prepare for any and all assistance measures, and made sure to do this on television. Another governor declined however, stating through his press spokesman that state law prohibited that sort of action without there being an immediate need in his state. Legally that might have been true, politically it was a disaster! Within six hours that same spokesman was tap-dancing in front of the cameras and stating that what he really meant to say was that of course the Governor was going to help, but voluntarily, not because it was required. I got a good laugh out of that.

Meanwhile, Nagin was still being an asshole, and Blanco was definitely a lightweight. She had approved a plan to use school buses and other buses to move people out of the area, but had refused to sign an order allowing non-livery or non-commercial licensed drivers to drive them! John had overridden that immediately, and sent out the word. If you can drive heavy equipment, load up with refugees and head north. They would sort them out when they got somewhere. Some guys were even loading people onto flatbed trucks and taking them north. The roads were clogged and traffic was moving at a snail’s pace, but it was moving, and the farther they got, the safer they would be.

Sunday is normally a quiet day at the White House, just like it is everywhere else. Aside from my morning Daily Presidential Brief, I am able to mostly relax, watch some television, read a book, or spend a few hours in my personal study just reviewing things. Marilyn can head out to church, maybe with the kids if they are around (I almost never go, since I’m not Catholic, and when I show up, I have to show up with the entire zoo. Incredibly disruptive!) Otherwise, we just get to do the normal things. Not so Sunday the 28^th.

Sunday morning, I woke up to find that our worst fears were coming true. I knew what was coming, but for the life of me couldn’t remember just how bad it was going to get. Overnight the storm had strengthened dramatically, and was now up to a Category Five. The news was full of dire warnings and predictions, and the Weather Channel was giving minute by minute updates. The mandatory evacuation order I had issued and the other precautionary measures were major topics on the Sunday news shows. Opinion seemed evenly split, with half the pundits thinking I wasn’t doing enough, and the other half replying that I had gone off the deep end and this thing would be a fizzle. I don’t recall any of them, however, volunteering to head south and report from the front lines.

I gave John and Mike and General Myers carte blanche to do what needed to be done. It was obvious now that any strategy to simply ride it out would be hopeless. Ray Nagin was finally figuring out there was a problem, and was screaming for immediate assistance. He wanted fleets of helicopters to lift everybody out. We ignored him.

Even at this late a date, with disaster quite literally looming over the horizon, some small town mayors and tourist boards wanted people to stick around. They would lose money from vacation cancellations and contracts would be broken, that sort of thing. They couldn’t quite grasp the concept that a reservation is no good when the motel is under water!

There was nothing more I could do at this point. I had already rushed as much aid to the area as I could scrape up. I was as much a spectator as anybody else. I just watched the news and tried, failingly, to relax. It was out of my hands. By every schedule, Monday was going to be the big day.

Monday was the big day, all right! The storm made landfall before I even woke up, but since New Orleans is actually up the river about a hundred miles, it didn’t hit there until about breakfast time. I called down to the Shreveport Command Center about 8:30 and got Mike Brown on the line. He sounded tired but functional. “Mike, what’s up?”

“The storm has made landfall south of New Orleans. It dropped down to a Category Three before it landed, thank God! We expect it to hit New Orleans around lunchtime. Everybody is lying low right now. Rescue and evacuation operations are shut down. If you haven’t gotten out yet, you won’t.”

“How bad is that going to be?”

“Sir, I just don’t know. Ray Nagin was sending thousands of people to his refugee centers, and we got most of them onto buses and trucks, but that’s done now. They ran into the night, but it’s just too dangerous now. There’s probably still five thousand people at the Superdome, and I don’t know how many others in the city. We had soldiers breaking down doors and hauling people out and throwing them on buses, and they still wanted to ride it out.”

“Jesus!” I replied.

“It’s worse than that, sir. In one case some soldiers knocked on the door of a house and were shot at from inside. They backed up, but a minute later the house exploded. It turned out to be a meth lab. Elsewhere, there has been some looting. The local cops are even robbing places.”

“Oh, hell! Where’s John?”

“He’s sacked out on a cot in another room. He and I have been running in shifts.”

It sounded like they knew what they were doing, and they were on the scene. “There’s probably not much we can do now until this thing blows over. Have John call me when he wakes up, but leave it at that. You get some rest, too.”

“Yes, sir.”

I hung up. I was still the President of the entire country, not just the Gulf Coast, so I couldn’t simply sit around and listen to the news. I had two budget meetings, a Pentagon briefing, a Congressional lunch, and three photo ops. I followed the events as best I could. Shortly after lunch, Frank stuck his head into a budget meeting and whispered to me, “The levees have begun to fail.”

I wasn’t surprised, not at all. “Frank, remember that Army Corps of Engineers fellow who swore up and down the levees wouldn’t fail.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do me a favor. Give him a call and ask him why his letter of resignation isn’t on my desk yet, and then ask who his number two is over there. Heads are going to roll, and we might as well start now.”

“Yes, sir.” Frank nodded in understanding. He knew by now I had remarkably short shrift with that sort of thing, and he also knew that as Chief of Staff he had to be my hammer at times. I expected accountability. I would back you to the hilt, but the job damn well better be done.

Throughout the day the reports of widespread and massive destruction poured in, from official reports and from the television news. Katrina was going into the history books. Had I done enough? I doubted it. I suspected bodies were going to be piled up like cordwood by the time everything was finished. The damage? Beyond anything this nation had ever seen! I told Frank we would be flying down as soon as the weather allowed.

All day Tuesday the extent of the destruction became known. The southern half of three states was thoroughly trashed. We had about 5,000 refugees and soldiers trapped at the Superdome, and another 5,000 spread around the other shelters. The levees had been breached at dozens of different spots, and most of New Orleans was under water. All the surrounding parishes and counties were destroyed. There was no power, no phones, no television, no running water, no sewer systems, no roads — no nothing! I told Marilyn that if it was us, we’d be sitting on the roof of our house and sharpening our knives, wondering who was going to take the first bite out of whom.

The weather finally allowed us to go down early Wednesday morning. Amusingly, my regular airplane, a 747 variant, was too big to land at Shreveport’s airport. John’s regular ride as Air Force Two was a 757, and it was sufficiently smaller that it could land there. I could either maintain my august dignity and take the 747 to a different airport and fly something smaller to Shreveport, or take a backup 757 direct. Then I was told that Barksdale Air Force Base was across the river from Shreveport, and any runway capable of handling a B-52 could handle Air Force One, so we took my regular 747 there and hop a chopper to Shreveport. We left long before the sun was up, and got into Shreveport at 6:00 AM local time. John and Mike met me at the airport, and we went first to the disaster headquarters, where we met the professionals — FEMA and the military — and the politicians. Governor Blanco and her entourage were there, overwhelmed but trying, and Nagin, with his own entourage, complaining that we weren’t running fleets of helicopters into the city and bitching at full volume about how it was everybody’s fault but his. Also present were a bunch of reporters, there to capture this as a photo op.

The schedule for the day was two-fold, start rescuing people, and start figuring out just how bad the damage was. First though, I had to deal with Nagin, who was making a real ass of himself, and being more nuisance than he was worth. For a guy who had slept through the storm on a bed in a hotel in Shreveport, he was mightily concerned about his constituents back home on the roofs of their houses.

Finally I had enough. “Mister Mayor, will you kindly shut up! I have enough problems without you adding to them,” I exclaimed.

“How dare you speak to me that way?!” He started squawking and complaining some more.

I looked around and saw a National Guard captain over to the side, talking to several Guardsmen. I waved to him and yelled, “Captain! Please!”

Nagin was now hooting as I ignored him. The Guard captain came over and came to attention. “Sir!”

I turned back to Nagin. “Shut the hell up. If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem.” I turned to the captain and pointed to Nagin. “I have had it with this idiot. Get him out of here and put him on the first flight to the Superdome. He can help from the front lines.”

The room went deathly quiet for a moment, except for the clicking of cameras. The captain may have been startled, but he simply acknowledged me and motioned over a pair of Guardsmen from the corner. Grinning, the two National Guardsmen took hold of Nagin’s arms and dragged him out of the room, as he began yelling and screaming. His final words were a loud and clear, “FUCK YOU, BUCKMAN! FUCK YOU!” Most people were shocked by what had just happened, but not all. John, Mike, and Frank had sly smiles on their faces, because they knew what happened when I lost patience with somebody.

I turned to the others and simply said, “If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem! I got no use for more problems right now! Is everybody clear on that?”

We left the building just in time to see my new friends putting Ray Nagin on a Blackhawk that was spooling up and getting ready to head south. The captain saw me and saluted, and I returned it. I left John behind with Frank, and Mike and I climbed into a different helicopter, along with some agents and a few reporters. The reporters wanted to ask silly questions, so Mike and I simply put on the proffered headsets and ignored them. Minutes later, we lifted off and headed towards Fort Polk, which was about halfway to New Orleans.

Once we were aloft, I heard the pilot, a chief warrant officer named Hastings, say, “This is Army One, and we are airborne!” He sounded like an excited teenager, even though he was in his forties. I had to smile at that.

I chatted with him on the headset. “It’s been awhile since I was in an Army helo, Mister Hastings. The last time I was in one, it was a Huey. I bet none of the crew is even old enough to have flown a Huey!” I admitted.

“Don’t bet on it, Mister President,” came back the metallic reply. “I’m rated on them, and there’s a few of the other pilots and crew chiefs who have flown them.”

“Huh! You learn something every day! I have to admit, this is a whole lot nicer bird than a Huey.”

“Roger that, sir!”

By now it was obvious that there was some really serious damage. We started seeing a lot of trees and power lines down, and some flooding. Fort Polk was an absolute beehive of activity. I was greeted by a Brigadier General who I never really caught the name of but who seemed to be in charge. I got some good news and some bad news. The good news was that the weather was clearing and he would be sending pretty much every helo he had available on supply and rescue missions any moment now. He was already in contact with a Coast Guard admiral, a guy named Thad Allen, and they were divvying up the load. The Coast Guard helicopters were all rigged for winches and search and rescue. They would focus on that. The National Guard and Army would go to places they could actually land, and there were more than enough spots like that to keep them busy. The bad news was simple — the destruction was beyond massive!

With that he led us outside, to a Hum-Vee, and we headed over to the flight line. We took off again and headed towards New Orleans. As we neared New Orleans the true devastation was becoming apparent. It was all you could do not to stare and gawp like a rube. During the last night before Katrina made landfall, it had weakened back to a Category Three storm, and it looked like there wasn’t anything left. If it had still been at Category Five, it would have been as if God’s road scraper had gone through, and taken everything back down to the original mud flats.

Roads and bridges were gone, trees were down willy-nilly, houses and garages were simply gone, either under water or floating down river, or simply missing. I didn’t have words for it. Over everything was a bright sheen of sun reflecting on water, water that in most places was a brown and thick industrial sludge. They don’t call the Mississippi the Big Muddy for nothing, and now we were adding in millions of tons of God only knows what else. Below us I could see people on the roofs of houses or on what passed for a high spot, frantically waving for rescue. I could hear the co-pilot calling in coordinates to the command center for follow-up rescues. That would be somebody else’s job.

When we got into the city, the devastation was simply heartbreaking. I didn’t know how we would be able to describe it. Behind me the reporters and the cameramen were in shock, though you could faintly hear them pointing at things and talking to each other. The side doors were open, and they were shooting video and taking photos. Eventually we found the Superdome, which looked pretty beat up but was still standing. Earlier we had gotten reports that the roof was damaged and leaking, but otherwise holding together. We didn’t land, but instead turned east and kept flying. I was happy that I wouldn’t have to put up with Ray Nagin at the Superdome, which was about the only amusement I could find at the moment. After a few hours the destruction simply became numbing to me. This was a disaster beyond anything the nation had ever seen.

We landed at an emergency and refugee center outside of Mobile, where the Army had set up a FARP, a Forward Area Refueling Point of the type used to refuel helicopters in war zones. They fueled up the Blackhawks, and we went through the line at an emergency chow hall, and then headed back. I was beat by the time I made it back to Shreveport, after a delicious meal of an MRE and some bottled water at Fort Polk. I slept the entire trip back to Washington. I was still tired when I got off the plane, and fell asleep in Marine One flying back to the White House from Andrews. I went to bed after leaving instructions to let me sleep in, and that Will needed to set up a national broadcast the next night, and that Matt and Marc needed to write a speech. I was going to have to report to the American people how bad it was, and what we would need to do.

Chapter 160: Katrina Aftermath, Kurdistan Beginning

I don’t know which made more news that night, the first video of New Orleans after Katrina, or the video of Nagin being dragged out and cursing me out. I thought one of the better moments was when an ABC crew caught Nagin being loaded on the helicopter and trying to order the two soldiers to let him go. One of them, a black private, said, “Shut yo’ mouth, [BLEEPED], and git yo’ ass on the bird!”

The other soldier, a white corporal, laughed and added, “Yeah, y’all’s getting a free trip to the Big Easy!”

It got better when Charlie Gibson reported that Nagin had refused to order the evacuation of New Orleans, and that when I had overruled him, he had hung up on the President of the United States. While he refused to name his source, he reported multiple confirmations of the story. I couldn’t be surprised. We had almost a dozen people on that first conference call, and God only knew how many more were listening in over speakerphone. All this made for some fascinating comments from the nightly comics. It did not make Nagin look good.

For the next few weeks, right through the end of September, the only thing on the news was Katrina, Katrina, Katrina. The destruction was simply mind-numbing. While the photos of New Orleans under 20 feet of water were riveting, vastly more damage was actually done to coastal communities from Florida to Texas. In most of these towns and cities everything man-made was destroyed! Ninety-plus percent of the homes were gone, and the remaining ones were condemned. Ditto businesses; ditto ditto every church, school, hospital, clinic, police and fire station, etc. Every bridge was washed out, every road was cut, and every telephone pole and power line was down. Every single road was blocked by hundreds of trees. There was no electric, phone, or cell service, and every single transformer and substation was blown. Every radio, television, and cell tower had toppled. We could bring in every spare piece of equipment from around the nation and it still wouldn’t be sufficient. Refugees in the millions were displaced, more than during the Dustbowl of the Great Depression. If John Steinbeck was still alive and was writing The New Grapes of Wrath, the Joads would live in Pass Christian, Mississippi, and would move to a trailer park in Beaumont, Texas, the day before Rita hit.

To add insult to injury, roughly a month after Katrina, Hurricane Rita slammed into the northeast Texas coast. Prior to Katrina, Rita would have been an unimaginable disaster in its own right. Compared to Katrina, Rita was small potatoes, and never got the press it truly deserved. Many of the repairs underway in Louisiana were destroyed, and worst of all, many of the refugees had been relocated to eastern Texas, and now went through it all over again. Thousands of people were suffering from post-traumatic stress, the same as some soldiers did after combat. Mike Brown had returned to Washington after a couple of weeks in Louisiana; when Rita was announced, he simply hopped on a plane and flew to Texas without prompting. He earned his paycheck that fall, in spades!

The good news was that by being proactive at the start and forcing the mandatory evacuation early, we managed to minimize the loss of life. Rather than the almost 2,000 dead that I knew could have happened, we lost just under 250. It was still too damn many, but a lot of people had been saved, and rescue operations had been much better coordinated and quicker than they could have been. I didn’t need to fire Michael Brown, for instance, and he and John McCain got a lot of very favorable press for how they had handled things. I was content to let them, since John was going to need some help when he announced he was going to run for my job.

There was a weird dynamic going on, to my way of thinking. I knew how much better this had been handled than before, but it was still a disaster by any heretofore known standard. While the governors of Mississippi, Alabama, Florida, and Texas all hailed Mike Brown and John McCain for the work they had done and the leadership they had shown, since they were all Republicans it was treated as partisan politics. Meanwhile, Kathleen Blanco, the Governor of Louisiana, and Ray Nagin, the Mayor of New Orleans, were loudly complaining how we had all made everything worse, and how they would have done it so much better. Governor Blanco was still smarting at our overruling her on a half dozen different measures (for instance, she had refused to order the state fish and game department to rescue people; their boss ordered them in on his own, overriding her) and wanted to take back control of the National Guard and kick everybody else out — just send her the money and she would fix the problem! Meanwhile, Ray Nagin, who had been detained and dumped at the Superdome, was back and telling the residents of his city that I had personally taken my finger out of the dike, and thus flooded the city. He began a city by city tour of various refugee areas, telling them how I was personally delaying the recovery of the city (send him the money, not the Governor!) and that New Orleans would be rebuilt again as a ‘Chocolate City’, throwing racial tensions into the mix. Then it came out that in 2004, during a mock emergency meeting to simulate a hurricane hitting the city, nobody from either the Governor’s staff nor the Mayor’s staff bothered to show up. Congressional hearings were promised. Awkward!

Meanwhile, I began taking massive heat from the hard right wing of my own party. At least a half dozen televangelists began claiming that the reason 2005 had been such a deadly year for hurricanes was that America’s leader (me!) had brought on God’s wrath. I wasn’t conservative enough, Republican enough, or Christian enough to properly lead America back to the path of righteousness. Among my many sins were my toleration of gays, immigrants, Jews, Papists (I had to tell Marilyn that I would need to divorce her to cure that particular sin; she was not amused!), and anybody else the preacher deemed unfavorable. Especially amusing was when Pat Robertson announced that when I had flown to New Orleans and Mobile, I had been on a recon flight for Satan. When Will Brucis was asked his thoughts about this at the next press briefing, he replied that he was simply incapable of understanding that kind of thinking.

The right wingers were also not amused when, in an interview after the storm, I was asked if I thought man-made global warming was to blame. “I think there is a link to climate change, though to what extent I am not sure. You can’t tell me that seven billion plus people on this planet aren’t having some sort of effect! That’s not realistic.”

“Are you saying that you believe in global warming?” asked an incredulous reporter. This was going against the entire Republican Party and conservative platform.

I nodded. “Yes, I would have to say I do. Now, we can argue about the extent and causes of it, but it’s a scientific fact, and I say that as a mathematician and a scientist. The evidence is quite clear, and scientific opinion is overwhelmingly one-sided. That doesn’t mean we know how to fix the problem yet, or what it will cost, or what the final long term effects will be, but the science is there.”

This did not help with my standing in the Republican Party, which further dropped when Al Gore climbed up on his soapbox and loudly proclaimed how finally a Republican leader was joining him in his crusade. Wonderful! His name was anathema to the Republican Party, and the asshole was linking me to him. Just wonderful! Brewster McRiley told me bluntly that this would hurt campaign contributions from energy companies across the board in 2006 and 2008. Just fucking wonderful!

In the real world we had both good news and bad news. The bad news was very, very simple. The devastation was beyond calculating. Early estimates of the damage were in the $30 to $40 billion range, and were climbing by the day. Some estimates were topping out at over $100 billion. Adding in the damage from Hurricane Rita a few weeks later, which mangled East Texas, and screwed up the recovery efforts in Louisiana, and we were well over $125 billion. It was going to take years to rebuild the levees and clean up the mess, and in some places, there was nothing left to rebuild. The Good Lord had taken everything in the path of the storms! Worse was going to be the effect on the national economy. Building materials prices were already skyrocketing, as was the price of fuel. Almost a quarter of the nation’s refining capacity had been shut down because of the storms, and gas prices were shooting up, and we were seeing gas lines again for the first time since the Seventies. If I had wanted a recession to take the heat off the economy, I was about to get it in spades.

The plus side? Since I hadn’t reduced taxes, the odds were that we could pay for a lot of the cleanup. We weren’t in a deficit situation and trying to pay for two wars off the books. It makes a big difference if you can go into a disaster with some money in the bank. It doesn’t matter whether you are an individual, a family, or a country, the principle is the same. Our national credit rating was still exceptionally good, and if we did need to borrow, going into a deficit (quite probable, actually) would be a manageable situation, and one we could get out of in a year or two. Once again, I needed to figure out how not to let a perfectly good crisis go to waste. It is appallingly cold blooded, but that was how the game was played at this level. Maybe we could do something about the national flood insurance program, environmental concerns, and the like. I wasn’t sure if I could pull it off, though. My popularity ratings continued to drop, and were now into the mid 40s.

The real plus side? My message that we were all Americans and we all needed to join together took real traction. Millions of people had been displaced by the storms, some for weeks and some for what looked to be many months, if not longer. All across the country, Americans were taking in their fellow citizens, providing temporary housing and food and support. Convoys of food and water, clothing, toys, and building supplies were pouring in from all over the nation. Utility crews were being rushed from all over America. Unsurprisingly, the youngest Americans took it to heart the most. College students were using their breaks and vacations to head south to help in the cleanup. Marilyn and I discovered this firsthand, when Holly and Molly announced they were going with some college friends down to New Orleans to help over the Christmas break. We simply nodded and Marilyn loaned them her American Express card for the trip. I knew the twins would be buying more than necessities with it; a close look at the next bill would probably end up showing thousands of dollars of emergency and relief supplies that I would turn a blind eye to. We had raised some good kids.

We stumbled through the end of 2005 without suffering anything else major happening. That didn’t mean we got away scot-free. I was in a fairly routine press conference in mid-November, discussing some budget plans and the proposed Congressional hearings related to Katrina, when a question was lobbed out of the blue at me. “Mister President, how do you feel about Kansas requiring that creationism be taught in their schools?”

I had to blink for a second at that. Somewhere in America, every day of the year, somebody is trying to stop teaching evolution and begin teaching creationism instead. The latest round was when the Kansas Board of Education had some fundamentalists elected, and they promptly began phony hearings to discuss the ‘controversy.’ Just a week ago they had passed their new rules. Generally I had avoided this sort of thing. The scientists and judges would eventually win, and I wasn’t going to convince any of the fundamentalists anyway.

Now somebody had dropped it in my lap. I needed this like I needed more holes in the head. After a second, I answered, “Well, I think it is the right of the citizens of Kansas to teach their children the way they see fit. If that means they want to stop teaching science and start teaching the Bible, then I suppose that is okay. On the other hand, it is also the right of every accreditation board in Kansas to yank the accreditation of any school that teaches creationism, and it is also the right of every college around the country to refuse to admit students who haven’t been properly taught science.”

That set a fox in the hen house! Punish children for the mistakes of their parents? How dare I suggest such an inhumane thing! More than a few op-ed pieces agreed with me, but not all. A number of newspapers, mostly from rural areas, railed about how Washington was taking over local education, and how much better children would be learning the values of their parents and communities, and how education was historically a state and local matter, and how I had overstepped my bounds by weighing in on the subject. I tried to stay out of it, since I was figuring the matter would eventually blow over. Sooner or later the fine citizens of Kansas would come to their senses and toss out the religious right.

Will and Frank came to me and asked me if I wanted to speak on this in some public forum. I looked aghast at this, and answered, “Not on your life! You want me tarred and feathered!?”

Will replied, “There are a lot of religious groups that want to ask your feelings on things.”

“And that is exactly why I don’t want to answer them! Ever heard that a little religion goes a long, long way? Will, we do not want to fight this fight.”

“How so, Mister President?” asked Frank.

“Because religion makes no sense. You can’t mix religion with science and math. The religious folks want me to be a true believer, and I’m not all that true. If I say that evolution is correct, then I am telling them that the Bible is wrong. There are huge numbers of people who believe that Jesus personally wrote the Bible in 17^th Century English. Well, he didn’t, and you know it. It’s entirely possible the man couldn’t even read and write, and if he did, it would have been in Aramaic! Do you think I actually want to get into this on national television?”

“So, how do you reconcile the facts?” he asked. “I’m just curious, is all.”

I smiled at that. “The same way most of us do, by picking and choosing and ignoring what I don’t understand. Am I a Christian? Yes, but not one who’s all that fired up. They say there are no atheists in foxholes, and I’ve been in a foxhole, and that is true. Us scientific types believe in the Big Bang which started everything. Great, but somebody had to light the fuse, right? Let’s leave it at that.”

I refused to get dragged any further into this. The religious right did not have a friend in me, and they knew it. They had learned that very early on in my first term, when I refused to put into law any restrictions on stem cell research. George had planned a ban on research, and I shitcanned that, just about the same time I cleaned out the Faith Based Initiatives group. Likewise I had studiously stayed out of the Terry Schiavo case, refusing to allow the Justice Department into that mess, and counseling Jeb Bush to leave it alone. The same was true with my stance on gay rights. I was the only Republican to have voted against the Defense of Marriage Act when it passed in 1996. It wasn’t so much a matter of gay rights (I wasn’t ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell’, I was ‘Don’t ask, don’t care.’) as the fact that the law was unconstitutional on its face. These were fights I was never going to win.

Meanwhile, John began ramping up his campaign, and began flying out to Iowa and New Hampshire on a regular basis. I advised him to feel relatively free to publicly disassociate himself from some of my positions, though I was sure that was going to bite the both of us in the ass. For instance, I had managed to avoid supporting ethanol for fuel throughout the last campaign, since I didn’t have to campaign in Iowa for the primary. Personally, I thought that using corn for fuel instead of for food was moronic! John was not going to have that luxury. He was going to need to campaign, and in Iowa, and somebody was going to ask him.

He wasn’t the only one running, of course. Oh, no question, he was the front runner, and the strong favorite, but there were a bunch of others. Whatever unanimity the party had was breaking down. Mike Huckabee was the former governor of Arkansas (a job Bill Clinton once held) and was the vanguard of the Religious Right. Ron Paul, a Congressman from Texas, was pushing his Libertarian agenda, and Mitt Romney, the former governor of Massachusetts, was pushing his business credentials. Rudy Giuliani, the former mayor of New York, was riding his leadership during 9-11 in the hopes of moving into the big leagues. There were others, too, without a hope in hell, but looking for support. Nobody had officially announced they were in the running, but everybody was forming exploratory committees dedicated to exploring for money and support among the local party faithful.

The standard plan would be to explore all through 2006 before making an official announcement sometime around the end of 2006 or the beginning of 2007. After that, they would be officially campaigning. The primaries would start in January of 2008, run for about three or four months, and be tied up long before the conventions.

Right now, everybody was running around New Hampshire and Iowa, trying to line up precinct captains and local supporters, and giving speeches and going door to door. No way would I ever have gone through with that! Some of these guys were practically living in these states. The theory was that they only had a little money, so they would concentrate in the early primary states. If they could do well, they could use that to force open donor’s wallets and get enough money to bombard the next few states, and so forth. These were all long shot candidates, but it was a definite possibility, which was why they did it.

On the Democratic side, the odds-on favorite was Hillary Clinton, who had separated herself politically from her worthless philandering husband, and was now the junior senator from New York. After that, it was just a pack of wannabes, led by John Edwards, the V.P. nominee from last time, the guy who had ridden my ass about my bastard son. The dark horse candidate (and what a pun that was!) was Barack Obama, who had given such an electrifying speech at their last convention, and was the junior senator from Illinois. There was a very dangerous dynamic going on. Women loved Hillary, and most women voted Democratic. Blacks loved Obama, the first really serious black candidate this country had ever seen who could actually win white votes. Either one might win their nomination and face off against John McCain.

When this happened on my first trip, the country had been on a seven year binge of overspending and a real estate bubble, all of which broke the economy in the late summer of 2008. Until that point, McCain was winning. After that, he lost. Additionally, he had the albatross of a very unpopular President around his neck. I was nowhere near as unpopular as George would have been by now. McCain had an excellent chance at beating either Clinton or Obama, unless the wheels came off by 2008. It was my job to see that didn’t happen.

It didn’t always work out so easily. In early 2006, Harry Reid decided to poke a finger in my eye, because he was getting heat from Governor Blanco in Louisiana. He decided to put a hold on any further appointments I wanted to make. He had been making himself a nuisance for the last year, since the Democrats took power in the Senate, and was starting to feel like he was in charge. My appointments last year had taken longer to confirm, with a lot of hullaballoo at times, and several Federal judgeships were still sitting vacant. Now he informed us that nothing would get approved until hearings were held on the Federal response to Hurricane Katrina. He wanted Michael Brown’s head on a platter, as a sop to Blanco.

I grimaced and had Brown over to the White House when I heard about this. I told him that I had no intention of firing him, and that his performance during the hurricanes had been good. My question was what were his intentions for staying at FEMA?

“I was planning to leave at the end of the year, sir, if that is all right. I have been getting some interesting offers from a few outfits over on K Street, if you know what I mean.”

I nodded. “I am sure you have had some offers. I imagine you’ll also be working on some political fund raising for a few people.”

He smiled and nodded. “The Vice President has made a few comments along that line.”

“That’s only because John McCain is a smart guy, and is going to win this thing! Okay, so, you are going to leave by the end of 2006, but not right away. That works for me, and I’ll support you, but don’t be surprised if Harry Reid makes an ass of himself along the way. He is definitely going to be holding hearings on Katrina, and you and your agency are going to be giving testimony. I wouldn’t be able to stop that even if I tried, and it would be hopeless for me to fight it.”

“What are you going to do about the hold on appointments?” Brown asked.

“I am not sure, at least not yet,” I answered, with another grimace. “Listen, about you and FEMA, you’re going to be leaving there. Now, don’t get me wrong, but you’re political, a money man and a fixer. That’s why George put both you and Allbaugh over there. I’m not saying you both didn’t do good jobs, but I want the next guy to be a pro, you understand.”

“I follow you, Mister President. You’re right, that’s how we ended up there,” he agreed.

“So, like I said, you both did well, but I’m going to want one of your long time people taking over when you leave. Figure out a name or two for me. Neither of us wants to see an amateur in that job. If the climate scientists are right, the problems are going to increase, not decrease!”

“Crap!” he said lowly. He nodded in understanding and I let him go at that. I smiled to myself, though. Mike Brown would be leaving his job at some point, but not in disgrace. Assuming he did a decent job as lobbyist and fundraiser over the next couple of years, he was a prime candidate for a Cabinet post in a McCain administration. Commerce or Transportation would be naturals for him.

I thought about it, and then called and asked Frank Keating to come over.

John Ashcroft had resigned as Attorney General in February of 2005, after suffering through a very severe bout of pancreatitis in the spring of 2004. He was much more conservative than I was, and a whole lot more religious, but the man had integrity, and he fiercely protected the Constitution. During the remainder of 2004 he and I spoke frequently, and he told me he would resign right after the Inauguration. He liked my idea of Frank Keating as a replacement, and between the two of us we got Frank on board. Frank had been out of office since the start of 2003, and had taken a couple of positions on boards of various companies. He accepted my offer and we managed to get him confirmed as the new Attorney General in 2005.

That’s not to say it was easy. There was a lot of rancor coming out of the Senate at this, and they delayed his confirmation for over a month. It wasn’t that Keating was all that controversial a fellow, or that he hadn’t been a decent Governor of Oklahoma. It was that it was a way for Harry Reid to be difficult with me without spending a lot of his influence doing so. It cost me more to confirm him than it cost Harry to slow things down. Harry also slowed down a number of Federal judgeships as well, again, at very little personal cost. Worst of all, we now had two empty seats on the Supreme Court. Sandra Day O’Connor had stepped down and William Rehnquist had died, and the Senate Judiciary Committee had my nominees (one male, one female, both moderates) on hold.

By 2006 I was getting extra pissed at this, so I simply decided to say ‘Screw you!’ to the Senate. On Monday, February 20, the Senate recessed for a week. On Thursday morning, February 23, I went down to the Press Room during the morning Daily Press Briefing, and made a statement. In part, it read:

“The nation’s business does not end when the Senate is in recess. Crime still occurs when the Senate is in recess. The police still catch criminals when the Senate is in recess. The courts still function when the Senate is in recess. If the Senate decides to hold up all Federal appointments to the Justice Department, that is their right to do so. I have put forth names of qualified men and women to fill vacant positions throughout the Justice Department, and the Senate has put these names on hold, in some cases for many months. We can no longer wait and hope that crime will diminish during this period. Later this afternoon I intend to swear in, as recess appointments, the following people…”

With that I named an Associate Attorney General, a Deputy Solicitor General, two U.S. Attorneys, and ten Federal Judges. (A recess appointment of a Supreme Court Justice might well be unconstitutional; the Senate had officially expressed their displeasure after Eisenhower did it three times; I didn’t dare try that one!) I had spoken to all of them beforehand, and all were stashed in hotels in Washington, waiting for this moment. There was no way for the Senate to reconvene in time to stop this. I did, however, warn each of the people involved that the Senate might well refuse to confirm them, and that some, if not all of them, might be out of a job in a year’s time. While most of my nominees were Republican, as a bipartisan gesture I had named three Democrats as Federal judges, and they had all grinned and said they were the safest of the bunch.

Well, there’s nothing quite like throwing bombs into a packed crowd to get the adrenaline pumping! The Democrats in the Senate were foaming-at-the-mouth mad at me for being so presumptuous to deny them their Constitutional duty to advise and consent. How dare I act so illegally! This was worthy of impeachment!

Despite it being a recess, Harry Reid and Arlen Specter, the Chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee, which was where all the nominees were bottled up, managed to make it onto television that night. Unlike Harry, Arlen and I got along okay, but he was under orders from Harry to put a cork in the bottle. Both men were in full blown high dudgeon, and demanded that I cancel these illegal and ill-considered appointments, and promised a court fight when they got back from recess.

They might actually be right. The idea of a recess appointment dated back to the 18^th Century, when the Senate was out of session more often than not, and a President couldn’t afford to wait months to appoint somebody. In theory, he could appoint somebody as needed, and they would stay in office until the end of the current Congressional session, at which point they would need to be confirmed by the Senate to keep their job. This worked fairly well up until the 20^th Century, when travel speeds had increased to the point the Senate could actually stay in town longer. Theoretically the Senate was in recess whenever they were out for more than three days, which is why I waited until Thursday to do this. On the other hand, ever since Clinton had been President, the Senate had begun having sham sessions. They would go away, and every third day some Senator, whoever was in town, would show up, bang a gavel, say they were in session, bang the gavel again, and go back into recess. It was total fakery.

Screw it. I threw it back in their laps. I claimed the sham sessions were just that, fakes, and dared them to push me on it. It would take a court challenge to throw the nominees out, or they would simply have to stop taking so many recesses and actually get some work done once in awhile. They could scream all they wanted, but in the meantime, the Justice Department was fully staffed. When the Dems started screaming on the Sunday morning news shows, our response was always that these were perfectly qualified people, most of whom had previous experience in the Federal justice system, that the delays were nothing more than political gamesmanship by the Democratic Party, and actually, what was the real problem? That I had candidates that weren’t qualified, or that I was calling a halt to their little game of sham sessions? In the meantime, the President was giving this tempest in a teapot the consideration it deserved, which wasn’t much. He was going to keep on serving the people of the United States, even if the Senate refused to.

It was a hullaballoo, all right. Not all of the Republicans liked my stunt, since one of these days they would have the whip hand over a Democratic President, and besides, this was saying that they weren’t that important, either. I sort of apologized to them, but held firm, and suggested that they start beating on the Dems about this. Push the bipartisan nature of what I was trying to do. Push that we needed a full Supreme Court. Push that it was costing the American taxpayer by delaying court proceedings. Wrap these appointments in an American flag and fly the damn thing!

By March, Reid caved in. We allowed a token Democrat and a token Republican judge to be non-confirmed, after negotiating with both of them (they both found lucrative positions in the private sector), confirmed everybody else, and scheduled confirmation hearings for the Supreme Court nominees. Harry Reid and I kissed and made up on television, in a wonderful bipartisan show of support. As I stood next to him I debated wearing body armor.

In March we had hearings on Katrina and Rita and the Federal response. As predicted, Mike Brown was front and center for almost a week, as every Democrat reamed him a new one and every Republican praised him to the sky. Not a damn one of them cared a lick about what happened, but they all wanted air time and sound bites to use during their upcoming campaigns. Unsurprisingly, the formal report was scheduled to be issued after the election, and early indications indicated that despite the rhetoric coming from the Congressional hearings, most of the problems were going to be blamed squarely on Ray Nagin and Kathleen Blanco. Mike Brown resigned right after the July 4^th holiday, and we jointly introduced his replacement at a Press Room briefing, and I sent him out with a party and a public commendation. Screw Harry Reid!

That was just part of what happened between the fall of 2005 and the spring of 2006, of course. Katrina was just one of the issues I had to face. Right now I was continuing the slow and steady pace I had always proclaimed. I wasn’t cutting taxes. We seemed to be at a good point for reasonable economic growth and a moderate surplus. The surplus paid off the older debt and gave us a cushion for disasters, like Katrina. As always, it was better to have a disaster with money in the bank than having to borrow it. Meanwhile we had cancelled enough pie-in-the-sky military programs to free up the funds to ramp up training and begin a pivot away from Europe and towards Asia. The F-35 was dead, as was the next generation Navy destroyer/cruiser package, and I had ordered a new frigate design instead of the ridiculous ‘Littoral Combat Ship’ that the Navy had pushed. Support assets had been heavily beefed up, and we had massively expanded and improved our facilities on Guam and the surrounding islands. Interestingly, some of our local allies seemed rather heartened by this. They could see the Chinese putting huge sums into their own military and were getting nervous. The Philippines, for example, had previously kicked us out, and were now making gestures at allowing us access to the old Subic Bay Naval Base and Clark Air Base facilities. Meanwhile we were drawing down our assets in Europe.

Overseas, we were continuing to keep the lid on things without having to invade anybody. I had small Special Forces teams assigned to the Kurds. North Korea I was pointedly ignoring. The current South Korean administration was making accommodating noises to their northern brethren, who were waving the nuclear flag and demanding money. I told the South Koreans they could do what they wanted, but the U.S. wasn’t coughing up a dime, and we weren’t making any concessions. Iran we had sanctions on, and we kept them in place, and thumbed our noses at them and Iraq in general. Afghanistan had settled down into a nice little civil war, and we were providing low levels of support to the Northern Alliance. We were also kissing up to India, to try and wean them from the Russians, and keep the Pakistanis under control.

The wheels began to come off that finely crafted strategy in February of 2006. Turkey announced they were building a new oil pipeline extending to the Iraqi border in Kurdistan, and were looking forward to making a deal for Kurdish oil with the semi-autonomous government in Erbil. At that point Saddam Hussein began mouthing off. The Kurds were nothing more than a bunch of rebels (true) and the oil was the property of the Iraqi people (read that as his property.) The Iraqi nation demanded that Turkey break off their illegal theft of Kurdish territory and property. Also, the Kurds should behave and get in line to allow him to kill them off easier.

Prime Minister Erdogan of Turkey basically told Hussein where to head in. The Turks had a reputation for being tough fighters, and they had decent weaponry through NATO and modern purchases. Their national economy was also quite a bit stronger than Iraq’s. Meanwhile, the Kurds also told Hussein to go pound salt. The no-fly zone was being rigorously enforced, and I had zero interest in loosening it.

Reconnaissance overflights, satellite intelligence, and signal intercepts all began raising the possibility that Hussein might be contemplating something in terms of ground action, but it wasn’t clear yet what was happening. The National Security Council was informed by Richard Clarke in mid-February that the Republican Guard was moving troops and mechanized units into the no-fly zone and towards the Kurdish boundary areas. A major concentration was in the vicinity south of Kirkuk, one of the areas Hussein had ‘Arabized’ by moving in lots of Sunnis to work in the oil fields and then kicked out a lot of the Kurds.

Part of the brief by Richard was the past history of Hussein against the Kurds. Put bluntly, the man was a genocidal maniac. Depending on time frame and specifics, he had killed off anywhere from 50,000 to 250,000 Kurds over the years, and had used chemical weapons on more than one occasion. Now it looked like he was gearing up to go at them again. If we let him, the result would be predictable. Kurds would stream across the borders into Turkey, Syria, and Iran, potentially destabilizing all three countries, something that would only benefit Hussein. As it was, under stable conditions they had actually been moving into Iraq. Turkey had found one of the best benefits to cooperation with the Kurds over a pipeline; it calmed down the PKK, the Kurdish Worker’s Party militia in the eastern provinces, who tended towards guerilla attacks on the Turks.

The best current intelligence was that Hussein was either preparing for an attack on Kurdistan, or was simply trying to provoke us into doing something stupid and then playing the martyr for the Arab world. “That’s the best you have, Richard? That he’s either going to attack or he’s not going to attack?” I asked sarcastically.

“Mister President, that’s the best we can say right now. The preparations you make are the same. He might not even know at the moment. He might just want to scare people and make up his mind later,” Richard added.

He wasn’t backing down, or trying to give me an answer I wanted. I could live with that. I looked around the room. I shrugged and nodded. “Let’s look at this as two parts. What do we do now to try and deter the bastard, and what do we do next if he attacks anyway?” There was a murmur of agreement at that. I looked back at Clarke. “When would their preparations be ready? If they attack into Kurdistan, what would be the timetable and what would be their objectives?”

We were meeting in the Situation Room, and Richard put one of the analysts on the spot. A Navy Commander flashed a map of the border region up on a screen and overlaid it with some symbols. “Current projections have them still maneuvering assault and support units towards the border. It’s still February, and Kurdistan is very cold right now, but will warm shortly, in another month or two. By summer it will be blistering hot. The campaign season will begin by the end of March, maybe earlier if the weather improves, and run through the end of November. At the current pace, if they want to attack in March, they will be on schedule for that.”

She flashed another map up on the screen. “The main focus of their assault units is currently in Tikrit, a Sunni stronghold south of Kirkuk. From there they can quickly push forward to the border, with a first leap to the border, and then a second into Kurdistan itself. Depending on their focus, we are either looking at an assault east of Kirkuk, one centered between Erbil and Kirkuk, or possibly both, in an attempt to isolate and surround Kirkuk. After subduing Kirkuk, they would be positioned to move on Erbil, and then Mosul. It all depends on the level of resources they have to commit.”

“And that level currently is?” I pressed.

“Unsure, sir. Certainly enough to capture Kirkuk and thoroughly trash it. Moving on to Erbil would probably require some consolidation and major resupply,” she replied.

I grunted a response and looked around. “So, what do we do about this? Do we back down, or do we back up the Kurds? Assuming the Iraqis actually do something, I mean.”

“We have to back the Kurds! We can’t cave to Hussein,” answered John McCain.

“It’s as simple as that? We go to war? Nothing less?”

“Yes, sir. It’s as simple as that. We are backing these people now, and we have troops on the line training them. If there is an attack, we are going to lose troops,” he replied.

“So, do we pull the troops? Try and deescalate things?” I pushed back.

“It won’t work, Mister President,” responded Condi Rice, the Secretary of State. “Pulling back will be taken as a sign of weakness, not of trying to calm things down. It will be seen as weakness by Hussein, as well as by the Kurds and by Erdogan.”

I grunted at that. “Turkey’s a member of NATO. Any chance we can get NATO in on this?”

“Marginal. They are only obligated if a fellow member of NATO is attacked. If Hussein goes after Turkey, maybe then,” she said.

“If we do go in, we will need Turkish assets. At the minimum, we will need to use Incirlik to fly combat patrols out of. Will they go along with that?” I asked.

Condi looked over at Tom Ridge, the Secretary of Defense. He nodded back to her. She turned back to me and said, “Everything I am hearing is they are prepared to cooperate. They might not send in troops, but they will allow overflights and cross border support. Erdogan is very interested in calming the Kurds down in the eastern part of the country.”

“Is there any chance that we can get Hussein to back down on this? Does he understand that he is looking at Gulf War Two with this?” I asked, to no one in particular.

“I don’t think it makes a difference, Mister President.” I turned to face the speaker, Eric Shinseki, the National Security Adviser. After the Able Danger incident, I had brought him on board officially as Deputy National Security Adviser under Condoleeza Rice. Now that she was the Secretary of State, he had moved up to his old boss’ job. “Iraq’s foreign policy is whatever wacky idea Saddam Hussein wakes up with. The man is a textbook psychopath, and I am not being facetious. The only thing he cares about is staying in power. If he kills off every last person in the country but himself, that is just fine as far as he is concerned. Current estimates are that Hussein is facing internal pressure related to their collapsing economy, and needs an external threat to distract the public. This fills the bill. The average Iraqi doesn’t like the Kurds. Hussein’s been spending the last fifteen years rebuilding his army. He figures it’s about time he used it.”

“Shit!” I muttered. Unfortunately, it made sense. “Does anybody here disagree with Eric? Is there any chance we are going to be able to smart our way out of this?”

There were a lot of silent faces looking back at me. The Vice President said, “Carl, you know what we have to do.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it, John.” He snorted and gave me a half smile. He was right, too. I knew what needed to be done. I shrugged and said, “Okay, then let’s do it.”

I looked around the table. “We need to try to shut this down. If we can’t, we need to prepare. Condi, you and Tom get to play diplomat. I want you on Air Force One tomorrow, first stop Ankara. I want you to discuss this whole situation with Erdogan. If he can pressure Hussein to back down, fine, but if we have to go in, get him on board. After that, see everybody else you need to. Tom, you need to do double duty. You and the Joint Chiefs need to start getting assets figured out. I don’t want to send in troops now, but we are going to need some options. Get me those options.” I turned next to Eric. “Eric, I want you running point with NATO. Start trying to drum up some support, characterize it as supporting Turkey, a fellow NATO member. The Brits will probably assist, but see what you can do with the others, too.”

“Yes, sir,” said Tom. Condi and Eric nodded in agreement.

“Condi, prep things for a phone call to Putin. Iraq’s a Russian client. Maybe he has some pull.”

She nodded at that.

“Richard, you crank up anything you have for intel.” I looked over at Winston Creedmore, who had been added to the National Security Council. “Does Counter Terrorism have anything on this?”

“No, but I’ll order a top level verification on this. Maybe the Russians have something we can access,” he replied.

I nodded. “Thank you. This doesn’t look like it is going to start for another month or two, so we should be safe with a meeting next week. Frank will schedule something for when Condi, Tom, and Eric get back.” I looked around and saw people nodding and taking notes. “Thank you. John, I need to see you privately.”

John and I went upstairs to the Oval Office, where we sat down in a couple of armchairs. “I am getting a very bad feeling that we are going to have to do something about that asshole,” I told him.

“Who, Saddam Hussein?” he asked. I nodded grimly, and he asked, “Sorry you didn’t help your predecessor in taking him out?”

I grimaced at that. “No, not really. That was different. George and that bunch wanted to invade Iraq and make it into America Junior. They had no plan for ever getting out, and didn’t want to, in fact. I am nowhere near as certain as they were. I’d be satisfied to kick his ass up between his ears and go home.”

“And do you think we can do that? I don’t. I think we are going to have to take him out of the game for good this time.”

I sighed. “That’s what I’m afraid of. It’s one thing to send in a few A-teams and fly patrols out of Incirlik. This is shaping up to be a major campaign. I do not want to get bogged down halfway around the world trying to invade Iraq!”

“Carl, you may not have a choice. Short of dumping the Kurds to their fate, we will have to get involved,” he told me.

I sighed and nodded. “I know. Just because I don’t like it, it doesn’t mean I won’t do it.”

It would be a crowning monument to my hubris if I ended up in a war in Iraq, after killing off George Bush just to prevent us from going to war in Iraq! Was it possible for me to change anything? Or was the best that I could do be to simply delay the inevitable? Had I managed to improve anything in the last five years?

I followed the travels of Tom Ridge and Condi Rice as they bounced around the Middle East. I got nightly updates as they met with anybody they could think of to calm down the situation. Erdogan was not happy with Hussein, and agreed to allow combat patrols out of Incirlik, as well as logistic support across the border. We could even send troops and equipment across the country by train as needed. Kuwait was also on board, since they still had harsh memories of what Hussein had done to them in 1991. Most of the rest of the neighbors weren’t as cooperative. Iran would love to see us bogged down in Iraq; they were traditional enemies, but they hated us as well. A fight would weaken us both and leave them in a stronger position. They would not be looking for peace to break out. The same was true in Syria. Jordan did want peace, but was relatively defenseless against the Iraqis, as was Saudi Arabia. Condi told us that she had asked the Jordanians and the Saudis to attempt some diplomatic pressure, and try to get Hussein to back off. According to them, Hussein simply replied that it was a training exercise, and they needed to mind their own business. That was also what we heard from the neutrals Swedes and Swiss.

A real sore spot was Israel. They were watching the developing situation with considerable alarm, and for good reason. Even though they were not the target of any attack, Saddam Hussein was probably targeting them with his missiles. During the Gulf War, which they sat out of since an Israeli presence would have destroyed the coalition, Hussein had fired missiles at them, simply hoping for a response. If he did the same, and the Israelis responded with a counterattack, it could blow up any hope of an Arab solution to the problem. I wanted this as contained as possible.

I even called Vladimir Putin in Russia to see if he could pressure the Iraqis into backing down. This was a long shot at best. Iraq was a long time buyer of Russian weapons. Putin had no overwhelming interest in not selling them more, as long as the Iraqis paid cash on the barrelhead. They had been manipulating the oil-for-food program for years, and pouring the funds into Russian weapons. I simply told Vladimir that if he couldn’t help us, to stay out of our way, because if we had to go in, Iraq wasn’t going to be a customer for long.

Eric worked NATO, and got a lot of sympathy but not much assistance. Britain agreed to assist, and began to mobilize some troops, but most of the rest simply said they would wait and see. I sighed, but couldn’t blame him. It wasn’t their fight. I told him to simply come home, and we would figure it out if we needed to.

When Tom and Condi returned, I met with them together, and then we had a full meeting of the NSC. It didn’t seem as if any of our diplomatic efforts were paying off. Hussein continued to slowly funnel troops and armored vehicles towards a general area south of Kirkuk, and was beginning to conduct wartime drills with them. He would surge his troops forward, and then stop and back away. Routine training exercises were the explanation, not that it was our business to ask! The Kurdish government, such as it was, was getting nervous and had invited us to bring in troops. Unfortunately, that is nowhere near as easy as you might think. That was a big focus of the meeting.

America has a large and powerful army, but it isn’t easy to get them anywhere fast. If the shit were to hit the fan, there would be limited things we could do quickly. We could shuttle an Air Force wing or two into Incirlik within a few days. Incirlik was far enough away from Iraq that they couldn’t attack there, but that worked the other way, as well. Combat flights into Iraq would need tanker support. We could send in the Marines, but the nearest beach was in southern Iraq, near Basra. The Marines would need to fight their way north, through the Iraqis, to meet the Kurds in northern Iraq. That was simply insane. Theoretically we could ship them through the Bosporus and into the Black Sea, and then land them in northeastern Turkey, but there were a bunch of treaties designed to prevent that sort of thing, and no way was Russia going to be amused by our sending our Navy into the Black Sea.

The Navy could sail a carrier or two into the Gulf, and fly combat patrols, as well as launch Tomahawks from several different directions, but that ignored one of the fundamentals of combat. You can bomb a country, strafe it, fly over it, sail around it, hell, you can even nuke it, but you can’t control it until you stick a teenager with a gun on it. We needed to get troops into position. That isn’t easy. I could order the 82^nd Airborne into position, and they would get elements in place within 24 hours. After that it gets dicey. The 82^nd is primarily an infantry outfit, though if they had trucks they would have some mobility. During the Gulf War we sent them in first, but only the fact that Hussein held off on attacking American units saved them from being anything more than a speed bump.

It would take a heavy armor presence to really stick it to the Republican Guard. The nearest American armor was maybe a brigade’s worth in Germany, perhaps 100 M-1 Abrams tanks and a matching number of M-2 Bradleys and other vehicles. Those could be loaded on trains and shipped by rail from their locations into eastern Turkey. That might take two weeks, if we were lucky. We could probably scrape up about another brigade’s worth by pulling everything else possible out of Europe, and by asking for assistance from the Brits. They were the only ones I could see helping us. Again, maybe in two to three weeks they might be showing up. If we needed to bring in a heavy division, the only place we would get one or two of those was from here in the States. That would require moving the division to the nearest port, loading it onto appropriate shipping, and then sending it across the Atlantic and through the Med to Turkey, where they would disembark and be rail freighted to eastern Turkey. Even at high speed, that was going to take at least a month and probably more. Another possibility was the 101^st Air Assault Division, the ‘Screaming Eagles’; they could be brought in, but they would go after the 82^nd, and since nobody had developed a helicopter that could fly across the Atlantic Ocean, their gear mostly needed to be shipped as well.

Just as problematic, all of our contingency planning for Iraq was based on a repeat of the Gulf War. We had several divisions’ worth of equipment pre-loaded on ships at Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean. They could sail for Kuwait in a heartbeat — but we weren’t attacking from Kuwait! To do any good in Kurdistan, we would need to sail them through the Red Sea into the Med, and then up to Turkey. It would probably take just as long as bringing in a division from the States.

I sat there while General Peter Pace, the Marine replacement for Richard Myers as Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, gave us a briefing on what units could be sent to Iraq as needed. Ever since the Gulf War, most military planning had been focused on Kuwait and Saudi Arabia, the southern half of Iraq. Not as much planning had gone into the northern half, and it was showing. We didn’t have a huge range of options. At the end, all of the eyes turned to me.

“Okay, so this is why they pay me the big bucks, I guess,” I said, with a wry smile. “First, if the Iraqis move into Kurdish territory, we will back up the Kurds. Does anybody here have an issue with that?” I looked around, and mostly saw nods of agreement. “Going once… going twice… Sold! The Kurds are our official allies. Condi, start figuring out how we go about formally recognizing the Kurds as a nation. Somebody will have to draw some borders up, etcetera, that sort of thing. Talk to the British, see if we can get them on board, anybody else you can think of, too.”

“Yes, sir. Give me a few days and I will be able to report on that,” she answered.

I turned to General Pace. “General, you are going to need to start getting some units prepared to move. We have, what, maybe a month, tops, before the Iraqis move. Start lining up the troops and prepping the way. Position your planes and support, that sort of thing.”

“Understood, Mister President. Any preferences?”

I shook my head. “I never made it higher than battery commander, General. You’ll know more than I would. If it hits the fan, figure I’ll order the 82^nd in immediately, and follow that up with anybody we can scrape out of Europe. Let’s meet again a week from now, and you can brief us on what to expect, and when.”

“Aye aye, sir!”

I had to smile at that. Just like Charlie, a typical gung-ho jarhead response. “You sound just like my son, General.” I looked at everybody. “I don’t want to have to do this, but if I do, I want it massive and lethal. The American public is going to want to know why we didn’t deal with this jackass before, so we’d better deal with him now! Richard, really get cracking on any intel you can provide, and dial in anybody you have over there with the Kurds. Condi, you and Eric try to get anybody with any kind of influence over Hussein to get him to back down. Anybody here, if there is something that needs doing and you need me to do it, let me know. What do I need to do to make this better?” I looked over at Paul O’Neill, who was still in place at Treasury. “Paul, this is going to cost us a fortune! How much and what will be the effect? Crank up your wizards and figure that one out, please.”

“You got it!” he acknowledged.

One problem I grappled with was just how public to make this. As a general rule, you don’t want to tell the enemy your plans, and troop and equipment movements certainly qualified. On the other hand, part of having a big military is to use it as a deterrent, and by definition, it won’t deter anybody if they don’t know you are up to something. Would it deter Hussein, though? We had no proof that it would, and as had been said, his idea of policy was whatever idea he had when he woke up in the morning. If I moved troops in now, when international law still considered the Kurdish territories part of Iraq, we would be guilty of invading a peace loving country! Worse, by our responding now, he might just well move up his timetable to try and preempt us.

Over the next few days, things kept getting tenser. By the beginning of March I signed off on the order to begin moving troops and planes. The 82^nd Airborne was moved to a higher state of readiness, and all leaves were cancelled, and the transports began lining up on the runways. Rail cars were ordered into special trains and the kasernes in Germany were emptied and loaded onto the flatbeds; they would begin moving towards Turkey as soon as practical, for ‘routine training.’ The 4^th Fighter Wing, a mix of F-15s and F-16s in North Carolina, was ordered to surge to Incirlik, also for routine training. The Air Force began warming their bombers up, and began moving tanker and support aircraft into position. The Navy began moving a couple of carriers into the southern end of the Persian Gulf, and accompanied them with some Tomahawk missile armed ships and subs.

None of this was cheap. It costs hundreds of millions of dollars to move things around, and none of it had been budgeted for. Treasury had already told me that we were going to blow through the contingency funds the Pentagon had for this sort of emergency.

We wanted a couple of months to prepare and move the chess pieces into place. We didn’t even get two weeks.

Chapter 161: A Rock and a Hard Place

Tuesday, March 14, 2006

It was 3:00 AM when the Secret Service came to wake me. I came to with an agent standing by the side of our bed, gently nudging my right shoulder. I was spooned up behind my wife, who wasn’t wearing anything (things had gotten vigorous that evening!) Thankfully she had pulled the sheets up around her shoulders. It took me a few seconds to realize what was happening, and then I groggily looked around. The light in the bedroom was on, and the agent who had been standing post outside the Residence floor was standing next to me. “What the hell?” I asked.

“I’m sorry, sir, but there’s a problem,” he replied.

“Huh? What?” I rolled over and looked up at him.

Marilyn mumbled something and then rolled over. Seeing the light on, she opened her eyes and asked, “Carl, what… WHO ARE YOU!?” She scrambled down even further under the covers.

“Mister President, you need to come with us. There’s a problem. There’s a call from the Pentagon,” repeated the agent, who began trying to help me out of bed.

I sat upright and rubbed my eyes. “You couldn’t call?”

“You slept through it, sir.”

“Christ on a crutch. Okay, give me a second.” I rubbed my eyes again, and then rolled upright. “Go back to sleep, Marilyn. I’ll handle this.”

I stood up and headed into the bathroom. At least I had my briefs on. I took a leak and grabbed a pair of khakis and my bathrobe. When I came out, the agent had retreated to the living room. “What’s going on?” I demanded.

“They need you in the Situation Room, sir. They wouldn’t say why, but they really want to see you ASAP!” He answered.

“This better be good!” I muttered, instantly realizing that whatever the reason was, I sure didn’t want it to be good! That would mean something had gone very wrong somewhere in the world.

He followed me down the elevator and to the Situation Room. I remember hearing that Johnson had gone down there at night in his pajamas to run the Viet Nam War. I hoped it wasn’t a precedent. I thought it might be, though. There is normally a flow and banter to conversations in the room, and now the air was icy and tense. An Army light bird was running the night shift. “You guys want me for something?” I asked.

He took a deep breath. “Yes, sir. It’s Iraq. They have made their move. Heavy bombardment and an attack against Peshmerga positions both east and west of Kirkuk.” I grunted and nodded. They had been surging back and forth for the last two weeks, feigning an attack and then backing down. Classic strategy, get your enemy used to your operational tactics, and then when he gets used to them, the next time you don’t back down. You move forward. “Sir, they are using chemical weapons.”

I stopped and stared at the lieutenant colonel, and then glanced around the room. The others were nodding somberly at this. “Seriously? They used gas? Is this confirmed?”

A major piped up from the corner. “Yes, sir, we are getting aerial confirmation from drones near Kirkuk, and it’s worse than that.”

“Talk to me, Major.”

“They have hit at least two A-teams working with the Peshmerga. We had confirmation from a commo sergeant in one of them, and both are off the air. They are using mustard gas, and it’s pretty ugly,” he continued.

I expelled my breath softly. “Ohhhhh… shit!” Every eye in the room was on me. “All right, give me fifteen minutes to take a quick shower and dress. When I get back, I want a briefing. Start calling in the entire National Security Council, and tell the Joint Chiefs that we will begin operations shortly. Tell them to take the safeties off, because we will be going in hot and hard.”

Everybody seemed to stand taller as I said that. I headed back upstairs, to find a worried Marilyn in a bathrobe. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Don’t worry. It’s Iraq. You should go back to bed.”

“Just like that? What are you doing?” she pressed.

I stopped in the bathroom door and faced her, trying to smile. “I have to take a shower and get dressed. I’ll just be downstairs. Don’t worry. We’re fine and the kids are fine. I just have to go be Presidential for awhile.” I turned back and stripped off my robe and pants. I didn’t need my wife to worry that I was getting our country involved in a war where people were using weapons of mass destruction.

That’s what it was, of course. Mustard gas was a chemical weapon, part of the unholy trinity of nuclear weapons, chemical weapons, and biological weapons. For years our country had active programs in all three areas, but we had renounced chemical and biological weapons for quite some time. Personally, with my previous life experience as a chemist, nerve gas and the other gasses just scared the living hell out of me. A thimbleful of Sarin was enough to kill everybody in a small town or city, and we and the Russians didn’t have just thimblefuls, we had warehouses of this stuff spread around the world! The U.S. had been destroying it, as had Russia, but there was still some around.

Mustard gas was a blister agent, and dated back to World War I. It was nasty shit, and exposure can cause huge pus filled painful blisters on any exposed skin. It can also cause blindness and, if inhaled, can totally fuck up your lungs. Even better, if it doesn’t kill you, it can cause cancer. The only really good thing about mustard gas is that it isn’t incredibly lethal, unless you are breathing the shit straight. It mostly incapacitates the enemy, and overloads whatever medical support they have. It is persistent, so normally you can’t enter the area for days or weeks after an application. Civilians, especially children and the elderly, are much more susceptible to mustard gas. Casualties would be very, very high.

More to the point, when the United States forswore using chemical or biological weaponry, part of the evil bargain was that we classed them with nuclear weapons, and proclaimed them equally evil. If you used them, we would retaliate with nukes. This was the first time since the First World War that anybody had used chemical weapons on American troops, and as sure as death and taxes, there would be calls for me to nuke Baghdad.

It was closer to twenty minutes before I made it out of the bathroom, and while I had shaved, I was only wearing khakis and a sport shirt and some loafers. Marilyn was still up, and had a glass of juice ready. I was tempted to tell her I would get something downstairs, but she was too worried. I smiled and drank my juice, and then gave her a big hug. “It will be fine. You should go back to bed. I’ll talk to you later.” With that I headed back out again.

I arrived back in the Situation Room and was still the only member of the NSC which had arrived, but that was only because I happened to live on the premises. I was promptly informed that everyone had been contacted and was either en route, or not available. Eric Shinseki was currently in Tel Aviv, meeting with Ehud Olmert, the new Prime Minister. Ariel Sharon had suffered an almost mortal stroke in January, and was now pretty much a vegetable.

I sat down at the end of the table, facing the big display screen. “Are there any changes? Are we sure they are using chemical weapons?” I asked.

Lieutenant Colonel Parker was still there, and was cueing up a map of northern Iraq. “Yes, sir. There is no question about it. We managed to get through to one of the A-teams, and the exec confirmed it. They took both high explosive and chemical rounds, and he confirmed the presence of mustard gas. Casualties have mostly been from the HE, but mustard gas can take up to 24 hours to show the symptoms. Still, he confirmed that gas rounds landed and the characteristic smell is present, and that skin blistering is beginning.”

I nodded. I picked up the phone and reached the switchboard. “I need to speak to the Prime Minister of Israel as soon as possible. If he’s in a meeting, ask somebody to break in. If that doesn’t work, get the Ambassador or General Shinseki to break down the doors over there. Thank you.” I hung up the phone. It was doubtful that the Prime Minister wouldn’t take my call, but he might have been occupied or something.

Vice President McCain was the first person to arrive, followed closely by Frank Stouffer. “What’s going on, Carl? Is it Iraq?”

I nodded. “Yes, and they are using mustard gas,” I answered.

John’s eyes opened wide at that, though Frank didn’t really react. He might not realize just how nasty the stuff was, and how bad a situation this was. Before John had a chance to ask me anything further, Condi Rice came in, dressed about as informally as the rest of us were. “Mister President?” she started, just as the phone in front of me rang.

I looked at the light bird. “Colonel, drag them down there and tell them what you’ve told me so far. I have to take this.” The colonel motioned them to the other end of the room, and I picked up the phone. I stuck my left index finger in my left ear to drown out the babble around me, and held the phone up to my right ear. “Hello?”

“Mister President, this is Ehud Olmert speaking. You asked to speak to me?”

“Thank you for taking my call, Mister Prime Minister. I apologize, I truly do, but this is very important.”

“Of course. How can Israel help you, sir?”

“Mister Prime Minister,”, I started. “As I am sure General Shinseki has informed you, the United States intends to help defend the Kurds against an Iraqi attack. That attack has just begun, and it is our intention to respond. The response will begin within a matter of hours. Now, the last time the international community went to war with Iraq, in 1991, Hussein responded by firing missiles at your nation. We are very worried that he might do the same at this time, and I must inform you, sir, that he has already used poison gas against both Kurdish and American troops and civilians.”

I could hear him inhale sharply at that. Israel is a small country, roughly the size of New Jersey, but with a bit smaller population. Unfortunately for them, everybody in the Middle East hated them and wanted them exterminated, and everybody had some sort of weaponry that could reach them. Only the fact that they had an overwhelming conventional weaponry superiority, plus nuclear weapons, kept their enemies at bay. When Hussein fired his Scud missiles at them in 1991, the intention was to draw them into the fray, and thus break up the Coalition. If he fired chemical rockets at the Israelis, there was a very good chance that Baghdad would disappear in a nuclear fireball.

After a second, he responded, “That is a most serious claim, Mister President. Are you sure on this?”

“We already have battlefield reports, sir. I am sure that with your extensive intelligence sources, you will be able to verify this in very short order.”

“If this is true, Mister President, it is a most grave and serious matter,” he said slowly.

In diplo-speak, the phrasing used by diplomats, the word ‘grave’ is used only in the most dangerous and serious of circumstances. If one nation tells another that there will be grave repercussions to an action, it means there will be a war.

“That is why I am calling you. My nation realizes that yours is uncomfortably close to Iraq, and that there may be an attempt to draw yours into this affair. It is our sincerest hope that you refrain from any such response,” I told him.

“What is your current intention, sir?”

“We will be beginning a military response shortly, certainly by the end of the day. We intend to bring the full weight of our military to bear to defend an ally, just as we would do with any other ally in the area.” ‘Just like we would do with you’ was left unsaid.

“And if Hussein were to repeat his past history by launching missiles at Israel,” he pushed.

“While we certainly would understand Israel’s desire to respond, I have to be honest and say that it might not be helpful. On previous occasions you have held off on retaliation, and that worked best for everybody.”

“That will be very dependent on Saddam Hussein’s actions, and the type of attack he makes, if he makes one at all. Now I will be honest, Mister President. If chemical weapons are unleashed on my nation, we will be making a response, and it will be overwhelming and appropriate.”

I sighed mentally. “I appreciate your candor, sir. Let us hope that this does not occur. I am sure I will be speaking to you frequently in the near future. I am sorry I have not been able to visit and meet you prior to this. National Security Adviser Shinseki is in your country now, and I wish that he stay there as my personal representative, along with our Ambassador. Is this satisfactory?” I asked.

“Of course.”

We finished with some very brief pleasantries, and hung up. I knew that Olmert was going to get the Israel security apparatus in high gear in a matter of seconds. With any luck, I would be able to talk to Shinseki at some point.

By now we had also gathered in Paul O’Neill, my soon-to-be-retiring Treasury Secretary, and Tom Ridge, the Defense Secretary. General Pace was in Europe, at a NATO conference, and was on the speakerphone, as was Eric Shinseki. Richard Clarke was one of the last to arrive. I looked around the room. “Has everybody here got the gist of what has happened? Eric, have you had a chance to talk to the Prime Minister yet?”

“He’s on my list right after we hang up. The Israelis are not going to be amused,” came from the speakerphone.

“When I talked to him, he basically implied that if the Iraqis lob chemical weapons at them, they will nuke Iraq to cinders,” I responded. Around me I heard a few quiet gasps, but not many. This was not an unexpected response.

“That would be in line with their public statements, sir. I think it would be quite likely,” he answered.

“Eric, try to keep them calm. If they do that, this thing gets out of hand quickly.”

“Understood, sir.” I heard some fumbling around, and he continued, “Mister President, I just received a request to meet with the Prime Minister.”

“Okay, Eric. You go see him, and then call me back. Thanks.” There was a click and that connection broke, followed by a comment from the switchboard the line was disconnected.

I looked at the others, now seated around the table. “Colonel, think you can do this in ten minutes?”

He nodded affirmatively. “Yes sir!” With that he threw the map of northern Iraq up on the screen, focusing in on Kirkuk and the border between the Arabs and the Kurds. It was neither a straight line, nor a defined line, but more a fuzzy area where both types might live side by side, harmoniously or not. For the next ten minutes he showed where the Kurdish Peshmerga had units, where the American adviser groups were, and where the Iraqi Republican Guard was attacking. It looked a lot like a pincer movement designed to surround and isolate Kirkuk, and kill any civilians or soldiers in the pocket. He also threw up onto the map locations where there were known and suspected chemical attacks.

You don’t normally use chemicals on areas you plan to move through. For trained and prepared troops, chemical warfare is quite survivable, but it is very unpleasant. The pace of combat slows to a crawl, because everybody is moving around in chemical resistant suits and gas masks, and everything needs constant decontamination with lots of water and other chemicals. Most of the time you use chemicals as an area denial weapon, to keep the other side from moving through the area. It is also very effective if you plan a genocidal extinction of your enemy. Both uses seemed to be at work here. If the Iraqis managed to surround Kirkuk, they could move in and kill the Kurds at their leisure. Casualties would be massive and one-sided. From there, they could move forward, deeper into Kurdistan, probably towards Erbil, and repeat the process.

I looked around the table. Every eye was on me. “Does anybody here have any reason that we should not be making a response to this? Before I give an order, tell me right now if I am going to screw this up completely. I know we have discussed this, but chemical weapons will throw a real kink into this. If they hit Israel with them, Iraq will go up in a mushroom cloud, and we get into a real disaster then!”

I looked around the table. John McCain simply said, “Go!” Across from him, the youngest guy in the room, my Chief of Staff Frank Stouffer, simply nodded and gave me a thumbs-up. Richard Clarke also nodded and gave an approval, as did Tom Ridge and Paul O’Neill.

Condi Rice interjected, “Before we do this, sir, we need to get Turkey on board. I know we have already discussed this with them, and they have told us they will go along, but we will need to formally make the request and tell them about the chemical weapons.”

I shrugged. “Okay, good point. Here’s what we’ll do. Condi, you get in touch with Erdogan and give him the latest. Tell him we are going to attack from the south regardless, but we really need to go in from the north. Promise him your first born male child if you have to, but get him on board. The same will go with Eric and the Israelis, to keep them from jumping in. Call them, too, and get the Ambassador in the loop. General, I am going to go upstairs and get dressed and get something to eat. By the time I am done, I will have some answers and will travel to the Pentagon. Make some phone calls and tell everybody to get ready. Also, call an emergency meeting of NATO, or whatever you can manage over there, and inform them. I would dearly love NATO support. Condi, the same goes for the U.N. I hereby am ordering the 82^nd into action. Tell the Navy and the Air Force to prepare for an immediate ‘Execute’ order. Frank, get the Congressional and Senate leadership to my office this afternoon. Also, get Will to set up a national broadcast tonight. I have to tell the country I just put us at war, and tell Matt and Marc to see me about a speech. John, I want you out of Washington for the moment, just in case these idiots want to try something here. I want you safe.”

Around the table, I heard a chorus of ‘Yes, sir!’

I stood up and the meeting was over. I touched the Vice President on the arm and said, “I might be overreacting, but just in case, get on Air Force Two and go somewhere. Before this is over, I imagine I will be using you as a personal ambassador. Either way, you will be in the loop.” It was standard procedure to separate the President and the Vice President in a crisis; I had been part of that on 9-11.

He nodded. “I don’t have to like it, but I understand. Where do you want me first? Fort Bragg, to see off the 82^nd?”

I laughed at that. “Oh, God, no! I’ve been through that before. That is going to be the biggest clusterfuck you have ever seen! Total chaos! Try one of the Air Force bases.”

He nodded. “I’ll make a tour, talk to family groups, the support staff, whatever. You just keep in touch with me.”

“I promise!”

McCain went on his way and I headed upstairs to start dressing like the President and get something to eat. Breakfast for me is normally pretty light, but by now I had been up for hours, and I was hungry.

By mid-morning I was at the Pentagon, accompanied by Tom Ridge and Frank Stouffer. Everybody else was working the phones and sorting out the mess. In the Pentagon War Room, with General Pace on the intercom, I gave the official ‘Execute’ order. We were at war.

The first offensive action would be a massive and coordinated missile and bomb attack. Hundreds of Tomahawk missiles would be launched by every sub and ship in the area, all aimed at Iraqi air bases, port facilities, military bases, and air defense systems. This would all be followed up with bombing attacks by B-2, B-1, and B-52 bombers, with fighter support out of Incirlik in the north and Kuwait and the aircraft carriers in the Gulf. Iraq was to be bombed back to the Stone Age. As before, in our attack on Afghanistan, we were not just limiting our targets to purely military targets. We were also going after everything government related, as well as civilian infrastructure and industrial sites. Baghdad was going to be very dark and isolated, because every bridge and power plant was going to disappear, and any chemical plant was going to be flattened. It doesn’t take much of a factory to make chemical weapons — any decent chemical, pharmaceutical, or fertilizer factory will do — but Iraq was going to lose them all!

Portions of the 82^nd were already airborne, heading first to Incirlik and then on to Erbil. The experts all figured that was far enough outside of the combat zone to act as a forward base and, as my own history with the 82^nd showed, you really prefer to land and go into combat as a unit, rather than jump in. They wouldn’t be on the ground until tomorrow. Meanwhile, the pre-loaded trains in Germany would be moving, and heading towards Istanbul, and then east into Turkey and to the Kurdish border. The Army had some pre-positioning ships with an equipment load for an armored division at Diego Garcia, in the middle of the Indian Ocean, and they were being sortied and convoyed up through the Indian Ocean, the Red Sea, through the Suez Canal, and then north across the Med to Turkey. That, however, like any reinforcement from the States, would take weeks, at best.

So, for the moment, we were looking at an infantry heavy response. In addition to the 82^nd, most of the Rangers and Special Forces types at Bragg would be heading over, as soon as transport was lined up. Further, we could send in the 173^rd, an airmobile brigade in Italy. Fortunately, we had beefed up the purchases of transport aircraft, specifically C-130s and C-17s. They might not be as sexy as invisible fighters and bombers, but boy are they necessary — and a hell of a lot cheaper! Regardless, we were going to be infantry-heavy at first, with armor assets and the 101^st coming in piecemeal later.

To a certain extent, that’s what I told the Congressional leadership that afternoon. I met with them in a conference room in the White House, and it was a long afternoon. From the Senate I was faced with Bill Frist, Mitch McConnell, Harry Reid, and Dick Durbin, and out of the House I had Denny Hastert, John Boehner, Nancy Pelosi, and Steny Hoyer. Roy Blunt was the House Majority Whip, but he was out of town. “Gentlemen — and you too, Nancy — I have some disturbing news to tell you all. First, let me ask, are all of you, or any of you for that matter, familiar with what has been happening in Kurdistan for the last few years?”

I received a number of blank looks, and an equal number of ‘Yes, of course!’ comments from people who couldn’t find Kurdistan with a GPS and a guide dog. That didn’t surprise me one bit. We are a people with almost no knowledge of anything outside the borders. “Well, let me just explain that Kurdistan is centered on the northern no-fly zone in Iraq. As you can imagine, the place is filled with Kurds, who are not Arabs. Anyway, Saddam Hussein and the Iraqis hate the Kurds, and vice versa. The only thing keeping the Iraqis from killing the Kurds has been our no-fly zone.”

“We have troops there, too, don’t we?” asked Denny.

“Yes, and that’s why I called you here. For the last few years, we have had small groups of Special Forces teams working with the Kurds, training them and familiarizing them with us and so forth. We tightened up the no-fly zone, too, so Hussein can’t go after them with his gunships. For all intents and purposes, the Kurds are independent of Baghdad, and have been working on commercial deals with Turkey. For one thing, they have a lot of oil, and the Turks are building a pipeline into northern Iraq to buy it from them. We also have a number of American oil companies making deals over there.”

“So, we have an interest in Kurdistan, but what’s gone wrong?” asked my old buddy John Boehner.

“For several weeks now we have been monitoring an increase in Iraqi military activity, activity that could be construed as preparations for an attack into Kurdistan. We have been talking to all our allies over there, and trying to get the word to Hussein to back down. It didn’t work. This morning the Iraqis began a heavy armored assault into Kurdistan. They are also using chemical weapons. There have already been American casualties among the embedded troops we have there.”

As soon as I said the words ‘chemical weapons’ everybody began talking! The questions ranged from ‘What type?’ to ‘How many are dead?’ and always included ‘How come you let this happen?!’ and ‘Why weren’t we told!?’ I let them go for a couple of minutes and then held up my hands. They began to settle down.

“Thank you. You can all start pointing fingers later. We have been trying to defuse this without escalating it into combat, but Saddam Hussein doesn’t care. We did not know about the chemical weapons. It doesn’t matter right now. Early this morning we had a meeting of the National Security Council. We have been preparing for this possibility for weeks now. Earlier today I gave the Execute order to make a military response. I have ordered our armed services to begin attacking a wide range of Iraqi targets, and we will have troops in Kurdistan by sometime tomorrow. Tonight I will go on television and tell this to the American people.”

There were some stunned faces in the room, but some angry ones, too. Harry Reid was the Majority Leader in the Senate, and he demanded, “Why haven’t we been told this before?”

“Tell you what, Harry? The attack occurred in the middle of the night last night. What do you think I’m doing now? I’m telling you!” I responded.

“You have been preparing for war!? You didn’t think the American public had a right to know this!?” he pushed.

“No, not particularly. The Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marines spend their entire time preparing for war. It’s what they do. How they do it, that we keep secret.”

“Mister President, you have an obligation to tell Congress and the American people when you put American troops in harm’s way!”

“Maybe so, Senator, but I also have an obligation to those troops, and to their wives and husbands and mothers and fathers and sons and daughters, and that obligation is a whole lot more important to me than whatever obligation you have to the fine folk in Las Vegas. I can keep my mouth shut a whole hell of a lot easier than some of your counterparts, so I sleep easy at night if I don’t tell Congress everything we are doing!” I answered.

There were some angry looks at that! How dare I tell them that Congressmen and Senators couldn’t keep a secret!? How insulting! Of course, if I had said anything to them, it would have made the evening news that day, but only from the highest of motives, I am sure.

Denny Hastert decided to play the peacemaker. “Okay, Carl, that’s beside the point. What have you authorized and what is the plan?”

I nodded in thanks, and gave them a more detailed rundown on what would be happening, and a semi-accurate timetable. I also cautioned them all to keep their mouths shut for the next 24 hours. Nancy Pelosi responded, “Is that really possible, Mister President? Right now you have issued alert orders to half the military, and there are troops flying out of Fort Bragg as we speak!”

I opened my mouth to counter her, and then shut it. She was right! “Nancy, that is a very good point. It’s probably already made it onto CNN, hasn’t it?” I smiled and shook my head. “Well, I will speak tonight to the nation and make it official.”

“How long will this last, sir, and what is the outcome you want?” asked Bill Frist. He was a heart surgeon who ended up a Senator, sort of like a mathematician who ended up a Congressman.

“How long? Not sure. At best, a few months, but that’s a long shot. Probably through the summer, at least. The outcome? We want to see Kurdish independence and to settle Saddam Hussein’s hash once and for all!” I said, shrugging my shoulders.

There were some people looking at each other. John said, “You’re going to need a war resolution in the Senate, at least.”

I looked at the Senators in the room. “Probably so. I’ll be honest. I have no idea how to go about doing that. Bill, Harry, I am going to need your help on this. I will get Carter Braxton to talk to your staffs and you, and see about doing that. He’s better at that than I am. In the meantime, pick out some people on the Armed Services and Intelligence committees and we’ll get them into a briefing with the Pentagon tomorrow.”

There were some nods at that, and then I got an interesting question from John Boehner. “Sorry you shut down the guys who wanted to invade Iraq in 2001?”

“Why, because now we have to do it anyway?” I countered. He nodded, and there were a few semi-smiles around the room. I shook my head. “No, not really. It’s one of those things we take classes on in the service. If we had attacked Iraq five years ago, on the basis of faked evidence and a desire to conquer the country, that would be an offensive war, a war of aggression. We would have had to go in alone, without any international support. This is a defensive war, where we are defending people against weapons of mass destruction, and we already have a number of nations who have promised help. There’s a world of difference. We have the moral high ground on this, in spades.” I thought for a second, and added, “Go talk to Lindsey Graham. He’s a reserve JAG lawyer. He can give you chapter and verse on the laws of war and the concept of a ‘just’ war. This stuff dates back to the Middle Ages.”

A few of the people looked skeptical, but there were also some thoughtful looks in the group. At that moment, there was a knock on the door and Will Brucis stuck his head in. I waved him in. “Will, I just informed the leadership here about the Kurdish operation. What’s up?”

“It’s public, sir,” he told me.

“The Kurdish operation?”

“Yes, sir. CNN is reporting that the 82^nd Airborne has received deployment orders and is doing an emergency recall and cancelling all leaves. I also have had at least three phone calls for a comment.”

I looked over at Nancy Pelosi. “Nancy, it looks like you’re smarter than I am. Good call.” I turned back to Will. “Tell everyone I will be speaking to the nation this evening, and start getting the cameras set up. I need to speak to Matt and Marc, but I will tell everyone tonight. Also, tell the Pentagon to be prepared to answer questions tomorrow.”

“Got it!”

Will ducked out again, and I turned back to the leadership. “Now, I don’t mean to be rude, but I need to get ready for this evening. When I learn more, I will let you know. Thank you.” With that I stood up, and I received a chorus of ‘Thank you, Mister President.’

At 7:30 that night I spoke to the nation from the Oval Office. The military mobilizations were the main topic of the national news that evening, along with reports of combat in Iraq. Nobody knew about the chemical weapons yet, or the American casualties. At 7:00, the networks all ran special reports on what was happening, and made their predictions of what I was going to say that evening. Their prediction? That I was going to talk about the mobilizations! Circular logic in full force.

At 7:30 I found myself looking into a camera with a red light on it, and with one eye glancing at the teleprompter. A producer began giving me a countdown, and then as we got down to five seconds, he shut up and began counting down with his fingers. At zero, he waved and pointed at me. Show time!

“My fellow Americans, thank you for allowing me to speak to you this evening. By now you have already heard that our nation’s armed forces are mobilizing, and that some have already been sent into danger. I wish tonight to explain what has happened, and why this response was necessary.

In 1991, following the Gulf War, President Bush instituted two no-fly zones over Iraq. The southern zone was designed to protect the Shiite marsh Arabs from attack by the Iraqi Sunnis, and the northern zone was designed to protect the Kurdish people from a similar attack. For fifteen years, despite relentless provocation, America has protected these minorities from the attacks of Saddam Hussein and his army.

In northern Iraq, the Kurdish people have formed an independent nation under this protection, the Republic of Kurdistan. The Kurds are an ancient people, with their own language and culture. During this time of protection, they have formed a democratic government, have instituted elections, and have conducted peaceful foreign relations and trade with neighboring nations. For several years now, American Special Forces soldiers have worked with the Kurdish armed forces, training them and in turn learning from them.

Until 1991, the Iraqis tried on several occasions to destroy the Kurds, and several of their attacks used chemical weapons. Following the Gulf War and the establishment of the no-fly zone, Iraqi aggression has been on hold. For the last month, however, Saddam Hussein has been moving armed forces towards the border of Kurdistan, and has been making a wide variety of threatening statements. When the intentions of Saddam Hussein became obvious, we immediately began to mobilize diplomatic power across the region to force the Iraqis to back down. We also began a quiet mobilization and preparation of our own.

It is my sad duty to say that our diplomatic efforts to restrain Iraqi aggression have failed. Late last night, Iraqi ground forces began an armored assault on the Kurdish border regions. The Kurdish military, the Peshmerga, are fighting valiantly, but they are outnumbered and outgunned. Worse, in addition to conventional weapons, Saddam Hussein has ordered the use of chemical weapons on unarmed civilians in the region. I am sorry to report that there have been American casualties, along with those of our Kurdish allies. Chemical weapons are one of the most hateful and terrible weapons available, and their usage cannot be allowed or tolerated.

Upon being informed of this unprovoked assault on a peaceful ally, I immediately summoned the National Security Council. We were unanimous in our belief that an immediate military response was necessary. As I mentioned before, while we hoped that diplomacy would cause tensions to ease, we also made preparations if they did not. This morning I gave orders to begin Operation Kurdish Dawn, a military defense of Kurdistan. This operation has been underway for several hours now. We began with a massive bombardment of Iraqi military and government targets from ship and submarine launched Tomahawk missiles, followed by air raids from American carriers in the Persian Gulf, as well as from land based fighters and bombers operating from bases in Kuwait and Turkey. Further bombardment will continue, and strategic bombers from here in America and other bases are also targeting Iraqi bases.

This will not be sufficient. Earlier today I ordered the 82^nd Airborne to deploy to Kurdistan, along with elements of the U.S. Army Rangers, and the Special Forces. The 4^th Fighter Wing has been surged forward to Turkey, and armored and air mobile elements are being brought in from Europe and here at home. Additionally, I have received assurances from several of our European and Middle Eastern allies that they will commit troops and support to the cause of Kurdish freedom and defense.

This aggression will be countered. Kurdistan will be defended, and an ally in this region will be strengthened. A previous President once said, ‘Let every nation know, whether it wishes us well or ill, that we shall pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose any foe, in order to assure the survival and the success of liberty.’ Liberty is the birthright of all people, and in defending Kurdish liberty, we defend our own. The defense of liberty is never easy, and the price involves more than simply cost. Regardless, we are a nation and a people willing to pay such a price.

Thank you for your time, and God bless our nation and our soldiers, sailors, marines, and airmen. Thank you.”

Chapter 162: Going to War

It is very tempting to bury yourself in a single cause once you are in the White House. The stuff that lands on your desk is really important, life and death matters in many cases, and you can spend every waking hour micromanaging pieces of the job. Obviously war is the most important thing, and it is very tempting to put all your time in on this.

Not all Presidents can keep from doing this. Roosevelt lined one of the downstairs rooms with maps, giving it the still current name of the Map Room, and would spend hours in there every day following troop movements and how the front changed. At least he managed to win his war. Johnson would spend hours every night wandering the hallways in his pajamas and bathrobe, and would haunt the Situation Room. Worst of all, telecommunications had advanced to the point that he could actually pick up a telephone and be connected to a platoon leader in the Mekong Delta on a search and destroy mission, and give him tactical advice and orders. He did that several times.

What a REMF Navy Reserve Lieutenant Commander thought he knew about infantry tactics was questionable at best. Johnson and McNamara thought they were smarter than all the generals and admirals around them, and didn’t mind firing them. However, after that, the Pentagon went out of its way to keep the President from exercising tactical control, and the post-Viet Nam generation wasn’t above telling us to behave ourselves. That generation was pretty much gone now, but we had learned that lesson. The problem now was that a lot of the current military leaders came of age during Desert Storm, and thought that war was a video game. I wasn’t sure how that was going to work out, but my own low level experience said that it was a whole lot dirtier than that.

Not much happened until the afternoon of the 14^th, as we began lining up assets and preparing a response. At that time, shortly before I spoke to the nation, the Navy launched over 400 Tomahawk cruise missiles at Iraqi targets from ships and submarines. The initial targets covered air bases, air defense sites, military bases, and anything that anybody could imagine might be harboring chemical weapons stockpiles. Other targets covered most of the country’s infrastructure, including bridges, power plants, chemical factories, canal locks, and dams. Shortly after that, we had F-15s and F-16s flying combat air patrols and interdiction runs out of Incirlik and Kuwait, and F-18s doing the same thing off carriers in the Gulf. Then the heavies showed up, B-1s and B-2s and B-52s, to destroy anything the cruise missiles might have missed.

Back in the 1920s, an Italian general named Giulio Douhet came up with the theory that by massively bombing an enemy, you could win a war without troops. His theory, which was refined into the concept of strategic bombing, was that by bombing the enemy, especially his deep targets — infrastructure and cities — you would inflict massive damage and destroy their will to fight. It certainly sounded like a good idea, and for most of the Twentieth Century that was what we tried to do. It didn’t work in Germany or Japan, it didn’t work in Korea or Viet Nam or Serbia, and it didn’t work in Iraq the first time. In every case it became necessary to send in the troops. Fortunately, by the time we got to Desert Storm, everybody knew that this was going to be necessary. Bombing could still be extraordinarily useful, but it was not going to help the Kurds on its own.

By Wednesday afternoon we were beginning to develop a pretty good feel for what was going on and the Iraqi strategy. Saddam Hussein had two corps of Republican Guards armored and mechanized troops in the field. This worked out to about six divisions, though they were all considerably smaller than an equivalent American division. Still, that was about 75,000 troops, and 1,000 T-72 tanks, and lots of other older tanks, armored personnel carriers, and trucks. They were split into two groups, and were trying to pincer Kirkuk between them, so as to envelope it. Chemical weapons were being used in isolated Kurdish towns and cities, but not in areas the Guard planned to move forward through. It was standard Russian doctrine, because that was where they got most of their equipment and training from.

By the morning of the 16^th some of the real horror began becoming known to the rest of the world, as Iraqi civilians began arriving after fleeing the areas which had been hit with mustard gas. The chemical burns and blisters were so horrible that most of the media refused to show it. Not all, however, and some of the tabloids ran front page pictures in full color, which was enough to make you vomit. After that, the others started showing them also. We also started getting reports of American casualties along with Peshmerga troops caught by the mustard gas, and found out that Bismarck Myrick, our Special Envoy, was one of those who had died. Condi Rice told me that, and I promised her that we would do right by his family.

It took a full day to fly the lead elements of the 82^nd to Incirlik in C-17s, where they then transferred to smaller and handier C-130s for the flight to Erbil. Erbil was far enough from the front that it wasn’t in danger of being immediately overrun. They were offloaded there, and then carried on whatever local transportation they could beg, borrow, or steal in order to get to the front. The Peshmerga were fighting valiantly, but Kalashnikovs and RPGs were not going to cut it against T-72s, and they were falling back. The battle plan was that the infantry forces we were sending in first would be able to stabilize the front lines long enough that our armored and airmobile stuff coming in from Europe would be able to break the Iraqis.

That was the theory, anyway. How well it would work was anybody’s guess. The 82^nd brags that it can be anywhere in the world in 24 hour, but it’s a whole lot more complicated than that. Yes, the lead elements, say the first few battalions, can manage that, but afterwards it becomes a real scramble. It would take about a week for the rest of the 82^nd and the Rangers to get there, and at least another week before the 173^rd Airborne Brigade in Italy showed up to help, and possibly another week after that for the armor in Germany to make it onto the scene. Even that would be light, since we only had one heavy armored brigade available, the 1^st Brigade, 1^st Armored Division, with M-1 Abrams tanks, and a second brigade, the 2^nd Stryker Cavalry, which used a light infantry vehicle. Strykers couldn’t fight tanks, or at least not easily. The Brits were also sending a heavy armored brigade, the 7^th Armored, also stationed in Germany, which would probably arrive at the same time as ours. Meanwhile, transports returning to the States would pick up any gunships available from the 101^st, while the transport helos would be shipped over. The biggest issue in most cases was the lack of enough air transport assets. Even with the beefed up purchases of transport aircraft, we just didn’t have enough planes to fly everybody around at once.

The Air Force was in better shape. That first day’s missile and bomb attack took the starch out of the Iraqi air force, and subsequent attacks totally destroyed it. I was informed that they tried to stop us, but that in the first two days of combat American pilots shot down 19 planes, with no losses of our own, and nobody else was coming up to play. Once the 82^nd was in place, they would be able to call on close air support.

The first contact between American and Iraqi ground forces came on Friday the 17^th in a small valley somewhere northeast of the town of Azwya. This was basically south of Erbil and west of Kirkuk, and the western pincer was moving through to try and trap Kirkuk. They had been pressuring the Peshmerga heavily, and while the Air Force was trying to do close support, the Kurds didn’t have radios to reach them. They were basically light infantry, brave and trained adequately, but without the gear they needed. They were falling back north up the valley, when a short battalion of paratroopers came over the hill like cavalry, riding a ragtag bunch of beat up civilian trucks. They had with them a battery of 105s being hauled by some Hum-Vees.

The paratroopers managed to form a line across the valley, with the 105s behind them in a reverse slope position, and held firm as the Iraqis advanced. The Peshmerga coalesced around them, like ice freezing around starter crystals in a glass of freezing water. Meanwhile, they began calling in accurate fire support from the Air Force. It was textbook infantry tactics when facing a superior mechanized unit, and it worked; the Republican Guard was stopped cold in its tracks and withdrew to lick its wounds. What they don’t show on the sand tables, though, is the price you pay for this. That short battalion had been outnumbered over three to one, facing most of the 1^st Brigade, 6^th Nebuchadnezzar Mechanized Division, and so far we had a casualty count of over twenty dead and over fifty wounded, and it was expected to end up even worse.

For three nights in a row I spent a couple of hours after dinner in the Situation Room. Kurdistan was seven hours ahead of us, so by dinnertime the day’s events would be over. While American troops had night vision equipment, the Peshmerga didn’t, and we still didn’t have anywhere near the strength to start any night assaults. That was still going to be one of the big issues with this war. Hussein had smartened up a lot. He wasn’t letting us get ready for six months and then attack him at our leisure. So far he was the one calling the tune, and even as we pounded him from the air, he had ample combat power to hurt us and the Kurds.

I had gone back up to the Residence on Friday the 17^th after getting the latest from the Situation Room and hearing about Azwya. My basic instincts were to get in Air Force One and go over there, but I knew that was simply stupid. I was an out of date battery commander; trying to take control at a headquarters would have been as stupid as Johnson calling some kid in the Delta. Marilyn caught my mood and simply sat quietly in her recliner reading near me. Stormy was dozing next to me in mine. The phone rang about 8:15, and I grabbed it from the coffee table next to me. “Hello?”

It was a pleasant alto voice. “Mister President, this is Colonel Dillard in the Situation Room. We’d like you to come down, sir. The Iraqis have launched missiles.”

I swore softly, and Marilyn looked over at me. “I’ll be down in a couple of minutes, Colonel.” I hung up.

“Problems?” asked Marilyn.

I smiled and shrugged as I stood up. “Just the usual. You know the end of the world and western civilization as we know it.”

“Let me know if I have to be worried.”

I leaned down and kissed my wife, and then slipped a pair of shoes on and headed downstairs. Once in the Situation Room I grabbed my usual spot at the head of the table and looked at the others. A woman in a Marine uniform with eagles on her epaulets was facing me. “Colonel Dillard, I presume?”

“Yes sir, thank you for coming.” She flashed a map of the Middle East onto the big screen. “Approximately fifteen minutes ago, we had eleven launches of either Scud or al Hussein missiles from Iraqi territory. Two were launched at Kuwait, three at Turkey, and six at Israel.”

The map had red stars in what I assumed were impact points in the three countries. “Did we get any of them?” I asked. I remembered back during the Gulf War the Patriot missile batteries blew the things out of the sky left and right. During the run up to this war, I was cruelly informed that the performance of the anti-missile systems was extremely overhyped.

“We got some, sir.” A few of the red stars turned blue. “One of them was hit by a Patriot battery over Kuwait City, and the other impacted in the desert. There were no chemical signatures. Three were targeted at Incirlik. Again, one was shot down, one impacted in a deserted area of the air base, and one hit in downtown Adana a few miles away. Again, there were no chemical weapons signatures detected. Israel was targeted by six missiles, and the Israelis managed to knock down two of them. The other four landed in what appear to be relatively uninhabited sections near Jerusalem, Tel Aviv, and Haifa.”

“Four?! That’s all we got? Four?”

“That’s way better than we did the first time, sir, back in ’91,” she answered defensively.

“Jesus Christ!” How much money had we wasted on this stuff? “So, what’s the results? Please, for the love of God, tell me the Israelis didn’t nuke Baghdad!”

That actually got a small smile from them. “No sir, not yet, anyway.” The map changed to a close-up of Kuwait. “The Kuwaiti impact was a desert area, and there were no casualties.” We switched to the Incirlik area. “One missile hit an empty transient taxi area and exploded. There were no casualties or damage, but they probably have to fill in the hole. The second impact was much worse. It landed downtown and hit a hospital. We are still getting reports, but there appear to be massive civilian casualties.”

“Oh, shit! And Israel?” They were the real wild card in all this. If they responded, the game went into extra innings and nobody knew what would happen.

“From what we could see by satellite, nothing major was hit, at least in Israeli areas. One of the missiles smacked outside of an apartment complex in a Palestinian neighborhood. The Israelis don’t consider that to be a big problem, which does not endear them to the Palestinians,” she reported.

I scratched my head. “But no chemical warheads?”

An Air Force major piped up at that. “No, sir,” he said. “We are seeing no chemical signatures, and all intelligence and BDA is pointing to conventional HE warheads.”

I turned to face him. “Why not? Not that I’m complaining, mind you, but they have chemical weapons, and Hussein has proved any number of times that he doesn’t mind using them.”

“I don’t think he can, sir. I did a brief tour at the Aberdeen Proving Ground and learned some about them. Chemical agents are actually pretty nasty stuff. They are toxic, corrosive, volatile — you just don’t want to mess with them. The best way to use them is actually by airplane. You rig up planes like giant crop dusters, like we did with Agent Orange in Viet Nam. They called it Operation Ranch Hand. However, the planes are easy to shoot down, and it isn’t exactly secret. The next easiest way is to load them into artillery shells, which is what they have been doing. The toughest is to load them into a missile. It’s hard enough to shoot missiles, and figuring out how to disperse the chemicals when they get there is tough. The payloads are small. The only chemical payload worth doing, I was told, is nerve gas, and they either don’t have it or aren’t using it.”

“Huh. Makes sense, I guess.” I had never really learned too many of the details on this stuff. Yes, we had some training back at Artillery Officer’s School, but you really don’t get more than an intro. Nasty shit! “Is the Vice President still in Ankara? I am going to have to talk to him” I had sent John McCain to Ankara yesterday to talk to Erdogan and hold his hand. That was looking prescient right now.

“Yes, sir. It is 0340 Ankara time.”

I picked up the phone and asked to speak to the Vice President, and then hung up. They would track him down half way around the world. “How are they doing this?” I asked.

“Mobile launchers. During the Gulf War they had some in silos, but they were too easy for us to target. Mobile launchers at night. They have them hidden in a barn, then just drive them out, set them up, and launch. After that they go back into the barn and reload.”

I grunted an acknowledgement. The phone rang at that and I picked it up. “Hello?”

“Carl, it’s John McCain. You’ve heard about the rocket attack?”

“That’s why I’m calling. How bad is it?” I asked him.

“Terrible! One missile slammed directly into a hospital in downtown Adana. What the explosion didn’t destroy is now on fire. There are going to be hundreds dead!” he reported.

“Oh, crap! John, you need to talk to Erdogan. Tell him we are sorry and promise that we will help with rebuilding the hospital. Promise your children if you have to! If he forces us out, it is game over!”

“Carl, I am meeting with the Prime Minister right now. He is furious with the Iraqis! He wants to talk to you,” replied McCain.

My eyebrows rose at that. “Put him on.” As I said this, Condi Rice and Tom Ridge came in. They must have been called as well. I pointed them towards the colonel and mimed that she was to brief them. Then I turned my attention back to my phone.

“I’m handing the phone to the interpreter, Carl.”

I nodded. This was not the usual method, where we had mutual interpreters and so forth. We just didn’t have the time. After a moment of fumbling around, I was greeted, “President Buckman?”

“Prime Minister Erdogan, thank you for talking to me. I have just heard about the attack on your hospital, sir. You have my sympathies and those of my entire country. This is a horrible action. I promise to help you rebuild it, sir, even better than before.”

“Thank you, President Buckman, but that is not why I asked to speak to you. I have been talking to your Vice President McCain, and wish to offer our help. Saddam Hussein, he is…” Suddenly there was a vitriolic attack from the background that I couldn’t understand. It seemed that Turkish was a fine language to cuss in! After a moment, the translator continued, “Saddam Hussein is a mad dog and a monster who must be stopped!”

“Your assistance will be most welcome, sir. I am not qualified to tell you what needs to be done, but I will have our generals talk to your generals and we will figure this out. Is that acceptable?”

“Yes, yes, of course. We will kill this animal! What he does is an abomination against Allah! My entire country is repulsed by this attack!”

“I couldn’t agree more, sir. After this is over, I hope to make a visit. I would like to meet with you, and certainly to help with the reconstruction of the hospital. I hope that will be possible.”

“Yes, yes, of course!”

There was some fumbling on the other end, and then I had John McCain back. “Carl, it’s me again. Erdogan is simply furious over this.”

“John, I have Tom and Condi here, and I think they are trying to get Pace on the phone. Stick around over there. I don’t know what is going to play out, but this is a big help. We’ll get back to you, and probably sooner than later.”

“Roger that!”

We hung up and I looked over at my Secretaries of State and Defense. “Okay, now you know as much as I do. I just spoke to John McCain and Prime Minster Erdogan. Erdogan is royally pissed at the Iraqis and has offered to begin assistance. As in combat assistance, not just letting us use the air base at Incirlik!”

Tom gave a low whistle and smiled, and Condi said, “Well done, Mister President!”

“Don’t thank me, thank John. When I called him, he was already meeting with Erdogan. Anyway, you need to fill in the various ambassadors, and talk to Eric in Tel Aviv. Tom, you need to get together with Pace and figure this out. What can the Turks add to this?”

At that point the phone rang, and somebody announced it was Prime Minister Olmert from Israel. That was not a surprise. As the others watched and listened, I picked up the phone. “Prime Minister Olmert, this is Carl Buckman. Thank you for calling me. If you hadn’t called me, I was certainly going to call you.”

“Mister President, I assume you have heard that Saddam Hussein has decided to attack the peaceful state of Israel.”

So much for pleasant chit chat. “Yes, Mister Prime Minister, I am quite aware of this. I was just talking to our mutual friends in Ankara. They have also been targeted, and they have taken serious casualties.”

“We have heard that as well, and you may give them our sympathies, but that is not why I called. I know that your Ambassador and your General Shinseki have been asking that Israel not respond to this provocation, but I assure you, our forbearance will not last forever. You need to do something about this, or we will!”

“I understand your concerns, and I can promise that we will redouble our efforts to stop these attacks,” I said.

“I must tell you, sir, that I have talked this over with my advisers, and we are agreed that if that mad dog uses chemical weapons against the state of Israel, we will have to make a response, and it will be most grave indeed.”

Well, that was blunt enough! “I understand your concern, and I will take it up with my advisers. Please, allow us to see what we can do first, to end this threat.”

“Good day, Mister President.” He hung up on me, and I winced.

“That didn’t sound very good,” commented Tom Ridge.

I grimaced. “No, not at all. He pretty much stated that if they get hit with chemical weapons Iraq is going to turn into a radioactive hole in the ground.” Nobody else looked like they enjoyed that prospect either.

Before I could discuss it further, it was announced that General Pace was on the speakerphone. “General, thank you for calling. Before we get too far along, let me ask you something. Hussein launched some missiles last night at Israel, just like in the Gulf War. Can we stop them? What can we do? The Israelis are not amused!”

“That is really tough, Mister President. Iraq is a big place, about two thirds the size of Texas, and those missiles can be launched from something the size of a tractor trailer.” His voice was clear, but sounded like he was speaking from a car or limousine. “During the Gulf War we spent 40 % of all our sorties on Scud hunts and never found a one of them.”

“Great! Well, we are going to have to do something about them, because they are pissing off the Israelis and the Turks.”

“Yes, sir. I just had my driver turn it around and I will be in the Pentagon in a bit. I will be in touch.”

“Call me when you figure something out.”

I hit the button and cut off the call. “Well, you heard it. We have both a real problem as well as a real help here. I want the Turks involved as much as we can. That gets a third NATO member involved, and we can get some more cooperation out of the others. Kuwait is on board, and the Saudis are making nice, too. Tom, we need to figure out a way to neutralize the Scuds, and I don’t much care how we do it. Send more Patriots to Israel. Start running Scud hunts at night. Whatever it takes! Condi, get together with your embassies and with Eric and John and make sure we are all speaking with the same voice.”

Tom Ridge asked, “Isn’t the Chinese symbol for crisis the symbols for danger and opportunity mixed together?”

I shrugged and gave him a blank look. “No idea, but if that’s true, we got us a genuine crisis going on. Let’s try to maximize the opportunity part of that.” I stood up. “I am going to let everybody else work on this. You know how to do your jobs better than I do.” I looked at the team in the Situation Room. “Colonel, Major, thank you for the information. You and the whole crew have been very helpful.” I headed back upstairs to tell Marilyn that the world was going to survive another day.

There really was nothing more I could do about this, so I went upstairs and spent the rest of the evening with Marilyn and the twins. Saturday morning I met with General Pace and took a few phone calls, but otherwise I took the weekend off. For the next few nights the Iraqis continued to launch anywhere from six to ten missiles at their neighbors. The Kuwaitis didn’t seem to care, since none even came close to hitting anything but a few camels in the desert. The Turks were really pissed by it all, especially when a second hit an apartment building on the outskirts of Adana. The Israelis continued to stew, but held their fire. Even the Saudis managed to catch one, in their desert near Riyadh, though nobody could understand why they had been targeted.

That first battle in the Azwya Valley had been the worst of the fighting, so far. We were beginning to hear the phrase ‘Kurdish Coalition’ in the media, and it wasn’t a phrase we had coined. Helicopter gunships began trickling into the theater from Europe, although the necessary support was lagging badly. The airhead at Erbil was dangerously overcrowded and the Kurds began using nearby roads and flat terrain as secondary airstrips. The Turks were restricting their participation to fighter and close air support; while the Kurds were properly appreciative, there was just too much bad history to allow Turkish ground troops into Kurdistan. The 82^nd and the Rangers were forming a defensive line and the Republican Guard seemed to be gearing up for an assault, but with American troops in the line and close air support overhead, they were being handed a bloody nose every time they got rambunctious. Even so, the infantry was being chewed on. The momentum in the war had shifted from the Iraqis, to a stalemate. Meanwhile, behind them, the rest of Iraq was being systematically trashed by the Navy and Air Force. When this war was over, whoever was left alive was going to spend the next generation rebuilding.

If I had one complaint about Bush 41 in the Gulf War it was that he had allowed public opinion to influence how the war ended. After four days of rampaging practically at will through Iraqi armored formations, he had called for a truce after 100 hours. The fact was that public horror at the carnage they saw televised from ‘The Highway of Death’ was a major factor in the truce, and it allowed over 70,000 Iraqi troops and their equipment to escape into southern Iraq, including large elements of the Republican Guard. One more day and he could have destroyed any remaining Guard units and put a massive crimp in Hussein’s personal power base. The Republican Guard was separate from the regular army, with a different chain of command and superior equipment, pay, and privileges. After the Gulf War ended, they formed the foundation he rebuilt his power on. When the time came, I wanted to cripple the Republican Guard beyond reconstruction.

Whether I would be allowed to do that was questionable. So far public opinion was almost uniformly favorable. The use of chemical weapons and the horrifying casualties which were coming to light had solidified American and international disgust with Saddam Hussein. The American casualties during the gas attacks, and our subsequent response had my personal approval ratings back into the 80s, the highest it had been since 9-11. I could afford to trade some of that approval for a definitive end to the Hussein regime.

Part of that approval was the fact that after almost a week into the war the press was beginning to show up. Unlike the Gulf War, when the Pentagon instituted formal procedures to embed reporters with military units during the six months of run-up to combat, this mess had come up too fast. We didn’t have the time to brainwash the reporters properly ahead of time. Now they were just showing up on their own, flying commercial into Adana and Aleppo and Tabriz and then making their way across the border into Kurdistan. There were even some managing to make their way to Erbil on commercial flights chartered to bring in air freight supporting the troops.

That didn’t always work out so well for the reporters. MSNBC managed to send a crew into a town northwest of Kirkuk that had been shelled with mustard gas. They got all sorts of ghastly footage of dead bodies on the ground, but in doing so managed to contaminate themselves. Since mustard gas is an oily and persistent agent and doesn’t manifest symptoms for up to 24 hours after contact, they managed to get back to Erbil before breaking out in hideous pus filled blisters that caused screaming agony and blindness and necessitated immediate hospitalization. Ooops!

I think my lowest moment during the war occurred Monday night the 20^th. We were barely a week into the conflict, and only a few days after the battle in the Azwya Valley. That night Richard Engel, NBC’s famous war correspondent, was on the air, after managing to make his way into the war zone. The man must have a death wish, I thought to myself, since he made a living going to places everybody else wanted to leave! Regardless, Brian Williams announced that in an exclusive report, Engel was broadcasting from the battlefield where American paratroopers had first made contact with the Republican Guard. Marilyn and I had finished dinner and were sitting there with the mutt, having a drink.

“When the first members of the 82^nd Airborne landed at the airport in Erbil, the local Kurdish Peshmerga fighters were a bit skeptical. They had been on the border facing the Iraqi army for many years, and that border has never been a peaceful place. Who were these fancy new soldiers, and what were they going to do in Kurdistan, those were the questions on everybody’s minds. As a way to introduce themselves to the Kurds, one of the 82^nd’s officers showed the Kurds a picture of President Buckman, from when he was in the 82^nd, when he received his Bronze Star.”

The picture Marilyn had framed with my citation flashed on the screen. When I was in Congress I had only used it a few times in my first campaign against Andy Stewart, but during the Vice Presidential campaign it had been dragged out repeatedly by the national campaign. I grimaced as it came on the screen.

“The photo was simply meant to show the Kurds that President Buckman was with them in spirit, but whether it was because of poor translation or the fevered hope of the Kurds facing a genocidal enemy, it became much more! Within days a myth had swept through the Kurdish Peshmerga, a myth of the American warrior President who had sent his personal paratrooper army to Kurdistan, soldiers who had never retreated or been defeated. Hard pressed Kurdish soldiers talked of nothing less.

Here in the remote Azwya Valley, the 82^nd Airborne’s soldiers had to live up to a reputation beyond anything they had ever imagined. I have been asked not to give the names of the soldiers or their unit designation, but it was a battalion of paratroopers who were sent to this remote valley to try to hold off an armored assault while the rest of the division landed and was able to form up. They were only sent to delay, and then were expected to make a fighting withdrawal.

When this battalion of soldiers arrived here, they managed to set up a defensive line, and were then attacked by the Republican Guard. Outnumbered three to one, and facing tanks and armored personnel carriers, they fought a desperate battle with the support of the Kurdish Peshmerga. One captain, on realizing they wouldn’t be able to withdraw after all, told his men they had to ‘Die hard’, and a sergeant put it more poetically. He told his troops that their rank in hell depended on how many of the enemy they took with them, so they had to take as many as they could. Sadly, both that captain and that sergeant are now casualties. The price these men paid is dear. One in four of the soldiers who arrived here is either dead or wounded, but they held their positions and the Republican Guard was forced to retreat.

In the Kurdish language, ‘Peshmerga’ means ‘a warrior who faces death.’ I asked a group of the Peshmerga soldiers what they thought of the American paratroopers. They looked at each other, and then nodded and smiled. One answered, ‘They are Peshmerga. They are warriors who face death.’

This is Richard Engel reporting from the Azwya Valley in the Republic of Kurdistan for NBC News.”

Marilyn said, “Wow! Did you know about that?” and then she looked over at me. “Honey! What’s wrong?”

I was sitting there in my recliner, tears streaming down my face, listening in horror to the story. Could I change nothing!? I had killed George Bush and 3,200 innocent people to become President, so that I could bring some peace and sanity to the White House, to silence the relentless beat of the war drums. It all meant nothing! Here I was, just delaying the inevitable, with a war on my hands that I had never wanted. Now I had men dying because they were my ‘personal paratrooper army who had never retreated or been defeated!’ What circle of Hell had I descended into? The most ridiculous and horrendous part? This fresh ‘glory’ would have teenage boys lining up at recruiting stations across the nation, eager to replace those paratroopers I had killed off.

“Carl, what’s wrong?”

I screamed incoherently and threw my glass across the room, where it hit a bookcase and fell to the carpet without breaking. I stood and stalked over to the wet bar where a bottle of Canadian Mist was waiting, and poured myself a stiff couple of shots of whiskey. I drank that down straight, but that didn’t help, and I knocked that to the side.

Marilyn came over and wrapped her arms around me, and held on. “Carl, what is it? What’s wrong!?”

I wanted to push her away, but she held on to me. “I never wanted this! I NEVER WANTED ANY OF THIS! I don’t want men to die because of me! Why is it that I kill so many people!?” I freed myself from her and grabbed another glass, and filled that with the whiskey. I drank some down, and tried to remember a decent quote about drinking, but nothing was coming clear.

Marilyn was scared as she sat next to me, but she didn’t try to stop me. I’ve never hit my wife. I’ve never hit any woman. I would have probably hit her if she tried to make me stop drinking. I just sat there at the bar and drank that bottle of whiskey.

I just wanted the killing to stop. How many Americans had I killed now? How many thousands of Americans had died because I decided they should die? How many American families had I destroyed? I didn’t care about other countries. They had their own leaders who could worry about them. I only cared about the Americans I had killed over the years. How many were there? How many fathers or mothers, sons or daughters, brothers or sisters?

I woke up late the next morning in a recliner in the living room, with Marilyn sitting next to me. My head was pounding medium bad, but the worst was the feeling that an army had marched through my mouth. My tongue and teeth felt gummy and stale. I couldn’t remember the last time I had drunk enough to warrant a hangover, but it was probably in college. They don’t get better with age. I looked over at Marilyn, and she eyed me curiously.

“Feel like talking?” she asked.

“I feel like taking a shower,” I answered.

“Can you do that without a drink?”

I tried to give her a witheringly superior look but I don’t think it worked. “I’ve never really understood that whole hair of the dog routine.” I tried to get out of the recliner and had to rock it back and forth a couple of times to build up the momentum needed. “I am getting too damn old for this shit.”

“It helps if you don’t sleep in a chair,” she answered.

I gave her another look, and then headed to the bathroom. “What time is it?”

“I called down and said you weren’t feeling good, but would probably be down by lunch.”

“Yeah.”

I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror as I brushed my teeth and downed half a bottle of Advil. I hoped I didn’t have any photo ops today, because my eyes were so bloodshot as to need a redeye correction. I took a long shower and then shaved and got dressed, and had a few more Advils. I was actually feeling almost human, at least except for the eyes, by the time I was dressed.

Marilyn was waiting for me in the living room. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t ever want to see you like that again, Carl. It scares me to see you like that.”

I nodded. “I know. Sorry about that. Sometimes…” I couldn’t finish the sentence. I kept thinking about the men who had died in my name.

“Carl, you didn’t kill those men. Saddam Hussein, he killed them, not you,” she told me.

“You don’t understand. I sent them there, my undefeatable personal army.”

Marilyn cut me off. “BULLSHIT! That’s so much BULLSHIT and you know it! They didn’t die for you! They died for each other! You told me that once, remember? I asked you when you were in the Army if you would die for a flag, and you told me that nobody died for a flag. They died for the guy next to them. Do not give me BULLSHIT!”

“You don’t…”

“Understand? I understand enough! I know you, Carl Buckman! I know you better than you do! If it had been you on that battlefield, it would have been you saying and doing those things. This is not about you! Don’t take this from those men!” she responded hotly.

I shrugged. I gave her a hug and muttered an apology, and then headed down to my office. Several people asked if I was feeling better, and if anybody saw my eyes, they kept their mouths shut.

I deliberately avoided discussing the Kurdish War with anybody today, and stayed away from the Situation Room that night. I didn’t need Marilyn any more pissed at me than she already was. I kept it on a back burner for a few days, as more troops reached the front, and more damage was done to the Iraqis. By the end of the second week, we began getting some feelers from the Iraqis by way of an envoy to the Swiss and from the Swiss to the Saudis. Hussein might be willing to stop if we would leave Iraqi soil and allow him to enter into talks with the Kurds. There were a few of us in the room when Condi Rice told us that, and we all scratched our heads. John McCain was back in the country, and he said it best. “Let me get this straight. They want us to leave so they can declare victory?”

She tossed the note on the table and replied, “Essentially.”

“He’s nuts!”

Condi looked at me, and I simply added, “What he said.”

She gave a wry smile and shrugged. “If I don’t pass this along, I am not doing my job.”

“Why don’t we send a reply, that if the Iraqis are willing to send us Saddam Hussein’s head in a box we’ll go home?” At that, I looked over at General Pace. “Can we drop leaflets over Iraq?”

He smiled. “Yes. We can also simply broadcast that over the radio and television airwaves.”

“Okay, whatever. Why don’t we do that? If we aren’t already doing it, let’s post a bounty on the man’s head. We’ll stop when they send us his head. They can keep the leftovers.”

“You don’t really want his head, do you, Mister President?” asked Condi.

I grinned back at her. “Sure, why not? We can stick it on a pike at the front gate, and march the diplomatic corps past it. Maybe they would get the message.” She looked horrified at the thought. “No? Okay, that might be a bit much. Maybe we can mount it over the main gate at Fort Bragg?” The military guys and anybody else with a military background snickered at the thought. “Seriously, though, we need to make sure we get the message out that the best way to end this is by getting rid of that jackass in Baghdad. I don’t care who takes over, but I am not interested in stopping until the Hussein problem is settled once and for all.”

For real shits and giggles, I ended up doing an interview with David Brooks and Mark Shields for the PBS NewsHour during this time period. Like many interviews I had given, this one had a few unexpected side effects, but had generally proved positive. We had been speaking from the Map Room, and the discussion had been about the war in Kurdistan. Shields was a liberal and a writer for the Washington Post, while Brooks was a conservative writer for the New York Times. They typically sparred on the Friday edition of the NewsHour, but this was taping on Tuesday. Most reporters at that level of journalism are pretty smart fellows, but every once in awhile somebody reverts to their roots, where they started out asking idiotic questions like ‘How do you feel?’ to a mother who just ran over her baby with the family car.

Shields: “What kind of a message are you trying to send with this war?”

Me: (Staring at him briefly.) “MESSAGE?! I’m not sending a message! We’ve been sending messages for months now! If I wanted to send a message I’d call Western Union! No, the time for messages is over! Now I am sending death and destruction! You want to know what kind of message I am sending?! How about this for a message! If you kill my citizens and my soldiers and my diplomats, I WILL SEND DOWN THE THUNDERBOLTS OF THE GODS! How’s that for a message!”

That was on Tuesday, and Will Brucis looked totally flummoxed by my words, as did Brooks and Shields. Presidents simply didn’t talk that way! I just said, ‘Screw it!’, and we finished the interview. By Friday, though, the segment had been edited and was ready for their regular debate, this time with moderator Margaret Warner. The interview segment was only lightly edited, as much for clarity and timing as anything else. Certainly that segment made its way in, in full. Then, however, they digressed.

Shields: “I was curious about what the actual troops the Commander in Chief commands thought about this kind of talk, so I visited a few Army bases and spoke to them. I spoke to the enlisted guys, not their officers and especially not the Public Information specialists you always get saddled with. By and large, President Buckman is extremely popular with the troops. They loved being called thunderbolts. They all lit up when I played them the interview.”

Brooks: “Not all of our Presidents have been well respected by their soldiers. Bill Clinton in particular was more tolerated than respected. Carl Buckman, on the other hand, is fairly well thought of. He was the youngest battery commander in the 82^nd Airborne since Viet Nam and he earned a Bronze Star rescuing his troops while injured and behind enemy lines. That means a lot to these guys.”

Shields: “You saw that when he made that bet with the Navy a few years ago about who would win the Army-Navy Game. The winner would get a deluxe dinner at the White House and the loser would get cold MREs. When Army lost and was scheduled for MREs out in the cold of a New York winter, he showed up in a captain’s uniform and ate with them. That’s the kind of respect troops understand and appreciate, and it means a lot to them. That sure never happened when I was a Marine, let me tell you!”

I had to think about that for a bit. It hadn’t seemed all that significant to me at the time. It was simply standard Management Techniques 101, loyalty up and loyalty down, that sort of thing. On the other hand, I had known a shitload of managers over the years who thought that because they were the boss, their shit automatically didn’t stink.

There wasn’t much happening on the Kurdish front that week, but the domestic front heated up a touch. Carter managed to get a war resolution going. In theory, only Congress has the right to send the nation to war, but the President has the requirement to defend the nation. This was all written into the Constitution at a time when muskets and cannons were high tech, and communications took months to get anywhere. We have actually only had five instances where Congress declared war. Following the debacle in Viet Nam, Congress decided to rein in the President with the War Powers Act. Stripped of all the verbiage, after 60 days, if Congress disapproved, they could stop funding things and require you to bug out of whatever you had gotten into. There hadn’t been a President since who didn’t think it was unconstitutional, but we tended to walk pretty carefully around the subject.

The answer was the ‘war resolution’. You don’t declare war anymore, since wars need victories. It was much more likely that you were fighting to restore the status quo to some shithole, or keep oil and trade flowing, or stop genocide, or simply to do something to show the country that you cared. In this case, we were fighting to defend the Kurds, not to conquer and defeat the Iraqis. Condoleeza Rice had tried but failed to get a U.N. resolution against the Iraqis. The Russians had fought against it by claiming we didn’t have any proof, and when it passed, they vetoed it. I called Putin and told him we were going in anyway, and that I sure hoped the latest weapons shipment had already been paid for, since we were going to destroy them. Chemical warfare really was a trump card on this, and all the neocons were baying at the moon and howling about how I should have done this in 2001. Since the neocons also hated the Russians, I used them to push for the resolution as a poke in the eye to Putin. I got the resolution I needed for funding purposes, and I let the legal types argue on the Sunday morning talk shows about the laws of war.

Christ, but I hated this mess!

Chapter 163: Kurdish Dragon

The Sunday news shows all ran the footage from the Brooks and Shield interview, and the chattering classes all pontificated on what it meant. The liberals were rather unhappy with my barbaric worldview and the conservatives couldn’t understand why I hadn’t gone after Iraq in 2001 when I had my first chance. The only one who seemed to understand, or at least was able to express it cogently, was Bob Schieffer, on Face the Nation. He devoted his personal essay piece to it.

“President Buckman’s statement about sending down the thunderbolts of the gods has been one of the most talked about public statements of his presidency, by turns praised and ridiculed. The more bellicose among us loved it but many here in Washington considered it ill-advised and war-mongering. How dare the President make a statement such as that? It must be the sign of a foolish and uncultured barbarian, and they wonder why his press secretary isn’t running around and apologizing for him.

I have known Carl Buckman for almost twenty years, since before he became a Congressman, and long before he became the President. While we don’t agree on a lot of things, he is not a foolish and uncultured barbarian. He is a warm, smart, sophisticated, and civilized man. He is most definitely not a war-monger. He is generous to a fault, and exceedingly gracious. He is loyal to his subordinates, perhaps too much so, and they return that loyalty. He adores his wife, dotes on his children, and even has a big, goofy dog that he drags around with him everywhere.

He is also one of the most ruthless men I have ever known, and I say that in a positive sense. You can see that in his personal life. When, both in junior and senior high school, he was attacked by bullies, he didn’t respond eye-for-an-eye. He destroyed his tormentors, crippling them. He extends that protection to those around him, as well. When his wife was assaulted in the Bahamas and a young mother-to-be was attacked in a diner in his hometown, those attackers were hospitalized and arrested. You may attack him once, but you will never do so a second time. You do not mess with Carl Buckman and get away with it.

If you want to know what the Buckman Doctrine is, that’s it in a nutshell. He takes his responsibilities very seriously. When he took responsibility for the nation, he became equally ruthless in dealing with threats to the nation. So when he says that if you kill American citizens and soldiers and diplomats he will send down the thunderbolts of the gods, he means it. Speaking as a member if the so-called Washington elite, I am horrified. Speaking as an American citizen, that sounds pretty good to me.”

Will Brucis raised the topic at the morning staff meeting, and I had laughed and said I thought that Bob had me figured out, but there was no specific ‘doctrine’. When Will was asked later in the morning at the daily press briefing, he simply smiled and said, “There’s never been a discussion of any sort of Buckman Doctrine, so I can’t really answer that. I can say that the President disagrees with the characterization of Stormy as big and goofy. He considers Stormy big and loveable. We’ve begun taking suggestions and voting on them back in the offices.” That prompted a flurry of emails and letters offering other descriptions, generally favorable, of the mutt.

The late night comics also had fun with this. Jon Stewart discussed it and then began scribbling out a note — ‘Note to Iran and North Korea: Don’t piss off Carl Buckman!’ Stephen Colbert did ten minutes on it, extolling the Buckman Doctrine, and then segued into his ‘Threatdown’ segment, where his Number One Threat (Bears) were warned by him to stay out of my neighborhood. Oh, brother!

After roughly a month had gone by, at the start of the second week of April, I was called to the Pentagon for a dog and pony show. The 1^st Armored from Fort Bliss in Texas, parent unit of the 1^st Brigade sent from Germany, had managed to get their gear onto transports and had sailed for Turkey, and the ships would be docking in Izmir shortly. The troops would follow on chartered commercial airliners. It would take another two weeks to offload the equipment, sort it out, and load them on trains and send them into Kurdistan, and then some additional weeks to prepare and practice. That one division was far more powerful than everything the Iraqi Republican Guard had available to stop them, no matter how they were combined, but effective combat action wouldn’t be able to take place until sometime in May. The Pentagon wanted to show me a different plan.

As things stood, we were currently in a stalemate position across the front. Republican Guard units were on Kurdish soil with two wings poised to wrap around Kirkuk. The Iraqis were still bombarding the front lines and Kirkuk, but were increasingly forced to operate at night. Nobody was advancing, the Guard because they didn’t have enough combat power, and the Americans and Kurds because they didn’t have the mobility. The European-based units were forming up in the Kurdish rear, along with the Screaming Eagles, which were also forming up. Before things slowed down, the Iraqis had managed some reinforcements to the Guard, so they were operating at almost the strength they had prior to the attack. Meanwhile the nightly Scud attacks had ended. The best guess was that while the Iraqis had about a hundred missiles at the start of the war, only about half had actually worked (missiles are quite fragile and tricky) and they had run out of missiles to launch.

Fortunately, the gas attacks had also run down, probably because rear area bombing had destroyed the chemical depots and manufacturing facilities, or because interdiction had slowed transport to a crawl. The Pentagon had modified some drones so that they had a chemical signature detection capability. While they were initially used to map out areas of chemical weapon contamination to avoid, probes inside Iraq showed areas with three really major mustard gas spills, one at an army base where it was suspected that the gas was being stored and loaded onto shells, one at a fertilizer factory that had been destroyed, and one on a road that had been bombed one night. In all three locations it was seen that the Iraqis were avoiding those areas, and routing traffic around and away from them.

The Pentagon’s plan called for an armored envelopment of the envelopment, sort of. As it stood, the British had the 7^th Armored, a brigade of Challenger 2 tanks and Warrior armored fighting vehicles on the eastern pincer, and we had deployed both the 1^st Brigade of M-1 Abrams tanks and M-2 Bradleys and the 2^nd Stryker Cavalry, a brigade of Strykers, which I had never really seen before, on the heavier western pincer. The 101^st was also ready to move into action. These outfits would be the offensive punch needed to destroy the Republican Guard.

In Phase One, to be launched in the dead of night, the 101^st would be airlifted into blocking positions south of the Guard units facing the Kurds and Americans. They would form the anvil upon which the hammer of the armored units would land. Then, at dawn, Phase Two would begin. The Brits planned to swing wide to the east, and come in on the Iraqis from the Iraqi right flank. The Americans planned to smash straight forward into the Republican Guard starting in the west, and then to swing eastward and roll them up from the Iraqi left flank. If the Iraqis tried to run, they were going to either run into the 101^st to the south or the Brits to the east or the American and Kurdish infantry to the north.

I stared at the computer simulation at the Pentagon. I knew our equipment was good, and that during the Gulf War we had blown through Iraqi positions like shit through a goose, but this was beyond that! During the Gulf War we had enjoyed massive combat superiority. The killing was going to be done by the armored formations. As it stood, we planned to assault six armored and mechanized divisions of highly motivated troops with two heavy brigades and one light brigade. Audacity didn’t begin to cover this idea!

“You plan to take them head on?” I questioned. I looked over at the Army Chief of Staff, and the Army colonel who had given the presentation. I could see from Colonel Buford’s uniform that he was an armored officer himself, probably up from Fort Knox, the home of the armored corps. “I know I’m just an overage battery commander, but I always thought you wanted to attack when the odds were in your favor, not the other way around!”

It was the colonel who answered. “Yes, sir, I know. To be fair about it, that’s how I was taught, too. The difference is the equipment we have now. The stuff we have now, it’s like science fiction! I had a platoon of M-1s back in the Gulf War, and when we hit the Iraqis at 73 Easting we never knew they were there until we rolled in on them. We were just better than them, with better equipment and training. Now… sir, our training and equipment is even better, and we know where they all are! We have recon drones all over the front, with cameras and laser designators and GPS. Sir, before I came to this assignment, I had a training battalion out at Fort Knox, where we developed the doctrine and tactics for this. Since then we have been spreading the training out. When we go over the ridge and into a Republican Guard area, they won’t know we’re coming, but we will know where every one of their vehicles is! We’ll be able to blow them away before they even know we are coming at them! We can do this, and do it now!”

I looked at the other officers and they were all nodding in agreement. I was suddenly hit with a wry observation. “You know what they say about military intelligence, Colonel? We bet your life?” He bristled at the implication. “Settle down, Colonel. It’s nothing personal. From my point of view, I’m the one you want to bet their lives. So what do we do if this doesn’t work, hmmm? What happens if the Republican Guard doesn’t just sit there and act like targets?”

The colonel hit a button on his computer and showed two different variations on the ops plan, to allow for disengagement and containment moves, to keep the Republican Guard in a killbox (his word, not mine) and either reduce them slowly or hold long enough for further forces to arrive. My biggest concern was the 101^st, stranded between the Republican Guard to the north and the regular Iraqi army to the south. What if they were assaulted from both sides?

“Sir, this is not going to be the Battle of the Bulge, where the 101^st got stuck in Bastogne and surrounded. The Iraqis simply don’t have the firepower, and they will be getting hammered by close air support. Additionally, we have no intelligence at all that indicates that regular army units are involved in this. They aren’t even moving,” I was told. “I’ve been in contact with the G-3 of the 101^st, and he concurs with this plan. This is what they are there for, deep insertion and strategic control.”

“When are you going to be ready to do this?” asked Frank Stouffer. “When does the President need to decide by?”

I nodded at Frank. It was a fair question, and I turned to face the officers.

“The units can be in place for kickoff 2200 local time Tuesday April 11. We will need a go/no-go decision as soon as possible to make sure everything is finalized, today if possible. If we delay, sooner or later even Saddam Hussein is going to realize the mess he’s in and try backing out. Once that happens, we lose any chance of completely destroying them,” said the Chief of Staff.

I glanced at Frank, who gave a subtle shrug. I looked at the officers and said, “Give me a few minutes, please.” Everybody filed out, leaving me sitting there, staring at the screens. They simply stared back.

I knew what my answer was going to be even before they left, but it scared me. I remembered the movie Patton, in which Patton, played by George C. Scott, argues with Omar Bradley, played by Karl Malden. Patton was pushing for greater speed in the conquest of Sicily, pushing his men to the breaking point and beyond, and arguing that the faster they moved, the better it was. They would face higher casualties now, but the war would end sooner, and ultimately there would be far fewer casualties overall. It was a heartbreaking calculus, but it was also absolutely true.

It was entirely possible that at some point Saddam Hussein would wake up and realize he had stuck his dick into a grinder, and it might be a good idea to stop turning the crank and pull out. That would leave us back where we started from, with no resolution and a lot of dead Americans I would need to avenge somehow. That was unacceptable. I wanted to destroy Saddam Hussein, and to do that, we would first need to destroy the Republican Guard.

I called the others back in. I didn’t bother sitting down; this was going to be a very short conversation. “The operation is approved, as planned. General, tell the boys, from me, ‘Good hunting!’ What’s the name of this thing, anyway?”

“We’re calling it Kurdish Dragon, sir.”

Kurdish Dragon? Where the hell do they come up with these names? I nodded and left.

Tuesday was full of routine meetings and photo ops, and I stayed away from the war. I was simply informed that preparations were nominal, whatever that meant, and that the planned assault was still on. I couldn’t bear to stay up late and kibitz from the Situation Room, and Marilyn wasn’t about to let me drink anything stronger than iced tea, so I stayed up to watch Stewart and Colbert and then went to bed. The next morning, before my regular staff meeting, I was told during my Brief that the attack was ‘nominal’ and proceeding. I took that to be good, and simply asked for a quick briefing that afternoon. I was informed they would have a briefing in the Situation Room at 4:00 PM, and that it would be a good idea to bring everybody who needed to learn what was happening. I wasn’t quite sure how to take that, but I thanked him and promised to be there.

I went down to the Situation Room at 4:00, accompanied by John McCain, Frank Stouffer, and Will Brucis. Tom Ridge was already there and waiting for us, and I could tell that he had been chatting with the briefing officer, who I noticed was the same Colonel Buford who had presented the plan to us two days ago. “Colonel Buford, it’s been two days now since you showed us your plan, and about one day into it. How is it going so far?” I asked.

“Mister President, thank you for coming. Phase One of Operation Kurdish Dragon took place the other night. There were no losses, although we did have a few mechanical problems. The 101^st was airlifted to their landing zones and have taken control of the road network south of Kurdistan. They are now in fortified positions with good supply. Phase Two, the assault phase, began this morning at 0600 local time, or 2200 last night Washington time. Right now it is midnight local time in Kurdistan, and operations are slowing for the night. Beginning this morning, the British 7^th Armored began by departing their go line and moving south from a position just west of Sulaymaniyah. They skirted the eastern edge of the Republican Guard positions and have now maneuvered into a position where they can begin turning west, assaulting the Iraqi right flank. They destroyed roughly half a brigade of the 7^th Adnan Infantry during this maneuver, mostly screening units.” As he said this, a computerized map of Kurdistan was thrown up on the big screen, and a blue arrow began to grow and move on the right hand side of the map, marking a giant curve around the Iraqi units designated in red.

“Part of our thinking was that by having the Brits move first, it would attract their attention, and perhaps get them to focus in a direction opposite from where we would be attacking. That occurred two hours later, when the 1^st Brigade and the 2^nd Strykers attacked, here, just west of Azwya.” A second blue arrow began moving south on the map to the west of Kirkuk, only this one was headed directly towards the westernmost Guard position, rather than trying to maneuver around it.

“How did that go, Colonel?” I asked.

“Quite well, sir. The 1^st Brigade took direct aim at the 1^st Hammurabi Armored Division, using the 2^nd Strykers as a reserve. By the end of the day, the Hammurabi Division had been destroyed completely, and the 1^st Brigade was resupplying and preparing for the assault on the 6^th Nebuchadnezzar Mechanized,” he answered.

I nodded with a grimace. “How bad were our losses, Colonel? Will we be able to deal with the 6^th Nebuchadnezzar?”

“We don’t have any, sir.”

“Well, when will you have the details on the losses? How can we be sure they will be able to move if you don’t know about the losses?”

Colonel Buford gave me an odd look. “You misunderstand me, Mister President. We didn’t have any losses. The 1^st Brigade and the 2^nd Strykers destroyed the Hammurabi Division with no American losses.”

I stared at the Colonel in disbelief! My jaw dropped and I couldn’t speak, even though John McCain and Tom Ridge were asking questions excitedly, and Frank and Will tried to understand. After a moment I waved them into silence and asked, “Are you serious? One heavy and one light brigade attacked a dug in enemy division and destroyed it without any friendly losses?! That’s… impossible!”

The watch team in the Situation Room was smiling broadly, and Colonel Buford simply nodded and said, “I told you the other day, sir. What we are doing now is like science fiction!”

“But… how!?”

Before the colonel could answer that, Will Brucis interjected with a question. “Excuse me, but neither Frank nor I served. I just don’t understand what these units are. What’s the difference between a brigade and a division? I need to know if I am going to tell the press what is going on.”

I nodded. “Colonel, you want to give the civilians a quickie answer?”

He smiled and nodded. “Okay.” He turned to the side where Frank and Will were sitting. “You build an army by putting together pieces of smaller units. At the most basic level you have tank companies, which are mostly tanks, and infantry companies, which are mostly soldiers plus some vehicles to drive them around in. A tank company might have from a dozen to a dozen-and-a-half tanks, and an infantry company might have 100 to 200 soldiers. With me so far?”

Both men nodded.

Colonel Buford continued, “Everything else gets built up bigger and bigger. A tank battalion usually has two or three tank companies plus an infantry company, and an infantry battalion would have two or three infantry companies plus a tank company. A brigade is made up of a mix of battalions, and a division is made up of a mix of brigades. At the top, you have something called a corps, which is made up of several divisions. Until this morning, the Iraqi Republican Guard had two corps of three divisions each.”

Frank turned to me and asked, “Where were you in this?” as he motioned up and down with his left hand.

I motioned down at the bottom. “I had an artillery battery, which is sort of like an artillery company, the same level of troops and organization the colonel is talking about.”

“So this Hammurabi Division was bigger than the brigade which attacked it?” asked Will.

I answered, “Will, back when I was young and foolish and in the army, the standard rule of thumb was that if you were planning on making a successful attack, you needed odds of at least three to one to pull it off. In other words, to destroy a division, we would have to attack with three divisions. Follow me?” He nodded. “So, we just did the reverse! We attacked with the equivalent of about a brigade-and-a-half a division of about three brigades! That’s impossible!”

I looked over at Colonel Buford, but it was one of the watch officers who stepped in at that point. “It’s more like attacking four brigades’ worth. The Republican Guard has top priority on equipment and manpower. For instance, a regular Iraqi Army armored brigade has three tank battalions of three tank companies each, while the Republican Guard has three tank battalions of four companies each. It’s like getting a free tank battalion. The same thing happens with their mechanized brigades. In effect they are at least a quarter stronger than an equivalent regular army unit.” Colonel Buford nodded in agreement.

“So, how did they do it?” asked Frank.

Excellent question! Colonel Buford fiddled with a keyboard and a close-up of a tactical map showed on the screen. “This is just an example, from something we have been practicing. This isn’t from today. Anyway, this is an enemy battalion down here, spread out in a defensive position…” He used a laser pointer to start showing dots on the map. “… and here are the American positions of a tank company with some M-1s and Bradleys. The important thing is that before the battle even starts, we’ve had drones flying over the entire area, and have every enemy position pinpointed. More than that, those positions are actually downloaded into the computers in each American vehicle. When they attack, they will already know where the enemy positions are. When they roll into battle their guns will already be pointed at the enemy! They just need to find them in their sights and pull the trigger, and then move on to the next shot.”

“And that’s what they did?” asked Frank. “How many tanks did they destroy?”

“A Republican Guard armored division might have, on the books anyway, about 400 T-72 tanks, and about 250 BMPs, or some other armored personnel carriers. They also have about 12,000 or 13,000 troops. In reality, they don’t have that many T-72s, so they have maybe half that many and fill out the rest with older T-55s and T-62s. For all practical purposes the older tanks are nothing but moving targets, but against light infantry they are still pretty dangerous. From what we have been seeing, the Hammurabi Division doesn’t have any tanks left, and only a couple of dozen infantry vehicles.”

“How many soldiers did we have attacking?”

“Nowhere near as many. An American heavy armored brigade probably has about 100 tanks, tops, and maybe 5,000 troops. Believe me, they were on the short end of the ledger!” said the Colonel.

“What about the soldiers? Can’t they keep fighting?”

John McCain answered that one. “It doesn’t work that way, Frank. Combat is actually quite specialized. Tankers without a tank are just really lousy infantry. It’s the same for artillerymen without their guns.” I nodded agreement with that, since I knew just how right he was. “As for the infantry, most of their gear is on the vehicles, and right now they don’t even have food and water. They might as well just sit down and surrender.”

“The 1^st Brigade deployed in a single long line, with the 2^nd Stryker right behind them as the reserve. The M-1s and Bradleys blew away the T-72s and BMPs and then kept rolling, blowing straight through the lines, and the Strykers came through on their asses, blowing away anything left over, like BMPs and trucks. Meanwhile, the drones kept reporting what was ahead of them, and the Apache gunships were shooting at things and watching the flanks. The plan now is to pivot to the east and smash the next division on the lineup, the 6^th Nebuchadnezzar. That shouldn’t be any worse, because they suffered severely when attacking the 82^nd in Azwya a few weeks ago.”

“And nobody was hurt? We didn’t lose anybody?” I pushed.

“We lost about half a dozen tanks and Bradleys from mechanical problems, thrown tracks and the like, and probably a couple of dozen guys got banged up bouncing around inside them. You always get that sort of thing,” he answered. He hesitated another second, and then added, “Mister President, these guys are really amped up. The 1^st Brigade has taken to calling themselves the ‘Thunderbolt Brigade’, and the 2^nd Strykers went in carrying a couple of battalions of Kurdish Peshmerga, and they are calling themselves ‘Task Force Thunderbolt.’ They even renamed the forward operating base in Erbil ‘Forward Operating Base Thunderbolt.’ When you were on television and called them the thunderbolts of the gods, they loved it! These guys are ready to invade Baghdad and just keep going!”

“Holy shit!” I muttered. I looked over at Tom Ridge and John McCain, both Viet Nam veterans. “Do you believe this?”

Tom threw his hands up in the air. “I mean, I get reports on this, and I’ve been to the bases to see the troops and all, but this… I mean, I’ve been told about this, but you just don’t believe it.”

“Same here,” admitted the Vice President.

I looked over at Will Brucis. “We want to be real low key on this. I can see several possible outcomes. For one thing, tomorrow this may all break down and the Iraqis could hand us our cranks on a platter!” John snorted in amusement at that, but nodded his head. “For another thing, even if that doesn’t happen, it might not work out so well, and we could still get stuck in a mess. And finally, I want to destroy the Republican Guard, not just win. If we start bragging, people are going to start thinking we should stop, like in ’91. Nobody gets away free on this!” I thought for a second. “What’s the feeling from the press on this whole thing? What are you hearing the most from them?”

He gave me a wry look. “Probably the biggest thing is that we did this whole thing without inviting them to the party!”

“Excuse me?”

“They spend half their time comparing this to the Gulf War in ’91. In that one Saddam Hussein was polite enough to give us six months to prepare, and every journalist in the world showed up and was officially embedded and linked up with a unit and given free satellite time. This time? We had the absolute rudeness to have a war and not invite the press! Not a one of them had ever even heard about Kurdistan before this and couldn’t have found it on a map with a laser pointer and a GPS. It is going way too fast for most of them, and we never geared up for public relations. Now it looks like we are going to defeat the Iraqis before the network anchors have managed to unpack their bags. Some of them are simply freaking out about that!”

I stared at Will for a moment and then broke out laughing. “Unbelievable! They are complaining because we are winning without giving them a chance to tell us how to do it.” I looked over at McCain. “And you want to be President? Have you lost your mind?”

John returned the laugh. “No more than you did.”

I shook my head. “I was a simple boy once, growing up in the Baltimore suburbs. How did I ever land here?” I turned back to the military people and stood up. “Gentlemen, ladies, I appreciate the information. Nothing you have told me here today makes me want to change the plan. Colonel, let the brass know that I want to keep the pressure on! Turn up the heat! Crush them!”

“Yes, sir. The plan is that by this time tomorrow the British will have begun swinging west, and they plan to hammer the 7^th Adnan Infantry and finish them off. That will effectively surround them. Uh, what about prisoners, sir? We blew through the 1^st Hammurabi and left a lot of stranded Iraqis behind. Should we collect them?”

I snorted. “What prisoners? No, I am not being quite that bloodthirsty. Send them home. Disarm them and point them south. They can walk. The 101^st can pen them up before they get back home. If they don’t like that, they can try walking north and taking it up with the Kurds. I want them out of the war for good.”

He shook his head earnestly. “Understood, sir!”

At that, the briefing was over, with plans for another in a day or two. As I went back upstairs with John, I commented, “That colonel, I think this ops plan is his. If it works out, he’s not going to be a colonel much longer, and I won’t have to do a thing about it. He’ll be getting a boot upstairs.”

He snorted and smiled. “If it doesn’t work out, he won’t be a colonel much longer either.” He drew a thumb across his throat and made a gurgling sound.

“With your shield or on it, John. With your shield or on it.”

We had our next major briefing in five days, with the full National Security Council at the Pentagon. The progress was simply astonishing. After six days, the 1^st Armored and 2^nd Strykers had managed to annihilate three Republican Guard armored and mechanized divisions. The British 7^th Armored had decided to get in on the fun, and while they weren’t quite as dialed into the drones, they had already managed to savage major parts of two divisions in the eastern corps. The 5^th Baghdad Mechanized had made the only Iraqi offensive actions. Two brigades had attacked east into the 7^th Armored, and another two had attacked south into the 101^st. Both attacks were annihilated. It got better after that. The 173^rd Airborne had managed to become motorized, with the help of transport battalions which Germany and Norway committed as part of their NATO obligations, and they were putting pressure on from the north. The Germans also offered, as did Norway, assistance with chemical weapons decontamination. The Republican Guard was being penned in and destroyed, and all they had to show for it were a lot of footsore soldiers marching home without any weapons.

Those soldiers weren’t making it back to Iraq, however. The 101^st was blocking the way. They had thrown up roadblocks, and when Iraqi units approached those roadblocks, snipers would stop any vehicles they were operating. A Barrett.50 could blow through an engine block from a mile out, so Iraqi trucks and transports weren’t going anywhere. As for the infantry walking, a Hum-Vee with a Ma Deuce stitching a line across the road was a convincing argument. Eventually the Iraqis would send out somebody who could speak English under a white flag, and the 101^st would tell them the facts of life. We would bring in water, food, and medical supplies to designated relief areas, but to get there, the Iraqis would have to walk, and they would have to do so without any weapons. By then, a never ending string of C-130s was bringing in supplies via LAPES deliveries, and the 101^st was sitting fat and happy. They had handily fended off several probing attacks from regular army units to the south; the soldiers of the 101^st had taken almost no casualties, while the attackers reeled back bloody and beaten.

By now, we had casualties. No M-1s had been shot up, but the Guard had managed to blow up about a dozen Bradleys and Strykers, and an Apache had friendly fired on a couple of Bradleys. In addition to the losses from Azwya, we had another hundred dead and wounded, including the pilot of the Apache who, upon learning what had happened, went out behind his gunship and ate his Berretta. Casualties come in all shapes and sizes. I told the Chief of Staff to get Walter Reed and the psychologists warmed up.

An interesting question came up at that point. “Mister President, the 1^st Armored out of Fort Bliss is deploying to eastern Turkey. They will need to sort out and then offload and move to the front.”

“Do we really need to do that? It almost sounds like we are about done with this thing. Can we send them home?” I asked.

I got several very unhappy looks out of the professionals at that. “We can, but do we really want to? We are going to need those troops to invade Iraq, and probably more,” said General Pace.

“Why do we want to invade Iraq?” I looked around the room at the other faces. “That was a serious question. I am not trying to be flippant or rude. What is the benefit to the United States of invading Iraq? What do we get out of it and what will it cost? Why should we do this? The floor is open for discussion.”

Several people wanted to answer this at the same time, so I held up a hand and pointed at General Pace and said we would go around the table clockwise until everybody had a chance to speak. The discussion went in several directions, none of them wholly unsuspected. We had several different views:

1 — Kick the Republican Guard south with their tails between their legs, and leave it at that. Don’t invade Iraq. We said we were doing this to defend the Kurds. Some of the Coalition members would balk at offensive action.

2 — Invade Iraq to get Saddam Hussein. Basically, go in and conquer the place and kill off Hussein, and then leave.

3 — Invade Iraq to force regime change. Take the place over and install democracy.

There were some significant issues with each choice. Option One left Hussein in charge, and declaring victory to the Arab masses. The odds were that he would spend the next ten or twenty years rebuilding his army and causing trouble, until he was an old man and died or he invaded someplace else. Let’s face it, Saddam Hussein was an asshole. He had been an asshole for a long time, he liked being an asshole, and he was good at being an asshole. The odds he would stop being an asshole were pretty low. That left us where we started this whole sorry exercise, trying to contain an asshole.

So, how do we get rid of Saddam Hussein? He was costing us a fortune! By most estimates we had been paying out $1 to $2 billion every year paying for maintaining the no-fly zones, and been doing that for 15 years. Now we had a prospect of having to maintain significant forces in Kurdistan as well as Kuwait, and at least doubling our costs. It sounded a lot less than the cost of a war, but multiply it over a decade and a real war might be cheaper! The problem with Option Two was that it would almost certainly fail. Iraq was a pretty big place, and it would be pretty easy for a fellow on the run to find a place to hide. We weren’t going to be able to just swoop in and kill or capture him, or we’d have done it already.

So, if a snatch and grab wasn’t realistic, and we really wanted to grab Hussein, we would need a full blown invasion. That would be very problematical. Right off the bat we would lose about three quarters of the Coalition. Turkey might be pissed at the Iraqis and willing to defend the Kurds, but they were not about to send troops into Iraq. The same would be said of the rest of NATO, except maybe the Brits. Likewise, while the Iraqis might hate their dictator, they really hated non-Iraqis! Hussein would be able to trot out all the cant about Crusaders and colonialism and infidel invaders.

Two or three American divisions would be perfectly capable of invading and conquering the country, but then what? American military power was supremely capable of defending something, or smashing it to smithereens, both of which we had just demonstrated. It was not capable of controlling a subject population, which I knew from our experiences in Afghanistan and Iraq on my first go. Regardless, once we activated Option Two and went into Iraq, it would be very, very easy to fall into the trap of mission creep and go to Option Three, which was to take the place over and make the place into America Lite. That was nothing but a recipe for civil war, with us smack in the middle.

One thing that was clear, however, was that if we were going to go into Iraq, for whatever reason, we were going to need the full blown capabilities of a heavy armored division like the 1^st Armored. We might as well bring them into the theater. If we didn’t go in, we could send them home. I agreed to that, at least.

It was Richard Clarke of the CIA who had some interesting information. Rather than offer an opinion up on what we should do, he announced, “I am going to counsel caution. This morning we received an interesting report out of Baghdad. Several large explosions were detected by satellite at an army base to the east of the city. Also in that area were units of the Special Republican Guard, Hussein’s Praetorian Guard. We’re not really sure what that means, but we were able to intercept some signals that indicated that Hussein is ordering regular army units north, out of Baghdad and towards Kurdistan. Some of the army units might be pushing back against the Republican Guard. I am not ready to say this is true, but at least a couple of my analysts think this is the first sign of a crack in the regime.”

I glanced around at the other faces. Lord knows but that we would all prefer that the Iraqis clean up their own mess! “Huh. Well, I don’t want to commit anything until we get more information on this. Keep me informed.” We left the meeting with no firm plans. Operation Kurdish Dragon would continue, as planned, but after that there would have to be a huge rest and recuperation period before we could ever invade. That might not be until the late summer.

Four days later I received a call from Richard Clarke asking to meet me as soon as possible. “Iraq?”

“Yes, sir. We need to talk.”

“Come on over now.” We hung up and I wondered what was happening. In the last four days Kurdish Dragon had finished destroying the Republican Guard. For the last couple of days, as soon as they started hearing tank engines over the horizon they had begun abandoning vehicles without a fight, and running southward. They were even photographed by drones pointing at the drones and holding their hands up in surrender. Our tanks would roll through and capture or blow away the abandoned equipment and then move on. At least these troops would have a chance to salvage some food and water before beginning the march back to Iraq.

We had continued to sustain some losses, but at a very low level. We were setting a new standard for armored combat. Kurdish Dragon had managed to effectively destroy half a dozen armored divisions, and at the total cost of about two battalions worth of American and British troops. It was so lopsided as to be meaningless. In some ways our troops were now stronger, in that well trained but otherwise green soldiers had been blooded and tested. They knew that with adequate supplies they could meet anybody in the world in combat now.

Whether that would be necessary was what I wanted to discuss with Richard. As it stood, the 1^st Armored was at a marshaling site in eastern Turkey, where they were working up prior to moving into Kurdistan. We intended to have them work up in Turkey for a couple of weeks and then be transported into Kurdistan.

Richard was shown in, and he had a large briefcase with him. I had him sit down around the coffee table, and he sat on the left side of the couch. “Here, sir. Sit down next to me. It will be easier to show you some things.”

“Sure.” I sat down to his right, and he opened his briefcase and spread out several folders. He pulled some photos out of one of the folders. “What gives?”

“Mister President, we can’t be sure, but there seems to be a very good chance that the Iraqi Army, the regular army, is in a state of rebellion against Saddam Hussein.”

“Really? That would be good news.”

“Yes, sir!” He pointed to several of the photos. “These are from both satellite reconnaissance and U-2 overflights. See, here… and here… the damage here was not done by American aircraft. This damage is characteristic of artillery… this is a mortar crater, here and here… this tank is burning. These photos are from two army bases in the immediate Baghdad area, and this one is known as the home base of an armored brigade from the Special Republican Guard.”

I gave a noncommittal grunt at this, and Richard continued, “There’s more. From radio intercepts we know that Hussein has ordered regular army units north. That is in addition to the ones he already ordered to attack the 101^st. He has ordered at least one armored and one mechanized unit from central Iraq to move north, towards Kurdistan, and we picked up a lot of radio and cell phone chatter about this. This base here…” He tapped one of the photos with damage on it. “… is the home base for the 34^th Mechanized Infantry, and there has obviously been some fighting here that we didn’t cause!”

“So? What is this telling your analysts?” I asked.

He had an excited look in his eyes. “Okay, we can’t be 100 % sure, but this could be the first real crack in their system. We will know better in the next 24 to 48 hours, but we could be seeing the beginning of armed resistance to Saddam Hussein.”

“What? Are you saying the regular army might be fighting against the Republican Guard?”

“Yes. Maybe. We’ll know in a day or two for sure.”

“Hold here for a second.” I grabbed my phone and spoke to the secretary outside, and asked her to find John McCain and Frank Stouffer if they were available. I knew Frank was down the hallway, and I didn’t think John was away, but they both might be in meetings.

They weren’t. Both came in about a minute later, John on Frank’s heels. “What’s up? I had to cancel a call with Ken Mehlman.” Ken was the Chairman of the Republican National Committee.

I motioned them to take my place on the couch next to Clarke. “Richard, show them what you just showed me.”

For the next ten minutes, the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency gave the Vice President and my Chief of Staff a reprise of the CIA’s latest intelligence. I used it as a useful review. Afterwards, Frank looked at me and asked, “So their army is fighting amongst itself?”

“It’s more than that. If this is true, it means a possible civil war. The thing to remember, Frank, is that in a lot of dictatorships — and let’s face it, that’s what we have here — you have two separate armies. You have the regulars and you have the dictator’s personal army. In World War II, for instance, you had the regular German army, the Wehrmacht, and then you had the SS with their own army, directly sworn to Hitler. Different generals, different chains of command. The Soviet Union had something similar, in that the KGB maintained an army separate from the regular army. In Iraq, you have the Republican Guard as Hussein’s personal troops,” I told him.

“It goes even beyond that,” said Richard. “Back in 1991, when President Bush issued the ceasefire, that allowed at least half the Republican Guard and its equipment to escape back into Iraq. Saddam used those troops to maintain control over the country. Now? Kurdish Dragon has simply destroyed the Republican Guard! I doubt he has an entire Guard division left, and they are scattered around the country. If he starts ordering the regular army into a suicidal attack on us in the north, and they balk, he doesn’t have the troops to force them. That’s what I mean by radio and email chatter. We are getting signs they are talking to each other about that sort of thing.”

“How can they do that? I thought we destroyed all their power plants and radio stations,” I asked.

Both Richard and John shrugged at that. “Trust me on this, Carl, I used to fly bombers over Viet Nam. You never really get everything. Besides, they can always use portable generators and radios,” replied McCain.

“Huh.” I looked at Richard. “And you think we will learn more by tomorrow?”

“Yes, sir. It is either going to grow or be shut down quick. We will know for sure in one day. Two, tops!”

“Huh.” I looked at the other two. “I really don’t want to have to go into Iraq to get that asshole. I mean, I really, really, really don’t want to go in! If the Iraqis want to hand us his head, I will be more than happy to call a truce and let them be.”

“Put more pressure on them. Move the 173^rd closer to the border, and start rebuilding the 1^st and 2^nd Brigades. Tighten the noose. Start advertising that the rest of the 1^st Armored is in Turkey and is practicing for an invasion. Get the Iraqis scared enough to do something about Hussein,” argued John.

I gave a thoughtful look to Richard. “Think that might work? Can we make it work? Do we still have a psychological warfare plan?”

“Let me sit on this overnight. After I get the morning briefing, I will talk to some people in the Pentagon. I don’t want to frighten them so much they decide to pull together in the face of the Crusaders,” he replied.

I shrugged. Damned if you do and damned if you don’t. “Okay, keep us informed. It might be too early, but this could be very good news.”

The news didn’t stay secret for long. The next morning, during my regular staff session, Will Brucis hit me with a question. “Boss, I got a question from Al Jazeera this morning, asking for a comment on what is happening in Baghdad. They are reporting that there is open fighting between the regular army and supporters of Saddam Hussein and the Republican Guard.”

I sat back in my armchair. “Really! That’s interesting. What are they telling you?”

Al Jazeera was an international news agency based in Qatar, and astonishingly, fairly independent and accurate. Unlike the average Middle Eastern news station, they were not a mouthpiece for the government, nor did they spout mindless conspiracy drivel. They had a huge Muslim audience, and were one of the few independent news agencies who had managed to get reporters into both sides of the war so far. The American right wing hated them, but whether it was because they were Muslim, Arab, or not pro-Israel wasn’t clear.

“According to what I was told, their local correspondent in Baghdad reported that Saddam Hussein yesterday ordered three divisions of the Iraqi army north, to Kurdistan and the fighting, and two of them refused. At that point he ordered two others north, and one of them headed north, but the other left its base and headed towards Baghdad. Now there is fighting between some of the Iraqi army units and some troops loyal to Hussein,” explained Will.

“That is really very interesting,” I told him. I thought for a second, and added, “For now, all we want to say is that we are aware of the reports, and are looking into them, but otherwise have no knowledge of the events.”

“Also, that we are hoping that the new government in Baghdad wishes to end hostilities,” added Frank Stouffer.

“New government?” I commented.

“Why not? Al Jazeera reports throughout the Arab world. Let’s see what they make of that.”

I looked at Will, who shrugged his shoulders. “Be a bit like throwing a fox into a hen house. Why not? They don’t believe a word we say anyway, so let’s get somebody else to do the dirty work.”

I snorted and laughed, and approved the plan.

Will made the appropriate responses and comments at the morning’s press briefing, for the first time labeling what was happening as an ‘insurrection.’ No response was made from Baghdad, probably because they had better things to do, like deal with an insurrection! I kept getting information from the CIA about what was happening, and we ordered a total stand-down of all forces attacking Iraq. They didn’t need any help tearing the place apart, they were doing a fine job all by themselves.

By May 1, Al Jazeera was reporting that Baghdad was in the midst of a civil war, and that Saddam Hussein was with an armored unit of the Special Republican Guard. The reporter also stated that his two sons, Uday and Qusay, were in hiding. On the morning of May 2, Al Jazeera reported that their reporter had been found floating in the Tigris River. Investigative journalism is a chancy job in the Middle East.

Richard Clarke convened a meeting of the National Security Council on Wednesday, May 3, to discuss the mess over there. We still had the 1^st Armored working up in Turkey, but they had been able to reinforce and resupply all our units in Kurdistan, and we had managed to fly in enough Strykers and Bradleys to rebuild the 2^nd Cavalry and 1^st Brigade. The 101^st wanted to know when they could stop being jailers and have some more fun. Even the 82^nd was beginning to rebuild and reorganize after their extended thumping. Clarke opened the meeting with an interesting tidbit — Qusay Hussein was being reported as dead.

“Which one is he?” I asked. “I know Saddam’s got two sons.”

Richard nodded. “Here’s the five cent wrap-up. Saddam is a brutal and murderous megalomaniac who knows how to run an army and a country and appeal to the masses. He has two sons, who are simply brutal and murderous megalomaniacs without any of the other endearing qualities. Uday is the oldest. He’s 41, and simply out of control. He drives around the city in an armored limousine, and when sees a pretty woman, he orders her into his car, and then takes her home to rape her. If she’s lucky, she gets let go in the morning, otherwise he dumps her body in the Tigris. That is one of his more positive personality traits. Everything else about the man is worse. He has been widely reported to torture Olympic athletes if they don’t win medals and tournaments. For years he was the heir apparent, but he became too out of control even for Dad, who six years ago named his younger brother Qusay as next in line.”

“Qusay is 39, and though not as flamboyant as his older brother, is equally barbaric and genocidal. Saddam put him in charge of the Republican Guard and the Special Security Organization, their secret police. He is also Hussein’s anointed successor. As of this morning, he is out of the picture. We have received confirmed reports that he died in a battle with a regular army armored brigade attacking Guard headquarters. Meanwhile, we are also getting reports that Uday is trying to arrange asylum in Riyadh.”

“The rats are leaving the sinking ship,” remarked Eric Shinseki. Several other people simply nodded agreement.

“Suggestions?” I asked.

We had a wide range of suggestions, but they came down into the same categories as the last time we discussed this. We could let them be, or we could invade. There was a definite pro-war party, with John McCain and most of the Pentagon in that camp. Condoleezza Rice was the face of the peace camp, as were Frank and Paul O’Neill. After some wrangling, I held up a hand and called a time-out.

“Okay, I think I have heard from everybody. John, Peter, I really appreciate your thoughts on this. I believe that you are absolutely correct when you say we could go in and whip them in a matter of weeks. I also believe that world opinion would be strongly against this, as Condi and a few others argue. Regardless, we could do this now, and without working up a real sweat. My problem is, what do we do with the country next? They may hate Hussein, but they sure don’t love us. The Shiites might hate the Sunnis and the Sunnis might hate them back, and some of them hate the Iranians or Turks or Kurds or Kuwaitis or Saudis, but the one thing everybody hates is us! I can guarantee that if we go in, we will be fighting this war long after I am gone and long after John leaves the Presidency. I think we are going to just sit on this for the next week or two and see what happens. If we get an accurate location on Hussein, we can drop a nice big JDAM on him, but otherwise, let’s let them stew on this,” I said.

There were a few unhappy faces, but some thoughtful ones also. We decided to wait a week to see what would happen, and keep the 1^st Armored practicing with the Turks. It was costing us a fortune, but an invasion would be even more expensive. Both Treasury and the OMB were showing this as being incredibly destructive of the budget. We were definitely going to be in a deficit situation.

The end came three days later, when the Iraqi army managed to kill Saddam all on their own. Uday was still on the scene, but nobody cared about him. Aside from his murderous tendencies, politically he was a lightweight. He wouldn’t last a week. Sunday May 7, the Iraqi Revolutionary Council announced that they were in control of the country and wished to discuss a ceasefire. The Council looked to be a bunch of second tier colonels and generals, with a civilian propped up in front for legitimacy. I ordered a ceasefire. The Kurdish War was over.

Chapter 164: Kurdish Aftermath

I called a meeting of the National Security Council for Monday morning the 8^th. For the first time in months, we had an abundance of smiles around the table, and I possessed one of them. I wanted this damn mess over and done with, before it defined my Presidency like it had once defined George Bush’s.

We started with a quick briefing on whatever was new from Richard Clarke. Nothing much had come up overnight. Saddam and Qusay were now confirmed dead, and Uday was on the run, though he was spouting defiance. The Revolutionary Council was proclaiming power and at the moment had a lock on what was happening. There were some elements arguing with them, but they needed a focus point to coalesce around, and Uday Hussein was simply too much of a mad dog for them to tolerate. Without a central figure to rally around, they would be rounded up and either be put down or forced to join in.

Otherwise, it was a matter of winding this sucker down, and quickly. The Pentagon went along with my order to send the 1^st Armored back to Texas. As was pointed out by several people, it would take just as long to load them up and send them home as it took to get them there, so if the Iraqis decided to get stupid in the next few weeks, we would still have overwhelming force available. I gave a wry grimace at that. It was true, though. If the Iraqi Revolutionary Council fell apart, we would be able to turn things around for a few weeks at least.

Condi Rice got the biggest jobs, and she had standing orders to draft the rest of us as needed, no questions asked! Job Number One was to conclude some form of peace treaty with the Iraqis. Technically it would be between the Iraqis and the Kurds, with an acknowledgement of the new borders, and with the rest of the Coalition signing on as Kurdish defenders. That was a big enough job right there, But Job Number Two was to formally create the Republic of Kurdistan as a new nation, and get them into the United Nations and generate a few peace treaties with some neighbors.

As part of the diplomatic offensive I was heading to the Middle East, with stops in Turkey, Israel, Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, Jordan, and Kurdistan. I needed to talk to the various leaders involved, and make future plans. The critical countries were Turkey, Israel, and Kurdistan. The other three were more formalities — thank you for your recent support and what can we do to promote peace in the Middle East.

Israel was still unhappy about what happened with the Scuds. Everybody’s best guess was that they wanted Iraq’s WMD plans dead and buried, and any Scuds still around to be destroyed. Oh, and would we be so kind as to maintain a weapons embargo on them, along with all the other sanctions? Needless to say, that wasn’t going to happen. Since most of the sanctions had been against Saddam Hussein, and he wasn’t around anymore, we had about zero reason to keep the sanctions in place. I told Condi not to even try to make the argument. The country had been almost leveled and would take decades to rebuild. We wouldn’t pay for the rebuilding (I was not about to institute an Arab Marshall Plan!) but if they could get some money from the Saudis, they were welcome to try. It would be a few years before anybody knew who was going to rise to the top of the pile in the Council, and even longer before they would be strong enough to act frisky again.

Turkey was expected to be easier to deal with by a wide margin. After all, the good guys had won, and Turkey was on the side that wore the white hats. I could fly to Ankara, meet with Erdogan, visit Incirlik and Adana, make a donation to rebuild a hospital, thank their Air Force, and so forth. There was no reason we couldn’t get a nice treaty going between them and the Kurds.

Kurdistan was likely to be just as good. After all, we had just pulled their chestnuts out of the fire, and they were well aware of it. Sign a peace treaty, visit the battle sites, condemn chemical warfare, and get the Kurds and the Turks to sign a formal peace treaty. Meanwhile, maybe I could introduce the Kurdish President to the President of ExxonMobil while I was at it. They had all that lovely oil that was just waiting for a Turkish pipeline to be built. The Brits would probably do the same thing with BP. Fair’s fair. The Kurds had a lot of oil, and now it was going to be legally theirs to play with.

I told Condi to get her track shoes on, because there was a lot on her plate. She needed to line up a trip for me in a few weeks, but some of the other stuff would take as long as it took. If she needed to play shuttle diplomat, she could use whichever plane in the fleet she needed. This could be her golden moment to shine, and I would let her have as much credit as she wanted. Privately, I told her to try and show John McCain helping, since it made for good politics in the 2008 campaign. It showed his ‘foreign policy credentials’, which is something I had lacked when running for Vice President. (Somehow, being airdropped into Nicaragua and escaping back to Honduras while shooting up a drug airstrip didn’t count as foreign policy experience with the chattering classes, and owning a multimillion dollar estate in the Bahamas was not the signal we wanted to send, either.)

On the plus side, John had acquired plenty of foreign policy experience by now. During the Kurdish War, I had used him as a roving emissary to several countries in the region, and he had visited several other countries over the years as well. Foreign policy was actually one of the few areas where a President had a chance to put his own spin on things, for right or for wrong. Domestically, Presidents were often hemmed in by any number of special interests which limited their actions. Monetary policy was controlled by the semi-independent Federal Reserve, and fiscal and budgetary policy were dominated by a Congress which was all too often bought and sold on K Street.

Only in foreign policy does a President actually have any room to maneuver. He can launch the country into war or run away from one. He can meet foreign dignitaries, negotiate treaties, make state visits, and impersonate somebody much more important than he really is. The Congress back home might not go along with him, but that is always the case. We do have checks and balances, so they can defund his wars, refuse to ratify his treaties, demand hearings and cooperation, and otherwise make his life miserable. Still, a lot of what he does overseas can be summed up under the general saying, ‘It is better to ask forgiveness than to ask permission.’

If it works, you can look, well, Presidential! You are a leader striding the world stage! You can look solid and decisive, and bring pride to the country. You screw up and you look like a fucking moron, and the rest of the world knows it. Not all our Presidents have been able to pull this off. It was an awful thing to say of the man, but it was the primary reason I had maneuvered him into the World Trade Center on 9-11. George W. Bush was clueless on foreign policy. He allowed himself to be led around by people with an agenda and blundered his way into a pair of disastrous wars. Equally awful, and in some ways even more dangerous, his domestic and fiscal policies involved borrowing staggering sums from the Chinese and other foreign lenders, who suddenly felt that they had a lot more to say about the world than they otherwise deserved.

We had managed to avoid a long term war in Afghanistan, and the Kurdish War was probably going to cost around $120 billion. That’s a lot of money, I will grant you, but it was basically a one-time event. On my first go, fighting two wars simultaneously had cost about $300 billion a year for over ten years in a row. Further, he had lowered taxes drastically, and had been in a deficit situation almost from the beginning. I had kept taxes at the point where he had left them after his first budget, 5 % lower than the Clinton years. We had suffered a deficit in 2002 (9-11), 2006 (Hurricane Katrina), and would do so again in 2007 (Kurdish War). On the other hand, we had shown significant surpluses in 2001, 2003, 2004, and 2005, more than sufficient to pay for the deficits and continue to pay down the national debt.

Congress hated me for this. The Republicans wanted to lower taxes and damn the deficit, and the Democrats wanted to raise spending and damn the deficit. This was completely understandable, but only in the most self-aggrandizing sense possible. By either raising spending or lowering taxes, they were heroes to their constituents, and would get re-elected. Mind you, by constituents I wasn’t referring to the voters. The average Washington politician couldn’t care less about the voters. They were generally considered clueless sheep. No, the important people they had to impress were the lobbyists who represented their core interests. Big Tobacco, Big Pharma, Big Banks, Big You-Name-It — they were the ones who coughed up the campaign contributions necessary to pay for the television ads aimed at the sheep.

It was an unbelievably corrupt system. It had been bad enough in 1990 when I had first gotten into politics. Only the fact that I had enough cash that I could ignore the lobbyists allowed me to stay reasonably true to the voters. Since then it had gotten exponentially worse. Mind you, the lobbyists, the guys with the cash, thought the system was working just fine, and for them it was. Even I was complicit in this. I had about $25 million a year of my own money flowing into the American Renaissance Initiative that allowed me to buy enough politicians to get some stuff passed. I had managed to become one of the largest lobbyists in Washington!

The morality of all of this was questionable at best. The legality was considerably less of an issue. If it was illegal, I could always spend enough lobbying money to make it legal. It was enough to give a Jesuit logician a headache.

In the meantime, we arranged a Middle Eastern visit for the end of May. I couldn’t do it any sooner than that for the simple reason that Holly was graduating on the 21^st of May. Our little girls were growing up and moving on with their lives. Holly was graduating cum laude with a Bachelors of Science in Physics. Molly was doing equally well, but was just finishing the fourth year of the five year combined Bachelors/Masters of Science in Mechanical Engineering. For once I refused to speak at a graduation. I simply wanted to be Dad and watch my baby graduate. Holly had already been accepted into the graduate program at Princeton, probably one of the best physics programs in the nation, and the rest of us were simply going to be the average family, assuming average families were surrounded by Secret Service agents.

The following weekend was to be the beginning of the Middle Eastern trip, but we weren’t leaving until Sunday the 28^th. Saturday the 27^th I was scheduled to speak to the graduating class at West Point. It had been four years since the first time I had spoken there. That had been the first class after 9-11, and the class that Roscoe Buckminster had graduated in. How many of those boys that had graduated that day had I killed since then? Now I was going back, to spout more patriotic bullshit to the boys and girls after our latest war.

It was a supremely depressing take on the whole affair, but I knew it wasn’t accurate. I had been a captain, a battery commander. If I had managed to stay in and stay healthy, I had been already scheduled to do a tour as a battery commander at Sill, and then to attend Command and General Staff College at Leavenworth. Following CGS I would have done a staff tour somewhere, and then taken command of a battalion as a lieutenant colonel. (This all assumed I managed to avoid stepping on my crank in the process, questionable at best. At every rank there is a Darwinian selection process at work, and the higher you go, the tougher it gets.) The important thing to remember was that by the time I made it to battalion command, I would have to accept the loss of subordinates as a cost of doing business, or I would never have been able to maintain my sanity.

Now was simply the same thing on a larger scale. By any measure, the Kurdish War was far and away the most lopsided war in history, even including the initial losses following the Iraqi attack. Kurdish Dragon had been the stuff of legend, a performance worthy of the history books. The Army had proven that the Gulf War was not a onetime event. The Republican Guard hadn’t been beaten, it had been annihilated. The ratio of forces involved and the ratio of losses inflicted was one for the records! The Battle of the Azwya Valley and the Destruction of the 1^st Hammurabi would be studied on the sand tables for a generation. By any objective measure, the numbers of losses had been very low, but that didn’t mean much to those boys’ parents.

I mentioned some of this to Marilyn, both sides of it. She understood and had a simple response. Shut up, smile, and fake it! Marilyn is nothing if not practical. I just smiled and agreed with her, and started writing. I ended with the following.

“Four years ago I spoke here, and I sent that class out into a world changed by the events of 9-11. I told them then that this was a damn dirty business we are in. Those young men and women are most likely first lieutenants right now, with maybe a few captains thrown in. Their pay isn’t the world’s greatest and there is never enough leave to do the things they want. They have missed holidays and birthday parties while standing watches and doing duty. Some have had children born while they were deployed. Others have spent time in hospital, recovering from wounds and injuries received on duty. Regrettably, some have paid the ultimate price for serving their country.

I also told that class that this was a job worth doing, and it was probably the best job in the world. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world! Every word I said that day was true, and I have had several of them write me and tell me just how right I was. Now our world has changed again. A few months ago I had to use those young men and women, and in some cases I had to use them up. The one promise I can make to you is that while I will use you, I will never waste you. What you bring to the Army, and what you bring to your nation, is far too valuable to be thrown away. So I tell you, like I told them, this is still the best job in the world.

Now we send you to the Army. You have taken the King’s Shilling, and now go to fight the King’s battles. As generations before you have done, stand by your troops, stand by your comrades, and stand by your honor. In your time here you have heard the motto ‘Duty, Honor, Country’ many times. Now you get to find out what that really means. Those who came before you faced this challenge. Now it is your turn. I look forward to seeing how those who follow you look upon your time when it comes time for them to face their challenge. Thank you, and God keep you safe.”

It seemed to be a hit, and was quoted on most of the networks that evening, even as I wondered to myself how many of those earnest young faces would be cursing me before their time was up. Then we flew back to Washington for the night, in preparation for our overseas trip.

It was going to take a couple of weeks to see everything and meet everyone. I was taking Marilyn, and for senior staff would have Frank Stouffer and Eric Shinseki. John McCain would stay in Washington, and the traveling party would link up with Condi Rice when we landed in the Middle East. We were figuring one day apiece in Saudi Arabia, Jordan, and Kuwait, two days in Israel, and at least three days in both Turkey and Kurdistan. The Kurdish portion of the trip was questionable for Marilyn, simply because for all practical purposes the place was still a war zone. I wasn’t expecting to find any five star hotels in Erbil, and some of the places I planned to visit would be very rough battlefields. I would have to give that one some thought.

Our first visit was to Israel. The Israelis were not amused that they had been attacked by the Iraqis, and were rather upset by the possibility of poison gas. Condi and I met with Ehud Olmert and several of his top people and reiterated America’s support for the State of Israel. In general I had taken a hands-off approach to the country. Intellectually I knew that many of their actions regarding new settlements were not helpful to the peace process. That couldn’t be helped, however. There was not a single blessed thing I could do to get them to actually change their actions. Worse, there was a rabid pro-Israel lobby in America, and if I tried pressuring them, it was going to fail and screw me over back home.

To make matters worse, I informed them that I would be meeting with a representative of the Revolutionary Council at some point, and trying to make nice. As part of that, almost all of the economic sanctions that had been in place under Saddam’s rule would be lifted. Some had been international, some had been American, and some had been more local, but they would be ending. They had only been put in place to force him to behave; now that he was gone, they were superfluous. I expected the Iraqis to be going hat in hand to the Saudis for assistance rebuilding, and I was going to talk to the Saudis about that very thing. On the plus side, the Iraqi economy was well and truly trashed. The entire country was going to take a generation to rebuild. They were not a threat to anyone anymore.

The Israelis wanted all the sanctions kept in place to prevent the Iraqis from rearming. Their argument was that any money that got to the new generals in Baghdad would immediately be used to buy new weapons to replace all that we had just destroyed. That was what all generals wanted to do. Olmert and his people were absolutely right. That was what would happen, and there was nothing we could do to prevent that. The political reality, however, was that the sanctions would be lifted, and the money would be spent. If Hussein had been able to evade the sanctions and use oil-for-food money to buy stuff from the Russians, we couldn’t stop it now that there was peace. The best I could do was say that we would argue for keeping the sanctions in place at least until Uday was caught and killed. He was still on the loose, but the noose was getting tighter, and we expected him to be either caught or to seek asylum outside of the country.

In total honesty, the Israelis couldn’t claim that I was being anti-Israeli. During the war at least a third of the fighter-bomber sorties by the Air Forces of the various countries had been on Scud hunt missions. They actually managed to get one, this time, when the Iraqis managed to launch a Scud in plain sight of a drone. The drone had tracked the launcher back to the barn, and while we couldn’t stop the missile, we could plaster the barn the launcher was hiding in, and there were a number of reported secondary explosions, large ones that indicated a missile storage facility. Likewise, they couldn’t claim I was giving them grief over their internal policies, since I had never said anything about them. I had also promised them a large amount of foreign aid (for instance, ‘reconstruction from war damages’ — total bullshit, since most of the damage was in Palestinian areas that wouldn’t be touched) and a free hand with some future arms purchases.

We spent two days and two nights there, and then flew to Saudi Arabia. That lasted longer than I had expected. I wanted to talk to their Foreign Office about the Iraqi sanctions, and ended up speaking to Prince Bandar bin Sultan, the former ambassador to the U.S. who I had kicked out of the country. Awkward! The surprise was when he introduced me to Colonel Rafiq Tawaziq of the Iraqi Revolutionary Council. Tawaziq was their new Foreign Minister, and was in Saudi Arabia to make nice. He said the days of Saddam Hussein were behind them and that Iraq wished to rebuild and join in the family of nations and be friends again. Uh, huh! I could believe as much of that as I wanted. Again, we talked about the sanctions and the importance of rebuilding the nation and not the armed forces. I got a definite vibe from the Saudis that they were planning on loaning money to the Iraqis. I wasn’t quite sure where that would all lead, but it would be out of our hands in any case. On the plus side, when the war had started the price of oil had skyrocketed. Now that the war was over, the price had dropped, and the Saudis were pumping extra to make up for the loss of Iraqi production. I wondered how the future increases in Kurdish oil production would be appreciated.

The meeting with the Kuwaitis was all sweetness and light. The Iraqis hadn’t managed to do anything to them but blow up a few sand dunes. They nodded in understanding about the future of sanctions and oil pricing and Kurdish independence. As long as the Iraqis didn’t head south looking for the ‘19^th Province’ again they were relatively content. I toured the air bases where American Air Force fighters had flown from, and also met with a few Kuwaiti pilots who had flown CAP and interdiction missions.

Jordan was another short visit. They had stayed out of the fighting completely, but that didn’t mean they got off scot free. Jordan shared a border with Iraq, and during the fighting well over 100,000 Iraqis had fled Iraq and were now in refugee camps inside Jordan. Jordan was a basket case of an economy, and politically unstable due to the presence of so many Palestinians and refugees. There wasn’t much we could do for them, other than cough up some money for aid.

Finally it was off to Turkey. That was going to be a big trip, three days, in several locations. First, we flew into Ankara, and met with Prime Minister Erdogan. This was considered a big deal, and we met with him and his Ministers, and had a formal state dinner. After two days in Ankara, we then flew to Incirlik, with the Prime Minister joining us for the short flight. In Incirlik I reviewed the troops and met a bunch of generals. I also managed to meet up with a representative of Kurdish President Massoud Barzani, one of his nephews. He would travel with us to the Republic of Kurdistan. He had also been one of the individuals who had been involved pre-war with the Kurdistan-Turkey pipeline project. Smart fellow, he spoke fluent Turkish and English.

Also, in Incirlik, we drove into nearby Adana and surveyed the damage from the Scud attacks. The hit on the apartment house was bad enough, but the damage there had been to one side and had been contained. The hit on the hospital had been dead center, and what hadn’t been destroyed by the explosion had burned to the ground. There were hundreds of dead, and a pile of rubble reminiscent of 9-11. I symbolically helped shovel some debris for the cameras, and then presented the director of the hospital a check for $1 million from the Buckman Foundation, along with a promise that America would also be offering assistance. Then I looked straight at the cameras and told everyone listening to send money directly to the Buckman Foundation, along with a note saying it was for the hospital, and I would match the contributions. That got me kissed on the cheeks by every damn Turk in the country!

From Turkey, I was flying to Kurdistan, and that is where things got interesting. For one thing, Erbil was the only place we could fly into. Kirkuk had an airport but had been totally trashed by the Iraqis. Erbil was the place to go anyway, since it had served as our airhead in the region, and was the Army’s forward operating base. Unfortunately, Erbil was somewhat backward as to facilities. There was no way we were flying the white whale of Air Force One, a Boeing 747, into Erbil! Instead they had cleaned up a C-130 and rigged it for people transport, with a shitload of web seats. I had long experience with that in the old days; they weren’t all that comfortable, but the flight was only about an hour long. Neither of the regular Air Force One pilots was current on his C-130 rating, so I would be chauffeured around by the wing commander, a full colonel, with a major as the co-pilot, and my regular pilot kibitzing from the navigator’s seat.

The only argument Marilyn and I had on the entire trip had been when I told her that she needed to stay in Turkey while I traveled on to Kurdistan. “I’ll be back in a few days. Try not to get in any trouble while I’m away.” I figured we could get her a few photo ops doing something humanitarian.

“Excuse me? Since when do you go and I don’t?” she asked. “I’m going, too!”

Now it was my turn to look horrified. “No you aren’t! It’s a war zone!”

“There’s a cease fire, remember? The war’s over. I’m going!”

I looked at the others for some assistance, but everybody in the room had decided to look somewhere else. Cowards all! “Marilyn!” I replied, exasperatedly.

“Get over it!” she told me.

“Aaaaggh! So be it! Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” I threw my hands up in disgusted surrender. We cancelled the photo op plans and Marilyn would travel with me.

The day we were to fly out of Incirlik, the dress code was what I called ‘combat safari casual.’ For me that meant khakis, a denim shirt, a Desert Camouflage Uniform jacket with the proper patches sewn on, and some jump boots. It was comfortable and practical; there has never been a neat and clean C-130, and a suit and wingtips would get messed up. Marilyn wore a long denim skirt and a linen blouse, and a khaki jacket, though with fairly average hiking shoes. She was also wearing a head scarf, which she had worn in all the Muslim countries we had visited. No use pissing off the locals. I simply wore an old and comfortable slouch brim fedora.

The reporters were all wearing safari jackets with tons of pockets and epaulets, most of which looked brand new and still had the pockets starched shut. All they were missing were the pith helmets and riding crops.

Actually Marilyn’s head scarves made for nice gifts from the locals to us. The President is always getting loads of gifts from foreign leaders, and I was no different. The important thing to remember is that they belong to the President, not to whoever holds the office. As a general rule I was not allowed to keep them. I couldn’t turn them down, however, since that would be an insult to whoever gave them to me, so almost everything goes to the National Archives. However, I am allowed to keep a few small odds and ends, generally for no more than a few hundred dollars in value, though they need to be itemized and are considered income for tax purposes, so I have to pay income tax on them.

So, if I visit Uganda, and receive a tribal chieftain’s mask and spears, they have to figure the value. Under $350, I can keep them (but I won’t since I have zero use for a mask and spears.) More than that, they go to the National Archives, unless I want to pay for them out of my own pocket. The scarves she received were generally quite lovely, hand woven and dyed, in silk, and in several cases Marilyn would take the gift and wear it to dinner that evening with our hosts. That certainly earned some personal good will.

We ended up in a waiting room with everybody who was traveling to Erbil. A Hercules could carry about 90 passengers, and I wondered if a single C-130 would be sufficient. About half the plane would be filled with my staff and traveling party, and the rest would be reporters. I was assured that quite a few were already on the ground in Erbil and would be set up to film my arrival. Every one of those waiting was praying that my plane would be shot down by the Iraqis on final approach, so they could get a good picture of it. In the meantime, I simply chatted with a few of the reporters — off camera and off the record! — while we waited. I mentioned to somebody that it had been over twenty years since I had ridden a Herky-Bird, and I wondered if they were any more comfortable than before.

At that point, somebody asked, “Mrs. Buckman, have you ever parachuted, like your husband?”

I snorted out a laugh, and Marilyn answered, “No, I’m not that crazy! That would be my husband. That’s too dangerous for me!” I laughed again at that.

Fletcher Donaldson, who was along for the trip, then asked, “Mister President, is it that dangerous? Has anything ever happened when you were parachuting?”

It was a perfect opportunity to set up Fletcher. I nodded slowly, and answered, “Well, we don’t really talk about that sort of thing, but yes, it’s happened, I had a really bad jump once, in fact.”

He was scribbling furiously on a pad. “What happened?”

“Well, first, after I jumped, my static line tore, so my chute wouldn’t deploy. We were only a few thousand feet up, and the static line pulls the chute from the pack, so I had to pull the chute out by hand! Only that didn’t work; the chute got all tangled up and wouldn’t open properly, so I had to cut it loose. By now, I was barely a thousand feet off the ground, so I had to pull my reserve chute, and that deployed, but as I looked up, I saw that it had torn apart, right down the middle! I was only about five hundred feet up now, and it was really looking bad.”

I waited long enough until he asked, “So? What’d you do next!?”

I smiled and gave him a funny look. “That’s easy, Fletcher. I died! What do you think happens when you jump out of a plane without a working parachute?”

Around the room the groans were loud and long, although most of the military people were grinning. They had all heard some variation of this at some time or the other, as had Marilyn.

“Nothing personal, Mister President, but it’s not nice to tease somebody whose company buys ink by the barrel!” he told me.

I laughed, “I’ll keep that in mind, Fletcher. I’ll keep that in mind!”

At that point we got the signal to head out to the plane. I helped my wife up the ramp, and was directed forward to the front row of web seats. It was too loud to talk much on the plane, and I just leaned back and closed my eyes and relaxed. I woke up about an hour later, when Marilyn nudged me as we began descending. She leaned into me and yelled into my ear, “How can you sleep on this thing!?”

I smiled back at her, and yelled back, “Just like the old days! At least I don’t have to wear 125 pounds of gear!”

“You are crazy!”

I just laughed and nodded and squeezed her hand.

C-130s are quite lively and maneuverable with the right pilot, and we moved around a fair bit as we lined up and dropped down to the runway. I think the pilot decided to show off a bit and do a combat landing, even though we weren’t under fire, and the Iraqis had never gotten close to Erbil. Marilyn looked unhappy as we swooped in, and a few of the reporters looked a little green before we landed. As for me, it was almost like old home week.

After landing, the bird taxied for a bit. C-130s don’t have windows for the passengers, but I knew that they were heading for a stretch near the terminal with cameras and a podium set up. One big difference over the normal procedure was that because of all the reporters on the plane, and the lack of the different seating compartments and exits, we all just trooped off the plane. Marilyn and I would go out first, and then after a few minutes everybody else could leave.

Marilyn and I went down the ramp, to find a bunch of dignitaries. I waved to everybody on the way, and headed over to the crowd. They had a podium set up and some video cameras. I was welcomed to Forward Operating Base Thunderbolt by the commander of the XVIII Airborne Corps, and to the Republic of Kurdistan by President Barzani. I thanked everybody and told them how I looked forward to meeting everyone and seeing everything and otherwise spend all my time doing wonderful things in Kurdistan. It was a pretty standard speech actually, totally devoid of anything that could be remotely considered ‘content.’ It didn’t matter. All that mattered was seeing the American President on camera in Kurdistan, where American troops had won a war. Anything I said would be cut down to five seconds, or ten seconds, tops. Then the network anchors would tell the country what I was saying. Hell of a system!

That first day was a lot of showmanship. I posed for just about everybody, and we took pictures of me smiling and shaking hands with everybody in the entire country! After that I was able to meet with some of the troops from the 1^st Armored and take some photos with them in front of their M-1s. I also met with some of the guys from the 101^st but most of them were still on the line between the Republican Guard prisoners and Iraq. (They were being repatriated slowly.) Then we were escorted to a temporary building which had been thrown up as a headquarters building. At that point we were able to get down to business. For once, Marilyn was able to attend the sort of thing that had become old hat to me, and I had to whisper to her a few times what we were talking about. I heard from both the Americans and from several Kurds who commanded Peshmerga troops.

One interesting thing I learned was that several Army units had actively recruited and embedded Peshmerga units into their structure. This worked best with the infantry units, mostly the 82^nd and the Rangers, since the Peshmerga were mostly a light infantry bunch with limited mobility, and this could work well in a defensive situation. Still, the 2^nd Stryker Cavalry had also adopted some Peshmerga units, with dismounted troops riding on top of the Strykers as they moved around. The Kurdish leaders seemed to like the arrangement, and I gave approval of what obviously was working. I simply commented that I’d have to see that, even if for no other reason than to satisfy my own curiosity. I was promised that tomorrow I would be able to meet some troops and get out into the field.

The Barzani family hosted us that evening for a state dinner. Like a lot of places in the world, Kurdistan is run by a few well placed families. The Barzanis were the largest and richest in Kurdistan, but there were several others as well. They had several homes in the area and we stayed at one of them. We had brought some nice clothing with us for a state dinner.

The next day we were scheduled to see the troops and visit the battlefields. Professionally speaking, I was looking forward to this. Personally, I was dreading it. The day after that I would be visiting some of the field hospitals. All of the wounded men that I had put there, and all of the dead I had put into the body bags… no matter what Marilyn might say, I knew it had been my fault. Maybe I was just not tough enough to be a general.

First stop was the Azwya Valley, where the 2^nd Battalion of the 504^th Parachute Infantry Regiment had done their version of Custer’s Last Stand in front of the 6^th Nebuchadnezzar. Their colonel and the new company commanders were there to show us around. All of the original company commanders had either bought the farm or had been evacuated to a hospital. Also present were several Peshmerga leaders, all of whom kissed me on the cheek. I couldn’t understand a word of what they were saying, but they all seemed pretty pleased with the 82^nd Airborne!

I stood around and smiled and looked at what they were pointing towards, but after a bit, I moved away and sat down on a rock and just looked out at the battlefield. By now it was sort of empty and quiet. The dead had been buried, the wounded had been taken away for treatment, and the survivors had moved elsewhere. All that was left were the burned out remnants of Iraqi tanks and armored personnel carriers, and the debris of battle. Now it just seemed desolate and pointless, even as I knew, intellectually, it had been anything but.

After a few minutes, Marilyn came up from behind and laid a hand on my shoulder. “How are you doing?” she asked.

I reached up and touched her hand, and stood up. “I’ll be fine. God, I never wanted this. I never wanted anything like this.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’ll be fine.” I put my arm around her shoulder and we walked back to the others. “I guess I’m not much of a general.”

“That’s okay. We have plenty of them. We just needed a good President. I think we got that.”

“It’s a low bar to aim for,” I commented. Around us photographers were shooting pictures of us. I wondered which one would get a Pulitzer for snapping me being introspective on the battlefield.

We had flown to the Azwya Valley in a bunch of Black Hawks. Now we loaded up and headed west, to the start line of Kurdish Dragon. It was a short flight, and when we got there I knew it would be more of the same. From that point, the 1^st Armored and the 2^nd Stryker Cavalry had surged forward, trashing the 1^st Hammurabi as they went. Along the way, both Marilyn and I had headphones on, and a colonel was giving us a running travelogue along the way. Below us we could see burned out areas with the remnants of tanks and APCs clustered. The American armored forces had gone through the Republican Guard like a combine goes through dry wheat; now all that was left was the chaff.

We landed in a wide clearing near a bunch of armored vehicles and trucks, with a lot of men in uniforms off to one side. We climbed off the Black Hawks and sorted ourselves out, and then my wife and I were led over towards the men and vehicles. The colonel giving the tour mentioned that this was one of the top companies from the 2^nd Stryker Cavalry, and had been in the entire Kurdish Dragon campaign. As we got closer I could see that the armored vehicles were about a dozen or more Strykers, though some looked pretty odd. The men were a mix of American soldiers in DCU uniforms, and what looked like a more motley batch of Peshmerga. As we approached, a noncom ordered the company to attention, and the American soldiers snapped to. The Kurds were slower, but some of them yelled something, and they came to attention as well.

Colonel Jeffries, who was our tour guide, led us to the men, and we stopped in front of a tall black officer. “Mister President, this is Captain…”

I never heard another word the man said. I took a close look at the captain, and I could see him smiling, just perceptibly, and his eyes were darting back and forth between me and Marilyn. It took me a few seconds, and I totally lost whatever the colonel was saying. “Nooooo… it’s not…” The black face in front of me cracked a big smile, and I knew. “Oh my God! ROSCOE!? What in the hell are you… Marilyn!”

“ROSCOE!” Marilyn squealed happily and pushed past me and wrapped Captain Roscoe Buckminster in a tight hug.

Roscoe laughed and wrapped his arms around her. “Damn, it’s good to see you, Aunt Marilyn! You too, Uncle Carl!”

He reached out to shake my hand, but I hugged him as well. “Damn, boy! What are you doing here?”

“They let anybody in this country!” he replied.

Around us any attempt at military decorum had collapsed. Roscoe’s troops were staring at us, and the Kurds were jabbering among themselves. Colonel Jeffries asked, “You know this officer, sir?”

I laughed at that. “Colonel, I’ve known Roscoe his whole life. His father was one of my oldest friends.”

Marilyn added, “I used to change Roscoe’s diapers!”

“Aunt Marilyn, we didn’t need to know that!” protested Captain Buckminster as some of the others laughed.

“Damn, it’s good to see you!” I repeated. “What the hell are you doing running an armored company? You’re only out of the academy four years now?”

“I was the exec, actually, and then when we were loading the trains in Vilseck, Captain Rodrigo fell off the flatbed and broke both legs! The Colonel gave me the company rather than bring somebody else in at the last minute. I just made Captain a week ago,” he told us.

“Captain Buckminster’s company performed excellently during Kurdish Dragon, sir,” interjected Colonel Jeffries. “His promotion was quite deserved.”

I nodded and smiled back. “I’m not surprised. His father was an excellent soldier as well. He saw action in the Gulf War. Maybe it runs in the blood.” I clapped Roscoe on the shoulder. “Colonel, I don’t know what your schedule was going to be, but I think I found where we’re having lunch, even if it’s cold MREs.”

He smiled and agreed. “Yes, sir, understood!”

Just then, as we began to turn away to continue our tour, one of the Peshmerga came up to us from where they were jabbering to each other. It was like he was pushed forward by a few of the others. They were all pointing to the ‘All American’ patch of the 82^nd Airborne on my jacket. The Kurd looked at me and asked, haltingly, “You are American President?”

I nodded and smiled. “Yes, I am President Buckman.”

He immediately turned to the others and rattled something off in Kurdish, which made for a lot of chatter. He turned back and asked, “You are soldier? Like…” he paused and added, “Parachute soldier?”

“Yes, I was a soldier, a paratrooper, in the Airborne, like the men in Azwya.” I shrugged and smiled, adding, “Many years ago.”

My official interpreter, who spoke much better English, translated this and the Kurds began speaking to each other with a lot of animation. Then he turned to me and asked, “Your leg, they want to know if you were shot in the leg, and if that is why you need a cane.”

I was using an old and slightly battered hickory cane. My brass and walnut model was back in Erbil. I shook my head. “No, nothing like that. I simply had a bad landing and hurt myself. I had to leave the Army then.”

Roscoe piped up and said, “Tell them that the President, when he hurt his leg, then rescued his troops and they marched to safety and attacked drug sellers.” The translator zipped through that and there was even more talk in Kurdish.

I looked at my young friend. “Roscoe, if your mother heard you telling a whopper like that, she’d wash your mouth out with soap!”

“Mom was the one who told me, sir,” he said, smiling and not backing down.

The first Kurd, the one who spoke broken English, he came up and said, “You are warrior. You are Peshmerga!” Then the bastard shook my hands vigorously, and kissed me on the cheeks!

The American troops all applauded and yelled at this. These boys must have really impressed these bastards! Jesus Christ, I’d been adopted!

I introduced Marilyn to everybody, and the Kurd asked, “You have sons? They are soldiers, too?”

“Yes, we have a son. He was in the Marines, sort of like soldiers on ships,” I answered.

Well, they kept jabbering to each other. I guess this was proof I was from a warrior family, or something. It seemed like the Buckmans met the minimum requirement for Peshmerga acceptance.

At that point Roscoe gave us a tour of his command. He had a Stryker Rifle Company, and he led us over to one of the Strykers, basically an eight wheeled armored car with a machine gun up on the roof. It had a hatch in the back which was open, and Marilyn and I got inside and looked around a bit, and then left. Then he showed me one of the odd looking jobs, which had a big honking gun on the roof. “What is this thing?” I asked.

“That’s a Mobile Gun System, an M-1128. It’s a Stryker with the machine gun replaced with a 105 mm tank gun. I had a platoon of these until I became the exec in Vilseck. I’ll tell you, you fire this thing, it has a kick like a mule!” he replied.

“Huh. You shoot any tanks with these?”

“Not really. Oh, you can, but the 105 is a bit light for the frontal armor of a T-72. They can handle the sides just fine, though, and can really carve up BMPs and APCs.” He pointed at a few other Stryker variants. “That one mounts some TOW missiles, and that one over there has a lid that pops open and can fire a 120 mm mortar.”

“You’ve got your own little army here,” I commented.

He nodded. “We also grabbed an engineer platoon and a scout platoon, an anti-tank platoon, a few other things as well. Dad always said it was better to have it…”

“… and not need it than to need it and not have it! Yeah, who do you think taught your old man that one?!” I replied. Roscoe must have been doing okay. He had the makings of a small battalion under his command.

“He told me he taught it to you.”

I snorted at that, and he then introduced me to a few of his platoon leaders, as well as a few of the Kurds. I wasn’t sure what kind of rank structure the Peshmerga had, but it seemed to suit them, and their men gave them the proper respect, and their morale was good, too. “These guys would ride on the roofs of the ICVs until we got into battle, and then hop off. It reminded me of some of the newsreels from the Russian front in World War II,” he told me.

“Riding on the outside of a tank is a good way to get shot!” I told him.

Roscoe simply nodded. “As far as these guys are concerned, it’s the price of doing business. I lost some guys, too. We make sure these guys get the same medical treatment our guys do.”

I waited until the Kurds were out of earshot, and asked, “So, tell me about the Kurds. Are they any good?”

He glanced over at them and lowered his voice. “Hey, I’m just a captain, but I’d rather they be on my side than the other way around, you know?” As it was, he seemed to consider them his troops as much as any of the Americans. When it came time for lunch, they actually had a mess tent set up, and lunch was a mix of American food and some Kurdish food (lamb in a stew over rice, with flatbread.) The Kurds lined up just like the Americans; they also seemed to like Tabasco sauce, since a lot of the troops pulled bottles out and passed them around. It might not be the way it was shown in the books at Fort Knox, but it seemed to be an effective combat outfit.

I did the usual President-meeting-the-troops routine, which usually consisted of asking, ‘How’s it going?’, ‘You guys eating okay?’, ‘Had a chance to call home yet?’, and that sort of thing. It sounds terminally trite and phony, but it’s good for morale, and if there was a problem, we needed to know. Morale seemed good, for both the Americans and the Kurds. The only complaint seemed to be that too many of the MREs these guys had been sharing with the Kurds had pork in them. They swapped around as best they could, but some of the Americans complained that pork chops could get old after awhile. Colonel Jeffries commented that Natick (whatever that was) was developing halal MREs. I told him to make sure we put a rush on that, and I would check on it when we got home.

“Have you called your mother?” asked Marilyn.

Roscoe blushed. “Uh, actually, when we were in Erbil, I called my fiancé.”

“Your fiancé?! You’re engaged!? When did that happen?” she exclaimed, just beating me to it.

He grinned. “We’ve been seeing each other for six months or so. We met in Vilseck. She works on the base.”

“She’s a German girl?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Irish. Actually her parents are Jamaican, but they moved to Ireland, which is where she was born, and now she works in Germany. Mom knows, but hasn’t had a chance to meet her yet.”

“You’ve got your own little UN there! Well, if you can send her a message, we will be stopping off in Germany on the way back, and we’d love to meet her. Marilyn is going to talk to your mother about you as soon as we get out of here anyway.” Roscoe rolled his eyes at that. “How’s Tyrone doing? What’s he now, first year?” Tyrone Buckminster wanted to go to West Point, and I hadn’t been able to talk him out of it, so I used one of my Presidential appointments and sent him there.

“He’ll be a firstie this fall.”

“Does he want Armor, too, or does he want Artillery like your old man and me?” I asked.

“Neither. He wants to be a combat engineer.”

I shrugged. “Nothing wrong with that. They can be useful critters to have around.”

That got a laugh out of a lieutenant with the ‘castle’ insignia of a combat engineer. “Tell your brother that when he gets out of the Army, at least he’ll be able to get a job!” he interjected.

I nodded. “That’s true enough. Roscoe and me, all we learned was how to shoot things and blow them up.”

At that point Colonel Jeffries told us we had to move along. The next flight would be longer, as we were visiting the British 7^th Armored. I shook hands with as many people as I could, and Marilyn gave Roscoe another hug. After that it was back on the Black Hawks and a flight eastward.

For some reason, seeing Roscoe there in Kurdistan, and doing well, made the rest of the trip much more enjoyable. I visited the Brits and did a similar tour of one of their tank companies, and then we returned to Erbil. The next day was our last, and I made sure we toured the hospital set up. American casualties were relatively light, and British casualties were almost nonexistent, but the Kurds had taken it on the chin before we got there. I didn’t just visit the American troops, but also stuck my head into the British tent, and then visited some of the Kurds.

The Kurdish casualties were much more severe, and the mustard gas casualties were gruesome. I was going through one ward, with some reporters tailing behind me, and my interpreter began talking to one very morose young man who was obviously missing his right leg, from just above the knee. I asked my interpreter about the young man, who looked to be in his early twenties. He said, “He used to play football. He was very good, a champion player.”

“Uh… football… oh, yes, soccer! We have a different name in America. Soccer, running around and kicking the ball, yes?”

He nodded. “Yes, football. Difficult to do now. Inshallah!”

Inshallah — it is God’s will. “Yes.” I approached the young Kurd, and sat down in a folding chair next to him. “Let me tell this soldier a story.” The interpreter began talking to the soldier, and I talked to him for a few minutes, stopping every few sentences to let the interpreter catch up. “I knew a soldier once, who was an athlete. He ran miles every day… He was a good soldier, and young and proud… One day he was hurt, and he could no longer be a soldier… Now where he once had great pride, now he only had great bitterness and great sorrow.” The young Kurd’s eyes flicked down to my leg, and then back to my face. “He had many friends, however, and they told him, ‘Come, join us, and we will go into business together.’, and he did so for many years… Then his friends told him, ‘Come, you are wise, and you should write books to let people know what you know.’, and he wrote many books… Finally, his friends told him, ‘Come, you are very wise, and you should become a great leader of our people.’, and they elected him a leader of his people… Now, let me ask you… Who was this soldier? Was he me?” I asked, slapping my right leg with my cane. “Or was he you?”

The Kurd’s eyes opened wide at this, and he talked to the interpreter for several minutes. Afterward, I said goodbye, and Marilyn and I went on our way. The interpreter told me that the young man seemed impressed, and I told him that anybody can kick a football, and that his country needed doctors and teachers and engineers even more. Before we left, I told President Barzani that the Buckman Foundation would help rebuild the country, and promised several million dollars in aid.

I was going to be out of a job in a few years. Maybe I was looking at a new job now, cleaning up the messes I had gotten the world into.

Chapter 165: Survival

From Erbil, we flew back to Incirlik, where I met Erdogan one more time and spent a last night in Turkey. We switched back to the 747. I found out that my promise of matching funds to rebuild the hospital had ended up going world-wide! In just a matter of days, the Buckman Foundation was on the hook for over $12 million for that hospital! This thing was going to be gold-plated by the time we were done. Marilyn just told me that I was rich and to get over it. Well, she was right, I was rich, so I got on television and promised matching funds for all private donations to build schools and clinics in Kurdistan as well. In for a penny, in for a pound.

Originally the plan had been to fly home from Turkey, but we had added one last stop. From Incirlik we flew to Ramstein Air Base in Germany. I had two purposes to this side trip. First was to visit Landstuhl Hospital, which was just a few miles away, and was where all the serious wound cases from Kurdistan ended up being flown to. They were even treating Kurdish Peshmerga and civilian casualties. That was really heart-wrenching. You had these great kids, many of whom, especially from the Azwya Valley battle, had lost arms and legs, and they wanted to get fixed up so they could go back to their buddies. I understood it, but it was still very tough to see.

Secondly, Condi and Tom Ridge had managed to call a NATO summit meeting at Ramstein. This was going to be a fairly quick meeting, just a long day or so, and I was going to thank the NATO members who had been part of the Kurdish Coalition. The biggest help had come from the British, who had sent the 7^th Armored and a squadron of Tornado fighter-bombers, and Germany and Norway, who had sent chemical decontamination teams, medical units, and transport battalions. Foremost, of course, was Turkey, without which we couldn’t have done anything. I met with the various NATO representatives, and Tony Blair flew in from London, so I made sure I met with him and Angela Merkel, the German Chancellor. The countries that didn’t provide assistance, or weren’t supportive? They didn’t get too many smiles and handshakes, and they might find the next NATO summit meeting a little chillier.

From there, we went home. It had been a long day, and we climbed back onto Air Force One, and I planned to sleep a chunk of it. It was about a nine hour flight, although with the time change, we would arrive back in D.C. about three hours after we took off. Very weird. We would sleep most of the night on the plane, and then land in the middle of the night, and I would be up all night after that.

Marilyn and I loaded last, and we simply settled into some of the seats in the front. Think first class, only nicer. Anyway, once we got on board, we were seated, and a few minutes later the engines spooled up and we began to roll. There is no waiting around when you are the President. We went to the head of the line.

Marilyn told me, while we were taxiing, “You need to call your daughter when we get airborne.”

“Which one?”

“Molly.”

I shrugged. My baby was 22, and had one more year to go to graduate with her Masters. She and Bucky were still going out, and she was spending her summer working at an internship at Harley-Davidson that Tusker had arranged. He was a major dealer for them and had some pull at their Milwaukee headquarters. Holly would be moving out completely in the fall, when she went to Princeton for her doctoral program. She hadn’t settled down on any one guy, but by all accounts she was as heterosexual as her siblings. She had told me she didn’t have time right now to settle down. Neither did Charlie, for that matter, who seemed to prefer slinky blonde models that he met at various races. He called them ‘bike bunnies.’

Once we were at altitude, I picked up the handset in the console next to me and asked to be connected to Molly. I hung up, knowing the massive telecommunications capabilities of the United States Air Force, the National Security Agency, and the White House Communications Center would be able to track down a college kid who was under surveillance and wasn’t actually trying to hide from anybody. A few minutes later, the phone rang again, and I picked it up. Marilyn had an amused look on her face, so I suspected I was being set up. I wondered what my daughter wanted now. “Hello?”

“Daddy!? I am so glad you called! Mom said I had to talk to you. Actually, Bucky has to talk to you. Hold on!”

“Bucky?” I was talking to dead air. I looked over at my wife. “Do you know what is going on?”

She laughed and didn’t answer. After about sixty seconds I heard some scrambling on the phone, and then Bucky Tusk came on the line. “Uh… Mister President… I mean, Uncle Carl…”

I had a funny feeling about what was coming next. “I’m here, Bucky. What’s up?”

“Uh, well, Molly and I, we… Uh, I am asking for your daughter’s hand in marriage… uh, sir.”

I rolled my eyes and looked at Marilyn. I cupped the mouthpiece in my hand, and said, “You knew about this, right?”

She laughed. “Molly called me this afternoon, while you were busy. Quick, say yes before they get scared.”

I snorted and took my hand down. “Okay, Bucky, it’s not like we’ve never met you. You will be a welcome addition to the Buckman family.” I could hear Molly squealing in the background, so she must have been hanging over his shoulder. “Now, let me talk to my daughter.”

“Oh, Daddy, thank you, thank you, this is great!” She babbled on for a minute or so.

“Hold it, young lady. Let me ask you a question. When does the wedding have to be?”

“What do you mean?”

I grimaced and shook my head. “Is this a quickie wedding, as in we need to marry you off right away?”

“Huh?”

“Before nine months pass?”

“DADDY! NO!”

“Hey, I have to ask.” Marilyn smiled and punched my shoulder. “Okay. Listen, we are going to need to make an announcement pretty quick. If you told your mother, she’s probably told a dozen people already…” I got punched again for that one! “… so you’d better figure on an official announcement sometime tomorrow or the next day.”

“Uh, yeah, okay.”

“Here’s your mother.” I handed the phone to Marilyn.

She took the phone and told me, “You are a rat!” Then she spoke into the handset. “Molly? I just told your father he’s a rat!”

They started running me down, and I simply waved over one of the stewards, who was grinning. He must have either heard, or equally likely, Marilyn had said something. “I think we are going to need a bottle of champagne, please.”

“Yes, sir. Congratulations!”

“Yeah? Do you know how much weddings cost? It’d be cheaper if they just eloped!”

He laughed and went towards the galley. The rest of the crew around us was smiling, too. Marilyn must have said something! When he returned, Marilyn was hanging up the phone. She told me, “You really are a rat, and a cheap rat, too!”

“I love you, too, honey.”

The steward popped the cork and poured us some champagne, and we toasted an engagement. Then I asked the steward, “Do me a favor. Don’t say anything, but go back and find Fletcher Donaldson and drag his lazy carcass up here, please. Thank you.”

“Yes, sir.” He set the bottle in a cooler, and headed to the back of the plane.

A couple of minutes later Fletcher Donaldson came forward. He glanced around and saw it was simply Marilyn and me and a steward and an agent. “Celebrating, Carl? What’s up?”

Fletcher was probably the reporter who had been following me the longest, since the days I had been running for Congress while still running the Buckman Group. He had been calling me by my first name since those days, including through my days in Congress. Now, while he was deferential when others were around, when it was just us, he used my name and I didn’t correct him.

The same was true for a few other top people and close friends. Certainly my family and personal friends didn’t call me ‘Mister President’, and my Vice President called me Carl, as did most of the Cabinet, and certainly the Core Four — State, Treasury, Defense, and Justice. Fletcher was one of only a handful of reporters who did so, and that group included Tim Russert and George Will, who I had known almost as long.

As a President I had to balance between an ‘Imperial Presidency’ and something a lot less formal. Both Nixon and Reagan were probably the most imperial Presidents, with a general disdain for Congress, a love of the perquisites of office, and an out of control ‘court’ of subordinates who frequently broke the law. At the other end you had Jimmy Carter, who would be seen carrying his own luggage and wearing sweaters while turning the heat down in the White House. He didn’t look non-imperial, he looked cheap! For what it was worth it seemed like I had managed to strike some sort of balance. No, I didn’t carry my own bags, but I did work with Congress, and while I certainly relied on my staff to get things done, I was more than happy to hold them accountable for their actions.

“Have a seat, Fletcher. Champagne?” I pointed at a seat facing back towards Marilyn and me, and motioned the steward over. “Another glass, please.”

“Yes, sir.”

He was back a few seconds later, and promptly poured some champagne into it. I immediately protested, “Hey, wait, that’s the good stuff! He’s a reporter. He can’t tell the difference between champagne and swill!”

Fletcher grabbed the glass before the steward could take me seriously. “Ignore him. He’s heading back to America, where the people don’t like him nearly as much as the Kurds do.”

Marilyn laughed at that. “That is cold, Fletcher!” she said.

“But true, so true. What’s up?” he asked.

“Fletcher, I have decided to take pity on you for teasing you about jumping out of planes. I am going to bless you with an exclusive!”

Marilyn gave me a curious look, but Fletcher’s ears twitched and he suddenly got a look like a pointer aiming for a quail. “An exclusive?”

“You are going to get one day, maybe two, before the rest of the world gets informed of one of the most momentous events of the Buckman presidency!”

He looked over at my wife and said, “Why do I have the funny feeling I am being set up for something?”

“Because you’re smart?” she answered.

“Nuts to the pair of you! Okay, Fletcher, actually it’s not going to be that helpful to you, but your editor and publisher might appreciate it,” I said.

He sipped about half his champagne. “Oh? While that might be enjoyable to the average reporter, I don’t live in Baltimore any longer. I moved to D.C. a few years ago, so I don’t have to see them all that much. What’s going to make them appreciate me?”

“Maybe the Sun’s Society page editor might like you.” I shrugged. “Anyway, I figure the Sun is our hometown paper, so you guys might as well hear about it first. Molly just got engaged. We just found out tonight.”

Fletcher grinned and said, “Congratulations! Who’s the lucky fellow? Anybody I know or might have heard of?”

I poured Marilyn and myself some more champagne, and gave her a funny look. “You know, he might know him, after all.” I turned back to Fletcher. “Actually, I think you do know him, or at least his family. It’s Bucky Tusk, Tusker and Tessa’s boy. I know you’ve met them.”

“Ummmm, your business partner, long red hair? Him?”

I nodded. “It’s got a lot of gray these days. That’s Bucky’s dad, and we weren’t exactly partners. I was simply an investor in his bike shop. We’ve known Bucky since he was a baby.”

“Bucky and Charlie were business partners in a race team for a bit,” added Marilyn.

“Huh. How’s that going?”

“Pretty good, I guess. He’s defending his national championship again. We’re planning on going to see a few of his races at some point. There’s one up in New York at Unadilla where we can go see the races and see some of Marilyn’s family at the same time,” I said.

“So, when’s the wedding?”

I had no clue, so I shrugged and looked at Marilyn. “Nothing definite, but she graduates next May, so it will probably be next summer,” she answered.

“Are you doing the big White House wedding?” he asked, as he poured himself some more champagne.

That finished the bottle, and the steward brought out another bottle. I thanked him and said, “No idea. When was the last one? Didn’t one of Nixon’s daughters get married at the White House? Or was that just the reception?”

“My daughters are getting married in a church!” announced the bride’s mother.

I glanced at Fletcher. “I guess that settles that! Listen, we’ll be issuing a formal announcement after we get home and talk to the kids and the Tusks. Feel free to give your people a head’s up. It will all be official in a day or two, tops.”

With that I yawned, and Fletcher took the hint. He stood up and then refilled his glass. “I think I am going to take this back with me and make everybody in the press section jealous.”

I laughed at that, and after he left, Marilyn and I headed towards our room at the front, and we took our glasses and the rest of the bottle with us. Time for a little Mile High Club action.

Over the next few days, I needed to consider my schedule. It was now the middle of the summer, and we had a mid-term election to win. There were a few advantages to winning a war. My approval ratings had shot back up following Kurdish Dawn and Kurdish Dragon. I was now in the mid-80s, which I hadn’t seen since Enduring Freedom had destroyed Al Qaeda and the Taliban. I had a full schedule of campaign appearances across the country, assisting various Congressional and Senatorial candidates either hold their seats or unseat those pesky Democrats. That was going to take up the balance of my summer and go on into the fall.

One of the first things that happened, though, was a joint interview with the various armed services journals. Army Times, Proceedings of the Naval Institute, Air Force Magazine, Coast Guard Magazine, and Leatherneck all wanted to speak to me about the Kurdish War and my efforts on behalf of my fellow veterans. We agreed to a meeting in one of the conference rooms. The service magazines had an interesting readership. If you are in the service, you have probably run across them, and might even have a subscription, but otherwise the odds are you’ve never even heard of them. Certainly long term veteran non-coms and officers would be familiar with their own service’s magazine. In addition, the writers and journalists are often ex-military, or if civilian, would have decent knowledge and familiarity. I wouldn’t have to explain the difference between a tank and an armored personnel carrier, for instance.

I think a big part of the interview request was that Al Jazeera had managed to tape my meeting with the Kurdish soldier in the hospital in Erbil. They had broadcast it throughout the Muslim world, translated into the local language, and the original English language version made its way to the American networks. American commentators mentioned that this was similar to my long efforts to ramp up employment and education opportunities for American veterans. Now reporters wanted to know my thoughts on the subject.

Each reporter had their own list of questions, but I suspected the interview would be reported in each magazine almost verbatim. I tried to give thoughtful answers.

Q: “Were you aware, when you spoke to the Kurdish soldier that your response would end up going world-wide?”

A: “Not really. Oh, I am always aware that just about everything I say or do is being recorded, and I knew there were reporters along, but otherwise never gave it too much thought. I was just trying to cheer up a wounded soldier, one ex-soldier to another.”

Q: “And what do you feel about the response to that, here at home and world-wide? It has been played in just about every VA hospital in the country.”

A: “What I told that soldier applies to any wounded or injured soldier, in any country. Many years ago, when I was injured, I received the same talk from another soldier. We are only as handicapped as we think we are. Life does not end when we leave the service. That service just takes a different shape.”

Q: “You have often told veterans and people ending their service to go into politics. Why is that?”

A: “Interesting question. I think, historically, that if we go back to the foundations of what we consider Western Civilization, and by that I mean the Athenian democracy and the Roman Republic, military service was practically a requirement for political office. They didn’t expect you to be a general, but they did expect you to know which end of the spear to hold, and which end went into the other guy. That has certainly been the case in America as well, at least until recent years. Up through the Korean War, I think the percentage of the Congress which had served was in the 80 %-90 % range. That changed after Viet Nam. Nowadays it is somewhere around 10 %-20 %. I think this country would be better served if that ratio were to rise again.”

Q: “How so?”

A: “One of the things I hear constantly are calls by what I call ‘chickenhawks’ to go to war somewhere in the world. These types have never served and their children have never served but boy are they happy to tell me and my children what to do! In my experience, the last people who actually want a war are the people who have already been in one. I might not be a war hero, but I saw enough in the Army to know just how bad it can get.”

We also got into some social issues affecting the services.

Q: “You are a proponent of gay rights. Do you plan on repealing ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell’?”

A: “I don’t know as I am a proponent as much as somebody who doesn’t think people should be judged based on who they sleep with. It’s not so much ‘don’t ask don’t tell’ as it is ‘don’t ask, don’t care.’”

Q: “But do you plan to repeal the current law?”

A: “No. I think that would be premature. However, I do think that time is coming, and sooner than you might think. My bet is that the current ruling on homosexuality in the military will be finished in ten years or less. It’s a generational thing. People my age or older want the rule, but not the younger generation. They don’t understand it or agree with it. Every time they take a poll on this the responses from the senior people in the services are starkly different from those of the junior people. Ten years from now ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ will be history. Twenty years from now nobody will understand why we had it in the first place.”

Q: “There are those who argue that having gays in the military will cause a decrease in unit cohesion and efficiency.”

A: “I seem to recall we had that same argument about blacks in the military and women in the military. We seem to have survived those two crises. In addition, I just love the people who claim that in combat having to share a foxhole with a gay comrade will be a problem. This just shows they don’t know what they are talking about! I’ve been in a foxhole, and the only thing I cared about the guy in it with me was whether he had enough ammo and whether he was going to do something that might get me killed. Never share a foxhole with anybody braver than you are!”

Q: “Are you going to loosen the restrictions on women in combat?”

A: “That one I’m not in favor of, but I’ll be honest about it. I think it’s because I’m enough of a dinosaur to think that combat is a man’s job, not a woman’s. Not everybody agrees with that, of course, and the law allows women into most military fields, and I have no intention of changing that. My biggest issue, however, is simply whether a woman is qualified or not. Men and women are different. On average, men are bigger and have much greater upper body strength. Now, I am perfectly aware that there are any number of women out there who can probably kick my butt, but on average the loads we carry are more than what the average woman can handle. Gender norming is what they use to get around this fact, and I think it is a pernicious problem. If I was going to be in combat, I would want the people around me to be able to carry the load, which just might include me. Then again, my wife and daughters tell me I’m just a grumpy old man, so I don’t think I am going to win this argument.”

My responses on women and gays made the Sunday morning shows the week after the interviews were published. As always, the religious right considered my remarks a sign of the end times and the collapse of civilization, and the liberals thought I was a hidebound antique. Some days you just can’t win.

At the start of September, I had one event which I was the host of and wasn’t political. The Baltimore Symphony Orchestra was beginning their fall season at the Meyerhoff. As one of their larger patrons, and the honorary chairman of their fundraising committee (funny how that worked out!) I had the privilege of opening the season up. As President I had missed some years because of scheduling conflicts, but this year I was available. It was a black tie affair, a real gala event, and I would play host and shake hands with the powers that be in Maryland. Bob Ehrlich, the Governor would be there, along with Martin O’Malley, the Mayor of Baltimore, and any number of other state and city politicians, several Congressmen, at least one Senator, and a variety of bigwigs. The concert would be an evening of Wagner, and would be preceded by a very nice (expensive!) cocktail party, my treat.

Marilyn and I arrived at the main entrance on Cathedral Street. We had driven up in the limo from D.C., which took no longer than flying from the South Lawn to somewhere in Baltimore and taking a limo from there. I was sure there was a place, a park or something, we could land in, but it’s pretty rude to simply take over a public park and land your helicopter there. Once we pulled up to the front, we waited while the agents looked around at the rope line, and then a door was opened, and I stepped out, and then gave Marilyn my hand to help her out.

Camera flashes began going off, and I waved to the crowds on the other side of the rope line, mostly reporters and photographers. It was guaranteed that this would make the front page of the Society section in the next Baltimore Sun. From there we would head inside to the cocktail reception, which was invitation only. You couldn’t even get in the building without an invitation, and people would be entering through a discreet magnetometer system. I knew that agents were out in the crowd, and probably on some nearby roofs, and just inside the rope line was a line of Baltimore City Police officers.

Marilyn slipped away for a second and went over to say hello to Cheryl Dedrick. I waved, but then saw Bob Ehrlich waving and trying to catch my eye. I moved towards him.

“GUN!”

I didn’t even have a chance to look around. I heard a few muted POPs, but I was being bodily dragged back to the limo and was thrown inside. Tires squealing and sirens flashing, we were gone in a matter of seconds.

“WHAT… WHAT HAPPENED!?” I managed to get out. “WHERE’S MARILYN?!” I looked around, but she wasn’t in the limo with me. I could taste blood, so I must have bitten my tongue when they grabbed me.

“There was a gun, sir! Mrs. Buckman is in the next car!” I was told.

I wondered vaguely where we were going, but they really don’t tell you that stuff. They had the plan, and the protectee doesn’t need to know all the details. Besides, I was feeling a little off at the moment, probably from nerves, and I knew I must have bitten my tongue, since I could taste a lot of blood, and my breathing was a bit difficult.

“Where…” I managed to say, and I could feel some blood dripping out of my mouth onto my dress shirt. The Residence staff was going to be pissed. It would never get clean…

“SHIT! JUMPER IS HIT, REPEAT, JUMPER IS HIT! DIVERTING TO SHOCK TRAUMA!”

Somebody must have been hit by something. I vaguely wondered who, and why everybody was grabbing me and tearing off my shirt. Then I didn’t remember anything more.

The next thing I knew, I was waking up in some place that seemed like it was a hospital room, but that didn’t make any sense. I hadn’t been hurt or sick, so why was I in a hospital? I tried to move around some, but I was really stiff, and had a bunch of tubes going into both arms, and some more going around my head. None of this made any sense, so I tried to sit up, and that didn’t work either. I lay back down to try and figure it out.

I woke up a second time in the same place, but things seemed a little clearer. I was able to open my eyes, and the ceiling above whatever I was on had tiles and what looked like wires and hangers and medical type stuff around me. I was able to twist my head slightly to the right, and I saw some medical equipment, and I could hear a BEEP… BEEP… BEEP like on some hospital show on television. I could hear a few muted voices, but maybe that was on that hospital show. I tried to speak, but my mouth was pretty dry. I turned to look at my left, but didn’t make it that far.

The third time was the charm. I came to and felt awake and conscious. I was able to turn my head and actually see that I was hooked up to a monitor that was showing my pulse and breathing and blood pressure, and it was obvious that I was in a hospital bed. A nurse was down at the end, and she was talking to somebody on a phone. And my wife was there. Marilyn was sitting in a chair staring at me and crying. What happened? Was I dead, and I was now in some out-of-body experience watching people hover around my corpse.

“What happened?” I tried to say it again, but it was just hoarse croaking. The nurse came over with a small cup of water and a flexible straw, which she held to my lips. Marilyn was now standing on the other side, and holding my hand in a death grip. The nurse only let me drink a bit, and I moved my tongue around to wet everything. Then I had another sip, and could ask, fairly clearly, “What happened? Where am I?”

“Oh, God, Carl, you were shot!” exclaimed Marilyn.

I gave her a funny look. “No, I wasn’t shot! Where am I?”

At that point, a couple of doctor types came in. “Good morning, Mister President,” said the first one. “Yes, you were shot. You are in the Shock Trauma Center in Baltimore.” The pair of them began peering at me and poking and prodding and shining lights in everything.

“Hey, wouldn’t it hurt if I had been shot?”

The second one snorted. “Trust me, sir, you’ll be feeling it soon enough.”

“Who are you?”

The second guy said, “I’m Doctor Hawley. This is Doctor Renfrew. He’s the surgeon. I’m the infectious disease guy.”

“Infectious… what the hell is going on?” I demanded.

“You were shot last Friday, at the Symphony, sir. They brought you here, and we got the bullet out, but then you got an infection, and it was pretty bad,” answered Renfrew, the first doctor.

I looked at my wife. “Last Friday!? What day is it now?”

“Wednesday. You’ve been unconscious for over four days!” She squeezed my hand.

“Four…” I shook my head in disbelief. “What happened?” Nobody answered that.

I looked around the room, and noticed that there was an agent, one of my detail in the corner, and he was nodding his head. “Welcome back, Mister President. Director Basham will explain it to you. He’s on his way over now.”

“Who’s running the country now?”

“John was named Acting President,” answered my wife.

My eyes popped open at that phrase! “I think I’ve seen this movie before! Let’s hope it doesn’t end the same way.” Marilyn broke down at that and bent down over me, and simply began to hug me and cry. My right arm was relatively free, and I brought it up to rub her back, and in doing so, I felt that pain I had been expecting, in my chest. That made me groan, and I looked over at Renfrew. “Where was I shot? What happened?”

The agent nodded to the doctors, and Doctor Renfrew answered, “You took a bullet to the upper right chest. It wasn’t really big or powerful, but it went through one of your ribs and ended up in your right lung. You were brought here, and we were able to get it out fairly quickly, but you got an infection, either from the shooting or from here in the hospital, and we’ve been treating that since then.”

Doctor Hawley added, “It was pretty serious. We’ve kept you unconscious and on some pretty heavy antibiotics and painkillers for a few days. Yesterday you began to improve, so we began backing off on the sedatives, and here you are, awake again.”

“Huh. Four days. I guess I’m not all that important after all,” I mused, smiling. “So, I’m going to live?”

“Probably another thirty or forty years, sir, at least,” Hawley answered with a smile.

I snorted and smiled at that, as Marilyn rubbed my head. “Twenty, twenty-five, max, Doc. Alzheimer’s, strokes, and dementia run in my family. I doubt I’ll make it much past 70 and still be functioning.”

“Carl! Your mother is still alive, and she’s 77!”

“She’s hanging in there long enough to drive a stake through my heart,” I said, laughing. That hurt, too. “When can I get out of here?”

“You’re still in pretty rough shape, sir. Not for a few more days.”

I just nodded at that, and the two doctors began doing some more prodding and poking. Then the agent interjected and said, “Director Basham is here.”

I looked at the doctors. “Unless you are going to open me up again, I need to speak to some people. Okay?”

“We’ll be back, sir, along with your regular doctor.”

They went out the door, and Ralph Basham came in past them. He had been one of the Three Amigos, and when Brian Stafford, the previous director had retired, I had named Basham his replacement. I was able to wave my fingers at him. “Hi, Ralph. Is it good morning or good afternoon?”

“Good afternoon, Mister President,” he answered formally. “I am here to apologize for what happened, and to tender my resignation.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope. “My deputy is outside to receive your orders.”

“Good Christ,” I muttered. “Ralph, why don’t you tell me what happened and let me be the one to decide whether you need to leave? All I know so far is that somebody shot me. What happened?”

He came closer and laid the envelope on the bed next to me, but I ignored it. “Yes, sir. We caught the shooter, so we have it figured out. Have you ever heard of a Robert Mooradian?”

“Who?”

“Robert Mooradian.”

I searched my memory, but nothing leaped out. “Sorry. Should I?”

“No, sir, but we have to ask anyway. He’s a 25 year old carpet salesman from East Patchogue, Long Island. For want of a better phrase, he’s not wrapped all that tight.” I nodded, and motioned for Basham to continue. “He’s a third generation Armenian carpet salesman. His grandfather came to this country shortly before the Second World War, and reportedly told his children and grandchildren about the Armenian Massacre by the Ottoman Turks during the First World War. Most of his family was killed, and he escaped and eventually landed in New York.”

“Okay, I’ve heard of it, but what’s that got to do with me?” I asked.

“Well, like I said, this guy, the grandson, he isn’t quite all there. Gramps complained about the Turks to all his kids and grandkids, but in general they considered themselves American, and they simply put up with grumpy old Grandpa when he got on one of his rants. The grandson, Robert, he decided that when you went to Turkey and helped them attack Iraq, it was like you were attacking Armenia.”

“That’s crazy!” I protested.

“That may well be the eventual diagnosis, Mister President,” he admitted.

“So, how did he get close enough to shoot me?”

“He basically got up to the rope line. It looks like he began to track your movements from the time you got home from Europe, but hadn’t been able to figure out how to get to one of your campaign stops. Then he learned about your annual appearance at the Symphony and drove down, hoping to get lucky. He stole a gun from an uncle, a long retired transit cop who lives in Queens. You got lucky there. It was a forty year old.38 snub nose with even older ammunition, and it had degraded with time. He got three shots off and then the gun jammed.”

“He fired three times?”

Basham shrugged. “The first one hit your chest. After that, you were covered up, and a Baltimore cop managed to grab this guy. He wrapped up this guy, who kept firing, but they managed to subdue Mooradian and disarm him. He’s been talking to us ever since, even when his lawyer tells him to shut up!”

Shit! “What happened to the cop?” I asked.

“He’s okay. He was wearing his vest and the ammo was really lousy. He’s got a bad bruise and some bruised ribs and a story to impress his grandkids some day. He’ll be fine. He got some mandatory time off and has been fishing in the Bay for a couple of days, along with one of my guys who’s keeping an eye on him.”

“I’ll want to meet him, thank him.”

Ralph nodded. “Yes, sir. Sir, you have to accept this. It happened on my watch…”

“Ralph, shut up. I am not going to fire you or let you quit. Put that out of your head right now. Now, I assume you have some sort of investigation going on. You don’t need to answer that; I know it’s true. If the investigation says you screwed up, or any of your people screwed up, we can hang the appropriate people then. You know that I won’t have any problem doing that. So, give it a rest, let the job continue, and let’s see what they figure out.”

Marilyn spoke up at that. “Mister Basham, I saw one of your agents bleeding. Didn’t he get shot, too?”

“Yes, ma’am. The bullet that hit the President clipped one of the agents in the arm first.”

“Then, your men were doing their job, weren’t they?”

He didn’t answer, so I turned to my wife and said, “Go out there and find this replacement fellow.”

She smiled at me and went to the door. She opened the door and said something I couldn’t hear, while Basham simply shook his head. She led another man into the room.

“You asked for me, Mister President?”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Brian Nagel, the Deputy Director of the Secret Service, sir. Director Basham ordered me to come here,” he replied.

“You don’t think I should fire him?”

“No sir!”

“Good for you. Come here. Take this envelope back to your office and have it shredded. You are still the Deputy Director.” I turned my head to Basham. “If it’s necessary to fire you, I’ll let you know, but until then you are still the Director.” Nagel looked relieved and Basham looked embarrassed. “Wait a minute… if McCain is the Acting President, can I do that?”

For the first time, Ralph Basham smiled. “You’re still the President, sir. Mister McCain is already on his way over to see you.”

I smiled. “Good! This can get confusing, can’t it!?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Listen, you get back to work. We’ll talk some more.” I turned to Marilyn. “When’s lunch? I’m starving!”

When Basham and Nagel left, Hawley, Renfrew, and the White House Physician, Tubb, came in. “Gentlemen! Any chance I can get something to eat? A nice steak and a beer would be good.”

They looked at each other and smiled. “We’ll take that under advisement, Mister President,” answered Tubb. He joined in on the poking and prodding, and they had a nurse pull some of the tubes out of me. Then I got a small bowl of broth and some red Jell-O.

I was grumbling about that when John McCain showed up. “Hello, John. Would you like some delicious broth and Jell-O?” I asked.

He smiled. “I wouldn’t want to interfere with your recovery. It’s good to see you, Carl! How are you feeling? Hi, Marilyn.”

“Hi, John,” she said.

I answered, “Okay. A little sore. It’s weird, but it seems unreal. I don’t remember being shot, and now I am waking up four days later. What’s been going on? Somebody told me you were named Acting President.”

McCain nodded. “We did that the next morning, when it became obvious you were going to be out of it for awhile. We used Section Four of the 25^th Amendment like you did, but nobody was too worried. Not to be blunt about it, but we knew where you were, at least.” It was my turn to nod in understanding. “Now that you’re awake, if the doctors clear you, you can get the job back. I think the White House Counsel is drawing up some paperwork already.”

“Sounds good. Has anything been going on in the world that I missed?”

“Just the usual mayhem and chaos. Everybody has been calling with words of sympathy. I am sure that some of them might even be real.”

Marilyn snorted and rolled her eyes.

“And you still want this job?” I asked, shaking my head and smiling.

He laughed at that. “When do you get out of here?”

I looked over at my wife who looked mystified, so we called in Doctor Tubb. I needed to do some more healing in the hospital, and then begin rebuilding my strength and do some rehabilitation and physical therapy. Currently the plan was to spend one more night at Shock Trauma, and then transfer me to Bethesda for a few days, until I could return to the White House.

That part didn’t surprise me. Shock Trauma is actually the Shock Trauma Center, part of the University of Maryland Medical Center, and is one of the finest emergency rooms in the nation. All it handles are severe emergencies and trauma cases — like gunshot victims, for instance. I wasn’t even sure they had beds that weren’t in an Intensive Care Unit. They definitely were not a long term care facility or a rehab center.

“I probably need to make a statement at some point, but I must look like hell right now. I assume there are reporters down below waiting to pronounce me dead?” All three of them laughed and nodded at that. “You should come up with a statement that since only the good die young, I will be around for a long time to come. Something like that, anyway.”

“You need some rest, Mister President,” announced the doctor.

Suddenly I felt tired. “Maybe so.” Marilyn kissed me and they left.

I dozed for a few hours and woke up again when a nurse came in to poke and prod. I was able to catch the evening news, and I wasn’t surprised to find that I was the lead item. It was reported that I was awake and responding, and my condition was improving rapidly. Then they had excerpts from the press briefing with Marilyn, John McCain, and Doctor Tubb. They reported the same things (awake, responding, improving) and that I had thanked the brave Secret Service agents and Baltimore City Police officers, and the doctors and nurses at Shock Trauma. I would remain hospitalized for a few days more, and would be able to give a statement in a day or two.

I thought the best line was when somebody asked Marilyn if I seemed back to normal. She replied, “Well, Carl asked for a steak and a beer, and he got kind of grouchy when they served him broth and Jell-O. That’s pretty normal, don’t you think?” I had to laugh at that. Then I ate my evening meal of broth and Jell-O.

Marilyn brought Charlie and the girls to see me that evening. Charlie had flown in from where he was racing, and Molly and Holly came in from where they were going to school. It was good to see them, and then we sent them back to their own lives. Charlie had missed a race over the weekend, and the girls were starting the fall semesters at Princeton and Maryland. They really were all grown up.

The next morning, after some more poking and prodding, and some more broth and Jell-O, along with juice and tea, I was transferred to the Naval Hospital in Bethesda. For that they simply brought in a regular medevac helicopter, loaded me on, and flew me to Bethesda. I got another checkup, and they pulled the rest of the tubes out, along with the catheter, and had me actually walk around some. I was a bit weak and unsteady, but everybody seemed to think I was making good progress. They also told me I would be able to get more solid foods in me. I asked for a steak; I was offered a vegetarian hamburger. “As soon as I get out of here, we are going to the drive-thru at McDonalds!” I told everybody. Marilyn damn near died laughing at me.

I was also able to meet with some of my staff. John Weisenholtz, the White House Counsel brought over a letter to be signed by me and Doctor Tubb that said I was alive and healthy and able to resume my duties as the President. There was a procedure to follow in order to send John McCain back to the dugout. Frank Stouffer came over and we reviewed what I had missed so far, and Will Brucis came over and we discussed an evening press conference. That could be held here at Bethesda, and Frank said he would have somebody bring over some clothing, something casual. Then I got some broth and a green salad, no dressing, for lunch. After lunch I did some more walking, and a physical therapist showed up to torture me. I really needed to get out of the hospital!

The press conference was going to be fairly brief, maybe twenty, thirty minutes, tops. Will limited it to the major networks and a few print reporters, and it would be in a conference room here at Bethesda. He had them set that up, and Marilyn and the physical therapist helped me to take a shower, and get cleaned up and shaved. The only bandages I had were a fairly large one covering my upper right chest. Will had me put on some slacks and a zippered sweatshirt. I almost looked human by the time I was able to totter into the press conference. Totter is actually close to the truth. My right knee was really beginning to bug me, and since I normally supported myself with a cane on my right side, and my right chest now had a hole in it, that made using the cane a lot more difficult.

Still, I much preferred being able to meet reporters on my own two feet. The last President who was able to meet people in a wheelchair was FDR, and the sorry truth was that in the modern television age, it would be the kiss of death. Still, as I got to the doorway into the conference room, I stopped, took a deep breath, stood up straight, and handed my cane to one of the agents. I looked over at Marilyn and smiled.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Like I’ve been shot and been unconscious and in a hospital for a week.”

“You’ll be fine.”

I planted a smile on my face and stepped forward, no matter how much my body was screaming at me. The camera lights were bright, and I didn’t have any makeup on, but I simply brazened it out. I marched forward and waved to everybody, and Doctor Tubb held out a chair for me to sit down in. Marilyn followed me and sat down next to me, so that she and Tubb had me sandwiched. A table was in front of me and microphones were in front of all three of us.

“Hello. Thank you for coming. I just wanted to take this brief opportunity to let everybody know that the reports of my demise are greatly exaggerated. I’ll be making a brief statement, and then take some questions.” I waited a second for everybody to settle down and get ready, and then it was show time. I had a short statement on the table in front of me.

Me: “Hello, and thank you for coming. Part of my appearance here today is to reassure people that I survived the attempt on my life, and let them know I am quite alive. A greater part is to be able to publicly thank everybody involved in protecting me and saving my life. The First Lady and I would like to thank the Secret Service agents and Baltimore City Police officers who risked their lives protecting me and everyone else last Friday evening. We would like to thank the doctors, nurses, and staff at the Shock Trauma Center in Baltimore and at Bethesda Naval Hospital here in Bethesda. We also wish to thank the millions of people who have kept us in their thoughts and prayers over the last few days. It is very much appreciated. Finally, I wish to personally thank John McCain for stepping into my shoes while I was incapable of discharging my duties. Now, I am sure there are going to be a lot of questions, so let’s get started.”

Thus began a rather lengthy question and answer period. I knew it was relatively late in the day, and that their editors would be freaking out trying to edit it and cut it down for broadcast but I just didn’t care. The most important thing right now was for me to show the nation that I was alive and well and looking Presidential. I never really noticed who was asking questions, but simply tried to give everybody a chance.

Q: “How are you feeling, Mister President?”

Me: (Smiling.) “The First Lady asked me that right before we entered. I told her I felt like I’d been shot and in a hospital for a week!” (Laughter in the room.) “Seriously, I’m rather sore, and a bit weak, but I am getting better every day, and should be back to normal in a few weeks. Until then I am just going to take it a bit easier and follow my doctors’ orders.” (I looked at Doctor Tubb.) “Sound right?”

Tubb: “President Buckman’s condition is much better than he was over the weekend. I can categorically state that the President is in excellent physical condition for a 50 year old man, or even one ten or fifteen years younger. This has helped him considerably in the healing process. We expect that the President will be able to return to the White House in the next few days, although his full recovery and physical therapy will take longer.”

Q: “What kind of therapy?”

Me: “Well, I’ve got a bullet hole here, in my chest.” (I pointed at my right chest.) “Lots of muscle damage. It’s rather sore at the moment, and I’m a bit weak. I need to build up some strength and let things heal, and get back to my regular range of movement. It’s really quite routine, but it needs to be done.”

Tubb: “The President…” (He gave them a couple of minutes of medical Latin, all of which I knew would be cut.)

Q: “Is it true that the first thing you asked for was a steak and a beer?”

Me: (Laughing, with Marilyn laughing next to me.) “Absolutely! Anything is better than broth and Jell-O! The first thing we are doing when we get out of here is the whole motorcade is going through a drive-thru somewhere!” (The room really laughed at that one.)

Q: “There are reports that the assassination attempt was made by Armenian terrorists. Is that true?”

Me: “I am not really at liberty to answer that. I can say that there does not seem to be either a terrorist aspect to this, or any current foreign connection. Beyond that, I will simply say that a suspect has been arrested, and that the investigation is continuing.”

Q: “Is it true that you are firing the head of the Secret Service?”

Me: “No, that is not true. Let me elaborate on both these topics. There are actually two investigations going on right now. The first is on the actual attempt — who was involved, how did it happen, that sort of thing — and the second is related to that, but is an internal investigation into the Secret Service’s procedures. The first investigation is still ongoing, and I have answered a few questions from the Secret Service on that. I will say that I do not intend to make a lot of comments on whoever has been caught. I am a firm believer in the concept of innocent until proven guilty, and the individual involved deserves his day in court. As to the Secret Service itself, I certainly don’t plan to start firing people when we don’t even know what happened yet or if there even was a breakdown.”

Marilyn: “One of the Secret Service agents and a Baltimore policeman were shot saving my husband. I think we are both more worried about their recovery than in starting a witch hunt!” (I nodded at that.)

Q: “Have you met them yet?”

Me: “No, but I definitely intend to.”

Q: “Does this change your thinking on gun control?”

Well, I knew this was going to come up at some point. I had a name, dating back to my sponsoring the Defending the Second Amendment Act, as being pro-gun. What I was secretly hoping for was that somebody would ask Marilyn her thoughts. She might be a Democrat, and more liberal than me, but we had talked about guns, and she didn’t have a problem with the Second Amendment. On our first trip around, while we hadn’t owned guns, Parker had. It never bothered us then, either.

A: “I’m not against gun control laws. I’m against stupid gun control laws. While I can’t go into all the details, my understanding is that the person who shot me stole the gun from a person who owned the gun legally, had registered the gun, and was storing it properly. No gun control law short of a confiscation of all guns could have prevented this person from getting that gun, and no way will we ever do that!”

Q: “Mrs. Buckman, are you in favor of gun control laws?”

Marilyn: “Just because I’m a Democrat, it doesn’t mean I hate all guns. Carl has owned a gun since he was in the Army and I feel fine with it being in the house. Guns aren’t toys, and you have to store them and care for them properly, and both Carl and Charlie have been taught to do that. If you treat them properly, I don’t have a problem with people owning guns.”

I could see a few people looking at each other curiously. That line of inquiry was going nowhere.

Q: “Are you officially the President at the moment? I mean, the Vice President became the Acting President when you were unconscious.”

Me: (Nodding and smiling.) “That is true. This morning I signed a letter, witnessed by Doctor Tubb here, that stated that I am healthy enough to return to my duties as President. That letter was sent to both the President Pro Tempore of the Senate, Senator Stevens, and the Speaker of the House, Congressman DeLay. This is per the 25^th Amendment. I had already talked this over with Vice President McCain. For what it’s worth, I am getting to be a bit of an expert on the 25^th Amendment, since it’s how I ended up as the President. I really do want to thank John for stepping up like he did. It tells me that I picked the right guy.”

Q: “Are you endorsing the Vice President when he runs for your office?”

Me: “I wasn’t aware that John McCain has formally announced his candidacy. Until then I can’t endorse him. I can state that I think he would make a superb President, and that if he does officially throw his hat in the ring, I will enthusiastically support him. That’s two years from now, folks. Let’s worry about that a little later, okay?”

Q: “Do you remember what happened when you were shot?”

Me: (Frowning and shaking my head.) “Not really. It all happened so fast, I didn’t even know there had been an attack. I just remember being grabbed and dragged into a car, and while I was asking the agents what happened, they noticed I was leaking. After that things got real hazy, and I woke up in the hospital a few days later. Marilyn and I decided that, just like in the Billy Joel song, only the good die young, so I’ll be around for a long, long time.” (Marilyn laughed at that and took my hand.)

Q: “Mrs. Buckman, what did you feel when you learned your husband had been shot?” (What an idiot fucking question!)

Marilyn: “I was pretty scared, but I knew Carl is really tough. I spent some time calling the kids and other family members, and by the time that was done, they had the bullet out and Carl was sewed up again. The problem really was the infection he got. That was really serious. Now, I just want to get him home so he can get better.”

Me: (Laughing.) “The way it will work is that Doctor Tubb will tell Marilyn that I ain’t doing my physical therapy enough, and then he’s going to turn her loose on me, to nag me to death. Very unpleasant!” (Tubb laughed and Marilyn protested and slugged my left arm.)

That ended the press conference. I was a bit weak, but I kept up the fakery until we got out in the hallway, and they loaded me into a wheelchair and we hauled ass away from the cameras. I spent the next few days getting better. They started giving me some solid foods, cut back on the pain-killers, and had me doing physical therapy twice a day. By Sunday, Charlie, Molly, and Holly were able to spend some time, and we all managed to catch up. Suzie called, as did a number of my friends, and I talked to Marilyn’s mom, who promised to let everybody on that side of the family know how I was doing.

Over the weekend, Frank and some of the other senior staff made morning pilgrimages to the conference room at Bethesda, where they set up a mini-office for me. Thankfully the world was fairly quiet. I did have to return a whole bunch of calls from various heads of state and American politicians, either to thank them for their kind words and thoughts, or to let them know I was still alive and a pain in their ass. Sometimes it was both!

Monday morning I was deemed fit to leave the hospital, even if I still needed more therapy, and I was loaded into the limo and taken back to the White House. I glanced around and asked the agent with me if they had to clean the blood out of the car. He turned bright red, and began to stammer out an apology, but I just laughed and let him off the hook. Maybe it wasn’t that funny a joke. At the White House, it seemed like most of the West Wing and Residence staff was there to greet me and applaud when I got out of the car. I thanked them all, and said how much we appreciated it. By then I was able to actually move around well enough to not tire out completely or need a wheelchair. I am not one to be an invalid. I just hated it!

Chapter 166: Lame Duck

2006–2007

It took me the better part of a month to get to a point where I really felt back to my old self, and even then I knew I was lying. The therapists had me doing exercise and lifting some light weights to rebuild torn muscle tissue in my right side, and taking a lot of long walks and some laps in the pool to rebuild my stamina. Needless to say, with my shitty knee, long walks were a real problem! One of the things I did was talk to Doctor Tubb about getting a knee replacement. He wouldn’t do the work, but he could at least let me know the questions to ask a specialist. We brought one in, quietly, and had a long talk. The answer wasn’t a happy one, as far as my job was concerned. Yes, I was definitely a candidate, and the surgery and follow-up care were relatively straightforward. However, the big problem was going to be post-operative. I was in for at least several weeks of hospitalization followed by several more months of physical therapy. It would make the fun and games with getting shot seem simple. I decided to hold off. In just over two years I would be out of a job anyway. I could do it from the unemployment line.

Once I was up and around, we had a number of awards ceremonies. Most were for the heroes from the Kurdish War, and I awarded a lot of medals as I visited their home bases. Unlike television, where the President shows up five minutes after the battle and hands out a medal, in the real world there is a ton of paperwork and review. I gave the Presidential Unit Citation to the 82^nd, the 101^st, the 1^st Brigade, and the 2^nd Strykers. There were a shitload of Purple Hearts, a number of Bronze Stars, a few Silver Stars, several Distinguished Flying Crosses, one Distinguished Service Cross, and two Medals of Honor. Too many of the medals were awarded posthumously, including both Medals of Honor, which went to a corporal and a lieutenant in the 82^nd for service in the Azwya Valley. Also awarded posthumously was the Presidential Medal of Freedom, which I gave to Bismarck Myrick, for his service leading up to the war. The most painful to me was when the mother of 1^st Lieutenant Martin Stevens, one of the Medal of Honor recipients, told me that he had been one of the members of the West Point football team that I had eaten cold MREs with after that ridiculous bet, and she said he had been so proud to meet me and talk to me.

Afterwards I simply went into a private office and cried. Maybe I’m just not tough enough to be a general.

A different award ceremony was much happier. I gave the Secret Service’s Award of Valor to John McEnrole, the agent who got between me and the bullet which did a through-and-through on his arm, and a Baltimore City Police Medal of Honor to William Hopper, the police sergeant who grabbed Mooradian and took him down, while still taking two rounds to the chest. We did a very nice ceremony back at the Meyerhoff, under very high security.

One thing the shooting had done was to totally screw up my plans to campaign for Republican candidates during the last part of the 2006 mid-term elections. Marilyn and the doctors wouldn’t even let me get out of the White House until the beginning of October, which only left me about five weeks to help out. On the plus side, I had pretty good approval ratings. The Kurdish War had been fairly successful, and had boosted me to the low 80s. I had dropped as soon as it was over, and people understood some of the budget problems it had caused, but getting shot had boosted me back to the low 70s. (Nothing like almost getting killed to make you popular. Try it sometime and find out!)

Still, I managed a campaign swing every weekend through the remainder of the election season. I would fly into a town on Friday night, meet the Congressman or candidate, and give a speech and attend a fundraiser. Saturday morning I would travel to a nearby district and repeat the process through lunch, and then on to another district in the evening. Maybe I would try to help a Senator in a tight race. Sunday we might fly someplace else, and repeat the process, and then fly home Sunday night, late. It was really quite exhausting, and by the end of the season I was worn down to a nub. I had lost at least ten pounds during my hospital stay, had only regained some of it after I got out, and then lost another ten during the election. I needed a vacation. I told my staff that I intended to lay low over the winter and build up my strength and stamina.

Unfortunately, as President, you really don’t get a vacation. Never mind the fact that everybody and their brother is constantly coming to you so that you can fix their problems. No, the biggest issue is that it is politically a really bad idea to take a vacation if you are the President. People want to know who the hell he thinks he is, taking time off at government expense, to fuck around! It doesn’t matter that the expense is come out of my pocket. I am obviously goofing off on their tax dollars! I need to stay in Washington, at my desk in the Oval Office, working 24 hours a day, and I should pay the government back for the time I wasted going to the bathroom!

There were actually reporters who counted the days you took off and reported them, and not to your benefit. One report, which actually made it onto MSNBC, showed that I had spent 107 days in 2005 on vacation. When Will Brucis told me that, everybody on the staff was completely mystified. The best that anybody could figure out was that they were counting any day that I was not physically present in Washington for a complete 24 hours as a vacation day. In other words, if I took Marine One to Hereford on Friday night, and then flew back at the crack of dawn on Monday morning, that counted as four days of vacation. Even that didn’t account for everything, so we were rather confused. Will tried to get the network to detail what days they were counting, but they refused, citing freedom of the press. Fox and CNN, in a pleasant little bout of commercial rivalry, looked at the travel logs and came up with a vastly lower number, on the order of about 20 that year, including a week at Hougomont, another week in the backyard in Hereford, and four days in Ireland following the G-8 summit in Scotland. MSNBC never retracted their story, but they did stop pushing it.

The Irish vacation was actually one of the better ones we took. We were staying at a very nice and very private hunting lodge in County Cork, not that either Marilyn or I ever hunted. No press was invited or allowed on the grounds, but the day we left the G-8 summit some reporter asked what we planned to do. My first thoughts were to say something rude and unprintable, and Marilyn knew it, so she laughed and wagged her finger at me, telling me to behave. Instead I laughed and made a joke about doing quality control inspections of Irish distilleries. Some smart fellow over at John Jameson must have heard the interview, because the next day, right after we woke up, one of our Secret Service agents asked us about our plan to visit the John Jameson distillery in Cork. Marilyn and I gave him confused looks, and he told us the invitation had come in that morning, and then chided us on changing the schedule without their knowledge. I promised Marilyn I would take her on a tour of a rum distillery if she went along with this, and we did a distillery tour. I did quality control checks on I don’t remember how many different samples, and got pleasantly snockered with some of the John Jameson execs, and then took several cases back home of some very select whiskies that don’t make it to the stores. Good trip!

Since I had become President, I had only been to Hougomont four times. It is just politically lousy to be known for owning an ‘estate’ or a ‘vacation resort’ in a foreign country. It hadn’t been sitting empty, however, because I used it frequently to give staffers a nice vacation, and Congressmen and Senators (and their staffers) could be reliably counted upon to be bribed with a nice vacation there as well. It pays to be wealthy. In 2007, during the winter Congressional recess, I planned to make a ‘national security inspection’ into a vacation. We had some big military bases in Guam and I was told it had some lovely beaches. Marilyn and I decided to find out.

The election results on the morning of November 8 turned out to be pretty much the same thing we had on the morning of November 7. The Democrats had a thin majority in the Senate and the Republicans had a slender but significant lead in the House. All that had been accomplished by the expenditure of several billion dollars was that they rearranged the deck chairs on the Titanic. The real winners were the lobbyists on K Street. The real political discussion from here on out was going to be the 2008 Presidential race, and the fact that I was now a ‘lame duck’ and unable to accomplish much more during my time in office.

Well, screw that! I had maybe one more year of being able to accomplish anything in this town. 2007 was going to be the last year anything would get done. 2008 was going to be an election year, and a big one. It was time for a new President, and the Democrats would be all over it, and even with my backing and the incumbency of the Vice Presidency, John McCain was going to face a primary challenge. If I wanted to do anything, it would have to be in the next 12–14 months.

Certain things were going to pretty much handle themselves. We had won Kurdistan, and the next few years there would be some consolidation. By reacting to the chemical warfare, but not invading Iraq, we had shown a lot of ‘moral leadership’ around the world and in the Middle East. Winning the peace was going to be a slog, and expensive, but straightforward. Come to terms with the new Iraqi leaders, keep the peace going between the Turks and the Kurds, and try not to get too big for our britches. I knew there would be calls that we use our military strength to face down Iran and make them behave. That would simply be disastrous. We had a military that was second to none in killing people and breaking shit, and generally worthless when it came to keeping the peace or nation building.

The Kurds did authorize a standing military force and basing rights, which the Pentagon eagerly dropped on my desk. They had plans to station a couple of heavy armored brigades and a fighter wing there. I shot that down as being too big and expensive. They grumbled, but I did sign off on a composite brigade and some military infrastructure projects. Tom Ridge told me that was actually what they wanted all along. The composite brigade would combine a heavy armored battalion, a Stryker battalion, and an airmobile infantry battalion, along with some engineering and logistical support elements. In command of this composite brigade was one freshly minted Brigadier General Buford, now sporting a nice and shiny Distinguished Service Medal (which is not the same thing as the DSC, which is a combat medal) for coming up with the ops plan for Kurdish Dragon. He was young for the rank, and I suspected he was a rising star. We also coughed up some cash to do some infrastructure upgrades at Incirlik, with the Turks. Depending on circumstances, I could see making one more Middle Eastern trip before I was out of office, to touch bases with the Kurds, Turks, Arabs, and Israelis.

We also had a major training element with the mission, training and building up the Peshmerga as a regular infantry army. They were still a light infantry force, but they were going to have access to some captured T-72s and APCs. A number of Western arms firms had an interesting trick where they would take crappy Soviet era equipment, and refurbish it. They could take a T-72, yank out the Russian diesel engine and put in a decent German version, rip out all the electronics and fire control systems and put in American or British, chuck the Iraqi-made ammo and get much better quality Western versions, take off the appliqué reactive armor and bolt on some nice Israeli upgrades, and any number of other things. You end up with a tank that was two or three times the quality of what you started out with, for a fraction of the price. It was still a T-72, but it could take on any other T-72 in the world and probably beat it. (Western gear could still blow it away without getting a scratch.) Elsewhere around the world, similar events were taking place where Western firms would rebuild Soviet planes like MiG-21s and -23s and Hind helicopters, taking basically decent airframes, gutting them, and rebuilding them as fairly decent gear at a reasonable price. The Russians hated us for it, since it really showed how shitty their equipment really was. We generally thumbed our nose at them.

In November, Marilyn and I flew back to Forward Operating Base Thunderbolt to share Thanksgiving dinner with the troops still on duty in Kurdistan. We were at peace, but it was a watchful peace, where you patrolled the border with your weapons locked and cocked. The 82^nd, 2^nd Strykers, and 1^st Brigade had all been sent home, but the 101^st was still patrolling the new border, and the British 7^th Armored was based in Erbil as an armored backup. General Buford’s 47^th Brigade Combat Team was still being created and hadn’t shipped in yet, but was scheduled for sometime around February, at which time the 101^st and the 7^th would transfer back out.

Marilyn and I flew from Andrews to Aviano, Italy, on the regular Air Force One, the 747. Erbil was still too small to handle something that needed such a long runway, so this time we transferred to a cleaned up ‘VIP’ version of a C-17 for the flight to Erbil. Marilyn commented that it was a lot quieter than our last flight in and out, and I just smiled at that.

This was definitely not a ‘state visit’ type of flight. The 101^st was not going to have the band playing, and there wasn’t going to be a lot of pomp and flash. I did expect to meet President Barzani, as well as the commanders of the 101^st and 7^th, and there were going to be reporters along and already present and set up for the landing. (That was in case we went down in flaming wreckage on the final approach; the reporters were all looking forward to that!) Mostly, though, it was to simply sit down with the troops in a combat zone and share dinner. We would be gone the next morning.

We actually had two dinners with everybody. The first was at Thunderbolt in Erbil, and of course we invited the Kurds and the British to join in. The Kurds weren’t quite sure what to make of this strange American ritual, but we made sure to have plenty of extras, and President Barzani and his family joined us, along with any Peshmerga who happened to be around. As soon as we were done, however, Marilyn and I hopped into a Blackhawk and flew with a flight of Blackhawks and Chinooks carrying food down to a base south of Kirkuk, where one of the 101^st’s battalions was deployed. This was a fair bit rougher than back at HQ, but a good hot meal of turkey and stuffing was greeted with some real appreciation.

As always, you end up with two sets of conversations, one with the officers and commanders, and one with the troops. When you are talking to the commanders, it’s always discussions of the overall objectives, liberally laced with ‘What do you need me to do to make this work?’ With the troops it’s always personal stuff — ‘How’s the food?’, ‘Getting your mail?’, ‘Are you able to call home?’, and the like. Late November in Kurdistan gets definitely nippy, so I asked about the weather and how they were holding up and patrolling, that sort of thing. I had been in their shoes once, and I cared; not all politicians do, and the troops can tell the difference.

I refrained from a lot of speechifying during the visit, but I did make sure I thanked everybody. I did this before the meal.

“I’ve been where you guys are. I’ve missed holidays and birthdays and anniversaries because I had the duty, or I was on alert. My son was born while I was deployed to Honduras, and my wife…” (I pointed over at Marilyn.) “… wasn’t too happy about that. So I thank you for what you are doing. I wouldn’t ask this of you unless it was important, but I do ask you, because it is important. It has been said that we sleep safely in our beds because rough men stand ready in the night to fight those who would harm us. Today, you are those rough men, and I thank you, and your nation thanks you for the protection you provide.”

Both times I spoke I received a standing ovation from the troops. Great kids. How many had died because of the orders I gave them?

I had a few more Cabinet replacements coming up. Tom Ridge in Defense had had enough, and was leaving; He suggested Robert Gates, who had been a big wig in the CIA under Bush 41 and Reagan, and seemed a good choice. I sort of remembered him from my first trip through. Also leaving the Cabinet was Paul O’Neill, who had been Treasury Secretary for six years. I decided to ignore all the various suggestions and I plucked a woman named Elizabeth Warren from the depths of the FDIC. There were howls of protest at this, since she was an academic and pro-regulatory, and worst of all, a Democrat! It wasn’t unusual to have somebody from the other party in the Cabinet, but they were almost always in the who-gives-a-shit areas, like Commerce or Interior or Veterans Affairs. It shows you are fair and bipartisan, without actually having to put up with them telling you what to do. It is quite unusual to name one to the Core Four.

The one thing I didn’t want was a repeat of my first life, where one Goldman Sachs partner after another ran Treasury like it was a piggy bank for investment bankers. Those guys made Bonnie and Clyde look good by comparison! I managed to ram her name through the Senate, despite a rather rancorous confirmation process. Her fellow Dems loved her, but the Republicans didn’t, and everybody was worried that she would screw up their cozy relations with the finance industry. I smiled and told her to lie through her teeth as necessary, and then once she was in, to rampage through them as needed. That cozy relationship was more than a little too cozy. I wanted the finance industry clamped down on, hard, and I wanted names for every open regulatory slot who would go along with that.

I also was privately pushing the Chairman of the Federal Reserve, Ben Bernanke, to tighten up on every banking regulation he could get his fingers on. When Greenspan had retired in 2006 I had named Bernanke as the Chairman, mostly out of a lack of anybody else I felt comfortable with. He was both an academic and a member of the Federal Reserve Board when I named him. With Congress constantly wrangling and generally bought and paid for by both K Street and Wall Street, I wanted as much financial regulation rammed back into the system as I could manage without getting Congress involved. I also gave both Bernanke and Warren standing orders to slow down the housing bubble, and ignore whatever Congress wanted to do with that mess.

That wasn’t the end of it, however. Harry Reid and the Democrats were still busting my nuts by delaying confirmation hearings on any number of appointed officials. Most of the governmental agencies that regulate the financial markets all had bosses that needed to be confirmed by the Senate. This included the Securities and Exchange Commission, the Federal Reserve, the Office of Thrift Supervision, and so forth. Some of the seats had been empty for a year or more. I had a list of two dozen names ready to go.

I made a preemptive move. After it became obvious that the Congress that would return was the same as the one we had, I called a meeting at the White House of the leaders of the Senate, and of the Finance and Banking Committees, both Republican and Democratic. The Dems wanted to bust my nuts and the Republicans wanted more influence than the Dems would give them, and nobody wanted to piss off the financial firms who flooded their campaign coffers with cash. Nobody actually wanted to fill these positions; they really wanted them to go away so that we could have unfettered and unregulated capitalism, which is what the financial firms dreamed about.

Screw that idea! I laid out the game rules to the Senate leaders. Here is my list of candidates. There are just as many Democrats as Republicans listed, which in many cases was required by law. They have extensive experience and have been properly vetted, and most of these names are well known to you already. Pick two, any two, you don’t like, and I’ll withdraw them. Otherwise, I expected confirmation hearings to begin before the end of the session, and I expected them to be approved. If you didn’t like that, I would wait until after the Senate reconvened in January, and during the first available recess would name them all as recess appointments.

There was a lot of squawking at this! How dare I usurp the power and privilege of the United States Senate, the world’s greatest deliberative body! My God, I was a dictator in the mold of Stalin and Hitler! I let them rant, and then stood up and smiled. “You heard me. Pick two. I don’t care if you flip coins. The rest get approved by the end of the year, and I don’t care if you have to run the confirmation hearings by candlelight in the wee dawn hours! Frank will stay here to let me know your plans. Otherwise, watch me on television in January. I’ve done it before and, by God, I’ll do it again!” I left the room.

Secretly I had given Frank the authority to raise the limit from two candidates to three, but that still left almost two dozen appointees. He came back to my office two hours later grumbling and exhausted, but the Senate had caved in. At that moment I was a hell of a lot more popular with the American public than Congress was. Frank let the three candidates know they weren’t going to be confirmed.

Lame duck, my ass!

One major legislative push I had planned was more infrastructure investment. I didn’t expect this to be a problem, though. In 2002 I had rammed through several major spending bills on infrastructure as part of my first year in office. I had wrapped them in the mantle of GWB’s martyrdom as cynically as possible, and they all passed. A number of them, however, were five year bills, so 2007 was when we had to let them die or renew them. I wasn’t just going to renew them, I was going to expand them, and just like in 2002, they were going to get a prominent mention in the next State of the Union Address. I expected more of a fight, simply because George was now cold and forgotten, President for only eight months, and I couldn’t wave that flag anymore. I simply told Matt and Marc to start typing and figure out a different approach.

By the end of 2006, Charlie had managed to hold onto his national title as an MX Motocross Champion. The MX class was the larger bikes, 450 cc or so, larger than the other categories, which was good, since Charlie was a big guy. He wasn’t so much tall as he was broad, with shoulders that would fill a doorway and muscles on top of his muscles. If the motorcycle broke down, he could probably pick it up and run it around the track.

The season ended in mid-September, just a few weeks after I was shot, and Charlie had only missed one race that season. Now he was in the off-season period, but that didn’t mean he was out of work. Now that he was a big time pro, his ‘team’ had changed. Bucky, his original ‘Crew Chief’, was now acting as his business manager, but otherwise was spending his time becoming the heir apparent at Tusk Cycle. Sister Molly, his ‘Assistant Crew Chief’ was in her final year at College Park, finishing her Masters, and looking for a job somewhere. Charlie himself was busy with a new endeavor — acting!

One thing Marilyn and I had done over the years was produce good looking children. In my first life, Maggie had been a knockout, and Parker had been quite handsome, and only Alison had issues, related to the Williams Syndrome she suffered from. Now, in this life, Charlie was quite good looking, and Holly and Molly were simply stunning. They might all have been nitwits and knuckleheads, but that was probably a father’s reaction to their antics. In reality, by any quantifiable measure, they were all 9s and 10s.

Unsurprisingly, Charlie’s sponsors wanted more out of their marketing dollars than simply their names on some mud-encrusted bikes. As part of their contracts he was obligated to do a certain number of public appearances, do meet-and-greets before and after races, schmooze the locals who were brought in by the corporate types, and do some ads. Charlie had two major sponsors by now, with several smaller ones. The big one was Red Bull, and whenever there was a race, they would always have local distributors at a party with their stars, and Charlie would pose for photos for local ads and such. The Marines also used him like this, but often without his racing outfit, and instead dressed in camo and a t-shirt that showed his Semper Fi or globe-and-anchor tattoos. Tusk Cycle, a small sponsor these days, had him do meet-and-greets at their Honda store, and had posters of him at all their stores. Honda pushed that, also, since he rode a Honda when racing. (He rode a big Harley around otherwise.)

In any case, Charlie was a big and good looking young man with curly blond hair and a big mustache, and it wasn’t surprising that Red Bull began using him in television ads. At first, they began simply using race footage, with some shots of him drinking Red Bull before and after. Then they decided to take a chance, and actually have him say some words, which went surprisingly well. I wasn’t quite sure how happy this made me and his mother, since a typical commercial might show him drinking Red Bull, racing, drinking more while getting a trophy and hugging a blonde bike bunny, and then drinking more at a nightclub, with more blondes. Some of the scenes seemed a bit raunchy, but I guess they sold a lot of Red Bull. Charlie didn’t seem to mind hanging out with blonde models and starlets, that was for sure!

Charlie even began acting, as in the movies. He was cast in a thriller as himself, so that the hero could build some credibility to his character, a motorcycle racer. It was sort of like XXX with Vin Diesel, only lamer. He was only onscreen about 30 seconds, and had two lines, which he told his sisters ad nauseam. Regardless, Charlie got a week’s vacation in southern California out of it, and met another leggy blonde.

It was a relatively quiet time legislation wise. We had the usual budget and spending bills, but since we weren’t in a serious prolonged deficit situation, as long as I said no to any of the nuttiness, we would be okay.

One thing that I did push for was increased natural gas drilling in various shale formations around the country. The technology to actually do this relatively cheaply was now available, and oil and gas prices had been rising over the years to where it made economic sense. Since I had managed to avoid wars of conquest, which really pissed off the oil producing companies, and scared the pants off the speculators on my first go, prices were lower and more contained. Still they had been rising. More importantly, without Dick Cheney and George Bush kissing a lot of oil company ass, we had managed to avoid the so-called ‘Halliburton Rule’, which exempted drilling companies from some state and EPA regulations. With more regulators looking them over, the process seemed like it was being cleaner and more transparent. I knew that this could be a real gold mine. I pushed for some sensible regulation, though I made sure not to spout any “Drill, baby! Drill!” nonsense. Yes, Lee Raymond wanted me to allow all sorts of shenanigans for his help after Katrina, but I pushed back and reminded him of the introductions I had made in Kurdistan, and then asked if he wanted me to call Barzani and introduce him to some people I knew at Chevron and Conoco Phillips. He grumbled, but backed off a bit.

One item I didn’t have much trouble with was a bill called the Computer Safety and Protection Act. I mean, who isn’t in favor of having a safe computer? In addition to the rather innocuous title, there were several rather vague provisions in the bill, authorizing the funding of an agency to consider potential dangers to American computers and the Internet, and determine the best way to respond to any such dangers. No additional funding was requested beyond an initial few hundred million, peanuts to the budget, although the agency was authorized to accept funding from other government agencies if they could assist existing efforts.

We had tried this a year ago, but the Democrats had stomped on it, not so much because they didn’t like computer safety, but because it was an easy and cheap way to bust my balls. They still wanted to bust my balls, but during the ’06 election, the Democratic National Committee’s computers were hacked! They started by pointing fingers at the Republicans, and Brewster McRiley and his bunch, and the FBI Cybercrime Unit got involved, but it turned out to be a hacking outfit in Kiev. The Ukrainians had done it. This year we had no problems slipping it through.

The Computer Safety and Protection Agency, or CSPA for short, was a brand new cyberwarfare agency. It was charged with defending America’s computers and networks from foreign threats, and since the best defense is a good offense, they also were responsible for that. Criminal hackers were an issue, but they were the least of our problems. Much more worrisome were the Chinese, who had rampaged through our defense contractors’ networks under Bill Clinton, and were still probing us relentlessly. In addition, we had been engaging in a low level cyberwar, allied with the Israelis, against the Iranians, aimed at shutting down their nuclear weapons program. We stuck to software and programming; the Israelis had added some ‘biological interference’, a cute euphemism for targeted assassinations of Iranian scientists.

In any case, CSPA was going to be the new cyberwar office. The initial public funding was simply to get them started and into some offices. The real money was in the funding from other agencies. The Pentagon, CIA, and NSA were all going to shovel some serious money, as in billions, from various ‘black’ accounts that didn’t get scrutinized by Congress, and they would get first take on whatever was discovered and have massive input into the CSPA. In fact, the CSPA’s first director was a Deputy Director at the NSA, and his deputy was an Air Force three star.

As for the 2008 elections, immigration was a sticky issue, but not quite as bad as it could have been. The DREAM Act had brought in a lot of Hispanic voters, many of whom went Democratic, but not all of them; on social issues many Hispanics are quite conservative. The overall effect had been a positive one for the economy, but it had not ended illegal immigration. As long as the U.S. economy showed more growth than Mexico’s we would continue to get illegals. Some of the provisions in the DREAM Act, calling for strengthening the borders for instance, were not all that productive, but we had to do them. Some time was spent on this legislation in 2007.

I could sense that things were getting difficult for the Republican Party. The Republican Party was beginning to fracture along the various fault lines of the groups that made it up. We had always had a conservative base and, if anything, it was now getting more religious and conservative. It didn’t matter what I said, but the average Republican Congressman was being pushed to the extremes by the hard right base of the party.

At its very root, gerrymandering was to blame for this. Gerrymandering is the process where Congressional districts are drawn so that it becomes very uncompetitive to run, for one party or the other. For instance, let’s say that the area around a particular city has enough population for four Congressional districts. If you simply draw a ‘+’ sign through the middle of the city, and carve up the area into four equally populated districts, then you probably have four fairly competitive districts. But let’s suppose that the Republicans have managed to get control of the State House. They can carve the districts up so that you still have four districts, but now, one district in the heart of the city is overwhelmingly black and 95 % Democratic, and the other three snake around through the white and Republican suburbs, creating three mostly (70 %) Republican districts.

This had been going on for thirty years plus, and with modern computing power, the district maps could be drawn so that individual streets would be in one district or another, based on income levels. As a result, states that might vote 55 % Democratic based on statewide voting might have 75 % of the districts being Republican! (When they could get away with it the Democrats did the same thing. It had really started out in the court ordered Voting Rights Act battles in the 1960s. There weren’t any angels in this stuff on either side.)

The ultimate effect was that many districts in the nation, well over 80 %, were completely uncompetitive. One party owned them, lock, stock, and barrel. The primary was the real election, not the later general election. Primaries have lower turnouts, and tend to go towards the extreme branches of either party. In Republican terms, as Brewster had told us many times, if he wanted to win in a Republican primary all he had to do was turn loose the Jesus freaks and the gun nuts and it was a lock. The average Republican district was over 75 % white and English speaking. With the Democrats, they had a lot darker complexion in the electorate, and a lot more non-native English speakers.

The party was priming itself for irrelevance. Senate races were statewide contests, and the Senate was slowly becoming Democratic. The older Republicans, mostly business Republicans like myself, were either retiring or being forced out by far right types who managed to make it through the primaries with little voting, only to lose in the general election. Some of these candidates were just incredible losers, but they believed in Jesus, guns, and ending abortion. On my first go we had people like Christine O’Donnell, who was so wacky that she had to preface her campaign ads with statements like, “I’m not a witch,” and some other mouth-breathers who thought rape was okay since you couldn’t get pregnant that way. They would make it through the primary and be destroyed in the general election. This time it was just really beginning, but the trend was gaining speed.

By mid-2007 John McCain was in full-blown primary campaign mode. He was generally flying out to various states at least every other weekend. The economy was fairly strong, the deficit was under control, and we weren’t in combat. He had a number of primary opponents, but not as many as might be expected. I knew some of these guys were going to run, because they had been flapping their gums ever since the last election. Rudy Giuliani was trying to parlay his credibility from 9-11 into a nationwide campaign, but that wasn’t flying with the hard core base of the party, who were not about to vote for a twice-divorced pro-choice New York liberal, no matter that he was a Republican. Mike Huckabee, the Governor of Arkansas, was the darling of the religious right wing of the party. Otherwise, nobody else in the party could stand him, since he could be all sorts of sanctimonious. The only other major contender was Mitt Romney, the Governor of Massachusetts. The fact that a Republican was smart enough to get elected to state-wide office in one of the most liberal and Democratic states in the country should have been read as proof that he could appeal across the country; To the hard core right it meant he was just another damn liberal, and besides, he was a Mormon, and not really a Christian.

John was the presumptive nominee, and to the extent that my blessing meant anything, he had it. My blessing meant nothing with the right wing. By now I had proven myself to be anything but a true Republican. I made deals with Democrats, had put two Supreme Court justices in place who hadn’t banned abortion, I didn’t go to church (and they whispered about my Catholic wife and children), and I hadn’t lowered taxes or cut spending enough. That was roughly one quarter of the party, and they did not like me or John. Three quarters, however, did like us, so that was good for John. One permanent worry we had was that Huckabee might run a third party candidacy when he lost in the primaries, which would doom the party in the national election.

On the Democratic side, things were rather unsettled. The field was wide open. John Kerry had been thumped the last time, so he was staying in the Senate. His VP nominee, John Edwards, was running, as was Hillary Clinton, and that new darling of the Democrats, Barack Obama. In reality they were the only serious candidates, but just about every other Democratic Senator and Governor had announced they were either exploring the possibility or were actively running. Iowa and New Hampshire were making money hand over fist on television ads.

John had the upper hand. A decent economy always favors the party in power. On the Republican side, he was getting the lion’s share of the donations, and was the presumptive favorite. As long as he didn’t step on his crank, he would do fine. I was pushing him to pick a moderate running mate, and not to pander to the base. He needed to always remember that the Vice Presidential selection might not help, but could always hurt. A loud mouthed nitwit would come back to bite him in the ass. On the Democratic side, it was a tossup at the moment, and we just were waiting and watching for somebody to self-destruct. They all had some fatal flaws, but which ones would show first?

I was able to take it all with a certain degree of relaxation. This was the end for me. I just needed to make it to the election without fucking up. I wasn’t running, and if I campaigned too much, it might hurt John. Marilyn was happy, as well. I would be getting out of politics for good, although it was expected I might still have a say from the sidelines. We could go home, and visit Hougomont and travel, and it wouldn’t be a zoo any longer. I promised her we would take a long vacation trip, somewhere, anywhere, just the three of us, her, me, and Stormy. That got her to laughing pretty good. I also told her I was going to get my knee replaced, which was a bit more sobering, but she agreed with me on that, too.

2007 was relatively quiet. We continued catching various terrorists, but generally it was overseas. For most of these guys, while they would love to visit the Great Satan and kill themselves gloriously for the Jihad, it wasn’t all that easy. The average jihadist wasn’t very well educated and didn’t speak English. Half the time they would balk at the idea of shaving off their beards and trying to blend in; I guess Mohammed wanted them to wear beards or something when they got to Heaven. Regardless, they stood out to most Customs officials like flashing lights, both here in the States and overseas. It was vastly simpler for them to carry out their grand vision somewhere overseas, where they might be able to drive across a porous border and kill their neighbors.

That didn’t mean we didn’t still have problems. One of the big changes we had made in 2001 was simply to require that all airplane cockpit bulkheads and doors were changed to bulletproof titanium and were locked before flight, and were never unlocked until after landing. If the pilots had to eat MREs, so be it. At least once a year since then, terrorists had managed to get on board a plane, generally overseas, and tried to take it over, but couldn’t get the door open and ended up being taken down by the passengers. The results might be gruesome back in the cabin, but we didn’t have planes flying into buildings. If something happened, the pilots could radio a warning, and be diverted to a landing at an isolated military airstrip, at which point the local SWAT team could board the plane and remove the bodies. In a couple of cases they removed the terrorists’ bodies as well, and looked on any questionable circumstances with a blind eye.

Likewise, we had now instituted a continuing armed combat air patrol over most major American cities. Most of the time it was just a way for the local Air Force and Guard pilots to rack up some flying hours with nothing to do, but every once in awhile, something exciting happened. One suspicious 727 was shot down coming into Miami when it refused to answer a routine FAA flight query, and then ignored an F-16 ordered to intercept it. It turned out to be a bogus transport flight that was being piloted by an Arab flight crew that stole the plane in Bogota. The F-16 put a few rounds across the plane’s nose (which is surprisingly difficult, since the pilot had to disengage the tracking system designed to prevent wasting rounds.) At that point the 727 tried to ram the F-16, which evaded and shot him down. It was like something out of some techno-thriller!

Meanwhile, the FBI continued to catch jihadist wannabes. Now they were learning how to kill, and why, over the Internet. The results were often amateurish, but could still kill if they made them work. The counterterrorism people were working overtime chasing these assholes down.

There were still some things I needed to get involved in. Vladimir Putin was really starting to feel his oats, and he cut off oil and gas exports to Western Europe for several days at the beginning of the year. The excuse was that he was actually punishing Belarus, White Russia, and the pipelines to the West simply went through Belarus. Not everybody was buying that. I ended up taking a lot of phone calls from Germany, Poland, and the Balkan States, asking me to use whatever influence I had with Putin to get him to open the valves up. That sounded great in theory, but the reality was somewhat more limited.

The ‘karate summit’ had been one of the high points of our relationship. The simple fact was that Putin and Russia had more money, and they were spending that money rebuilding their armed forces. The more they rebuilt, the more confident and feisty they became. Vladimir didn’t really need me or the U.S. anyway. They didn’t have a lot of trade with us, and while everybody was a whole lot more polite about it that on my first go, they could tell us to go pound salt.

One sticking point was the fact that I had destroyed Iraq during the Kurdish War. Iraq had been a major Russian client state, and we, along with the Brits, had run through them like shit through a goose. The Russians had argued against any sort of U.N. involvement, and then had vetoed a formal U.N. condemnation or intervention. I had ignored his complaints, and treated it as a NATO problem, and the Russians hated NATO. The new junta running Iraq was spending more money rebuilding than buying weapons, which had been one of the conditions we had insisted the Saudis stick into their loan agreements. Worse, after two disastrous wars using Russian equipment, what rebuilding they were doing involved recycled and modernized Russian equipment bought on the open market. None of that money was going to Russia.

Russia was trying to parlay their dislike for us by sucking up to the Chinese. They had the one thing the Chinese really wanted, which was resources. They began offering trade deals to the Chinese. Two can play at that game. I had Condi Rice lead a trade mission to Germany, and give our blessing to a new liquefied natural gas offloading facility in the Baltic. With American natural gas supplies rising, we could export to them. If it worked as well as the experts said it should, the Europeans could build three or four of the things along the Baltic coast line, and we could feed them natural gas for years to come. If nothing else, American gas, while possibly more costly, was probably going to be a lot more reliable and a lot less political. That got Lee Raymond off my back.

Chapter 167: Wedding Bells

We began to see quite a bit more of the Tusks over the winter. Tessa would come down and she and Marilyn began planning the wedding. Tusker would come down with her, and he and I would drink beer. I think we had the better deal. The wedding was scheduled for Saturday, June 23, and just kept getting bigger. It was sort of like Stormy in that regard, in that it began small and cute, and quickly became a monster that would devour your dinner! Normally a bride would be married at her home church, but that was Our Lady of Grace in Parkton, which was nowhere near big enough to handle what this thing was going to be, and there was nowhere nearby really able to provide the security necessary.

It was decided that we would have the wedding at the Cathedral of St. Matthew the Apostle, probably the fanciest Catholic church in Washington. After that, everyone would come back to the White House for the reception. Since this was just too big for a pair of housewives to really coordinate, we brought in the Chief Usher and the White House Social Secretary to actually run it. That way my daughter might actually manage to be married while I was still in office. All I needed to do was get out my checkbook and simply write out lots of zeroes. I don’t know what Tricky Dick spent marrying off Tricia, but even accounting for inflation, I had a terrible feeling I was going to blow that budget to hell and gone!

I checked in with the Social Secretary from time to time to see just how elaborate this thing was growing. They had hired a professional wedding planner to assist them. They couldn’t use Marilyn’s wedding gown, since both the girls were considerably bustier than their mother had been at that age. Instead, Molly was getting a Vera Wang original, who was personally designing the dress, as well as the bridesmaid’s dresses and Marilyn’s and Tessa’s dresses. I didn’t want to think about what that was going to cost! Father Smith, Marilyn and the kids’ regular preacher at Our Lady of Grace, would be doing a command performance at St. Matthew’s, which was somewhat unusual but was eased by a generous contribution (from me; I learned about it after the fact) to the parish’s building fund. We managed to keep the number of bridesmaids and groomsmen down to five on each side, without any of the silly miniature bride and groom nonsense, and the kids eschewed any ring bearer or flower girl — the only members of the family young enough for that sort of thing were their second cousins up in New York, and they weren’t that close to them. Holly was going to be the Maid of Honor, and Charlie was the Best Man, and the rest of the slots would be college buddies and other friends.

The real expense, however, would be in the reception. Since this was purely a personal event, nothing would be covered by the taxpayers except for overall security. The cost was probably going to be at least several hundred dollars a plate by the time it was done. Yeah, I know, I am wealthier than Croesus, but still! When I married Maggie off on the first go, we spent about $75 a seat at the reception, at a country club in Albany, and had a pretty nice time. That wasn’t going to cut it for just the hors d’oeuvres on this thing!

Meanwhile, the list of guests just kept growing. If we invited immediate family only, that was Marilyn and me and our three kids, and Tusker, Tessa, and Bucky. Then move out to the next layer, all of that first level of relatives, Marilyn’s parents and her brothers and sisters, and their families, and the various Tusks and Harpers (Tessa’s family), and the Rottingens. That totaled another 100 people right there! Forget about saying ‘No children!’ since that simply wasn’t done in the Lefleur household. Marilyn and I would never hear the end of it from her family. Add in a few dozen more, for friends of the bride and groom and their ‘plus ones’. Then start adding in friends and guest of the proud parents. For instance, we added Bill and Melinda Gates. Marilyn and I had been at their wedding, and we invited them. Ditto the Dells. The entire Buckminster family was invited, including Captain Buckminster and his fiancé if he could get leave, as well as 2^nd Lieutenant Buckminster, wherever he was stationed. Add in my partners at the Buckman Group, Marty Adrianopolis, and my top lawyers. Tusker invited a few people he knew at Honda and Harley. Then, for real fun, let’s add in John and Cindy McCain, and my senior staff, some of whom had been with me since my Congressional days. Then, if I invite one Cabinet member, I had to invite them all. What about Congress and the Senate? I limited that to the Leaders and Whips and the Speaker, and tossed the Dedricks in for good measure.

It seemed to keep growing. By the time the summer rolled around, the wedding was beginning to approximate the royal wedding of Charles and Diana, though hopefully without the same end. Will Brucis had one of his people coordinating the broadcasting of the event. That took me by surprise! Broadcasting?! I told him to sell the rights and maybe I could make a profit on the deal. I contemplated just giving the wedding planner a power of attorney over my bank account. That probably wouldn’t be enough, though.

And then June 23 rolled around. The festivities actually started the weekend before. As the best man, Charlie was in charge of the bachelor party, and he asked me for a favor, so I in turn called in a favor from Jake Eisenstein, who called in a favor from Steve Wynn. We loaded the wedding party onto the G-IV, both the guys and the girls, and flew them out to Vegas. Steve put them into a couple of giant suites at the Wynn, one for the guys and one for the girls, and promised to run them everywhere in limos, so none of the idiots would do something stupid, like driving drunk. We flew them out Friday afternoon, and he promised to load their remains back onto the Gulfstream on Sunday evening. We kept the Secret Service presence quiet and low key. I was reliably informed afterwards that the hangovers should be mostly over by the morning of the wedding, that the arrest reports had been buried, and that the videos were completely deniable. When I saw them the following Monday morning, they all looked back through bleary and bloodshot eyes. Marilyn and I were unsympathetic with our children.

All sorts of strange people began showing up in the White House. I think the wedding planner took up residence somewhere, and Vera Wang and crew wandered through at all hours, with Marilyn or the girls in tow. I had the house on 30^th Street reserved for the Lefleur family, when they came down. Otherwise I had several blocks of rooms set aside at the Hay-Adams, Hyatt, and Ritz-Carlton. We also had just about every limo in the city reserved. For the honeymoon, we would load the happy couple into the G-IV and send them to Hougomont, with instructions to the Secret Service detachment to stay away from the house and the immediate grounds, and to keep the paparazzi far, far away.

My daughters decided to have fun with Dad by changing things at the last moment, or at least threatening to. One of the wackier hoaxes was when, four days before the wedding, Molly asked if Stormy could be taught to carry a pillow on her back, maybe strapped to her collar, with the rings on it. Stormy could march down the aisle in front of her. She was part of the family, right? My jaw dropped and I stared, and then stood up and started hollering while she and her sister scampered out of the room, laughing. Marilyn sat there listening to this, and I rounded on her.

“Don’t blame me! They just like to push your buttons!” she said.

“Stormy? Carrying the rings?! Have they lost their minds?!” I looked over at the doorway, and who came romping in but the mutt, who jumped into my empty recliner. “Don’t you start!” I told the dog. “I’m down to my last nerve, and you are standing on it!”

I got a WOOF in return, so I just rubbed her head. There was no way in the world Stormy was going to get involved in this disaster. I’d probably have to pay for a $1,000 Vera Wang designed pillow to carry the rings.

Marilyn laughed at all this. I began to start heading down to the Oval Office and working late, and heading to the Situation Room to see what was happening. Maybe there was a nice war somewhere which would give me a little rest. I told Frank I needed the overtime to pay for it all. He replied, “I’d laugh, but you’d probably un-invite me, which would make my girlfriend un-invite me. No thanks!”

“You have time for a girlfriend? I have to give you more work!” He laughed at that and left. It wasn’t all that funny, actually. The poor schmucks who worked around the White House often had no time for their own lives. Fifteen or sixteen hour days were not unheard of. It’s very easy to take advantage of them. Burnout is quite common.

Friday afternoon was the rehearsal, which I missed due to a phone call with the Japanese Prime Minister. The rehearsal dinner was at the Hyatt, where the men in the bridal party had a suite. I did make it to the dinner. I wasn’t all that worried about screwing up my part in the proceedings. My job was easy. Molly would be the last one up the aisle, and I would be with her. It wasn’t like I was going to get lost.

It was at the rehearsal dinner that I first met my other children’s dates for the first time. Holly brought a long-haired and bushy-bearded chemistry doctoral student from Princeton named Jerry Something-or-other. He truly resembled a homeless vagrant who had been cleaned up and pushed into a suit that didn’t quite fit, as if the last time he had worn it was when he graduated from high school. I whispered to Marilyn after Holly introduced us, “Is this the best she could do?”

“You behave yourself!” was my wife’s reply.

“I’m just saying, I mean, he looks like a bum!”

“I’m sure he’s very nice,” she added, a bit defensively, I thought.

I shrugged. I had glanced over at Holly, who was talking to Jerry. “Well, if they are still seeing each other at Christmas, tell Holly she should get him some decent clothing and a haircut for Christmas.” Marilyn just laughed at that, and promised to try.

He seemed a bit of a nitwit, too. I was getting a drink at the bar, where Charlie and Jerry were standing with beers in their hands. I ordered a couple of glasses of Riesling, so I could take one to Marilyn, and I overheard Jerry ask Charlie, “So what school did you go to?”

Charlie didn’t miss a beat. “The University of Monrovia. I majored in International Relations.”

Jerry seemed impressed, but asked, “Where’s that?” at which point Holly, who had been listening, dragged him away.

I smiled at my son, who tipped his beer towards me and said, “Our school motto was Semper Fi.”

“Ours was Airborne!”

“OOO-RAH!”

I chuckled and left to take Marilyn her wine. With luck, Holly would come to her senses.

Charlie’s date, on the other hand, was a spectacular looking blonde. After we had been introduced, I had asked Marilyn privately if she was another member of Charlie’s Blonde-Of-The-Week Club.

“Megan is a very nice girl. She and your son have been dating since February,” I was informed.

“February! Charlie, with a girl for more than two weeks?! Something must be wrong! Did you check his temperature? Maybe he’s sick?”

“Carl! That’s awful! That’s your son you’re talking about! Besides, maybe he’s settling down,” my wife protested.

I looked at her curiously. “Charlie? Settling down? Charlie Buckman? Are you sure we are talking about the same person? Charles Robert Buckman, and not Charles Horace Buckman?”

Marilyn had the good grace to give me a guilty shrug at that. “Well, it’s possible, isn’t it? They met when he was doing that dreadful movie in Hollywood. She was one of the biker girls in the background. We had a chance to talk the other day. She’s a very nice girl. You should be nice to her.”

“Okay, I’ll be nice. I wonder what caught Charlie’s attention first, the legs or the…”

“CARL!”

“Just wondering, honey, just wondering.”

She punched my arm. “You’re not supposed to notice those things!”

“Well, I can guarantee Charlie noticed them!” I got a finger wag at that point, and decided to keep my mouth shut from that point on.

Ultimately, everything worked out. The women’s bridal party spent Friday night in the Residence, and I hid in my bedroom. Charlie had the men at the suite in the Hyatt, and I had issued my strongest warnings about letting Bucky or anybody else get liquored up. I also told the Secret Service to pat the nitwits down and confiscate anything that looked like it might be fun. Bucky was to show up at the wedding straight and sober, with Charlie and the rest of the crew in the same condition. Marilyn and Tessa were to supervise the bridesmaids.

The wedding was to take place at 4:00 PM at St. Matthews, and the reception was to begin at 7:00 PM at the White House in the East Room. Since it was to be a full Mass at the church, we probably wouldn’t get out of there before 5:00 or 5:30, and then we would have to take photos, just like at any other wedding. Then it would be off to the White House, and if anybody got there earlier, they could hang out in the State Dining Room, which was being set up for something to eat and drink before the official reception. I think the final count ended up somewhere north of 375, but I lost track of both the invitees and the budget.

As we were all leaving the White House to go to St. Matthews, I gave a pronouncement to everyone around. Nothing was to disturb me the rest of the day. If somebody started a war, I wasn’t to be informed unless they used large nuclear weapons. Small ones weren’t going to cut it. Likewise, if I was disturbed, my response would probably involve large nuclear weapons, and I wasn’t being all that particular if the individual disturbing me was foreign or domestic. I was going to nuke somebody! Marilyn just rolled her eyes and hustled me out the door.

All things considered, everything went quite well. On my first go, Maggie had been so nervous she had thrown up for 24 hours ahead of time, and was on the verge of a nervous breakdown by the time we started walking down the aisle. Then the flower girl, Parker’s daughter Elspeth, got an itch on her butt, and decided to scratch it the entire time she was walking down the aisle in front of us. The entire church got to watch my granddaughter scratch her ass in church. Maggie and I almost died laughing as I walked her down the aisle, and everything after that went fine.

It wasn’t quite that bad this time. Molly was a lot calmer, for one thing. I waited with them in a small room off the entrance of the church. Charlie had the intended victim up front, in another small room near the sanctuary. I found a seat and watched while Marilyn and the girls fussed, then got up and wandered down to see Charlie. I slipped in and found Charlie joking and Bucky nervous. Tusker was standing there with his son, and smiled as I came in “How you holding up, Bucky?” I asked.

“Uh, okay, Uncle Carl. Uh, is… how is…” he stuttered out. Charlie simply muttered something and shook his head, smiling.

I smacked my son on the back of his head and said, “I can’t wait to see you doing this. I’ll laugh my ass off!” I turned back to Bucky and answered, “They are all here. Your bride is waiting for this whole mess to start and looks gorgeous.” I looked over at Tusker. “Is he going to make it, or do we need to get a crash cart in here to revive him?”

“I don’t recall being that nervous when I got married.”

“At least he’s not bringing his children to the wedding,” I retorted.

Tusker barked out a laugh. “Oh, that is cold, buddy, that is cold!”

Bucky breathed easier on hearing his fiancé was there. Charlie asked, “Why aren’t you with the girls?”

“Because the guests are still arriving and because a pack of half a dozen women would drive a saint crazy, let alone me! If I’m in here, your mother can’t tell me to behave!”

He snorted out a laugh, and then reached into his jacket and pulled out a silver flask. “I can help your problem, you know.”

I gave him a wry look. “I thought I told you to keep him sober.”

“Hey, he’s sober, and so am I. We’ve been behaving all night long.” He waved the flask under my nose. “Hmmm?”

“Screw it, why not.” I took it from him and took a swig, and then handed it to my soon-to-be son-in-law. I swallowed my drink with a bit of a grimace. “That’s right, you like bourbon, don’t you?” I might not like it, but I did get that familiar warming feeling as it went down. I also knew that if we sat around drinking it long enough, I’d learn to like it, too.

Charlie grinned and took a sip and passed it to Tusker. “As opposed to that sissy stuff you drink from Canada and Ireland. I’m surprised your party hasn’t censured you for that already.”

“My party! The Republicans? Please, don’t ruin my day and tell me you’re a Democrat! It’s bad enough with your mother and sisters, but I was hoping that you at least actually had hair on your balls!” I took back the flask and took a second sip.

They all laughed at me, and they took another sip again, and then I took the flask from them, put the cap back on it, and slipped it into my pocket. “You’ll get this after the I do part,” I told them. Charlie lightheartedly protested as Tusker and I left and headed back to the womenfolk. I waved at several people and shook a few hands on the way, and we found the bridal party trying to sort themselves into the proper order. Tusker went over to Tessa and gave her a hug.

I looked at Marilyn and asked, “How’s it all going in here?”

“Remarkably well. Molly’s good. Isn’t she gorgeous?!” She pulled my youngest over to stand in front of me, and sandwiched her with her sister on the other side.

I had to smile at that. Molly was wearing white, with an off-the-shoulder brocaded bodice and Chantilly lace everywhere else. It also had a long train, but when I had asked about that earlier, I was assured it could be removed for dancing later. She also had a white veil and a circlet on her head, but that was pushed up and out of the way for the moment. The other members of the wedding party were all in rose gowns, each one different, including the mothers of the bride and groom. Marilyn was wearing a calf length dress with a bustier top and a matching jacket; Holly’s dress was a slim fitting sheath with spaghetti straps.

I stepped back and eyed the trio thoughtfully. “Gorgeous! Molly, you are almost as beautiful as your mother was when we got married.”

Marilyn blushed and smiled, and Molly grinned. “Nice one, Dad!”

Holly added, “Dad’s just trying to get lucky later.”

Tusker heard that one and began to cough. I looked over at him and said, “At least you only had boys! It could have been so much worse!”

One of the agents knocked on the door and entered. He smiled and said, “I was told to tell you that the guests are all here and you can get started whenever you want.”

I looked at Molly. “Ready?”

Molly answered, “Ready!”

“Last chance. No cold feet?”

“No cold feet, Dad. Are you ready?”

I chuckled at that. “Baby, I’m not going to walk you down the aisle, I’m going to run you down the aisle, and when I get to Bucky, I’m going to say, ‘Here! She’s your problem now!’”

“Daddy!”

“Wait!” cried Holly, who reached up and pulled the veil back down over her sister’s face, and then she and Tessa straightened it out. “Okay, ready!”

We began to file out of the room. I hung back with my wife for a second, and whispered in her ear, “I’ve been informed that weddings are good places to pick up chicks for later, that women at weddings get all sorts of wild and crazy ideas.”

She grinned at me and whispered back, “You never know. Just how wild and crazy were you hoping to get?”

I waggled my eyebrows at her and she laughed, and then went to her place in the lineup. I moved back to stand next to Molly. As I went out the door, I handed my cane to one of the agents. “Do me a favor and hold onto that. I may be old and decrepit, but I think I can hold myself together long enough to walk my daughter down the aisle.”

The agent was one of the guys who worked out with me some mornings. “Yes, sir. I’ll put it with your wheelchair, right next to the walker,” he laughed.

“Good idea. Thank you.”

I took my place at the end of the line with Molly, as her sister straightened the train out behind her, and then the music started up and we simply had to wait for everybody in front of us to move on out. We had the groom’s parents, then Marilyn, then the ushers and bridesmaids, and then Holly. Finally it was just Molly and me, so I tucked her arm inside mine and as the processional began, we slowly moved down the aisle. My knee was really beginning to bother me these days, but I was all smiles as I escorted my baby. Down at the front I carefully lifted her veil off her face, and kissed her on the forehead. No, I didn’t make any smart or snarky remarks to either one of them. Marilyn would have killed me. Then I moved back to the pew next to Marilyn. I glanced across the aisle, and Tusker gave me a thumbs up, which I returned. (That photo ended up in Business Week in an article on Tusk Cycle.)

Really, when it comes down to it, isn’t all that any of us want out of life is to see our kids married off and doing well? What more is there, in the final analysis? One down, two to go.

I smiled at the two people sitting in the pew with us, our still single children’s dates. We went through the ceremony and the Mass just fine. Marilyn had ordered that her children were going to be married in a church with a proper Mass. During the wedding plans discussion this had been uttered in an imperious tone that had the rest of us nervously stepping back a pace and going, “Sure thing, whatever you say!” When the time came for communion, I just stayed in my seat, since I wasn’t Catholic, and let the others go past me. Jerry stayed seated; Megan stood and took communion with the others. I was sure that would please Marilyn.

And thus my baby got married. They didn’t do any silly homemade wedding vows. It was all pretty conventional, but that works for most of us. Marilyn cried appropriately, and I just hugged her with an arm around the shoulders. Then we all marched back down the aisle and got sprinkled with soap bubbles from those little plastic bottles that everybody got. After a bit, with everybody and their brother shaking hands and congratulating each other, the wedding party headed back inside for photos while everybody else made their way over to the White House. If you didn’t have your own limo, we provided, and if that wasn’t enough, we had luxury coach buses available for the short drive. Since everybody was going to get into the booze before we made it back, I pulled out the flask I had confiscated and we passed that around until we finished it off — about one swig each! Luckily, it wasn’t the only flask around.

I’m glad I didn’t have to be presidential that day, because from that point on, things got a little blurry. On the plus side, I’m a fairly happy drunk, unlike a few of Marilyn’s brothers. Luke and Rafael, for instance, are mean drunks, and getting them lit up is a good way to start a fight. I didn’t tell my wife, but I told the Secret Service agents watching over everything to keep an eye on a few of them. Rafe, in particular, was a mouthy hard core Republican, and I didn’t need him getting drunk and spouting off to the Senate Majority Leader! Some of the others, like Michael and John, were happy drunks and the more they drank the more they smiled and laid back.

The group was much too big to do a formal receiving line and have all the guests come through, to shake hands and congratulate us. I did a top of the head calculation, and if each guest spent only 30 seconds with us, that would make the line three hours long! Instead, we simply had the wedding party troop into the East Room two by two, and then did a quick champagne toast. After that, it was party time.

And it was a very nice party! To a certain extent, the politician joined in with the proud father as I ended up circulating and working the room. In some cases I was acting the politician, shaking hands with people, and inviting them to donate to the McCain campaign, and I know I introduced John to several of my business acquaintances over the years. Holly’s date, Jerry the grad student, seemed pretty dumbstruck by the whole affair. I asked my wife if they were serious, and Marilyn told me she wasn’t sure. I asked her if this was a trial run for them, and she simply gave me a mystified look, and I told her it was up to her to find out. That earned me an amused salute.

Megan, on the other hand, seemed quite at ease in the setting. Charlie was away for a moment, and I had a chance to talk to her. She really was a beautiful girl, about 21 or 22, long golden blonde hair, figure like a centerfold’s, and leggy. In heels she was probably as tall as he was. “Enjoying yourself?” I asked her.

She smiled and nodded. “Yes, thank you. It reminds me in a way of some of the big parties in Hollywood, all the famous people, I mean.”

“Oh? I never moved in those crowds.”

She smiled. “Hollywood… it’s all image and glamour, who you know and who you’re seen with. I’ve been to a few Oscar and Emmy parties, where it’s just wall to wall stars and producers and directors. I mean, I was just somebody’s date, eye candy for the crowd, but you know what I mean.”

“Is that how you met Charlie?” Eye candy? I found that a bit disturbing.

“No. Charlie’s not into that. We met on the set of Vapor Lock. He was only there for a few days, and I was just a random biker babe, standing in the background during a party scene, drinking colored water and pretending it was something else. Charlie had to keep saying his lines over and over again, because the co-star was too coked up to remember his own lines.” She gave me a nervous look at that. “I mean, Charlie wasn’t doing anything… this isn’t going to cause trouble, will it?”

I snorted at that. “The Attorney General is sitting at a different table. If you don’t tell him, neither will I.”

“Okay. Anyway, it was so bad they decided to shoot the whole thing again in the morning, before anybody had a chance to get too stoned. Charlie had been hitting on me — nicely, I mean, not creepy — and asked me to dinner, and I said yes. He was a real gentleman, too, which was a big improvement over some of the people you get out there. So the next morning, Charlie did the scene again, and then he was out of there, but he had my number, and he called me a few times, and we managed to meet up again. We’ve been seeing each other since then.”

“Marilyn told me that was when you met. Did you like being in the movie? I know absolutely nothing about that business.” That was true, too. Most Hollywood donations go to the Democrats.

She gave a laugh. “Yes, I mean, I am trying to be an actress, and it was a paycheck, but I could tell, even as we were shooting it, that the whole thing was a disaster! I mean, it was just straight to video, $200 million down the toilet. I cashed my check as soon as I could!”

“Acting isn’t working out for you?” Did this girl see Charlie as her next meal ticket?

“Just not like you think it will. It takes longer than you imagine, and there are so many idiot roles like that one. I think everybody goes out there thinking that they are going to wake up the next morning doing Shakespeare and Spielberg, and it sure isn’t like that. I think I am going to end up doing commercials and character roles at some point. In another year or so I’ll be past my sell-by date anyway.”

“You’re kidding me! How old are you, 21, 22?”

“I’m 23. Right now, I am competing against girls straight out of high school who are even prettier, and look better under hi-def. I figure if I haven’t made it by 25, the only starring roles I will land will be with studios and movies where you don’t get invited to the White House, you know?”

“A lot of that happen? The non White House stuff”, I commented.

“Easy money, but I don’t think I want to go down that path. I think I’ll head back to Omaha first.”

I smiled at that. Just then, Charlie returned. “Hey, Dad, hitting on my girl?”

“Not while your mother is in the same room. Here, have a seat while I circulate. Megan and I were just having a very nice talk.” To Megan I said, “We’ll talk some more, later.”

I wasn’t quite sure how to take Megan. She was a smart girl, that I was sure of. Was she also a gold digger? I didn’t think so, but she was an actress. Maybe she was acting like a nice girl? Or was I over thinking things? Maybe they were in love. She was Charlie’s problem, anyway.

I wandered through the room some more, and found myself at the table the Buckminsters were at. After Harlan’s death I had wondered if they would move back to Mississippi, but Anna Lee had told me that she had built a new life in Alexandria, working as an OB-GYN nurse at a clinic. There were nine of them there. Anna Lee had brought a fellow about our age that she introduced as a real estate agent. It had been six years since Harlan’s death, so I suppose enough time had passed for mourning. Mary Beth and her husband were there, along with their daughter, a three year old who was running circles around the table and chasing after some of the Lefleur grandchildren. Mary Beth was expecting a second child, too.

Neither Roscoe nor Tyrone was married yet, but both had brought their fiancés. It was amusing, in a way, when I approached the table. The two boys were chatting to each other, and facing the dance area, as I came up from behind and said hello. The two of them were in their dress uniforms, and they popped up and whirled around, coming to attention like a pair of cadets facing a surprise inspection by the Commandant. I had to laugh. “Captain Buckminster, aren’t you looking spiffy with your medals all shiny. What is that, a Silver Star I see? And you, Second Lieutenant Buckminster, fresh from the Academy and all bright eyed and bushy tailed!” Behind me I heard Anna Lee start to laugh. “Oh, for the love of God, at ease, you two, before your mother and sister die of laughter.”

The boys relaxed as Anna Lee and Mary Beth laughed at them, and I shook their hands and let them introduce me to their ladies. Roscoe was on leave from his outfit in Germany, and had brought Elizabeth with him; Marilyn and I had met her last year when we flew into Ramstein. Tyrone was there with a girl from Rhinebeck that he had met while at West Point. “You still with your company in Vilseck?” I asked Roscoe.

He nodded. “Yes, sir. I still have the company, but I’m also the Assistant S-3 for the battalion.”

I nodded. “Assistant S-3? Impressive!” I had given Roscoe his Silver Star for his leadership in Kurdistan at one of the awards ceremonies. In a way I knew where this would lead. For all the bureaucracy of the Army, the bottom line is leading people effectively while getting shot at. Roscoe had proven his ability to do that. He would be moving onwards and upwards. “What’s next, Leavenworth?” That was the Command and General Staff College.

“Yes, sir. I’ll be in the next class.”

“Good for you. Hey, whatever happened to your old captain, the fellow who fell off the train and handed you the company?” I asked.

“He was in the body shop a couple of months, and then transferred to a battalion S-1 slot back at Fort Hood.”

“Huh.” I looked over at Roscoe’s brother. “So, Tyrone, where are you stationed now that you’ve graduated? Did you decide to go Engineer?”

“Yes, sir. I’m training out at Fort Leonard Wood, in Missouri. It’s sort of nowhere, but nice.”

We chatted a bit more, and I continued moving around. After a bit, we had a lovely dinner. While the only people in tuxes were those of us in the wedding party, the whole thing was as glitzy as any state dinner, and much more comfortable.

Eventually it became time to dance, and I was leading off with a father-daughter dance with Molly. The music had really been the only argument we had about the entire wedding. I had the Marine Corps Band at my disposal, ‘The President’s Own’, and they don’t just do marches. They frequently played dance music at state dinners and other social events. Molly wanted a DJ to play the kind of music she and the younger kids wanted to hear. Generally Marilyn and I couldn’t stand that music, and our children couldn’t stand the country music we listened to. Eventually we settled on the Marine Corps Band through the first half of the evening, starting from the processional into the East Room and through dinner, and then we brought in a DJ. I felt incredibly embarrassed telling this to the band leaders, but they took it in stride, and actually laughed it off.

Still, she might complain, but I was going to have my way on one thing, that first dance! She might be listening to something God-awful in a few minutes, but our first dance would be to “I Loved Her First”, by Heartland. It was a real tear-jerker, and quite lovely, and was one of the best wedding songs I had ever heard. It had come out last summer, and by the end of 2006 had topped the charts.

As soon as it started coming from the loudspeakers, Molly looked at me and said, “Daddy, you promised, no country.”

“Just this one song, honey, and then they’ll play your stuff.” With that I took her in my arms, and danced her around the center of the floor, but as I did so, I sang the words into her ear softly. I had done the same thing during my first trip, when I married Maggie off to Jackson, and the result was the same. Molly was crying into my shoulder by the end of the song, and then wrapped her arms around my neck in a big hug at the end as the audience applauded. I handed her off to Bucky, and went off to sit with Marilyn, who was also smiling and crying. I smiled at my wife and said, “You women cry too much.”

She leaned over and hugged me. “You’re just a big old softy, aren’t you?”

“Don’t tell anybody, you’ll ruin my reputation!”

Chapter 168: Off to the Races

August 26, 2007

We managed to get our lives back to a semblance of normal by the start of business Monday. Molly and Bucky had been packed off to Hougomont on the G-IV, Holly and her boyfriend went back to Princeton Sunday, and Charlie and Megan left on Sunday as well. He was taking her back to Hollywood, and then was flying to meet his racing team.

Charlie’s professional motorcycle racing career was the stuff of legend. A local level pro champion as a teenager, he had given it up when he went into the Marines. Once he was out of the Marines in the fall of 2003, he had decided to give it a try again. He had raced in the 2004 season, never losing a single race, and worked his way up to the AMA Championship series by the end of the season. He had won the MX series, the larger and heavier bikes, back to back in 2005 and 2006, and this year he was defending his title, trying to make it three in a row.

The weekend of the wedding had been an off week for racing, so he didn’t lose any points for missing a race. The previous weekend, that had been a problem. He had missed Budds Creek in Maryland to run the parties in Vegas, and his sponsors weren’t amused. When I heard him comment on that I asked him about it.

Charlie’s reply? “I guess I’ll just have to win the rest of the season and take the championship again. That should get them off my back.”

“It’s good to see somebody so humble. It’s a refreshing break from the usual egos I see here in D.C,” I answered dryly.

He simply laughed at that. “It ain’t bragging if it’s fact!”

I grumbled and rolled my eyes. Damned if he didn’t, too! The following weekend he won in Buchanan, Michigan, and then two weeks later he took Unadilla in New York. He only placed second in Lakewood, Colorado on July 22, but won the next two races in Washougal, Washington, and Millville, Minnesota. His next big race was in Delmont, Pennsylvania, on August 26, which was a bit east of Pittsburgh. That was close enough to take Marine One to.

Every year we tried to see one of Charlie’s races. It’s difficult, however, since the President has to take a giant entourage with him everywhere. I hated taking the zoo for a personal trip. Fortunately there is usually a track somewhere in Maryland, Virginia, or Pennsylvania close enough to take a helicopter to. We would send up the appropriate advance elements, and then fly up for the day, and be back in Washington by the evening. Half the time the press never even noticed, since there was no flaming wreckage on the South Lawn to clue them in. We never made an announcement, but simply flew to the nearest drop off point — perhaps the local police barracks or fire department parking lot — and picked up a quiet convoy to go to the races.

We tried to keep it low key. We didn’t do local interviews unless somebody stuck a camera in my face. We didn’t meet with local politicians. I didn’t have fundraisers or dinners. It wasn’t that kind of trip. It wasn’t like NASCAR, either. There are no grandstands and no luxury Skyboxes. You generally stand outside a chain link fence, and your seats might be a pair of lawn chairs with a beer cooler in between, and a beach umbrella in case it rained. It didn’t matter all that much to Marilyn or me. We would have never gone if Charlie wasn’t involved, but he was involved, and he was our son, so we tried to make a race during the season.

The security involved in low key situations like this is still quite intricate. The President just doesn’t go places. No matter where I am, I have a lot of heavily armed Secret Service agents in very close proximity. We have the War Wagons, a doctor and nurse in attendance, an armored limo, and usually extra vehicles as decoys, and around that are typically local and state cops in an elaborate motorcade. We also have some lower impact alternatives for when I wanted something a lot more subtle. Put the locals and Staties in unmarked cars, cut down on the decoys, use a War Wagon and not a limo, and dress everybody in civvies.

Another thing you did was simple misdirection. Tell people you were going to be someplace else, and they look someplace else. In the case of Delmont, we told the press we were going to Camp David for the weekend. Since no press is allowed at Camp David, nobody was there to see us not land. Even though people might know that my son was a nationally ranked motocross champion, they also knew we didn’t attend his races. Toss another factor into the mix — I don’t look all that Presidential! Real Presidents look like Bill Clinton, Mitt Romney, or John Kerry — tall, full heads of hair, square jawed, and handsome. As I occasionally joked with my wife, I was just a middle aged bald guy with bifocals and a busted nose. I might be in good shape and not overweight, but I was 51 years old, my hair was more than a little thin and more silver than dirty blond, I had bags under my eyes, and I was getting a bit jowly. Put me in a dark suit and slap on some makeup and give me a speech, I looked like the President. Put me in cargo shorts and a Hawaiian shirt and I looked like your neighbor getting ready to mow the lawn.

This wasn’t an unusual situation, historically speaking. Since nobody actually cared all that much about the V.P., he didn’t need to be all that handsome. FDR looked rather patrician; Truman looked like a clerk in a shoe store. JFK was young and handsome; LBJ looked like a sad sack hound dog! Neither Truman nor LBJ would have had a shot at running for President after their boss had served his full term, but wasn’t everybody surprised when they died! Now I was in the same situation. GWB was arguably better looking than me, and my replacement probably would be, too.

When we went to Delmont, we took the small and quiet version of the zoo, and most of them stayed in the parking lot. Even though I had survived an assassination attempt just a year ago, I wasn’t terribly worried. We had several dozen agents around us in three layers — immediately around us, more wandering through the nearby crowds, and the rest farther out, wandering randomly. Meanwhile, Marilyn and I wore cargo shorts and Hawaiian shirts, sneakers, sunglasses, and big straw hats. We didn’t look like the President and First Lady of the United States. We looked like a couple of gym teachers from the local junior high.

One thing I noticed, in the pictures we saw of the races and Winner’s Circle, was that Megan was in a lot of the pictures. Charlie might be getting kissed by the local Miss Motocross, but he often had an arm around Megan while he did so. I saw her in enough photos that I called in one of my Secret Service agents and broke about a dozen laws. Who was this girl? I sent him off to do a very quiet background check.

It came back pretty much like Megan had told me at the wedding. Megan Morgan, born Megan Pulaski on May 4, 1984, in Elkhorn, Nebraska, a small neighborhood on the outskirts of Omaha, which had just this year been annexed by Omaha. Her father, John, was a family law lawyer and her mother, Barbara, worked as a receptionist at a local park called Chalco Hills. She lived her entire life in Elkhorn in the same house with her parents and two younger brothers, John Jr. and William (he went by ‘Will’.) She went to public schools, first Westridge Elementary, then Elkhorn Middle School, and finally Elkhorn High. Good grades, cheerleader, Girl Scouts, all the usual stuff. Got a part in a middle school play in the 7^th grade, and was hooked. Her last two years in high school she played the female lead in the school play, to rave reviews. After high school, Megan went to the University of Nebraska, where she majored in theatre.

Following her graduation from Nebraska, Megan took the bus to Hollywood and Vine, in the hope that she would soon be discovered and become the next Marilyn Monroe or Elizabeth Taylor. Fortunately, she had a cousin she could stay with while she went about being discovered. On the advice of her agent she changed her professional name to Megan Morgan, since it sounded less ethnic and more alliterative. Unsurprisingly, discovery never happened, and like millions of aspiring actresses before her, she ended up waiting tables in bars and clubs while doing bit parts and non-speaking background roles. Some of the jobs had some nudity (unnamed dancer in a strip club in a biker movie, unnamed doomed sorority girl in a horror flick, etc.) but there was no evidence she had done anything worse than that.

While I wasn’t any kind of expert on Hollywood, I knew enough about the business to know that every year thousands of kids, guys and girls, hop off the bus from Omaha and every other damn place with stars in their eyes and dreams in their hearts. A handful make it big. Most end up working bit parts and whatever they can land for a few years, and then move on. Some end up making a living as character actors or doing commercials. Some drop down to the lower levels, where they end up doing XXX stuff and can’t ever show their faces in public again. Megan hadn’t sunk to that point, and instead seemed to be in the vast middle ranks. Back in Elkhorn and Lincoln, she was damn hot stuff. In Hollywood, she was just one more good looking leggy blonde with big tits. They grew them on trees out there.

I kept my mouth shut, and didn’t even tell Marilyn I had her investigated, since that would have been tantamount to telling Charlie. Charlie seemed happy. Maybe he was settling down after all, inconceivable as that might be. If she was a gold digger, she was certainly subtle about it. There had been no requests for money or loans or influence from my son. Megan might simply have come to the conclusion that whatever she was looking for in Hollywood was a real long shot, and that a relationship with Charlie Buckman was a better long term possibility. Even that sounded too cold and calculating. Maybe they were simply falling for each other, and she was spending time with him.

So there we were, Marilyn and I, on Sunday, August 26, in the early afternoon, on the side of the track, in a couple of folding chairs and with a six-pack of Iron City on ice in a cooler between us. The weather was in the mid-70s, the sky was clear, and the day was beautiful. In front of us, a bunch of filthy and muddy guys in colorful racing leathers went round and round, half the time on the ground and half the time flying through the air. Marilyn and I cringed more than once, but by now we were used to that. I can’t even ride a bicycle without both hands on the handlebars. Charlie had all the luck in the family on that score.

And then he ran out of luck.

He was leading on the third lap, and overtaking the lagging racer, and was being closely followed by the rest of the pack. Suddenly, the guy in front of him went down, and my son was fucked. He crashed into the downed bike and fell off, collapsing into the wreckage. The riders behind him, half of whom were airborne, couldn’t evade. One after the other, they slammed into the pileup, generally stopping their crash on my son’s body. Within seconds there was a giant clusterfuck of broken bikes and broken bodies, with Charlie’s at the bottom.

It took all of thirty seconds to happen, as Marilyn and I stared in horror and disbelief. The race was over. Officials came pouring out onto the track, some waving flags and shutting it down. Around us everybody was on their feet and screaming. Pit crews and sponsors came out, and a couple of ambulances pulled up. Marilyn was crying as she held onto me. Beside me, one of the agents in my travel detail vaulted the fence and headed down to find out what had happened to Charlie. Within seconds, Doctor Tubb and his nurse showed up at our sides.

It was strange watching this unfold in front of me. My son was underneath that unholy mess, and yet one of the odd things that ran through my head was that this was bound to make the news, and for once it wouldn’t be because I was there. A crash like this was definitely going to make the highlight reels. Then a chill ran up my back. It might not make the reels, either. They normally don’t include it in the highlights when somebody is killed.

It took several minutes to unpeel things. Most of the young men were able to walk away from it, though some looked a little battered and shaken up. A few more had to be carried out, but they were conscious and would give a wave or a thumbs up. Often they had to wait to pull a bike off somebody under the pile, to get to the next person down. As I scanned the group in front of us, I could see the agent on the periphery, but I could also see some guys in Red Bull uniforms, and standing with them was Megan Morgan, a shocked expression on her face.

At the bottom of the pile, was Charlie, and he wasn’t being helped to his feet. Megan collapsed at that point, and the ambulance was brought up. The agent ran back over, and spoke to us from the track side of the fence. Marilyn and I rushed over.

“He’s alive, sir!” he exclaimed.

“How… what…”

“He’s alive! He’s all messed up, but he’s alive. I heard them say that he needed to be transported to Pittsburgh. They are going to try to send him out by air.”

I pointed back at the mess. “Go back and offer them Marine One! Go!”

He ran back, and I couldn’t wait any longer. I tried to climb over the fence, only to slip back. It was getting to be a real bitch, this getting old. A different agent stopped me and said, “No, sir, you can’t go!”

“Get out of my way!”

He grabbed me and kept me where I was. “No, sir! You’ll just be in the way! They know what they’re doing! You have to stay here!”

“SHIT!” I stepped back and put an arm around my wife. I knew he was right, but I simply hated it. I grabbed Doctor Tubb and pushed him towards the fence. “See what you can do!” He ran off and joined the agent. I could see that Charlie was on his side, and wasn’t moving, but they had his helmet off. He was being worked on by a couple of EMT types, and then they cleared the way and backed the ambulance up. They pulled a stretcher out, along with a back board. One of the ambulance personnel was talking on the radio.

The agent who had gone up to the wreck and the ambulance returned. He had Megan in tow, along with Tubb. “They have a Life Flight coming in to medevac him. They are prepping him for transport now. I am told the odds are good if they can get him to the hospital, but he’s in serious condition.”

I looked at the scene, and then at the agent. I nodded and said, “Yeah, okay, but we need to follow them. As soon as this Life Flight takes off, we are next.”

“I’ll set it up, sir.”

He began speaking into his sleeve mike. Marilyn was standing there crying, and she had Megan with her, wrapped up in each other’s arms, and Megan was practically hysterical. I gave them the latest news, and we simply waited, the seconds ticking by like hours. Charlie was loaded onto the stretcher and placed in the ambulance, which was driven into an empty section of the parking area. We heard the helicopter rotors, and watched as an air ambulance landed, and he was transferred. A minute after the Life Flight helicopter took off, Marine One landed, and we hustled over. Marilyn and Megan were still wrapped around each other, so we took Megan with us.

We had to wait for the Life Flight helicopter to lift back off the helipad at the hospital before we could land. There were a lot of people staring as we came in, but we were just directed towards the Emergency Room, and that was as far as we could go. Charlie was hustled straight into their trauma center, but just like anybody else, we had to hang around the waiting room.

My day job began to intrude at about this point. The Secret Service must have been in contact with the staff back at the White House, because almost immediately a cell phone rang and one of the agents handed it to me. It was Frank Stouffer, my Chief of Staff. “How’s he doing, Mister President?”

“Jesus! How did you…”

“Sir, please! This is the White House. We know everything, remember! I heard from the Secret Service.”

I snorted out a laugh at that. “Yeah. We don’t know yet. They airlifted him to the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center. We flew in after that. He’s in the emergency room now. We just don’t know.”

“Will and I will be there in a couple of hours. Under no circumstance are you to say a word to the press,” he told me.

“Frank, there’s no need…”

“Mister President, with all due respect, shut up! This is already on the news. If the press isn’t already in the parking lot, they will be within minutes. Will has promised to inflict bodily harm on everyone if you go on the news.”

I muttered something under my breath, but the rational part of me knew he was right. “Okay, Frank, see you in a few hours.”

My Chief of Staff and my Communications Director were prescient beyond belief. I handed the phone back to the Secret Service agent and said, “We need to get out of the lobby.”

“Working on it, sir. We should be able to move into a conference room in a bit. It’s Sunday, so a lot of the administrators aren’t here…”

He hadn’t even finished his sentence when the door to the parking lot swished open. Bright lights and a camera barged in, and a loud voice yelled out, “IS HE DEAD YET? CAN I GET A PHOTO OF THE BODY? WHERE’S THE BODY?!”

Marilyn shrieked and fainted dead away. I turned towards her and saw her slumping down, and an agent next to her grabbing her and picking her up. He looked a bit mystified, and the head agent swore, and he pointed at two agents and ordered, “Shut them down!” To the rest of us he said, “On my six!” and then he stormed through a door into the interior of the hospital, into an empty hallway and around a corner, leaving the yelling reporter behind us. Once out of the view of the lobby room, he turned to the agent I knew was his second in command. “I don’t care if it is Sunday, somebody must be running this place. I want them here, now, and their head of security. We need to get a handle on this immediately!”

Things weren’t quite as dire as they seemed. Marilyn came to and was set back on her feet. After about thirty seconds a secretary type appeared and led us all deeper into the hospital, and deposited us in a large conference room. A couple of minutes later an administrator showed up, and he and the Secret Service made the arrangements they needed. Meanwhile, I got a report that the rest of the motorcade was already well under way at top speed here to the hospital, and would probably arrive here in about a half hour. Also, Frank and Will had been driven over to the Naval Observatory and had been picked up by HMX-1 and were being flown up.

I pulled some chairs from around the conference table and pulled them to the side, and set Marilyn and Megan down, and then I sat between them. My wife was still a little out of it, and Megan was staring at everyone scurrying around. In front of us order began to arise from chaos. Doctor Tubb, and a nurse took one look at Marilyn and gave her a sedative. Within a couple of minutes she was lights out, and we loaded her on a gurney they hauled in and set in the corner, and covered her with a blanket. She didn’t need to be involved. We still didn’t know what was happening to Charlie. Half an hour later the motorcade arrived, and we got into high gear. More agents and staff came in.

It was kind of odd, just sitting there and watching what was going on. It was a Sunday afternoon, and America was relatively quiet that weekend. We weren’t invading anybody, we weren’t in the midst of a budget crisis, and we didn’t have any major scandals going on. It was just business as usual, and the First Lady and I had managed to take the afternoon off. Megan simply commented, “This is unbelievable!” as everybody scurried around.

After Doctor Tubb took care of Marilyn, I asked him, “Doc, can you find out what’s going on with Charlie? We haven’t seen anybody to tell us.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll look into it.”

“Find out where the best hospital is. I mean, if there’s a hospital or doctor or treatment, we’ll do it.”

He hesitated a second, and replied, “This is the place you want him to be at, sir. Pittsburgh is really good. If it had been you in an accident near here, this is where we would have taken you.”

“Okay, thank you. Now, please find out about Charlie.”

He nodded and took off out the door, leaving the nurse to check on Marilyn. Suddenly I felt underdressed. We were still wearing our shorts and flowered shirts, and Megan was in muddy jeans and a t-shirt. I caught somebody’s eye and he came over. “At some point I am going to be on television, and right now I look like a muddy tourist in Maui. Any chance we can scrounge up some decent clothing?”

“Yes, sir, it was in the motorcade; we’ll get something sent up. One of Charlie’s agents is en route with his and Miss Morgan’s clothing; they’ll be here in an hour. Another has taken possession of the motorcycle pending the investigation.”

Megan looked confused. “What investigation?”

I knew the answer already, but I nodded to the agent to explain. “The President’s son was injured while the President was present. Was it an accident? Or was it part of a plot to get the President somewhere he was vulnerable? There will be an investigation.”

“That’s crazy! He landed on a downed bike!”

“That will also be investigated.”

Before Megan could say anything, I laid a hand on her arm. “Don’t worry. I am sure that it was an accident. These guys are professional paranoids, but they have to be. They simply have to investigate everything. I was almost killed a year ago. It kind of goes with the territory.”

The agent nodded and moved away. Next through the door were Frank and Will, both of whom came up and asked how Charlie was doing. I gave the ‘I don’t know’ speech again, and Will took off to find a doctor. Frank simply went to work with the weekend administrator and talking on his phone. I just ignored them. I turned my head to Megan and said, “I think we are going to be here for a bit. Tell me about Megan Morgan.”

“Me?” came out in a squeaky soprano.

I smiled and nodded. “You just landed on the front page of every newspaper in America. What are they going to be reporting about you?”

“What!?”

“Welcome to the nightmare. Oh, crap, that reminds me, I have to call the girls!” I grabbed a phone and called Holly and Molly. I told them what happened, and what we knew so far, which was diddly, and they both promised to get out there by that evening. Molly would bring Bucky with her. After hanging up with both of them, I told Frank to make it happen, and he didn’t even blink, but just grabbed his own phone.

Doctor Tubb returned a minute later and reported that Charlie was in surgery. We should expect something more in about an hour. After that, I looked back at Megan and said, “Now, where were we? You were going to tell me how you met Charlie.”

She gave me an odd look. “How do you do that?”

“Hmmm?”

“Switching back and forth like that, how do you do it? It’s like you are running five different conversations in your head!”

“Ahhh, yes, that.” I nodded and shrugged. “It drives Marilyn nuts, too. It’s just how I cope. In this job, if you can’t manage your time and compartmentalize things, you will be very unhappy and not get much done. It’s just the way it is. Not everybody can do it. Marilyn certainly can’t.”

“It seems so… so…”

“Cold blooded?” Megan didn’t answer, but I could see in her eyes she agreed with me. “Don’t worry, I’ve heard it before, from my own wife. It is simply how I manage to cope with everything. I just keep everything separate. I don’t mix business with home, although in this job you have to. Still, I try. It doesn’t always work, but I try. Tell me about your folks. What do they do?”

For the next hour or so, I got Megan to open up and tell me about her life, although every five or ten minutes I had to turn that part of my life off and turn back into the President for a few minutes. She basically told me what I had already learned about her. After a bit, I simply told her, “I need to ask a very personal question. Are you and Charlie serious? About each other, I mean.”

“Yes, I think so.”

“You think so? Please, I am not trying to be rude, but I was not kidding when I said you were about to be on the front pages of newspapers. You saw some of the hoopla over Molly’s wedding. Charlie is much better known than my girls are.”

She smiled at that. “He kind of likes the attention, you know. Anyway, yes, I think we are getting serious. I mean, he hasn’t asked me to marry him, but we are both being exclusive about each other. During the spring he told me that he had never dated a girl more than a few weeks before, and we were already at four months by then. I had to laugh at that.”

I smiled. “That’s pretty much been my son’s pattern, as long as I’ve known him. What about you? How do you feel?”

“It’s strange, but I feel the same way. No, I never swapped boyfriends every few weeks, but there is something there. I think I knew it back in the summer. Listen, have you ever heard of the casting couch?” she asked.

I looked askance at her. “You mean, in Hollywood?” She nodded. “What, having to do a, what do you call it, a ‘horizontal audition’ to get a job? That’s real?”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s only that blatant with some of the slimier producers and directors, and I always managed to stay away from them. Still, there’s a more subtle version. Maybe you get an invite to a dinner or a party as a date, and everybody knows how the date is going to end, that sort of thing. Charlie knew I was auditioning for this one role on a sitcom, and he knew I had been to various parties, but he never really understood some of what happens behind the scenes. I mean, I could have told him it was simply something I needed to attend, and never told him what was really involved, and maybe I could have landed the spot, and he might never have known what happened, but I didn’t. I turned down the date and spent the weekend with Charlie, and I never thought twice about it. My agent was furious, but I didn’t want to have to lie to Charlie.”

She looked kind of guilty about admitting to some of what happened in Hollywood, and by implication, some of what she had participated in. I simply reached out and squeezed her hand. “Megan, I am the last guy to start casting judgment. Charlie’s no saint, and before I met Marilyn, I wasn’t one, either. If I had to rank the virtues, I would rank fidelity considerably higher than chastity. Regardless of what you two did before you met, if you can hold your head up after, that’s just fine with me and Marilyn.”

She looked relieved at that. Marilyn kept snoozing on the gurney, and now began to snore loudly. Megan’s eyes widened, and she turned to stare at the First Lady of the United States snoring like a drunken lumberjack. I simply grinned at her and said, “We all have our crosses to bear. There’s mine!”

“That’s awful!”

“Marilyn would agree, and then punch me.”

There was a bit of commotion at the door, and Doctor Tubb came in with another doctor, this one in some clean scrubs. Tubb brought him over and introduced him. “Mister President, this is Doctor Whiteman. He was the lead surgeon for your son.”

“Mister President,” he said, glancing over at Marilyn snoring in the corner. “Uh, should we wake Mrs. Buckman?”

I glanced at him and Tubb, and then over at Marilyn. “Doctor, it’s probably best if you tell me first. This is Megan Morgan, Charlie’s girlfriend. How bad is he?”

“He’s going to make it, Mister President. He’s in rough shape, but he’s going to make it.”

The entire room let out a collective sigh of relief. At that, we sat down at the conference table, and Will and Frank joined us. The lead agent also sat down. I introduced them and explained they needed to know what was happening. Then we got into the specifics. “Your son is still unconscious, but that’s a good thing for now. There are two separate issues here. The first is that he has a lot of bone damage. It looks like he was lying on his left side when everybody landed on top of him. Almost all the damage is on his right side. His right arm is broken in a couple of places, and his right leg is broken in at least five more.” I cringed at that. “Worst of all is that he has multiple broken ribs, a condition known as a flail chest. That’s pretty serious. Because of the way the ribs hold the chest muscles in place, your son is on a ventilator for the time being; we are worried about a possible pneumothorax. That’s where his lung begins to collapse. We have his bones stabilized for now. All of this will require some extensive surgery and a lengthy rehabilitation, but it’s not medically the most serious issue.”

“It’s not?! That sounds pretty bad, so far!” I commented.

Whiteman shook his head. “No sir. The really life threatening issues are the internal injuries. That’s what my team was actually working on. The broken bones we have stabilized, and they can wait until he is stronger. Mister Buckman had several very serious internal injuries. We had to remove about a quarter of his liver, and sew the rest together. That’s not that serious, since the liver will grow back almost completely. He had some damage to his hepatic artery, which we fixed, and when I left, another team was doing a resection of his small intestine, which was torn. We also sewed up some tears to his right kidney, but even if that fails, he can survive on his other kidney. These are all survivable injuries, at least on an individual basis, but because of all the other trauma, it becomes much more serious. Still, with good care, he should survive. It’s going to be lengthy, however. We can’t begin to work on the skeletal damage until his vital signs stabilize and his liver and kidney function improve.”

Will interrupted. “Excuse me, but I am going to have to give the press something. What do we call this? Serious condition? Critical condition? What?”

The two doctors looked at each other, and then Whiteman said, “Critical condition.”

Tubb added, “I would add ‘but stable.’ Everything I am hearing is that his condition is not deteriorating.”

Whiteman thought for a second, and then nodded. “I could concur with that. These things are much more complicated than that, but for the press we could say critical but stable. With any luck, we should be able to upgrade him to serious condition in another day or two.”

“Critical but stable. Got it.”

“When will he be awake?” I asked.

“Probably not for another 24 hours or so. He’s unconscious now, and we have him on painkillers. Maybe tomorrow afternoon.”

Megan had just been listening so far, but she had a question. “Will he be able to move? I mean, not right away, but will he be able to walk and move around again?”

Paralysis? Oh sweet Jesus! I had never thought of that until now! Whiteman looked blank for a moment, and answered, “I just don’t know. He’s unconscious, so we can’t run the usual tests. I can tell you, however, that I have seen the X-rays, and we took a whole bunch of them, and there doesn’t seem to be any trauma to his spine or skull. I have no reason to think there would be any issues, but we just won’t know until he wakes up.”

“Can we see him?” she asked.

“No, not yet. He’ll be in a critical recovery section. Maybe tomorrow. He’s unconscious, so he won’t know if you’re there or not,” said Whiteman.

“He’ll know,” she said.

The doctor glanced at me. “Visitors are normally restricted to family members.”

“Miss Morgan has our permission to see him,” I replied. I squeezed her hand.

“Thank you.” She gave me a weak smile and nod.

“I need to get back and see how Mister Buckman is doing,” he said, standing.

I stood as well. “Thank you, Doctor. When Marilyn wakes up, we will let her know.” I let him go, and then turned back to the others. To my lead Secret Service agent, I said, “I’ll be staying the night. I don’t much care if it’s the Ritz-Carlton or the Holiday Inn, but we will need to set something up. I will probably go back to Washington tomorrow, but we’ll need something more permanent for Marilyn. I am sure she will stay here until Charlie can travel.”

“Me, too!” piped up Megan.

I nodded at that. “Maybe get a nice suite somewhere. The girls are coming in this evening. Figure on them for a day or two, also.”

“Yes, sir. We are already working on this,” he told me.

“Good.” I looked at Frank and Will. “I’ll either be with Marilyn or here, but I’ll go back to Washington tomorrow evening. I really want to be around when Charlie wakes up.”

“Yes, sir,” answered Frank. “I’ll sort it out with the hospital, but we might as well keep this conference room until you go back to D.C.”

“We’re going to need to make a statement, sir. We need to get you cleaned up. The reporters are already six deep outside,” added Will.

“Okay. Start writing. I need to clean up and change clothes in any case. Megan, too, for that matter.”

Frank looked at Megan. “Welcome aboard, Miss Morgan. You should probably call your parents and let them know what’s about to come their way. By the time the statement is finished, there will be reporters on their doorstep.”

“Holy sh…” she cut off her statement in mid-sentence, and gave an embarrassed look. The rest of us just smiled. “Okay”, she finished.

At about that time some of the race track people started arriving. It was Charlie’s team, and Megan took the lead with them, rushing over and giving them the news. They seemed like my son’s friends, not just business people, and seemed truly concerned, which spoke well for them. They wouldn’t be able to speak to Charlie until he was out of intensive care, but Megan promised to keep them in the loop, and they all left slowly and unhappily.

I managed to take a quick shower and shave, and then dressed in a suit. Meanwhile Will batted out a quick piece where I said that Charlie was still alive, but in critical but stable condition, we thanked everyone for their prayers, and thanked the ambulance and medevac and hospital staff. Yadda, yadda, yadda! No questions and answers. I heard a variety of questions shouted out, but I ignored them. At least a couple were about Megan, so I knew that cat was out of the bag. By the time we were done and I got back to the conference room, the twins and Bucky had arrived, and Marilyn was awake, and Doctor Tubb was telling them all the latest news.

I told Marilyn we were arranging a suite until Charlie was ready to be moved. At that point the Secret Service chimed in, and said we had a large suite at the Hyatt Regency in downtown Pittsburgh. They weren’t thrilled about having me stay in a hotel they hadn’t made arrangements for weeks ago, but that worked both ways. This was so sudden that any bad guys wouldn’t have expected it either. Even the lead agent agreed that the accident was undoubtedly just that, an accident, and not a bizarre plot to strand me in Pittsburgh. The odds of it being anything more sinister were nonexistent, and were the stuff for a Tom Clancy novel, and not real life.

After a final check on Charlie’s condition (still unconscious, surgery was finished and he was in recovery, we couldn’t see him) we went over to the Hyatt. Megan got her own room in the suite, and she and the girls caught up with each other when they arrived. We ordered up some room service, since nobody wanted to chance the press corps in the dining room. Marilyn was still upset and Doctor Tubb knocked her out for the night. Bucky and I stayed up and talked marriage and business for a bit, and then he looked in on his wife. After that, I went to bed.

Monday morning, I woke at my usual time, and Marilyn woke up also. “Feeling better?” I asked.

She nodded. “I think so.”

“I am going to have to go back to Washington today, but we are keeping the suite as long as necessary. I assume you plan to stay.”

She nodded. “Of course!”

“Okay, but are you going to be alright? We can’t keep knocking you out. It’s not healthy. You have to be tough, for Charlie’s sake if not your own,” I told her.

“No, I’ll be fine. Yesterday… it was just such a shock, and then when that reporter wanted to see the body… that was when I lost it. I’ll go over with you. I’ll be fine,” she replied.

We cleaned up and dressed, and then went out to the living room of the suite. I had to give the Secret Service credit. They had arranged for a large continental breakfast, juice and pastries and the like, and that was sufficient. The kids slowly wandered out of their rooms, including Megan, all wearing hotel-supplied bathrobes. We told them that we were going over to the hospital, and that I would be heading back to Washington later in the day. They were welcome to stay as long as they wanted. With any luck their brother would be conscious later. The same applied to Megan. She could stay and come over with the others.

When we got to the hospital, Marilyn and I were brought in through a side door where there didn’t seem to be any reporters, and were ushered down a string of hallways to the conference room we had commandeered on Sunday. By the time we got there, it now being a regular workday, the hierarchy of the hospital was out in force. We met the chief administrator, the head doctor, the various department heads and chiefs of this and that, and were assured Charlie was in the best hands possible. I was willing to take that with a certain degree of surety, since Tubb had told us more than once that the University of Pittsburgh was a top notch teaching hospital.

Charlie was still unconscious, but his vital signs were holding steady and possibly improving. They were doing blood work on an hourly basis, testing for liver and kidney function, and the results were encouraging. There was blood in Charlie’s urine, but that also was diminishing slightly. The head of internal medicine was cautiously optimistic, and if everything continued going well, they would upgrade his condition to serious by Tuesday. At that point the head of orthopedics got into it. He had reviewed Charlie’s X-rays and described the procedures needed. The easiest were the breaks in Charlie’s right arm. He had clean fractures in both the right radius and ulna, and could be cured with a cast. The most involved would be the breaks in Charlie’s right leg. His femur was broken in two places, his fibula in three, and his tibia in one, and the breaks were not clean and neat. Charlie was probably going to end up with some titanium plates and screws holding him together. The most serious injuries were the multitude of broken ribs in his flail chest. Where the average treatment for a broken rib was simply to bind the chest and bring the bones together, to let them heal, this might require surgical reconstruction. We would know better in a few days. At the end of this was going to be some fairly lengthy and intensive rehabilitation. There was an excellent chance that Charlie’s pro motorcycle career was over.

The final doctor to speak was a neurologist, brought in to consult about any possible spinal or head problems. Leaving aside the fact that Charlie had rocks in his head for riding motorcycles, he agreed with the emergency room doctor. Nothing in Charlie’s X-rays or physical condition indicated neurological problems. When Charlie was awake, he would run some tests, but if there wasn’t a problem, he wasn’t going to be involved.

After that, I did Presidential stuff with our impromptu office, and Marilyn fretted. She fretted less at about 10 AM, when the kids all appeared. That gave her somebody to talk to, while I talked to people back in D.C. It seemed as if half the calls were from friends or enemies wishing Charlie back to health. As the saying goes, keep your friends close, but your enemies closer. Will managed to set up a press conference in another conference room, and then we wrote up another statement. We kept it simple and said that Charlie was still in critical but stable condition, and that his condition was slowly improving. Then we thanked everybody and their brother.

At noon Will brought me out to the press conference and introduced me and then I read the statement. As I finished, I stated that I would take a limited number of questions. There were an awful lot of unfamiliar faces in the audience, since the regular White House press corps was mostly back in Washington. Still, I recognized quite a few people, and I didn’t bother with names, I just pointed and answered.

Q: How long did I intend to stay in Pittsburgh?

A: “I’ll be heading back to Washington by the end of the day. Mrs. Buckman intends to stay as long as necessary.”

Q: What did we plan to do if our son’s condition worsens?

A: “That does not seem to be an issue. Charlie’s condition is improving, slowly perhaps, but it is improving. We are confident that Charlie will survive and get back to normal.”

Q: Can you give us more detail, and if not why not?

A: “We are not giving out more detail than that.”

Q: There have been reports that your son is paralyzed and in a coma.

A: “Those reports are false and I have no idea where you are getting them. Charlie is unconscious, which is not the same thing as a coma, and there is no paralysis.” (I went out on a limb with that one.)

Q: Is it true that you were at the race yesterday and interfered with your son’s medical treatment?

A: “We were at the race. We interfered with nothing. I have no idea what you are talking about.”

Q: Is it true that your son’s girlfriend is a Hollywood stripper? (I had to look at Will for that one. He looked as mystified as me.) A: “I have no idea what you are talking about. Miss Morgan is an actress, and your questions are best directed to her. I’d ask her fast, though, because once Charlie wakes up and is able to move around, I doubt he will be all that polite with rude comments like that one.”

Will stepped in at that point and shut it down. I moved back to the conference room and pulled Megan aside, to tell her what happened. “I’ve heard worse. Omaha can be pretty conservative. There’s a certain part of the population that thinks anybody who lives in Hollywood or is an actor is going straight to hell,” she said with a shrug.

“Okay, but feel free to call your folks and give them a heads up.”

“I did that last night. I’ll call again, now.”

“Say hello for Marilyn and me.”

Megan’s eyes popped open at that idea.

I went back to being President, and we all had a buffet lunch in the conference room with the others. Charlie woke about 2:00 or so, and we were all taken down to his room. We had to wear gowns and masks to see him, but nobody minded. Marilyn and I were the first to be allowed in, but we promised the others they would have a chance. Just as we entered, the neurologist came out and smiled. “I just did some standard tests. Your son’s nervous system and spine are fine. No problems.”

Marilyn and I sagged in relief, and then were shown into his room. He was buried under a forest of tubes, but we found him there, looking towards us. With the ventilator tube in his mouth, he couldn’t speak, but his eyes were open and he was following us around, and he gave us a thumbs-up with his left hand.

I smiled and said, “I always told you that you were an organ donor in training.” I could see the smile in his eyes, and his left middle finger extended. I laughed for both of us. “I’m glad to see you are awake. Everyone’s been worried.”

“Oh, Charlie!” cried out Marilyn. She moved to hug him, but a nurse stopped her. We were directed to his left side, which was the uninjured side. She took his hand and squeezed it, and I could see that he squeezed back.

“I have to tell, you, Charlie, there’s not too many organs anybody would want right now. Did anybody tell you what happened?” I asked. He nodded slightly. “It was pretty scary.” He nodded again, but gave me another thumbs-up. “Don’t worry about it. We talked to the doctors this morning. I won’t sugarcoat it. You were badly hurt, but you are alive and will get better. You’ll need some rehab. We’re not sure how long, but you’ll be walking around soon.”

He nodded slowly. His mother spoke this time. “I’ll be staying here for a while.” He looked confused at that. “You’re in Pittsburgh. That was the nearest big hospital,” she explained.

He nodded again.

“Time!” said the nurse. We had only been allowed five minutes.

“Megan is waiting to see you,” said Marilyn. “Can we send her in?”

At that, Charlie’s face lit up, and he nodded enthusiastically, or at least as much as he could.

“Okay,” I told him. “Charlie, before we go, I have to tell you I have to go back to Washington today. Your mom will stick around, though, and figure out what we need to do. I’ll try and get back here next weekend.” He nodded in understanding. We left and sent Holly and Megan in next, suited up in gowns like us. Molly and Bucky would go in last, and then we were probably done for the day.

Marilyn and I took off our gowns and we headed back to the conference room. As we walked, I said, “Well, that’s two.”

“What do you mean?”

“Didn’t you see how Charlie looked when you said Megan was outside? She’s got him on the hook. All she has to do is reel him in.” I formed my right index finger into a hook and mimed putting it in my mouth and tugging my cheek.

“It’s about time! Maybe she can get him to stop racing and get a real job.”

I had to laugh at that. “Honey, I don’t think Charlie is ever going to be happy doing something nine to five. Let’s just get him on his feet again first, and worry about the other stuff later.”

Back in the conference room, I told the others that Charlie was awake and conscious, and looked like he was going to live. After that Will, Frank, and I left to head back to D.C. I shook hands with the hospital administrator and all the doctors and nurses I could. Then I kissed my wife good-bye and was escorted up to the helipad, where Marine One was waiting to take us back to the White House. I smiled to myself as we got closer to D.C. For the first time since the girls had gone off to college and Marilyn had moved down to Washington with me, I was going to be a bachelor again. I expected my wife to be spending a lot of time in Pittsburgh for the foreseeable future.

As much as I wanted to go up to the Residence to get some sleep, we needed to formulate an updated press release, and see what disasters had occurred while I was away. There were a number of well wishers that I thanked for their concerns over my son’s condition, and I gave everyone the same limited but promising information.

Then things took a wrong turn. I was sitting in my swivel chair, when there was a knock on the door, and my lead agent stepped inside. “Mister President, we have a problem.” He looked terrified.

I gave him a blank look and asked, “Oh?”

“It’s the First Lady, sir. She’s in jail!”

Chapter 169: Unbelievable

Frank and Will looked as confused as I did. I said, “What did you say? It sounded like you said the First Lady was in jail.”

He gulped, and nodded. “Yes, sir. She’s been arrested and is in the Pittsburgh jail!”

Will hopped up and flipped on the television. It was already pre-tuned to CNN, and there, in living color, was the image of my wife in what looked to be a riot, and then it cut to the stunned anchor reporting that ‘Mrs. Buckman has been taken away in a police squad car, to where we don’t know yet… ‘

I looked back at the agent and said, “You want to tell me what the hell is going on?”

I had one eye on the television as I asked this, and I had to pause as the anchor showed the footage of what apparently started everything, Marilyn wading into a crowd of protesters and making a wild roundhouse swing at an old guy. She rocked him back slightly, but then a woman next to him punched Marilyn! At that it became a free-for-all, with the Secret Service detail and about a million cops wading in.

“Sweet Jesus!” exclaimed Frank.

“Oh… My… God!” added Will slowly. They both turned to stare at me.

I was just as flabbergasted as they were. The door knocked again and another agent barged in. It was John Thompson, the supervisory head of the Presidential Detail. He was responsible not just for me, but also the much smaller details watching over Marilyn and the kids. He came to a stop in front of my desk, and saw that we already knew something was the matter. “Mister President, I can explain…”

I looked at him while pointing to the television. “You can explain that?!”

“Well, not explain it, but I can tell you what happened,” he admitted. He motioned for the first agent to retire, and he silently slipped out.

I looked over at Frank and Will. “You two might as well stick around. I think Charlie’s accident just became old news.” I turned back to Thompson. “Proceed.”

“It all happened about fifteen minutes ago, shortly before you arrived back here. Mrs. Buckman had just visited Charlie and told him she would be back tomorrow — that’s what she told us — and was leaving the hospital with your children and Miss Morgan. I don’t know why, but her detail had the limousine brought to the main entrance rather than a side entrance. That was where the protesters were massed.”

“Protesters! What protesters!?”

“It’s the Westboro Baptist Church, sir.” I must have given a really blank look at that. “I’ll get to that, sir. Anyway, they were there protesting your son…”

“WHAT!”

“Please, sir, I’ll explain in a bit. Anyway, they had a bunch of signs and a bullhorn, and were yelling out ‘God hates fags!’ and ‘Death to Charlie Buckman!’ when Mrs. Buckman came out the door. The team was moving them down to the limo, but when they got to the limo, she kept moving, around the car and across the grass to the protesters. She barged right up to the head of the protesters, Fred Phelps, and punched him in the face.” My eyes flicked over at the others, and I was sure they were as ashen faced as I was. “At that, the woman next to Mister Phelps, a daughter we think, punched Mrs. Buckman. At that point the detail moved in to get her out of there, and the rest of the protesters moved in, and then the Pittsburgh City Police and the Pennsylvania State Police got involved. Eventually everybody was taken to the local jail to be sorted out.”

“Including my wife!?”

“Yes, sir.”

“INCLUDING MY WIFE!?” I roared out. By now I was standing and bending over my desk and yelling into the face of the agent.

“Sir, she committed assault and battery…”

“SHUT UP!”

I pushed myself off the desk and slumped back down into my chair. In a much lighter tone, I asked, “You want to tell me how she managed to do this while surrounded by the elite United States Secret Service? And how she managed to break through the combined ranks of both the Pittsburgh cops and the Pennsylvania State Troopers?” Somebody on my wife’s detail had managed to fuck up by the numbers, since I could think of about a half dozen procedural violations with this mess.

John managed to look even more embarrassed. “Not really, sir. I don’t have all the details, but it sounds like everybody was taken by surprise. It looked like she wanted to argue with them, but she just kept going, right through the line of cops. The LEOs, the local law enforcement officers, were afraid to touch her when she went through them.”

“And she is where, now?”

“It was pretty tense there, for a moment, anyway. They wanted to arrest her but her detail wouldn’t let them, and we had a standoff until Mrs. Buckman said she would go to the jail if the protesters were taken in, too. Everybody was transported to the local police station. We have a female agent with her right now. The locals have not put her in the general lockup or with the protesters,” he told me.

“Well, I am so glad that she is safe from the other PRISONERS!” I yelled. “Now, when can she get out of there?” My wife’s volunteering to go to the jail probably kept the Secret Service and the local cops from shooting each other. This was just about the only bright spot to this that I had heard so far.

“Sir, the latest we’ve been told is that she will be in jail overnight, and then be booked and processed in the morning…”

“Tremendous. Now, just shut up and stand there. I’ll get back to you in a second.”

I thought hurriedly for a few seconds. I could call the Attorney General, and get Frank Keating to yank Marilyn out of there, but that would just create even more problems. It didn’t sound like my wife was in any particular danger. I picked up the phone. “Get me David Boies. He’s one of my attorneys. I don’t care if he is undergoing a heart transplant. Wake him up and hand him a phone. Thank you.” I turned back to Thompson. “Now, who or what is this Westboro Church and why do they want my son dead?”

Just as I asked this question, the phone rang. I picked it up. “DADDY!”

“I’m here. Where are you guys?”

“We’re at the Hyatt!” answered Molly. “Mom’s been arrested!”

“So I’ve been told. I’m trying to get a lawyer for her…”

“You have to get her out of jail!”

“We’ll do that. I just learned about this. Now, are you all there? Did any of you guys get arrested, too?”

“DADDY! No!”

I sighed. “Let me speak to Bucky.”

I heard the phone fumbling some, and then my son-in-law came on the line. “Hello?”

“Bucky, keep a lid on those women! I am leaving you in charge.” I heard him chuckle. “Under no circumstances are any of them to talk to a reporter or go anywhere near the jail unless I tell you to, got it? Don’t even let them out of the room!”

“Got it, Uncle Carl. They really want to go down there and bust out Aunt Marilyn,” he replied.

“Tell them they can’t bail out their mother if they are in jail with her!”

“Yes, sir!” he laughed.

“I have to go.”

“I have to tell you, Uncle Carl, she was pretty awesome! I had to see it to believe it!”

Awesome! Great! “You are not making me any happier, Bucky! I am expecting more calls on this. Keep those women under lock and key!” I hung up and put the phone back down. I looked back at Thompson. “You were saying?” The phone rang again, and I swore. I picked it up and said, “Hello?”

“Carl, it’s David Boies. I just heard about your wife. How can I help?”

Finally, somebody who might be able to help! “David, just get her out of there!”

“I’m in New Mexico at the moment, but I have somebody making some calls. I’ll get somebody in Pittsburgh and call you back. I’ll call you back in half an hour or less.”

I agreed to that and we hung up. I looked back at John Thompson and motioned him to start. “Just who the hell is this Westboro whatever and why do they want to kill my son?”

“It’s the Reverend Fred Phelps of the Westboro Baptist Church of Topeka, Kansas. They are the bunch that protest at military funerals,” he began.

I vaguely remembered these crazies. They hated gays and figured that God was punishing America and the Army because we weren’t killing them off. Or something like that. “So? Charlie’s not gay! Trust me, he’s not gay!”

“It doesn’t matter, sir.” Then he began to explain about Reverend Fred Phelps and the Westboro Baptist Church. Phelps was a uniquely American creation. In any sane society somebody would have either locked this guy up in jail or locked him up in a psycho ward, and thrown away the key in either case. He was an old guy, in his mid 70s, an Eagle Scout, a disbarred lawyer, an abusive husband and father, a Democratic political wannabe who kept running for office in Kansas and losing in the primaries, and a preacher.

His Baptist church, Westboro Baptist, was unaffiliated with any other Baptist organization and his theology was suspect, to say the least. It was very small, only a few dozen parishioners, mostly members of his extended family. Church doctrine was organized around whatever Fred Phelps hated the most. Gays headed that list, but it also included almost every religion other than the Baptists, including Judaism, Catholicism, Mormonism, Buddhism, and Islam. He also wasn’t all that thrilled with most Baptists! As a general rule, he hated practically every Democrat in the nation, and yet he continued to run for office in Kansas as a Democrat.

Phelps’ God was a hateful God, and Westboro Baptist’s agenda was simply to picket every military and political funeral around the country, waving signs that said ‘God Hates Fags!’ and all sorts of other crap, including wishes for death to other people. They had a website which basically said the same thing. Today, since they didn’t have any convenient funerals to harass, and they had been in Cleveland on Saturday protesting at the funeral of a soldier who had died when he fell asleep at the wheel and went off the road, Fred and his merry minions decided to protest Charlie being in the hospital. They had crude signs made up and bullhorns blaring ‘God hates fags!’, ‘God hates Catholics!’, ‘God hates Buckman!’, and various exhortations for God and everybody else to kill all of the above.

More than a few states and municipalities had enacted laws banning protests at funerals because of him, and Phelps and his church had been arrested more than a few times for disturbing the peace and other crimes. At least one law suit had made it to Federal Court, suing the Phelps family for emotional distress, and had been found in favor of the complainants; the Supreme Court had not yet taken it up. Phelps kept winning the lawsuits based on the First Amendment right of free speech.

“So what set Marilyn off with these idiots?” I asked.

“When she and your children came out, Phelps saw her, and began yelling into his bull horn that she was an idol worshipper and had raised her children up in the ways of Satan, that sort of thing, and how they were praying that God would strike down her son so that people would learn about how gays were destroying America. What really set her off, we think, was when he called her the Whore of Babylon.”

Frank and Will visibly winced at that, and I just buried my face in my hands. Anywhere else this would almost be amusing. Almost. In reality it was an unmitigated disaster. I was saved from a response by the phone ringing. It was David Boies again, this time with a conference call including a criminal lawyer from Pittsburgh who was taking the case. He assured me that he would go over to the jail immediately and figure things out. Simply let the Secret Service know he was coming. I jotted down his name.

As soon as I hung up, I turned to Thompson. “Tell your people at the Pittsburgh jail to expect this guy, Paul D’Agosta, to be coming. He is to get access to everything. Then get out of here. The next Secret Service agent I see had better be Ralph Basham, and it better be now!”

“Yes, sir!” He turned around and moved out.

I looked over at Frank Stouffer and Will Brucis, both of who were simply sitting their slack jawed and disbelieving. “Please, for the love of God, tell me this isn’t as bad as I think it is.”

They looked at each other and shook their heads. Frank said, “Sorry, boss. I got nothing to help you.”

“It’s probably worse,” added Will. “I can’t even begin to think about how I am writing this press release!”

“Shit! I don’t suppose I can use my power to pardon on my own wife.”

Will visibly cringed at that, and Frank commented, “You could, but Harry Reid will try to use it to have you impeached. He won’t be able to do it, but it sure won’t look good.”

“Harry Reid is the leader of the Senate, not the House. Only the House can impeach me, and we have a lock on the House.” Frank opened his mouth to say something, and I simply held up my hand. “I know, I know, it would still look horrendous.”

“What I want to know is how in the hell the Secret Service let your wife anywhere near these nuts?” said Will.

My phone rang. It was the secretary announcing the arrival of Ralph Basham, the head of the Secret Service. I ordered him in. “That’s a very good question, Will, so let’s find out.”

Ralph came in and moved to the desk in front of me. “Mister President, I am really sorry about this.”

“Ralph, I am glad you are here. Will was just asking me how the hell this could happen. I sure hope you have an answer other than a total and colossal clusterfuck by the agency that is supposed to protect me and my family.”

He sighed. “No, sir, that would be the answer. This is a complete and total breakdown in security on our part. Your family should never have been brought out a door anywhere near the protesters, they should have been immediately placed in the limo, and Mrs. Buckman should never have been allowed to get near the protesters. I have no excuses for the agency. I have ordered a complete review of what happened, and the supervisory agent in charge of her security has been placed on administrative leave pending disciplinary action.”

“Yeah? Well, that ain’t going to cut it, Ralph! I am expecting a complete review of the entire damn system! Oh, and you can expect to explain this to the Senate, too! Your little agency has just managed to put my entire administration into the hot seat for the next few months. Congratulations and thank you.” I pointed at the door. “OUT!” This was going to cost him his job.

Basham left, and I looked over at the other two. “I am going upstairs. I don’t care if a nuclear war breaks out. I am taking no calls except from my family or their lawyers. Will, I leave you to figure out a graceful way to dig me out of this. Feel free to throw everybody under the bus, including my wife. Hell, throw her under the bus, and then back it up over her a few times!” I stood up and headed up to the Residence.

I went upstairs to the Residence, wondering to myself just how much worse this was going to get. I doubted Marilyn was actually going to have to spend any hard time in the house of many doors, but the video now endlessly repeating on the news channels clearly showed my wife punching a preacher in the face and starting a riot. That must have violated at least some laws, even if it was only disturbing the peace! I was tempted to drink more than I should, and I held off on that, but decided that one drink wouldn’t hurt, so I made myself a Seven & Seven. Who knew, maybe I could get drunk enough to get sent to jail. Marilyn and I could share a cell.

I was still nursing my drink, and contemplating looking for some leftovers in the kitchenette, when the phone rang. “Hello?”

“Mister President, this is Paul D’Agosta. I have somebody here who would like to speak to you.” I heard the phone fumbling.

“Carl!?”

I sighed to myself. It was Marilyn. “I’m here. Having fun, are we?”

“Carl, don’t be like that.”

“Like what, honey? Are you meeting new friends? You know, it’s important to be polite to your cellmates.”

She gave a small shriek. “It’s not funny!”

“It’s too bad you’re not here! We have a double feature down in the movie theater. We’re going to watch Women in Chains One and Two. Sounds exciting! I love buttered popcorn…”

“CARL!”

“Let me speak to your mouthpiece. I think that’s what they call lawyers in prison,” I asked.

“ASSHOLE!” I heard her faintly telling D’Agosta. “Here! He’s being a jerk!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Mister D’Agosta, what’s going on?” I asked.

“I already have an appointment with the Allegheny County District Attorney in the morning. Your wife is not in a cell or a holding tank or anything like that. She has not been searched or processed. She’s in a small office and they promised to bring in a meal and a cot, and one of her detail will be with her at all times…”

“That would be one of the detail that managed to get her tossed in jail?”

“Mister President, I am not going to get into that, but it is not being helpful. You need to calm down while we sort this out.”

“Yeah, okay, sorry.”

“Now, like I said, I am meeting with the District Attorney tomorrow, early. I don’t think he is any more interested in this going to trial than you are, so we have an excellent chance of getting this all tossed out,” he told me. “With any luck at all, she’ll be out of here early in the morning.”

“Okay, thank you. I’ll be expecting your call. Can I talk to my wife again.”

Marilyn took the phone and said, somewhat frostily, “Yes?”

“Sorry about earlier. I’m just not used to the idea of you going to jail. That’s usually my job. I love you. Are you okay?”

“I know. I’m fine. I’m just so pissed! I love you, too. I’m sorry if this is going to be a problem.”

“That’s all right, we’ll figure it out. Just be careful. You don’t want to become somebody’s prison bitch.”

“CARL!”

“Hey, if they book you, can you bring me back a copy of the photo, you know the one with the numbers on it, maybe an 8x10 glossy, with you in a prison unif…”

“ASSHOLE!” She hung up the phone.

I smiled to myself and made another drink. I sat down in my recliner and Stormy jumped up beside me. I rubbed her head and asked, “You’re not going to bite a mailman, are you? I can’t afford to have you in puppy jail, too.” Stormy licked my face and then passed gas.

Wonderful! I had to wonder if there was some subtle moral to be drawn from that, but if there was, it was too subtle for me. I finished my drink and got up, to wander into the kitchen. I toasted some bread and opened a can of sardines and made a sandwich, which I had with iced tea. I didn’t need to drink any more. No matter how much my family might drive me to drink, I had to resist the temptation.

I called the kids back and told them the latest. Then I called Utica and told Marilyn’s mother about her daughter being in jail. That was not an enjoyable conversation.

I woke up the next morning feeling somewhat better about it all. I knew, realistically, that this ridiculous incident was not going to land Marilyn in the Big House, where she would be a prison bitch making license plates for the rest of her life. Even if these nut jobs decided to press charges, my wife was a first time offender, and even a hack public defender would be able to plead this thing down to time served, some kind of fine, and maybe some public service. Much more likely was a reduction from assault and battery down to disturbing the peace or making a public nuisance, which were misdemeanors, not felonies. As far as the family was concerned, it would be embarrassing, and fun to tell at Christmas and family reunions, but nothing more.

Unfortunately, this wasn’t just my family. Marilyn and the Secret Service had fucked up by the numbers on national television. My administration had been relatively scandal free up to this point. There had been Babygate in 2004, which had also been personal, but since it occurred when I was a kid, had never really amounted to much. Granted, the fruit of my loins had managed to get arrested more than once since then, usually for DWI or possession of cocaine or something equally stupid, but he had abided by the terms of the agreements and kept his mouth shut. The New York papers would make a stink for a few days and then let it die. Once I was out of office, nobody would give a shit.

My real children, Charlie, Holly, and Molly, were all pretty well behaved, and kept their sinning off the pages of the papers. Charlie was relatively well known, primarily because he was a celebrity in his own right in the small field of motorcycle racing. Holly and Molly were quite unknown outside of their appearance that one time on Saturday Night Live. Marilyn and I had raised some good kids, and could be proud of the results.

As far as official scandals, I had managed to avoid anything that stuck to me. Jack Abramoff had managed to get caught buying a bunch of Congressmen and Senators, and had also taken down some mid-tier Bush appointees in the process, for influence peddling. There had also been a minor problem in the Pentagon, related to both Navy and Air Force contracts and appropriations. That had mostly splashed on Tom Ridge, but outside of Congressional outrage and a few generals and admirals getting retired, hadn’t been too bad. There had also been some isolated incidents where the Government Accountability Office caught various lower level people taking bribes, but that happened all the time. There hadn’t been any tell-all books by disgruntled Cabinet Secretaries I had fired, or any of that sort of thing. (Okay, there had been a tell-all book by Dick Cheney; it received lousy reviews and didn’t make back the advance paid to him.)

Some of the worst issues with the Bush 43 administration, as I originally remembered it, didn’t surface, because I had changed things too much. We never went into Iraq and Afghanistan, so we simply didn’t have those scandals. We had also been much lower key on our implementation of the PATRIOT Act, and weren’t sending people to Guantanamo or torturing people or doing military tribunals. It’s rare that you get in trouble by not doing something.

This mess, on the other hand, had massive potential to get sloppy! I could envision several outcomes, none of them pleasant. For one thing, the Secret Service was under the control of the Treasury Department. Elizabeth Warren was the unpopular bank regulator in charge of Treasury, so any scandal with the Secret Service was going to be on her hands. I could foresee any number of calls for her head. I was sure she would survive, but be politically weakened. Ralph Basham was already a dead man walking. There was probably going to be a large scale investigation into the Secret Service, probably tying in last year’s botched assassination attempt, and anything else they could scrape up — and they could always scrape something up if they looked hard enough!

This was definitely going to weaken me, as well. I was going to have to protect Warren, for one thing. Fire her and I look petty and weak, keep her and I look stubborn and obstinate. Marilyn was going to be all over the news. Just wait until somebody in Congress decided to subpoena her to testify at hearings! She wasn’t employed here, so I doubted I could even claim Executive Privilege. Harry Reid was still smarting from when I rammed a bunch of recess appointments down his throat, so he would be gunning for me. Max Baucus was the chairman of the Senate Finance Committee (they oversaw Treasury), and while he and I didn’t have any personal issues, when Harry Reid decided to have him chew on me, Max would obey orders.

My morning staff meeting was the Marilyn Show, all Marilyn, nothing but Marilyn. The confrontation had taken place too late in the day to be on the evening late night comedy shows, but had certainly made the news, and was already running nonstop on the morning news shows. By tonight, with 24 hours of lead time, the comedy shows would have more than enough time to do this up proper. Worst of all, Senate Democrats were lining up to castigate me, the Secret Service, me, the Treasury, me, Allegheny County, me, Pittsburgh, me, Marilyn, and me. The only people not talking were Marilyn, Fred Phelps, and the Westboro Baptist Church, simply because they were all still in jail. Even the cops were keeping silent; I was guessing that somebody from the Chief of Police’s office had put the fear of God in them. I knew that wouldn’t last long.

At nine, the phone rang, interrupting the meeting, and the voice on the speakerphone told me to pick it up. I shrugged at the others and grabbed the phone. It was the voice of Paul D’Agosta. “Mister President, I have somebody who wants to talk to you.”

“Carling!? You there?”

“Hi, honey. What’s happening? You still in jail?”

“No,” she answered. “I’m back at the Hyatt. I was just released.”

“You sound good.” I decided to lay off the jokes until I could see her in person. “What happened?”

“Here, talk to Mr. D’Agosta.”

The phone fumbled as she passed it along. The others — Frank, Will, and Mindy — moved to leave, but I waved them back into position. Whatever I learned, they would need to know. This was no longer a family matter. “Mister President?” comes over the phone.

“Mister D’Agosta. I gather my wife is freed from durance vile. Thank you for that. What’s going on out there?”

“Yes, sir. I stayed with Mrs. Buckman all night, and scheduled a meeting with the District Attorney early in the morning. He was no more interested in this going to trial than you or she was. He is dropping all charges on everybody and sending everybody home. The Secret Service managed to bring one of their vehicles into the building and we hustled Mrs. Buckman out and through the crowds and brought her over here to the Hyatt. Security is extremely tight at the moment, at least it seems that way to me.”

“No, I imagine it is really tight right now. Probably some new faces, too. Okay, so no jail time, no felony record, none of that stuff?” I asked.

“She’s completely clean. Not even a misdemeanor. No prosecutor with an iota of ambition wants to be the guy who puts the First Lady in jail, no matter which party her husband is in. The desk sergeant was heard to say that if somebody wanted the First Lady searched, they could send the Police Chief down to do it, since nobody else would be that stupid! I can’t promise anything on the civil side. This idiot Phelps and his bunch spent the night making themselves a real nuisance, and are demanding your wife be turned over to them. The Pittsburgh Police aren’t being anywhere near as accommodating with them, and the last I heard they were still being processed out, slowly. I would bet my bottom dollar you’re going to get hit with a civil suit,” he replied.

“Wonderful! Listen, thank you for everything. Make sure you let David Boies in on all of this, and make sure you keep an eye on Marilyn and the kids while they are out there. I am going to owe you on this, and not just your bill.”

“Understood, Mister Buckman. They’ll be fine, but I’ll make sure I check in with them.”

We said some good-bye pleasantries, and he passed the phone back to my wife. I promised I would call her later in the morning, and then hung up. I turned to the others and said, “Well, you probably heard everything. Calamity Jane is out of jail, but the nut jobs are baying at the moon.”

I looked over at the others. Frank asked, “Is Mrs. Buckman all right?”

I sighed and nodded. “It would seem that her hard time in the big house wasn’t too hard. She’s back at the Hyatt. No charges for anybody. Phelps and his bunch are being turned loose. I suppose I’m being a dreamer if I say I hope he drops this.”

Frank had the good grace not to laugh. It was Will’s chance to snort derisively. “Not hardly. Publicity is the lifeblood of kooks and crazies, and let’s face it, they now have publicity in spades! Phelps is going to milk this for all it’s worth.”

Mindy asked, “Isn’t there any way to shut him up?”

“No, not at all. The bottom line is that the man is crazy. As in, howl at the moon, line your hat with tin foil, talk to imaginary friends crazy! If we were to line up every single gay and lesbian in the country and shoot them all, it still wouldn’t be enough. He wants everyone not like himself to die. Fifty years ago they would have locked him up in an asylum and given him Thorazine but we’re much more evolved now. Now we give him free air time,” Will answered.

“Any chance we can do something legally about them? Classify them as a hate group or something?” I asked.

Will and Mindy shrugged, but Frank responded. He was a lawyer, after all. “I don’t know. Their first amendment free speech and freedom of religion rights are pretty potent shields. Your best bet is to call Frank Keating and have him look into it. My bet? If they tell people to kill your family, they are protected. If somebody listens to them and kills somebody, maybe not so much.”

“You’re just a bundle of fucking joy, Frank. You want to call Frank and take this up with him, please? I can’t believe they aren’t already watching these guys.”

I dismissed everybody and called my wife back over at the Hyatt in Pittsburgh. I let her ramble on. It would seem that the cops were very pleasant with her, and much more sympathetic to the mother of a critically injured athlete and war hero than to the fruitcakes down in the holding cells. Security was much tighter than before, and her lead agent, in fact almost her entire detail, had been replaced. Ditto for the kids. Holly, Molly, and Bucky planned to visit Charlie in the hospital and then go home, to work and to college. Megan planned to stick around for at least a few days more. She and Marilyn were going to visit him in the hospital again today. I made her swear six ways from Sunday not to punch anybody out.

The media were all over this today. I watched the news at lunchtime and saw more of what had been shown the other day. In addition, the Hyatt had been staked out, and a telephoto lens got an excellent picture of Marilyn as she headed back to the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center. My wife had a shiner the equal of anything I had ever gotten! I asked Mindy to get me an 8x10 glossy. I just had to wonder what Charlie would think about his mother with a black eye. He’d probably laugh so hard something else would break.

I stayed away from the Press Room, and my schedule didn’t have me traveling anywhere for the rest of the week. That was the good news. Better news came that afternoon, when Marilyn and the girls called; Charlie was improving rapidly, his condition was upgraded to serious, and they wouldn’t need thoracic surgery on his ribs. His right arm had already been put in a cast. His right leg was going to involve some major surgery, probably several operations, and they simply had the bones immobilized. If anything was set wrong, they would break it and reset it during the surgery as needed. That might not begin for another week or two. I promised to come up for the weekend.

The bad news came in the form of politicians. John McCain joined me late in the afternoon. He had been in the Senate before becoming the Vice President, and he had ties there, like I had ties in the House. This entire mess looked like amateur hour and did not reflect well on the professional image his campaign was pushing. Harry Reid was going to make a nuisance of himself over this, looking for anything under the sun that they could throw at me, and by extension, John. By the end of the week I should expect a Senatorial delegation requesting an audience.

“Let me guess. They want to consult with me or some such nonsense? I don’t suppose anything else might happen in the rest of the world that could let me duck this,” I commented.

“Nothing serious enough, anyway, no matter what you might personally want. You won’t be able to duck them,” he replied.

“Any ideas what Harry wants?”

“Basham’s head, for starters. Warren’s, too, but I think they know they won’t get it. He’ll ask anyway. It’s odd, though, since they don’t really want Warren out of there. She’s a Democrat. The Republicans will want her gone.”

I sighed. “I am going to trust you to shut them down about her. Basham’s on death row right now. He’s probably cleaning his desk out as we speak. What if I fire him now? Can we shut them down prematurely?”

“No. This isn’t about him, this is about embarrassing you and me. He might be all they get, but they are going to want hearings and an investigation of the Secret Service. Even if you gave them Warren and the rest of the Secret Service’s management, it won’t be enough. They want the hearings to embarrass us.”

I shrugged and made a wry face. “Talk to some people over there. Set up a meeting for Thursday or Friday. We can have Basham fall on his sword in front of them. I’ll give Ralph the good news.”

John snorted and said, “It will be a start, at least. It’s just a start, though. Reid is going to be calling for testimony from everybody involved, and I heard through the grapevine he plans to subpoena your wife. He figures she can’t invoke Executive Privilege and will personally embarrass you on live television.”

I stared at him for a second, but then put my head back and gave a long laugh. After a minute I straightened up and grinned at my VP. “Tell Harry Reid that I am going to do him a favor, and let him think that one through. Ask him what he thinks is going to happen when he calls the First Lady to testify and she walks in, with me holding her hand? I’ll tell you what will happen! They’ll swear her in, and she’ll spend half the time sweet-talking everybody there, and the other half the time ripping them all new assholes! I won’t have to say a word! She’s more popular than me and Congress combined!” I shook my head and smiled. “Ask Harry if that’s really the picture he wants to have on national television!”

“Yeah. That’s true enough. Still, he’s going to be a problem.”

“Fine. Force it out now, sooner rather than later. He wants to drag this along for as long as he can, even into next year. Get with the Republicans on the Committee and have them order up hearings and an investigation now! Bury this thing now. By the time you have a primary, it will be old news.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” He stood and left, stopping at the door and saying, “Tell Marilyn that the next time I see her I’ll give her some tips on surviving in prison. I’ll teach her the tap code we used in Hanoi.”

“You, too?! Out!”

He laughed and left.

This whole mess was a gift from Heaven for the late night comics. Marilyn in jail was the lead joke on every television show that evening. Then they started up on the photo of Marilyn with a black eye. It stayed that way for the next few days. I couldn’t wait for Bill Maher and Saturday Night Live to play with this.

Thursday I had a meeting with the leaders of the Senate Finance Committee, Treasury, and the Secret Service. The bloodletting was about to begin. I had Max Baucus, the Democratic chairman of the committee, and Chuck Grassley, the Republican ranking minority member, in the White House, along with Elizabeth Warren, Ralph Basham, and Frank Stouffer. Harry Reid wasn’t there, but he might as well have been. While both Max and I were friendly enough, Max was taking direct orders from Harry to create as much havoc as humanly possible. Ralph promptly handed me a letter of resignation, much like he had after I had been shot; this one I accepted.

Chuck nodded and looked over at Elizabeth. “This is a good start, Mrs. Warren, but not sufficient.”

“With all due respect, Senator, I don’t work for you. I work for President Buckman. If he wants my resignation, all he has to do is ask.”

Chuck got a distasteful look on his face, and Max replied, “We were certainly hoping for more cooperation. This entire situation shows a serious breach in security! We need to understand what happened and why. Without more cooperation, the committee is going to have to hold hearings. Madame Secretary, I am sure that we will also be appointing a Special Investigator to look into this disaster!” Max added. “We will be examining the entire Secret Service, and if necessary, your entire department.”

It was time for me to sort some of this out. “Cool your jets, Max. You can go back home and tell Harry Reid that he can have an investigation of the Secret Service and that’s all. He has to leave the rest of Treasury alone. If he doesn’t like that, I drop Marilyn in his lap on live television. You’ve met my wife. You want live television committee hearings? I can guarantee that Marilyn Buckman will get you all the live television you could ask for! When she gets done with you guys, you won’t be able to run for dogcatcher, let alone the Senate!” Max looked like he was sucking on a spoonful of sewage, which made Chuck smile. I turned to face him. “Don’t laugh, Chuck. Nobody is going to look all that good if I have to do that. I would prefer to avoid it, but if you make me go nuclear, I’ll go nuclear.” The sly smile left Chuck’s face as I said that.

I closed it out by announcing that Deputy Director Nagel was taking over for Basham, and was already conducting an investigation into the breakdown in the protocols for protection and what had happened. Max countered by demanding that their investigator be involved. I agreed, but insisted that the investigation be finished within three months, which Chuck agreed to, pissing off Max. Afterwards, I met with Ralph Basham privately, and thanked him for his service over the years. When he left, I thought back to when I first met him, as one of the Three Amigos who had investigated 9-11. What a hell of an end to a great career.

The only thing good about the day was when, late in the afternoon, I got a call from Marilyn. She was still in Pittsburgh with Megan. I was getting two or three calls from her a day. Charlie was improving, and his condition had been upgraded to serious on Tuesday. He was still intubated, but his internal functions were rapidly improving, and there was hope that they would be able to start working on his broken bones soon.

I got a message over the intercom that the First Lady was calling, and I picked up the phone. “Hey, there, hun. How’s it going?”

“Just fine, sweetheart!” The voice was weak and scratchy, and a few octaves lower than Marilyn’s, and was the best sound I had heard in my life!

“CHARLIE! Oh my God! How are you!? Did they take the tube out!?”

“Hey, Dad. How you doing?”

“I am doing great now. What’s going on?”

“Here’s Mom.”

I heard some fumbling, and then Marilyn said, “Isn’t this great!? They took the ventilator off a few hours ago, and after a bit they were able to remove the breathing tube. Charlie’s still weak, and he has to rest a lot, but he’s getting better!”

“I’ll come up tomorrow night. I’ll be able to see Charlie Saturday morning.” I spoke to my son again, and promised to see him that weekend.

I actually flew up Friday afternoon. I had Marilyn call Paul D’Agosta and invite him and his wife to dinner Friday evening, and then had her make arrangements with the Hyatt to reserve a small private dining room. I wanted to meet the lawyer who got my wife out of jail, but didn’t need to be photographed with him. Nothing personal, but I didn’t need to have Will explain the caption, ‘President Meets With Prominent Criminal Defense Attorney!’

I landed at the helipad at the hospital and was ushered straight down to Charlie’s room. He was out of the intensive care unit, and was now in a more normal room. I noticed quickly that there was a much more stringent and strict security protocol around Marilyn and Charlie than before. I also didn’t recognize any of the faces of the agents. It was as if an entire new detail was installed. They all looked creepily serious and stern.

Charlie still had about a mile of tubing going into him, and both his right arm and right leg were in gigantic casts, but he was off the ventilator and could speak normally. The bed was inclined to about thirty degrees or so, so he wasn’t flat on his back. I didn’t even have to gown up to get into the room. I went in and his face lit up. Marilyn was on his right side, and Megan was sitting on his left, holding his left hand. “Hey, Dad! You made it!”

I smiled at that, and went around to his left side. I reached out and squeezed the hand I could touch. “Damn, it’s good to see you talking! How are you feeling!?”

He sighed and tried to shrug, but winced as he did so. “Okay, I guess. I feel like I’ve had about a dozen motorcycles run over me. What isn’t broke feels like it’s broke.”

Marilyn came around and gave me a quick kiss. “Megan rigged up a video camera to a television and showed him the accident.”

I looked over at Megan and smiled. “Very enterprising. Hi, Megan, good to see you, too. Not trying to be rude.”

She waved it off. “We watched it several times.”

“It’s pretty grotesque,” commented Charlie.

“I think you scared your mother and me out of a few years of our remaining decrepitude. You’re supposed to inherit from us, not the other way around. Seriously, how are you feeling?”

I got another sigh in response. “Tired. Weak. Everything hurts, at least when I move, and I can’t even move to scratch. I don’t even like sleeping on my back, and every two hours they come in and roll me from side to side.”

“Yeah, it sucks to be alive,” I responded.

Charlie’s left middle finger surreptitiously extended.

“I saw that!” warned Marilyn.

“So did I!” added Megan, who punched his left shoulder lightly.

“When I get out of this bed, you are in big trouble!” he told her.

“I’m not worried.”

I glanced at Marilyn, and she gave me a smile and a knowing glance. Charlie was hooked, that was for sure. We all chatted briefly, and a doctor came in to give us the latest.

Charlie was improving rapidly, but he still had a long way to go. His internal injuries were healed or healing. His right arm had been set normally, and could be expected to heal normally. His broken ribs were very serious, but it looked as if surgical intervention would not be necessary. He was restricted to sleeping on his back, and not raising up until they had knitted together more, a process that could take several more weeks. In the meantime, there were plans to take him back into surgery next week, to begin working on his leg. There would probably be two separate operations, one on his thigh bone, and the other on his lower leg, and he was going to be loaded up with a variety of metal junk. Depending on what was discovered, and the X-rays were pretty gruesome, Charlie was going to get a collection of pins, screws, and plates to hold his leg together. They would be permanent, and his racing career was probably over. Eventually, when the bones had healed, he would be able to begin physical therapy, which would last for many more months.

My son took this all in stride, not arguing or complaining. “The physical therapy, does that have to be done here? Do I have to stay in the hospital?” he asked.

“No, and you probably shouldn’t. If nothing else, you need to start moving around and getting independent again. You can stay in town and visit here for that,” answered the doctor.

“We have a nice home in Washington,” I commented. “And Charlie’s a veteran. I imagine I have enough pull with the Navy to get him into a physical therapy program at Bethesda.”

The doctor smiled and agreed, “Yes, Mister President, I suspect you could. If not Bethesda, certainly Walter Reed, or any of the good teaching schools down there would have a decent program. Try Georgetown or George Washington, for instance.” He shrugged. “Getting the patient into a home setting is generally a positive thing in its own right. By then, he’ll be ready for a change of scenery.”

“Or sooner!” added Charlie.

We could have kept this up for awhile longer, but Marilyn said, “We need to be getting over to the Hyatt for dinner. I told Paul we would meet him and his wife at 6:30.”

“Who…” asked Charlie.

“Your mother’s lawyer,” I answered dryly. “Megan, I would invite you, but I am probably going to get a very large bill out of this, and I hate to swear at Marilyn in front of other people.”

“You bastard!” exclaimed my wife.

Charlie laughed, and ended up cringing. “Dad, have you seen the video?! Mom was awesome!”

“Yes, I could tell by the black eye she was wearing afterwards.” It was mostly faded, at least now.

He laughed some more, and winced some more. “Don’t make me laugh!”

Marilyn punched me in the arm. “Don’t you get started!”

“Honey, I haven’t even warmed up yet. Charlie, you get better. Megan, keep him from chasing the nurses around. We’ll be back in the morning.” I escorted Marilyn out of the room, and we went over to the Hyatt.

Dinner was quite nice. Paul D’Agosta was a noted criminal attorney in Pittsburgh, and had some experience with the high and mighty, at least in Pennsylvania terms. His wife Susan was not as practiced, and was rather awestruck by Marilyn and me. I assured her that the Secret Service would be happy to take down the criminal element in the room if Marilyn got out of hand.

“Wha… criminal element! Are you kidding me!? You’re the one who’s spent all the time in jail, Mister, not me!” squawked Marilyn.

“At least I had the good sense to not do it on live television! Think that might have screwed up an election or two?”

“Good point, Mister President,” finished Paul.

“Paul, like I said before, it’s Carl and Marilyn. I think anybody who can get my wife out of the slammer can call me by my first name.”

“Oh, you are in so much trouble!” she protested.

“I was really looking forward to seeing you in one of those orange jumpsuits in shackles. Maybe working on a chain gang somewhere.”

She looked at the others. “He is in sooo much trouble! Do you have any idea how many times he’s been in jail? I’ve lost track!”

“Really?” asked Susan.

I sheepishly nodded and said, “Yes, actually that is true.” I looked over at Marilyn. “I can’t keep track either, now that you mention it.”

She gave me a superior look and said, “See? I told you so! When was the first time? That jail in Florida?”

I looked at the other two. “I was in college, and sleeping on the beach is a capital offense in Florida. Some buddies and I ended up spending the night in the tank and paid a fine in the morning, and bugged out of town.” I looked back at Marilyn. “No, the first time was my 13^th birthday. I spent the day in jail after busting up some guys who wanted my lunch money and the bus driver lied about it. The cops investigated and turned me loose.”

“Okay, then there was the time you were arrested in Honduras.”

“The charges were dropped.”

“We were arrested in the Bahamas, remember?”

“We were in custody, not arrested, and we were simply taken to a clinic for medical treatment.”

“You were in jail after shooting your brother.”

“Charges were dropped,” I repeated.

“Carl, I’ve defended mobsters with less time in jail than you!” commented Paul.

I smiled. “Who said crime doesn’t pay?!” I looked at my wife. “A few more arrests and you can run for office, too. Just make sure we have a nice booking photo for the campaign posters.”

“You are in sooo much trouble!”

After that we got into a few legal issues related to the arrest, and Paul was able to give me an up-to-date status on Marilyn. Good news, there were no criminal charges. Bad news, Fred Phelps and the Westboro Baptist Church had filed several civil lawsuits for millions of dollars against both Marilyn and me. Nothing was going to stick to me, since I wasn’t even around when this happened, and they couldn’t, by law, sue me for any actions I committed as the President. That was called sovereign immunity, a doctrine based on the legal theory that the King can’t go to jail. Marilyn, on the other hand, was fair game. The suits were civil actions based on Marilyn punching Phelps, and also interference with their legally protected protests. Yadda, yadda, yadda.

“Paul, keep an eye on this stuff. They aren’t getting a penny out of me without it going to the Supreme Court. In addition, Frank Keating is working with a crew to try and shut them down. First Amendment or not, nobody has the right to be a jackass!”

“Speaking as a lawyer, I must respectfully disagree. Then again, as long as the client’s check clears, I can be very flexible on how I interpret the law,” he said as he tipped a wine glass in my direction.

“I can drink to that,” I agreed.

That night, Marilyn and I watched some television mindlessly in our suite, and then stayed up to watch Bill Maher rip the pair of us up on HBO. Nothing like watching a bunch of liberals ripping me a new one. A big part of his semi-serious panel discussion was the obvious incompetence of the Secret Service and how I had begun to throw them to the wolves as I fled across the snowy wastes. Wonderful.

Afterwards, we went to bed. I was looking forward to that, since I had been a bachelor for most of the week. Before I turned the lights out, I asked my wife if she had learned anything new in jail, while being some con’s prison bitch. That earned me an outraged squawk, and we had to ‘wrestle’ around for a bit. Afterwards, I asked if she ended up back in jail, if I could come by some night and watch, and we ended up squawking and wrestling some more. Worth it, though.

Saturday, we slept late and headed over to the hospital mid morning. Megan had come back to the suite while we were still at dinner last night, and she came with us. Once again, I could see Charlie’s eyes light up when she came in, and not for when his beloved parental units came in. The boy was about as subtle as a rock. We talked for a bit, and a nurse reviewed his progress. Marilyn took a call from my sister Susie. She wanted to come in from Rochester to see Charlie. He was her godson, and she wanted to bring in a second opinion. She was head of orthopedic nursing at the Mayo Clinic, and wanted to bring down the head of orthopedics as long as we sent up the G-IV.

I shrugged when Marilyn told me this, and agreed to it. She called for the Gulfstream to be warmed up, and I asked a nurse to have Charlie’s doctor look us up. I didn’t need grief when the pros from Dover showed up unannounced. I simply informed him that I had received an offer of a second opinion from the Mayo Clinic and agreed to it. He didn’t bat an eye, and told me that he knew the man who would be coming down.

After that, Charlie did something unusual. He was there laying flat on his back, and he asked, “Mom, Megan, can you do me a favor? I need to speak to Dad alone for a few minutes.”

“What’s wrong?” they both asked.

“Nothing. I just need to speak to Dad for awhile.”

They looked at me, but I just shrugged. I had no more idea what he wanted than they did.

“We’ll be right outside,” said Marilyn.

Megan squeezed his hand and stood up. “I’ll be right outside.” Charlie smiled and nodded.

They left the room, and I waited for the door to close. “Okay, what’s up?”

He turned his head to see the door was closed. “It’s Megan…”

“Is there a problem?” Was she pregnant or something?

“No, it’s just… remember after Monrovia, when we were talking that time, and you told me that Mom was how you survived?”

I smiled and nodded. I moved around to the side of the bed and sat down where Megan had been sitting. It still felt warm. “I remember. I think I said how she kept me from going crazy.”

“Yeah. Dad, uh, Megan, well, she’s the one who keeps me from going crazy. Or makes me go crazy. Something like that.” He paused for a second. “I talked to her about Monrovia. I’ve never talked to a woman about that, even when they’ve asked.”

“Yeah, your mom’s the only one I talked to about Nicaragua.”

“Anyway, she’s the one.”

“Ah, hah! I thought that might be the case.”

“You did?”

I snorted and rolled my eyes. “Charlie, you are about as subtle as a fart in church! I’ve seen how you look at her, and I’ve seen how she looks at you! Have you said anything to her yet?”

“Uh, no, not yet. I mean we’ve talked, but not anything permanent.”

“Staying here with your mother isn’t permanent? Oh, brother!”

“Dad!” he protested.

“Okay, so, you love her. You want to marry her? Is that your plan?” I asked.

“Uh, I guess.”

I rolled my eyes a second time. “You are hopeless. Listen, your mother is never going to put up with you shacking up for the rest of your life. You are going to have to tie the knot anyway if you want to have kids. Believe me, the legal and financial implications are significant. She’s not pregnant, is she?”

“NO!”

“Settle down, Romeo! Let’s get realistic. You aren’t getting married anytime before you can get out of here. You’ve known her less than a year. I knew your Mom almost four years before we got hitched. Ask her, and if she says yes, go for a decent engagement. What about her career? If she gives up acting and you give up racing, where does that leave you? You have to talk about these things.”

“So you think I should?”

“Charlie, I told you long ago, you can’t get into trouble chasing girls; you only get in trouble when you catch one! Well, you caught one! Your life is about to get very complicated. God save you now! You need to talk to her, not me.”

“So, how did you ask Mom? All of us kids once asked her and she never answered,” he asked.

“I never did. I just drove her over to the jewelry store and we picked out a ring. We simply knew.” I remembered back to that afternoon and smiled to myself. It was shortly after Marilyn and I climbed out of the sack. I wasn’t telling my children that little detail! “I’ll bring Megan in and give you guys a chance to talk.” I stood and patted his shoulder (gently) and went to the door.

Opening it, I found Megan and Marilyn looking at me nervously. “What’s wrong?” asked Marilyn.

“Nothing.” I pointed at Megan. “You, in there.” Then I pointed at Marilyn. “You, with me.” Megan scooted inside, and Marilyn moved to follow her, but I took her hand and kept her out of the room. “You need to give them a few minutes.”

“What’s wrong!?”

“Nothing. Everything is just fine.”

“What…” she began. Then she stopped and turned to face the door. Inside she could hear Megan squealing, ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’, over and over. Marilyn looked at me with a big grin. “Does that mean what I think it means?”

“Pretty much. Let’s take a walk and give them a few minutes.” I put my arm around her waist and we strolled down a hallway, followed by my detail. We stopped in a lounge and I sat down on a couch and pulled my wife down next to me. I told her about our little conversation. “I told you, two down, one to go!”

“Well, I think they’ll have to hold off on the wedding for a bit. I don’t think they are going to want to go on a honeymoon in the hospital.”

“Probably not.”

We gave the kids about half an hour, and then wandered back down the hallway to Charlie’s room. We entered to find his fiancée carefully draped over him from the safe side of the bed, kissing him quite thoroughly. I cleared my throat, and she popped up with a guilty look on her face. I commented to Marilyn quietly, “It’s a good thing he’s got a catheter in place, otherwise this would be really embarrassing.”

The others must have heard me. Charlie gave me a smirk, Marilyn poked me in the ribs and Megan turned beet red. Then Charlie said, “Mom, Dad, uh… Megan… I asked Megan to marry me and she said yes.”

“That must have been why we heard the ‘yes, yes, yes’ from outside in the hallway,” I replied.

Megan blushed again, and Charlie answered, “Just be glad I’m in bed and can’t run you down and beat you up with your cane.”

“I think I can outrace you, at least for the next few months. After that, I might be in trouble.” I looked at Megan. “Never mind me. Congratulations and welcome to the family. The twins will love this. Have you had a chance to talk to your family yet?”

“No. I called my mom but I had to leave a voicemail.”

I nodded. “Have they met Charlie yet? I mean, once they actually meet him, they might put the kibosh on the whole thing anyway. I’m sure they’ll figure you can do better.”

“Very funny, Dad!” answered my son.

“No, not yet, but I just know they’ll love him as much as I do!” the girl replied happily.

I muttered to Marilyn, “Just like my mother warmed to you!”

That earned me another dig in the ribs. Marilyn said, “When you speak to them, invite them here next weekend. We’ll fly them out and Carl can come back again.”

“You’ll fly them out?”

“We own, well, Carl owns, a plane. It’s much nicer than flying commercial. They can be here in a few hours,” Marilyn explained.

Megan looked a little shocked by the idea. She might know I was the President, but I think this was the first time she really understood I was also a multi-billionaire. “Wow! Okay, I’ll do that.”

Charlie squeezed her hand. “Don’t sweat it. You’ll get used to it. Believe me, I don’t have anywhere close to their money. I’m going to need to work for a living at some point when I get out of here. I wonder if Uncle Tusker needs another mechanic.”

“You could always go to school,” offered his mother.

Charlie simply laughed and waved her off with his free hand.

That night, Megan joined Marilyn and me for dinner. Charlie pushed her out of the room, simply to get some rest and sleep. No matter how much he loved her, he was probably ready for the break. She heard from her parents shortly before we went down to dinner in the main restaurant, and got them to accept a visit to Pittsburgh next Saturday. After dinner, we all called it a night and headed back to the suite. Megan began calling her relatives and friends, and Marilyn called the twins.

Chapter 170: Hurricane Marilyn

That night we watched Saturday Night Live. I don’t normally watch it, since I thought the first cast (Chevy Chase, et al) was the best, and anybody since then had been downhill. Still, I knew after all the comedy this week they were going to have to do something about Marilyn in jail. Marilyn wanted to go to bed, but I insisted we watch. I knew something crazy was going to happen.

Darrell Hammond (as me): (In a command post, surrounded by generals and admirals.) “Are we ready for the operation?”

Army General: (Standing before a flip chart showing a building with lots of arrows on it.) “Yes, sir! The extraction of the asset is planned for later today! This is a high value asset and is being detained in a maximum security facility. Delta Force will parachute in, breach the interior walls, and perform the extraction.”

Navy Admiral: “Navy SEALs will secure the perimeter and deal with any fast reaction forces targeting the extraction.”

Air Force General: “We have satellite reconnaissance and stealth drones in place, close air support, also.”

Hammond: “Casualty projections?”

Army General: “High, sir. The asset is closely guarded and is considered a high value target. The men are all volunteers. They know this is a one way mission, and they understand the need.”

Hammond: “And the asset?”

Army General: (Flips a page on the chart, showing a blown-up picture of Marilyn Buckman.) “Marilyn Buckman is currently being held in the Allegheny County Jail, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania! We have managed to insert an agent who reports that Mrs. Buckman is currently being forced to teach classes in knitting and crocheting.”

Navy Admiral: “The CIA reports that she will begin baking cookies as soon as they break her spirit. There are reports that a foreign consortium led by Famous Amos has been bidding for her secret chocolate chip cookie recipe!”

Hammond: “NO!”

Air Force General: “Mister President, we cannot allow enemy powers to gain access to Mrs. Buckman’s cookie technology!”

Hammond: “We can’t let that happen! The mission is approved, but first… LIVE FROM NEW YORK, IT’S SATURDAY NIGHT!”

Pretty much like everybody in the studio audience, I was laughing hysterically from the moment Marilyn’s picture was shown. Even Marilyn was laughing at it. “I hope your children are seeing this. I am going to want this immortalized in video!” I told her.

“You can be eliminated!”

Later in the show we had part two of the madness. Amy Poehler, the designated Marilyn Buckman impersonator (this required a wig), was sitting in a prison cell wearing an orange jumpsuit, facing several other prisoners, and they were all knitting.

Poehler: “Remember, knit one, purl two!” (The wall next to Marilyn collapses. Two cast members in combat uniforms and carrying guns jump into the room.)

Soldier One: “Mrs. Buckman, we’re Delta Force! We’re here to rescue you!”

Soldier Two: “You have to come with us!”

Poehler: “But we were just going to start talking about mixing different yarns.”

Soldier One: “We have to leave now!”

Poehler: “Ladies, don’t forget what we learned about slip stitch!”

Soldier Two: “We have to go now!” (Both soldiers took ‘Mrs. Buckman’ by the arm and pulled her through the hole in the wall and across a computer generated battlefield. They ended up on a different battlefield set.)

Soldier One: “Status on the extraction?”

Soldier Two: “Not good! We’re surrounded!”

Soldier One: “Casualties?”

Soldier Two: “At least half are down or captured, and the enemy is getting closer.”

Soldier One: “Choppers?”

Soldier Two: “Shot down! We didn’t know the Pittsburgh Police Department had anti-aircraft capability!”

Soldier One: “Ground?”

Soldier Two: “They have tanks. We’ve only got one choice left! You have to prepare Mrs. Buckman for pickup. I’ll join the remaining survivors and hold them off as long as we can!”

Soldier One: “Go!” (Turns to ‘Marilyn’ and opens up a duffle bag.) “Mrs. Buckman, you need to put on this harness.”

Poehler: “The color really doesn’t work with the jumpsuit. Do you have something else, maybe in a light red or yellow?”

Soldier One: “Mrs. Buckman! Please!”

Poehler: “Oh, all right. Oh, damn, I broke a nail!”

Soldier One: “Mrs. Buckman!”(He began helping her.)

Poehler: “What’s this for, anyway?”

Soldier One: (Reaches into the duffle bag and pulls out an inflated balloon, clips it to a wire and lets it free, to float out of sight.) “Ever watch James Bond?”

Poehler: “No. Why?”

Soldier One: “No reason. Have a nice flight!” (Poehler gets lifted up off the stage by the wire, as the soldier kneels down and starts shooting his gun.)

Curiously, Marilyn took a certain exception to the portrayal of her by Poehler I simply laughed at my wife as she stewed.

Charlie must have been the only guy on the planet who hadn’t seen the clips by the time we saw him the next day. My Sunday breakfast was interrupted by Will Brucis when he called wanting to know my official reaction to the skits. I simply told him the truth, that I had laughed until I cried, and then told him the White House wasn’t going to take an official policy stance on Marilyn Buckman’s cookie technology. It was going to be one of those ‘neither confirm nor deny’ moments.

Needless to say, the Sunday morning news shows were all over this whole mess. ABC’s This Week with George Stephanopoulos ran the intro clip in full, and then George asked Fletcher Donaldson about it.

George Stephanopoulos: “Fletcher, you’ve actually been to the Buckman’s home in Hereford, Maryland. Is Marilyn Buckman’s chocolate chip cookie recipe really so valuable that we can’t allow it to fall into enemy hands?”

Fletcher Donaldson: “I can’t answer that, George. I don’t think I’ve ever had one of her cookies. I can say that her jam and jelly recipes are worth protecting.”

George Will: “I’d have to agree with that. I managed to get a jar of Buckman’s Berries Strawberry Jam one Christmas and it was pretty good stuff. It’s interesting, though, to compare Marilyn Buckman with Hillary Clinton, who once famously commented that she had no intention of staying home and baking cookies when she could do something more important. Marilyn Buckman is quite happy baking cookies and being a stay-at-home mother for her children and husband, and she considers that as important as anything else she could be doing, and I applaud her for that.”

That got into a full Roundtable discussion of the two women’s styles and whether Marilyn’s ‘career choice’ was correct and how my extravagant wealth had allowed my wife to be ‘less productive’ or if I had forced her into a ‘subservient’ role. After a bit, Marilyn looked at me and said, “Do you like my cookies?”

I smiled and waggled my eyebrows, and replied, “And your buns, too!”

“Oh my God! You’re awful!” I started tickling her at that, and only stopped when Megan wandered out of her bedroom to find the President of the United States of America and the First Lady of that great nation wrestling on the couch. Still it showed how anything in Washington could be politicized.

Monday morning back in D.C. the political aspects were all over the place. I was treated to the latest on the witch hunt over at the Secret Service. The Senate Finance Committee planned to name a Special Investigator this week, and was dragging their heels on it, trying to delay everything past the end of the year and into the primary season. The Secret Service wasn’t waiting for them, and their internal affairs operation was crawling all over the protection details. It was expected that they would actually be questioning me and Marilyn at some point. I wasn’t precisely sure what that would gain them, but I couldn’t see an upside to stonewalling them.

During the morning staff meeting, something interesting came up, though. Needless to say, SNL had everybody talking, and there didn’t seem to be an end in sight to the merriment. It was Mindy who said, “Why don’t you send Mrs. Buckman out to talk to people?”

“I think that’s how we got into this mess! She went out and talked to people!” I countered.

“No, not protesters! Put her on the late night shows!”

“Huh?” I wasn’t sure where this was going.

Frank wasn’t either, but Will had a curious look on his face. “Keep going,” he told her, making a rolling motion with his hands.

“Marilyn Buckman is one of the nicest and warmest people you will ever meet. Everybody gets along with her. She comes across as a regular person, a nice person, not a Washington person. She can relate to people. Use that! Send her out on tour! Get people on her side and, by extension, your side, and not let this be your average Washington scandal. Let her show them it’s about real people. She comes across as real people.”

“On tour?! What?!” I wondered. “Where?”

“Put her out on the talk shows. She’s done Oprah before. Put her on the late night shows. Are you telling me she couldn’t wow them on Leno or Letterman?”

“Could we get her on? It seems awfully sudden…” The thought of Marilyn on a talk show was a new one.

Frank rolled his eyes. “Mister President, she’s the First Lady! They would all kill to have her on!”

I shrugged. “When you put it that way… What would she do?”

“Simple, talk to them,” finished Mindy. “About whatever they want to talk about. Where’s the downside? She’s not going to get into politics, since she doesn’t get into politics here. She’s a stay at home mom without any agenda other than taking care of her husband and children. What could she possibly say that would be harmful to you?”

“Huh.” I had to scratch my head at that. “She’ll never go for it. She’s never even campaigned for me on her own.”

“Have you ever asked her?” Mindy pushed back.

“You’re getting pushy in your old age, Mindy!” I replied with a smile. She didn’t look overly sorrowful at my characterization; she was only in her late-thirties. I looked at Will. “Could we do it?”

“Piece of cake. Frank is right. Any of the shows would love to have the First Lady of the United States on as a guest. They’d probably have her as the only guest.”

I shrugged again. “What’s the worst that could happen? She could say no, I suppose.” I grabbed the phone and asked that they track down my wife. Hanging up I added, “It’s not like she knows the nuclear launch codes. I just hope she doesn’t say something like I have a two inch…” I was about to say dick when I remembered I had a lady in the room. I just snapped my mouth shut.

“I don’t think you have to worry about that, Mister President,” answered Mindy with a smile.

“What!?”

“Girl talk, Mister President.”

I groaned loudly. “No… you and Marilyn… no!”

Mindy giggled and nodded, “You don’t have to worry.”

I just groaned, as Frank and Will laughed at me. I was rescued from this line of questioning with the announcement over the intercom that my wife was on the line. I hit the button and then punched another to put it on speaker. “Marilyn, you there? I have you on speaker with my staff.”

“Hello.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Buckman. How’s Charlie?” asked Frank.

Marilyn gave us a rundown on my son’s condition. He was improving, his condition had been upgraded to Fair, and once his ribs healed further would move up to Good. They were scheduling his next operation for Tuesday, to begin working on his leg.

“That’s good Marilyn. Make sure you give him my best, both him and Megan.” The others looked at me curiously, but I waved that off. “Honey, the reason that I called is that we want to talk to you about doing a publicity tour, sort of.”

“A tour?”

“Yes, it’s actually Mindy’s idea. Here, I’ll let her explain it.”

Mindy spoke up, and she and Marilyn talked for a few minutes. After a bit, Marilyn said, “I’ve never done anything like that!”

Will responded, “I’ll have one of my top people on this, traveling with you the entire time. Mindy, will have somebody, too.” Mindy nodded in agreement.

“But Charlie, I can’t leave him…”

I snorted at that. “Honey, I love you dearly, but you are probably driving him bonkers. He has Megan with him. She can drive him bonkers. It will be good practice for the future.”

“CARL!”

“Come home this afternoon and we’ll talk about it.”

Marilyn groused some more, but agreed to come back to D.C. for a few days. We hung up, and I had some curious faces looking at me. “Megan… I think you all met her at the wedding… Charlie asked her to marry him and she said yes.”

“Congratulations, Mister President,” replied Frank. “At least he’s your son. You won’t have to pay.”

I snorted. “Don’t bet on it!” The others all congratulated me as well.

My wife made it back to the White House by mid-afternoon, grousing to me that Charlie had sent her packing with a bit too big of a smile. I just promised her that we would head back up for the weekend, at which she mentioned that Megan had managed to get in touch with her parents, and they would also visit for the weekend. I nodded and made sure that we told Frank and the Secret Service about our plans. I had a new lead agent on my detail by now, also.

Marilyn reluctantly agreed to make a few appearances, and Will promptly ran into his office and began making phone calls. Half an hour later he came back to announce he had Marilyn on The Tonight Show with Jay Leno on Wednesday, and The Late Show with David Letterman on Thursday. I blinked at that. Leno did his show in L.A., and Letterman did his in New York. Marilyn was going to have to criss-cross the country to do this. She might be able to fly to California Wednesday morning, since she would pick up three hours going west, but she’d lose them again heading back east, so it would be long couple of days for her. Mindy and Will both would have somebody with her.

“What if I screw this up?” she asked me later, when we were alone.

“Well, it will probably be the end of my Presidency. I’ll be impeached and imprisoned, and you and the children will lose your citizenship and be forced to flee from Inspector Javert…”

“Carl!”

“Marilyn, don’t worry! Everybody likes you. They don’t like me, which is why we are sending you out, not me. Just act like yourself. You’ll be fine,” I reassured her.

“You’re no help!”

I wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “I wasn’t hired to be helpful. I was hired to…” At that point I smiled at her and waggled my eyebrows.

“Forget it! I want my money back!” I just laughed.

Marilyn flew out to Los Angeles Tuesday afternoon. She spent the night and did a little sightseeing and shopping the next morning. Taping would be in the afternoon. She called me afterwards to say it had gone well, but they were heading to the airport to fly to New York City. I promised I would watch it that night.

I don’t normally watch Leno, but tonight I made sure I did. He came out and did his normal routine of an opening monologue. Then he did a quick ‘Jaywalking’ segment, where he asked random people on the street questions about the President. A few were:

“Who is the President?” — Most people got it right, but a couple were blank stares.

“What is the name of the First Lady?” — He got a couple of ‘Mrs. Buckman’ answers, usually from people who knew my name. One person, who knew my name, answered ‘Hillary Clinton.’ Oh, brother!

“What color is the White House?” — He actually got a few wrong answers on this one.

Then he took a commercial break, and after that, introduced “… tonight’s guest, the First lady of the United States, Marilyn Buckman!” There was huge applause, and a group of the biggest guys I had ever seen, as in pro basketball big, all dressed in suits with dark sunglasses on, came out in a shoulder-to-shoulder tight group, completely surrounding Marilyn on all sides, and they trudged across the stage. All you could see was Marilyn’s hand sticking out from the front and waving to people. They stopped a few feet from Leno, who shook the exposed hand and commented about how security had really been beefed up. Then her ‘bodyguards’ all peeled away, leaving Marilyn standing there in her clothing, a skirt suit, but also wearing a K-pot helmet and a bullet-proof vest! The audience was laughing their asses off at all of this.

Jay: “Wow! They really have your security tightened up these days!”(He led her over to the desk area.)

Marilyn: “It’s pretty serious these days.” (She took off the helmet and shook out her curls, and Jay helped her out of the vest. They sat down on the set.) “I can’t believe Carl used to actually wear all that stuff!”

Jay: “Back when he was in the Army?”

Marilyn: “Yes! He once told me that when he had to jump he often wore 125 pounds or more! Better him than me!”

Jay: “Welcome to the Tonight Show.”

Marilyn: “Thank you for having me. I’ve never done this sort of thing before.”

Jay: “Really?”

Marilyn: “Nope. I had Oprah at the house once, and we’ve done a few interviews in the White House, but never anything like this.”

Jay: “I feel honored. The accommodations okay? Everything in the Green Room alright?”

Marilyn: “Just fine.”

Jay: “Better than where you were staying last week?”

Marilyn: “Oh my God, what a mess that was!”

That was the break that Leno needed to ask her how everything happened, and gave Marilyn a chance to explain what happened, and how she ended up in the Pittsburgh jail.

Jay: “So what made you take a swing at that guy?”

Marilyn: “He just got me so angry! My son is in a hospital, inches away from dying, and that [BLEEPED!] is shouting to have him killed! Ohhh… I can’t say that on television, can I. Am I in some kind of trouble?”

Jay: “Your husband can always write you a pardon.”

Marilyn: “He’d like that, too. I’d never hear the end of it!”

Jay: “What did he have to say when he found out you were in jail?”

Marilyn: “Oh, he was just full of jokes about that! At one point he told me that the kids wanted to see me, and that the normal thing was for parents to bail out their children, and not the other way around! What a rat!”

There was a lot of laughter over that exchange. They also discussed Charlie’s condition, his engagement, what all the kids were up to, and other relatively routine family matters.

Letterman was similar the next night, though his tone was a touch snarkier, which was his style. He started off with a Top 10 List from the Home Office in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, the Top 10 comments from the Pittsburgh Police on seeing the First Lady show up. (“Number One — ‘Oh, good, she can bake us some cookies!’”)

That weekend we met Megan’s family in Pittsburgh. Charlie was in better spirits by then, with the first operation, the one on his femur, his thigh bone, complete. His right leg was in a giant cast, but it wasn’t like he was going anywhere. His ribs were healing normally, and his breathing was less painful. Next week they would work on his lower leg. Megan’s parents were a bit flummoxed by it all. They knew their daughter was dating Charlie Buckman, but I don’t think they had really connected him to me, and they were more than a little awestruck, especially when I had to take a few business calls. It was a little unsettling for a small town lawyer specializing in wills, pre-nups, and custody cases when I had to take a call from the Attorney General of the United States! Nice people.

The following week Marilyn went to New York for a couple of days. She did Jon Stewart on Monday night, and Stephen Colbert on Tuesday. After finishing taping, she caught a fast flight back home, and was in Washington in time to watch Colbert with me that night. One fun segment was about her politics.

Stephen: “Is it true that you are not a Republican like your husband?”

Marilyn: “No, I’m not.”

Stephen: “You mean you’re a Communist?”

Marilyn: (Laughing) “No, I’m a Democrat!”

Stephen: “Same thing.”

Marilyn: “You sound just like my husband.”

Colbert: “What about your children? Are they also dedicated to the violent overthrow of the American government and the downfall of Western Civilization and all that is decent and good?”

Marilyn: (Laughing harder) “I don’t actually know. They all tell their father they’re Democrats, but half the time I think they just like to watch him yell and stomp around the house when they do so.”

Stephen: (Eyes lighting up and smiling.) “Really? They like to push his buttons, huh?”

Marilyn: “The girls, especially.”

Stephen: (Himself a father of a daughter.) “They can do that, can’t they?”

Marilyn: “One time the girls were giving him some grief, and Carl told Charlie, ‘I hope you have many daughters, and I hope they’re all just like your sisters!’, and Charlie asked, ‘What did I ever do to you!?’”

I had to joke with Marilyn about what her parents would think of Colbert’s denunciation of Democrats. She replied they were asleep by then. True, so true.

That blitz took care of any attempt by the Democrats to tie me personally to the mess with the Westboro Baptist Church and the Secret Service. That didn’t mean this was over, though, not by a long shot. The Secret Service was being dragged through the mud, and I told Brian Nagel that I couldn’t provide any cover. If something was going to come out, he needed to be upfront about it, and take the beating he was going to get. It didn’t matter if there weren’t any more problems; if somebody looked hard, and I could guarantee they would, they would find something, even if they had to invent it.

The Westboro Baptist Church was a problem of a different nature. They were suing Marilyn and me for everything under the sun, starting with assault and battery (by Marilyn) and moving on up to abuse of power and wrongful imprisonment (the Pittsburgh Police Department) and finally to a variety of violations of their civil rights (against me.) What joy!

On the other hand, they really overstepped their bounds this time. This wasn’t some small town police chief trying to be nice to a local widow and running them out of town. They had managed to piss off the President of the United States and the federal agency responsible for keeping him safe. The Allegheny County Prosecutor might have kicked them loose, but that didn’t mean that there weren’t any federal charges we could hit them with! First and foremost, as soon as they were cut loose by the Pittsburgh cops, the whole lot of them had been loaded into a prison bus and taken to the East Carson Street office of the FBI, where they were made comfortable in a new set of cells. They were then informed that they had committed a number of federal crimes, including threatening federally protected individuals and assault and battery on a federally protected individual.

After as much delay as they could get away with, the Justice Department reluctantly turned them all loose. With normal people, that would be the end of things. Over the years I had heard any number of ridiculous statements from various radically liberal Hollywood types, including some really stupid ones saying I deserved to die. The usual response would be a couple of extremely unsympathetic and unsmiling federal agents descending on the celebrity, who would then explain what might happen if said celebrity didn’t make a quick and abject public retraction. Said retraction was almost immediately forthcoming. The sort of publicity this could generate was not positive publicity.

That only works, however, if the people making the threats were sane, and feared the consequences of their actions. That doesn’t actually apply to crazy people. This had been the case with almost all of the various Presidential assassination attempts over the years. Very few (several attempts on Lincoln, an anarchist attack on Hoover, two attempts on Truman) were politically based. The bulk of them were nut jobs who were being told by the voices in their heads that they needed to kill the President. That had been the case with most of the post-Kennedy attempts, like the ones by Squeaky Fromme and Sara Jane Moore on Jerry Ford, and John Hinckley on Ronald Reagan. It had also been the ultimate conclusion with Robert Mooradian’s attempt on me the year before, although Mooradian had first tried an insanity defense, and had ultimately pled guilty to attempted murder and was serving life without parole at the Federal Penitentiary in Marion, Illinois.

As far as the Justice Department could tell, Fred Phelps and the Westboro Baptist Church were a bunch of certified crazies. The crazies liked the publicity they were getting. These guys ran on a shoestring budget, and anything that got them in the news was a way for them to get their message out to the masses. As soon as they were cut loose, they went back to the hospital and began protesting again. That earned them a second trip to a federal lockup, until a lawyer got them cut loose. Their regular lawyer, Shirley Phelps-Roper, was Fred Phelps’ daughter, and had been arrested as the person who had given Marilyn the black eye.

When they got out the second time, they really went too far. They decided to go after the hospital, the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center. They put up on their website, www.godhatesfags. com, the names of some of the doctors and nurses working on Charlie, with their home addresses, and pictures with bulls-eyes superimposed on them. Justice immediately assigned U.S. Marshals to protect all the doctors and nurses, and yanked the kooks all back into jail a third time, and then got a court order to shut down the website.

I told Frank Keating to use any trick in the books to put a crimp in these assholes’ nuttiness. Anything was fair game, and if he wanted my lawyers to chase them down as well, to simply let me know. They had declared war on the wrong guy! My biggest problem was that almost everything they did was covered with the twin mantles of freedom of speech and freedom of religion. Sooner or later they would win on this, guaranteed. They would probably even beat the ‘threats against federally protected individuals’ laws. In the meantime, however, we could tie them up. For instance, the Justice Department managed to freeze the church’s funds, and the IRS revoked their tax exempt status by declaring they weren’t a church, but a political organization. This wasn’t a bad approach; the Klan had been broken by lawsuits that made them pay damages. The individuals in the church were also targeted, and even the bus they had driven in on was impounded. As for the personal lawsuits against Marilyn, we countersued.

Was this an abuse of power? Illegal seizure? Malicious prosecution? You’re damn right it was! On the other hand, there are some cases you just can’t lose. The only group in America who actually liked these guys was the American Civil Liberties Union. Everybody else was uniformly disgusted by them. This did not play badly for me in the court of public opinion. I simply needed them muzzled until I was out of office. After that I could go after them with both barrels!

Chapter 171: Family Matters

Marilyn’s blitz of the talk shows did what we intended it to do. It put a human face, a very likeable human face, on the clusterfuck in Pittsburgh. Marilyn was polling in the low 90s, and all across the country people were rallying to her side on this. Only the ACLU was defending them, and they had offered their services. (Westboro Baptist promptly condemned them as being part of the ‘Jewish power elite’, but with their assets frozen, it wasn’t like they could actually pay for lawyers; they couldn’t afford to be picky.) Harry Reid and Congress were not going to be able to come after me by chewing on Marilyn.

Likewise, Elizabeth Warren was out of the line of fire at Treasury. The Dems who wanted to fry me were simply consternated by the fact that the Secretary of the Treasury was also a Democrat. That took care of another concern.

On the other hand, the Secret Service was about to get a reaming the likes of which they hadn’t seen since the Kennedy assassination. Politically, attacking me through the Secret Service was cheap and easy. I wasn’t all that interested in helping to fend off the attacks, either. Her detail had screwed up across the board, and if anything had happened to her I would have never forgiven them. The Senate Finance Committee assigned a Special Investigator to the case, and turned him loose with a budget that would have made Ken Starr drool.

Well, if you look hard enough, you can always find something. A Special Investigator isn’t simply a single person, but is everybody who he hires to look into things. A lot of it is just incredibly boring! Follow the money — hire a bunch of accountants to go over every file related to money. Follow the emails — hire a bunch of computer guys and print out libraries full of emails. Follow the testimony — hire a bunch of lawyers to take depositions from anybody and everybody.

Follow the money, and that’s what they did. There is no bill too small to notice, and that is what killed the Secret Service. By the end of October an accountant with nothing better to do was going over the expense reports of everybody assigned to anybody on the Presidential Protective Detail. This wasn’t just the people assigned to me, but also the agents assigned to Marilyn and the kids, as well as anybody else around, such as the advance parties that go to various places to prep for a Presidential visit.

One such preparation trip came in advance of my speech at the Organization of American States in Brasilia, Brazil, in March, 2006. I flew in, made a speech notable for its lack of notability, enjoyed a state dinner, and then flew home. I didn’t even stay the night. Regardless, several dozen Secret Service agents flew down ahead of time to go over motorcade routes, speaking locations, itineraries, and the like. They then went home with their report. It took them several days. When they are in a country, they generally use cars assigned to the embassy, although sometimes they use rental cars.

Why then was there an expense account charge for $20 for a cab ride for someone with the initials VF? Who was VF? Nobody at the embassy had those initials, and neither did anybody on the prep team? Why did the agent who put in the expense report suddenly clam up and refuse to answer? Why don’t we just send somebody from the Special Investigator’s office to Brazil on the taxpayer’s dime and ask the cab company about this VF?

It was like watching a sweater unravel when somebody pulled a loose bit of yarn. Within a matter of days, and with the entire disaster being leaked to the press via speed dial, the Secret Service was gutted like a fish! VF turned out to be Victoria Federica, a ‘model’ and part-time prostitute hired by some of the team as entertainment. They sent her home the next morning, and since nobody wanted to pay the $20 cab fare, they charged it to the U.S. of A. The cheap and stupid bastards managed to sink themselves because nobody wanted to pay a hooker an extra $20 to cover her cab fare.

I learned about this comedy of errors from Frank and Will. The Washington Post had a photo of the young lady in question, and she was quite attractive. I commented to them that I was getting screwed by the young lady and hadn’t even managed to get screwed. Will simply promised that if I ever said that in public, he would personally beat me to death with the microphone, and Frank promised to hold me down and help. I nodded in acquiescence.

Harry Reid and Max Baucus managed to get their scandal, big time! This was front page news for two weeks, as the numbers and names of the agents came to light, and the phrase ‘Wheels up, rings off!’ came into the American lexicon. It seemed that this was an accepted practice amongst the prep teams. I called in Acting Director Nagel and read him the riot act, and ordered him to clean this mess up immediately. I was both unable and unwilling to deflect any blame that might be forthcoming. The Secret Service was going to get slammed on this, and they had nobody to blame but themselves.

John McCain was furious about all of this. Mud splashed on the President was the same as mud splashed on the Vice President. The primaries would begin in January, and the Senate Finance Committee was promising Congressional hearings on the Secret Service beginning after the winter recess. What that would do was to insure that after the holidays, the press had some nice and juicy blood-letting to go along with the primaries. John was my presumptive heir apparent. If I looked bad, he looked bad, and Mitt Romney and Mike Huckabee were loudly demanding an even larger investigation, including sworn testimony from Marilyn and my family. (I called Brewster McRiley and Mike Duncan of the RNC and told them to explain how that was never going to happen.) Their theory was that if I looked bad, John looked bad, and if John looked bad, they would look good.

We did what we could do to mitigate the problem. Nagel cleaned house in the prep teams, and a dozen agents resigned or were fired by mid-November. It wasn’t enough, and I let Nagel go as well, replacing him with an Assistant Director from the finance side of the Secret Service. That was the investigatory unit responsible for counterfeiting and other securities related crimes. The only ones lower in the hierarchy than them were the uniformed guys, and I promised that if it became necessary, they would be the only ones left. I didn’t care how much blood had to be shed, but I wanted the Secret Service cleaned up!

It wasn’t entirely the winter of my discontent. By the end of October Charlie had recovered enough to get booted out of the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center. I had been going up most weekends to visit, and Marilyn and Megan had worked out a schedule where one of them was always around for him. Megan had flown to Los Angeles in September for a small part, but had been unhappy about it and declined the role. It was obvious that she had been chosen because of her relationship to Charlie, and her outfit was on the skimpy side of skimpy. She had a long talk with her agent and then flew home to Omaha for a few days before coming back to Pittsburgh. Marilyn wasn’t completely sure, but she told me that she thought Megan’s acting career was over.

Charlie was either oblivious or simply smart enough to know when to keep his mouth shut. By the end of September his ribs had healed enough that he could begin some rehabilitation on his upper body. He told me privately that it was worse than anything he had gone through when he got shot in Monrovia. He still had a giant cast on his right leg, and a much smaller cast on his right arm. A month later his casts had come off and his catheter had come out, and he was able to walk upright and use the bathroom, although he needed a lot of help. He balked at moving into the White House, but was amenable to the idea of moving into the house on 30^th Street. We converted my first floor library into an infirmary and arranged for Charlie to begin rehabilitation therapy at Walter Reed.

First, however, we had to get him out of there. Aside from the substantial bill from the hospital’s accounting office (he had medical insurance through his racing team and the track, but he would still have been bankrupted if he was a normal guy) I donated $10 million to found the Buckman Wing for Really Dumb Children Who Ride Insane Motorcycles and Become Organ Donors. Strangely, they insisted on a more conventional name involving the use of the words Orthopedics and Rehabilitation. I told Marilyn my title was more accurate and for once she agreed with me. We had a very nice ceremony, thanked everybody and their brother, and had some nice people from the Pittsburgh City Hall in to help; they had their hands out, too, and they received a nice little payoff to the Police Benevolent Association. Afterwards we loaded Charlie onto Marine One and we flew him to the Naval Observatory, which was the closest helipad to the house on 30^th Street.

Marilyn wanted to stay around for a bit to make sure Charlie settled in properly. I dragged her away, whispering to her that Charlie and Megan looked like they could ‘settle in’ just fine on their own. She elbowed me in the side and said her son was better behaved than that, but when I rolled my eyes at her, she giggled and said, “He’s as much of a barbarian as his father!”

I shrugged and gave a bland smile. “She’s an actress. Maybe she has a nurse’s costume available.”

“You are a dirty old man!”

“You’re the one with the AARP card!” I laughed.

“You have one, too!”

That was true. It had showed up in the mail at Hereford when I turned 50. I used it as a bookmark.

“Do you know why Ben Franklin preferred older women as mistresses?” I asked, needling her because she was five months older than me. Marilyn had already turned 52, while I was still 51 for a few more weeks.

“No! Why!?”

I lowered my voice and whispered, “Because they were so grateful!”

“OOOOHHH! You are a rat!” Marilyn tried to slug me, but I wrapped her up in my arms and laughed. “I’ll show you old!”

“I certainly hope so!” I laughed.

Marilyn didn’t believe me about Ben Franklin, so once we got back to the White House, I made a call over to the Library of Congress. I managed to speak to the Librarian, Doctor Billington, and he laughed and promised to send over a copy of the letter that Franklin wrote. He also warned me that I was playing with fire. I just asked what was life without a little heat.

For Thanksgiving we stayed at the White House for a traditional feast. Last year we ate in Kurdistan. This year the Iraqi border was quieter, and we had fewer troops in place. We managed to get the entire family down. Molly and Bucky came down from Lansdowne, Charlie and Megan came over from 30^th Street, and Holly showed up with the same guy who had been at the wedding with her. He still looked like a scruffy bum. When I asked Marilyn if they were serious she said they were very serious, and were moving in together into a new apartment. “You met Jerry at the wedding! Where have you been?” she replied.

“I don’t know, running the free world, maybe?”

“Hmmmph! Some father you are!”

As a family we had to actually appear in public together the day before Thanksgiving, at the annual Pardoning of the Turkeys. For years and years turkeys were given to the President as gifts from various poultry boards, but the general rule was to thank those giving the bird, praise the quality of the bird, and a day later, eat the bird. Trust Ronald Reagan to screw up a really good idea. He decided to give the turkey a ‘Presidential pardon’ and make it into a national event. Personally, I would be more than happy to go back to the old way of doing things. We now had two turkeys to pardon, and they always had cute or patriotic names, like ‘Liberty’ and ‘Freedom.’ I would privately call them ‘Juicy’ and ‘Delicious.’

The entire ceremony had some problematic issues. The worst was that Jerry still looked and dressed like a scruffy bum. Charlie, Bucky, and I were wearing suits and overcoats or trench coats, and the ladies all had on smart suits or dresses and matching overcoats, scarves, and gloves. Jerry was wearing jeans, a Pearl Jam t-shirt, a ratty parka, and a wool cap with a hole in it. I took one look at him and muttered, “Are you kidding me?! Hold it a minute.” He was near enough my size, though taller by a couple of inches. I went to the closet and pulled out a spare dress coat and a clean watch cap. “Here, put these on,” I told him. “You can stand in the back for any photos.”

He stood there and gave me a hostile look. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing!?”

I rolled my eyes. “Nothing is wrong if you are camping with the Boy Scouts. This isn’t camping. This is the White House, the official residence of the President of the United States of America, and you are about to be on national television in the Rose Garden. Do you really want your parents to see you on the evening news in an outfit that looks like you’re homeless and hanging around a trash fire in the Bowery?”

“DADDY!” squawked Holly.

I looked at my eldest daughter. “Daddy nothing! This isn’t the lab at Princeton. This is the real world, where you have to dress up every once in a while. And speaking of dressing up, it’s too late to do anything about it now, but a haircut and a beard trimmer would go a long, long way towards making your boyfriend look a whole lot more presentable.”

“Excuse me?” Jerry asked incredulously.

“Carl, don’t you think you’re going a little overboard?” asked Marilyn, smiling.

“No, I don’t! I don’t care if this guy is the next Einstein. Einstein wore suits. One of these days he’s going to graduate and have to get a job. People hire people who wear suits and have haircuts and trim beards. That’s the way the real world works.”

“DADDY!”

“We’ll go into this later, but Jerry, if you want to be with Holly in this, you need to change out of that coat and hat. If you stand in the back, nobody will see the jeans and sneakers. A scarf will cover up that thing you call a beard.” I left so that everybody could stew and run me down. Marilyn would calm them down. Twenty minutes later, Jerry — now in the clean coat, scarf, and cap — and Holly and Marilyn came down to the Oval Office, where I was hanging out with the others. Jerry and Holly looked mulish, and Marilyn looked amused. I nodded and smiled, and reminded everybody “Remember, big smiles!”

Holly grumbled, but Marilyn pushed me towards the door.

We ended up standing out in the Rose Garden in the cold, the whole mob of us dressed in overcoats and scarves and gloves, with two gigantic white turkeys standing there on a table. I had just given the turkeys their pardon, wishing them a long life. (That rarely lasts more than a few weeks or months longer; these birds are so big they have major health problems.) Normally this gets maybe 30 seconds on television. There are usually a few softball questions from the press. Then I was asked, “Mister President, what are you thankful for this year?”

I couldn’t help myself. I simply couldn’t stop. It was just too easy! “Well, I’m just like any other American father. I’m thankful my son has gotten out of the hospital, my daughters have gotten out of the house, and my wife has gotten out of jail!” As I could have expected, Charlie, Megan, and Bucky broke down in laughter, Jerry looked confused, and Holly, Molly, and Marilyn all slugged me.

We made the news that night, and got more than just 30 seconds! Will was hard pressed to spin that one, because he was laughing too hard to be taken seriously.

Marilyn calmed down Holly and Jerry. She promised to take the pair of them to a decent men’s store to get some new clothes. To be fair, he didn’t have a lot of money, being just an average grad student, which is sort of like indentured servitude to the college, only without the more enjoyable aspects of slavery. She told them it would be our Christmas present.

Charlie’s cost of care irked me. I was rich and could take care of any deductibles or maximums, but so many people couldn’t. For the average American, treatment like he was getting would bankrupt them. I contemplated starting a legislative battle to do something about the abysmal state of health insurance in the country, but shitcanned the idea immediately. There were so many problems with the whole idea! First off, the only program that actually made any sense was a nationwide extension of Mitt Romney’s plan from Massachusetts. If I did that, I was directly supporting John McCain’s biggest Republican rival. I was also pushing a Democratic proposal; I remembered how this had chewed Hillary Clinton up in the 1990s (and Barack Obama in the 2010s, though nobody but me knew that.) If this was going to ever get done and make it through Congress, a Republican President would need to do it! I sat John down one afternoon and tossed this out. My suggestion? Win the primary (quite probable) and win the general election (quite possible) and then do it. He would have a third term Republican Presidential mandate and a Republican House. He could name Mitt Romney as his Secretary of Health and Human Services, and develop something that just might work.

“You want me to name him to the Cabinet? After what he’s been saying about me?” protested John.

“Hey, you win and it will be your Cabinet. What you do is your business. I’m just saying it would pay some benefits, and in more ways than one. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, that sort of thing.”

He cocked his head to the side and smiled, to ask, “Like you did with me?”

I shrugged. “I never classified you as an enemy. More like a potential problem.”

He shrugged back. “Maybe.”

“Yeah, maybe. Let’s face it; I was never going to go through the primaries like you guys did. Or you’ve been doing. George didn’t even want me, other than as a bone to the moderates. When I landed in this job, I had two main rivals and I needed to handle them, and fast. There was you, who was George’s only real opponent in the primaries, and Cheney, who was smarter than George and could control him, and didn’t like that he couldn’t control me! Dick I had to destroy. You, on the other hand, I had no real reason or ability to destroy, but I did have a chance to make you an ally. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.”

“True enough. I wasn’t quite sure whether you were making that cold a calculation or not, but I could see it happening.”

“It was more like I simply needed to handle things, or I would be the one being handled. You certainly had a much better reputation than I did back then, and you could have been a real pain in the ass to deal with in the Senate if you had wanted to be. Cheney was simply toxic waste and needed to be dealt with, and dealt with permanently! He would have been nothing but trouble, and would have poisoned the well for all of us in 2004,” I answered.

“And your thinking on Romney?”

“He’s the only Republican with the seniority and respect to challenge you. Forget Huckabee. When the primaries are over, he goes off to become a television preacher. No, Romney will still be around, and he can make a nuisance of himself. He won’t win, since the base trusts him even less than they trust you or me. Do what I did. Convert the potential challenger to an asset. Put him in the Cabinet and work his ass off. It shows the moderates you haven’t forgotten them, and shows the public how you’re bigger than such petty primary nonsense.”

John laughed at that. “You going to pick my Vice President, too?”

“Oh, Lord! That one I am leaving to you! You really have to work with them, and you can’t fire them, like you can a Cabinet Secretary. In addition, you really want somebody who can take over if need be. I know we don’t always see eye to eye, John, but I feel a whole lot better knowing you are around then, say, Cheney or Romney, if Marilyn finally gets tired of me and kills me in my sleep!”

John laughed at that. “I am going to tell her you said that!”

“Please, it’s a family joke by now!” I scratched my head for a moment. “You want a few ideas? How about Jeb Bush? Governor of Florida, brother to slain martyr George, son of a great President? He’s out of a job but has a good name in the party. Here’s another idea. What happens if Hillary ends up as the candidate? You can trump them with Condi Rice. She’s a woman and she’s black. Two minorities for the price of one!”

“That is so cold!” he said with a smile. “Of course the party base would never tolerate her.”

“You have to watch those guys. You can’t play to the base. The guy they want will never get elected. You have to do this on your terms, not theirs,” I warned. “Ever heard of Sarah Palin?”

“Who?”

“Sarah Palin. She’s the new Governor of Alaska. Hard core Republican, female, young, a hunter, very conservative, damn good looking. Sounds like the perfect candidate to get the base all revved up, right?” He nodded. “I met her once, at a Governor’s conference. She has the IQ of a doorknob! That doesn’t really matter in Alaska, which has a total state population of a mid-sized city in the rest of the country, and where even the Democrats are conservative. You put her on national TV and she will come across as an idiot. You can pick any number of favorites from the party base, and as soon as you put them on national television, with a reporter who has actually read something other than the Bible or Guns and Ammo, they will flame out spectacularly. You really have to watch those guys!”

“I’ll give this all some thought. First I have to win the primary.”

I gave him a thumbs-up on that, and he took off.

After Charlie and Megan had a chance to settle in, the Pulaski family came to Washington for a visit. Megan’s parents, John and Barbara, and her two college age brothers, John Jr. and Will, came at the invitation of Marilyn and me. We put the two boys in the Queen’s Bedroom and Molly’s old room, and John and Barbara in the Lincoln Bedroom. Unlike some of my predecessors, Marilyn and I did not abuse the privilege of having guests stay in the White House. The place is very impressive, and the Pulaskis were suitably impressed. Marilyn and I gave them a tour while they were there, including the Oval Office. (I showed them the ‘Red Button’ but my wife told them it was fake.) We also told them that our home in Hereford was much less fancy, and that someday they would have to visit us there, or maybe join us at Hougomont for a vacation.

The Pulaskis were very nice people. The boys were Cornhuskers like their sister had been, studying business (John Jr.) and pre-law (Will.) I told them that I had talked to Megan any number of times while Charlie was in the hospital. If you wanted to get a good feel on people, do it while they are under stress. Staying with Charlie while he was racing and in the hospital was stressful, and she passed muster with Marilyn and me. They seemed to have done a good job with all of their children. Megan was going to be a fine addition to the Buckman family.

Then in December, something quite unpleasant occurred. A week before Christmas, Tuesday, December 18^th, I was interrupted in the afternoon during a meeting with the Council of Economic Advisers. Frank Stouffer wasn’t involved, but he knocked on my door and slipped inside.

“What’s up, Frank?” I asked.

He cleared his throat. “Mister President, there’s a call for you that I think you should take.”

“Can’t you tell the secretary to take a message and I’ll call them back?”

“Sir, I really think you need to take this, sir.”

I gave him a peeved look, and stood up. “This will just be a few minutes, folks.” I followed Frank out of the conference room and headed back to the Oval Office. “What’s going on, Frank? This better be good.”

“Sir, you should take the call.”

“Who is it?”

Frank didn’t answer, but simply opened the door to my office and ushered me in. He didn’t follow, but closed the door behind me. I went to my desk and sat down, and then picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Carl, it’s Suzie.”

“Suzie! What’s wrong?! Is John alright? The boys?” Had something happened? Suzie sounded relatively calm, but maybe she was in shock!

“They’re fine, Carl. They’re all just fine. The home just called. Dad just passed away. I wanted to let you know. He died about an hour ago,” she told me.

That stumped me for a second. “Huh.”

“I talked to John before I called you. I’m coming home to see to him. John’s coming, too,” she told me.

“Okay. Would you like me to send the Gulfstream?”

“Please? It might make things go faster.” She paused for a moment. “I’ll let you know what the arrangements are. Would you like to come to the funeral?”

I snorted. “Suzie, the man disowned me thirty years ago. You’re going to be standing at the graveside a long, long time before I ever show up!”

“Carl…” she started lowly, and then stopped. “I understand. I’ll let you know afterwards.”

“Thank you, Suzie, and I’m sorry, for your sake, at least.” I waited for the click, and then hung up.

Frank must have been standing at the secretary’s desk waiting for me to get off the phone, because a few seconds after I hung up, he knocked on the door and let himself in without waiting for me to acknowledge him. I looked over at him blankly. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mister President,” he told me.

“Frank, I lost my father thirty years ago.”

“Still… Should I send the CEA home, sir?”

“Over this? Hell!” I stood from behind my desk and headed towards the door, but for some reason never made it past the couch. I simply sat down and stared at the wall for a moment. “Hell, Frank, cancel the meeting. It’s as good a reason to play hooky as I’ve ever heard of.” My mind went blank for a minute or two as I remembered back to previous times. Frank moved towards my desk. The next time I noticed him he was sitting down across from me with a couple of shot glasses and a bottle of Crown Royal I kept in a sideboard. I nodded and he poured a couple of shots. I took one and said, “Skoal!” and then remembered that was my father’s favorite toast.

“Skoal!” he replied. We raised our glasses and drained them. I set mine down and he refilled them, but neither of us grabbed for them. “What happened, sir?”

I shrugged. “Old age, probably. I didn’t ask and Suzie didn’t tell me. I’m sure it was the Alzheimer’s’. He’s had that since 2000 or so.”

“Will you be…” He let it go at that.

I shook my head. “Not hardly. The man made his bed, and now he can sleep in it, alone, as needs be.”

“Sir…”

“Suzie is flying down. Let them know to send the G-IV for her. She and her husband will come down to handle that. Why she wants to do that is beyond me. She changed her name and ran halfway across the country to get away from my family.”

“Do you know what the arrangements will be?” he asked.

“You’re a nosy bastard, Frank, you know that?” I said with a half smile. Then I sighed and picked up my drink. I sipped this one, savoring the warmth of the whiskey hitting my throat. “Probably out in Arcadia. Most of the Buckmans are buried out there. It’s one of the reasons Marilyn and I chose plots at a cemetery in Dulaney Valley, so we wouldn’t contaminate the family gravesite.” I sipped my whiskey. “The family ghosts would probably rise up and throw us out!”

“Will you be putting out a statement?” I gave him a hard look at that. He looked somewhat apologetic, but pressed on. “Will is going to be asking. Somebody is going to learn about this and ask. We need to be prepared.”

“No statement.”

“Sir?”

“Frank, you heard me. If anybody asks, explain that it is a personal family matter and that neither I nor the White House will be discussing it. If the reporter gets pushy, throw the dummy out.”

Frank sighed and nodded, sipping his own whiskey. “I understand. I have to tell you, though, that it’s going to be a problem. Politically it looks bad. Ungrateful son, and all that sort of thing.”

“Christ!” I finished my glass and poured another, topping Frank’s off as well. “I’m the ungrateful son? My father disowns me and doesn’t even have the decency to tell me he’s doing it! Were you aware that I only discovered it during the legal wrangling after I killed my brother? He disowned me on the orders of my mother, the psycho bitch! Did you know she bought the knife my brother had on him, and loaned him her car to stalk us with?”

“I don’t know what to say, Mister President. I just can’t imagine it.”

“You want to know the crazy thing? For years now I have had armchair psychologists, none of whom have ever actually met me or talked to me or my family, explain my success. I am overcompensating and trying to win my father’s approval, and when that fails, I am forced to do something even greater. You want to know the funny part? I’ve known since I was a kid that my family thought I was a failure. I’ve known it all my life. The only thing I ever wanted from my father was permission to move out!” I told him. I was just musing loudly at that point. “Frank, were you ever in the Cub Scouts or Boy Scouts?”

“Yes, sir, both.”

I nodded. “Remember that first camping trip, how all the little boys were scared or homesick?”

He nodded and smiled. “I was one of them. You get over it, and then it becomes a big adventure.”

“Exactly. Still, that first time, you miss home. Home is safety and security and people who love you and take care of you. Here’s something to think about. I never got homesick, not even a little. For me, home wasn’t any of those things. Home was just a house I lived in.”

Frank just sat there and nodded. What could he say to me, after all?

I thought about it, and said, “If we have to say anything, just say that it’s a private family matter and the President requests that the Buckman family’s privacy be respected. They won’t, of course. Just watch. There will be reporters and camera crews at the church and the graveside, hoping to film me attending, and hoping for some fireworks when I meet my long estranged family. When I don’t show up, they’ll start interviewing everybody. I wonder if my mother will show up. I bet she’ll give a great interview! Probably blame everything on me and then have another nervous breakdown!”

Frank capped the bottle and put it back in the sideboard. “Neither one of us needs any more of this, and you don’t need to be hanging around the office if you have any more.”

“True enough. I’ll be known as the American Boris Yeltsin! I’ll be fine, Frank. I just think I need to go upstairs and forget about the day. I need to tell Marilyn and the kids the news. Did you know my daughters have never met my parents? Charlie did, once, when he was still in diapers, but he doesn’t remember them. Marilyn refused to allow my parents to even touch him! They’ve never met any of my aunts or uncles or cousins. How screwed up is that?”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Mister President.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Frank, and I won’t be hung over, either, I promise.”

“Good night, sir.”

I told Marilyn, and she told the kids. Afterwards we ate dinner and watched television silently. The images simply flickered across my vision, however. My mind was on my history, my life on the first go and on this one. Was there ever a way to have kept a relationship with any of my family? Mom was crazy, but not Dad. Dad was weak. Did I still miss him after thirty years? Or did I miss some fictional version of my father that I had never really known?

The story came out, and Will issued the ‘private family matter’ response. It made the national evening news but didn’t get more than about 30 seconds. Some of the tabloids tried for more, and managed to snag a few interviews from cousins who had written me off back in the old days and had since come to the realization that they had also written off potential megabucks. Only one of my cousins had ever tried to contact me, and that was for money for a business. I dumped it on Jake Junior at the time and told him to apply our standard methods to evaluate it for investment. It failed the test and I had Jake inform him. I never heard from any of them since that.

Suzie called and gave me a report after the funeral. It turned out that Dad was buried next to Hamilton, and that Mom still had a plot next to Dad. The nuclear family from Hell.

Chapter 172: Campaign 2008

There wasn’t going to be a whole lot of grand legislation going on in 2008. This was an election year, and it was going to be a big one. We would start off with the primaries, which would take up most of the late winter and early spring. After that we would have a brief lull through the summer, and then go into the conventions. After the conventions it would be full out bloody warfare. This was on top of the regular fun and games. Every House seat was up for election, as were one in three Senate seats. The chance of actually accomplishing anything was remote at best.

That wasn’t to say nothing would get passed. Both the Democrats who ran the Senate and the Republicans who controlled the House could be counted on to pass some bills that had absolutely zero chance of ever getting through because they would never be passed by the other house. It didn’t matter what the bill was for, the real purpose was to attach a name to a bill or to a vote against a bill. “Congressman Blathermouth voted against food stamps for hungry children! It’s time to fire Congressman Blathermouth!” Well, that’s not really what happened. The bill that was voted on was actually about raising taxes in Congressman Blathermouth’s district, so when he voted that down, he also voted down the food stamp increase rider. Both sides played this game. Congressman Blathermouth would take the same vote and trumpet about how he held the line on taxes, so re-elect him so he can continue leading the fight.

I did expect to get some legislation passed, but it would be mostly bills supplemental to other bills that were already in place. For instance, last year I had pushed through a five year extension on some major infrastructure spending bills — bridges, highways, water and sewer improvements, canal locks, and such — and this year we would need to pass the proper budget and spending bills. How much that was going to cost in special appropriations and earmarks in order to buy recalcitrant politicians I wasn’t sure yet.

It was amusing in a way. Every year you had various Congressional leaders who would hoot and holler about the pernicious effects of earmarks, and how they were nothing but bribery using the taxpayers’ money. They would promise to ban all earmarks, and make all government spending more transparent. God save us if that ever actually happens! If a little bribery is needed to pass a piece of important legislation, then pay the damn bribe! For my money, politics was the art of the possible, and some appropriately spread around cash made a lot of stuff much more possible.

You actually don’t use the earmarks to line anybody’s pocket. That would be illegal. Instead you use the money to fund a project or lower a tax for somebody back in your district. If the thankful citizens and businesses in your district wish to reward your outstanding performance with a campaign contribution, well that that’s just peachy!

America has the best government money can buy. As for efficiency, well, that’s a different matter.

In 2004 I ran for re-election, and as far as the Republican Party was concerned, I ran unopposed. Ron Paul tried to run against me, but I don’t remember him getting a single vote. Now, in 2008, we actually had a race. John McCain was the front runner, and the presumptive winner. Mitt Romney and Mike Huckabee were the only other major players in the game. Everybody else, and there were probably another half dozen candidates running in Iowa and New Hampshire, was praying for a miracle.

John had everything going for him, as long as we didn’t step on our cranks. That was why the Secret Service scandal was so troublesome. John’s theme was simple — “Four More Years!” I was nowhere near as unpopular as George Bush would have been at this point. The things that sank GWB — two very unpopular wars, a disastrous response to Hurricane Katrina, and government spending that was completely out of control and had us trillions in debt — those things just weren’t tainting me. Meanwhile I had managed to win my war, had at least partially fixed some immigration issues, and was pushing a relatively popular infrastructure repair plan. The economy was strong, we had gotten through the Katrina recession, and although we still had Wall Street and housing bubbles, they weren’t anywhere near as crazy as they could have been.

John’s mantra was simple. Keep him in place to keep the good times rolling. We were the grown-ups, and we knew what we were doing. John had been at the heart of all the wonderful things President Buckman had done, so let’s keep him in office to keep it all going!

Mitt and Mike were at the two extremes of the party. Mitt was pushing that he was the strong business leader, having run Bain Capital at the same time I had been running the Buckman Group, and we needed to run the country like a business. It wasn’t something we could really use, but I told both John and the top campaign people that Mitt wasn’t all that great a businessman. The Buckman Group had eaten Bain Capital’s lunch on more than one occasion. In addition, Bain Capital had much more of a shark mentality to it then I had with the Buckman Group. We had invested our money along with our clients. Bain had typically invested in takeovers that left the target company highly leveraged. Bain got its money out in fees and preferential treatment; if the target company went belly up or laid off workers, Bain had made their money already. The Buckman Group got its money out in stock appreciation, warrants, and options. The risk is greater, but the upside is very, very nice!

Mitt was unabashedly appealing to Wall Street and the financial sector, and they were funding him lavishly. John was also getting a lot of cash from business interests, but his seemed more diverse. Both men frequently got contributions from the same people, as they tried to hedge their bets. Lower taxes were promised.

Mike Huckabee, on the other hand, was appealing to the party base. He was the designated conservative and Christian, and he was the only one the party base actually trusted. Unfortunately, nobody else wanted him! He could command maybe a quarter of all Republican voters, or maybe even more than that. Unfortunately for Mike, the other parts of the party, like the businessmen and the defense advocates and the libertarian wing, wanted nothing to do with him. Nobody expected Huckabee to do more than win some isolated Southern and Midwestern states, but there was immense concern that he would form a hard right Christian third party and run in the general election. If that happened, he would split the Republican vote and the Democrats would win in a landslide!

On the Democratic side, the only two serious candidates were Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama, and nobody could figure out who would get the nod. Hillary was the first really serious female contender, and she had all the old style Dems and women supporting her. Obama was the first black candidate who actually had a chance of winning white votes, and he was very appealing to the minorities who were a major part of the Democratic base. Money was pouring into both of their coffers. They were battling each other tooth and nail, and it was incredibly ugly. Both candidates were promising ‘Change!’ It wasn’t clear to me what they wanted to change, other than to increase social spending programs. Keeping the budget balanced would be accomplished by massive cuts in the military and making business pay its ‘fair share’, whatever that meant (probably a tax hike.) Both candidates were very much old school Ted Kennedy style liberals. Otherwise, the only other significant candidate was John Edwards, who had a lot of name recognition from his run for V.P. in 2004, and the exact same platform as the other two. None of the rest, and there were at least another half dozen with their names on ballots, had a snowball’s chance in Hell of getting a single delegate to the convention.

The first primaries were in January, beginning with the Iowa caucuses on January 3. I will never understand how the whitest, most conservative, and most religious state in the nation got to choose who would be the candidates for national office. If you won in Iowa, or at least beat expectations, you got a major boost going into future races. Donors would start coughing up cash, and you would be able to keep going. Some of the long shot candidates only ran in Iowa and New Hampshire, praying for that long shot victory which would get them the credibility to continue.

Mike Huckabee won Iowa big on the Republican side, getting about a third of the total vote. McCain and Romney basically tied at number two, with a quarter of the vote each. Everybody else picked up a few dribs and drabs. Even the television pundits discounted this win for Mike, since the only reason he won was because most of the state was fundamentalist Christian, and he had them sewn up. He was not expected to win in New Hampshire, which was a more diverse state. He didn’t. John took New Hampshire with a strong showing by Mitt, and Mike took a distant third place. After that, Romney took his home state of Michigan, beating John by a nose, and both spanked Mike. It was very even going into Super Tuesday.

On the Democratic side things were very unclear. In Iowa, New Hampshire, and Nevada, despite boatloads of cash being spent, Obama and Clinton were tied dead even. Edwards was way in the back. Obama won big in South Carolina at the end of January, and this was very significant. South Carolina was the first primary in a state with large numbers of black voters, and it told. I suppose there was a black voter who voted for Hillary, but I don’t think anybody ever discovered her name. Otherwise, he took every black vote in the state. He whipped Hillary by over two-to-one, and put a real kink in her plans.

Super Tuesday was February 5, and was the day that everybody had to win. All the wannabes on both sides had dropped out by the end of January. The only ones left on the Republican side were McCain, Romney, Huckabee, and Ron Paul. Ron had zero delegates and zero money and zero chance, but he was staying in to get his libertarian agenda out there. The Democrats were down to Obama and Clinton, with Obama having about a 10 % lead at the moment. Even John Edwards had quit, but he was making lots of noise about being the best candidate as Vice President. He was hoping that Obama and Clinton would fight such a nasty fight that the eventual winner wouldn’t choose the other one as their running mate. It was the same strategy that got him selected in 2004 as the V.P. nominee.

I’ll be honest and admit that I was surprised by the strength of Mitt Romney and Mike Huckabee. The three men weren’t as close as the two leading Dems were, but I had expected John to be the prohibitive front runner at this point. I was doing what I could for him. He certainly had my public endorsement, but that was to be expected. If I didn’t endorse my own Vice President as my replacement, I was telling the world I had picked somebody unqualified, which would reflect poorly on me. Behind the scenes, I was making as many phone calls as I could. John’s big chance was to take Super Tuesday. Over 40 % of the Republican convention votes would be divvied up, covering 21 states, on that one day. John needed to smack down Romney and Huckabee decisively.

John spent a lot of January on the road, campaigning. I had a chance to speak to him towards the end of the month. “How’s it going, John?”

He smiled and asked, “Getting worried, Carl?”

I made a wry grimace. “I wouldn’t say, worried. Maybe concerned is the right word. I never thought Mitt or Mike would be anywhere near this close to you.”

“This game isn’t over yet. Let’s face it, Mike plays well to the religious crowd, but that isn’t going to help him everywhere. They’ve never trusted you or me, and they sure aren’t going to vote for a Mormon. As for Mitt, he’s running against you. I’ve heard he’s been telling the financial types that you’ve betrayed your class,” he replied.

I stared at him briefly. “My class? I’m a middle class suburban kid who’s made twenty times more money than he’s ever seen! What was it Ann Richards said about George’s dad? He was born with a silver foot in his mouth? Sounds like Mitt to me.”

John laughed at me. “Don’t shoot the messenger! I’m just passing this along. Call some of your old buddies and ask.”

“I might just do that! My class, my ass! The balls on that guy!”

“Like I said, this thing isn’t over yet. What would you say the most important states for me to win on Super Tuesday will be?”

I had to think for a second. “California’s the big prize, and I’m sure they won’t go for Huckabee. Hmmm…” I thought a bit longer. “Illinois is big. So is New Jersey. New York, maybe. They won’t vote for you in the general election, but you need to win the primary. You tie up four or five of the biggest states and the day is yours. Otherwise…” I shrugged again.

He smiled. “I know you’re making phone calls. So am I. I’ve been doing this longer than you have. Don’t go counting me out yet.”

I nodded in agreement. “Okay. I’ll start writing my speech for the convention.”

Mitt’s comments pissed me off. I made a call to Jake Eisenstein Jr. and confirmed what John told me; Mitt really was running down my record at the Buckman Group and, by extension, John’s record working for me. I reminded Jake of my record back in the old days, and also reminded him of the times we spanked Mitt’s ass, which got a few good laughs out of my old partner. “You planning on coming back here after you’re out of a job?” he asked. Technically I had enough stock in the blind trust to let me do that.

“Not as long as John’s the President. If Mitt’s running the show, or God save us, the Democrats, I just might have to! You start telling your buddies the truth about Mitt Romney, huh?”

“Nothing like a little incentive! I’ll see what I can do.” We were good friends, but he liked running the show, like I enjoyed running the show. He wouldn’t want me to come back. We closed our conversation with some gossip about our families, and hung up.

To what extent that helped, I’m not completely sure. I do know that within a matter of days, and before Super Tuesday, Wall Street money began flowing more to John McCain and the tap began drying up for Mitt. This was really critical for both men. Iowa and New Hampshire are very small states, and the emphasis during those campaigns was very much about meeting as many people as possible. Super Tuesday states are much bigger, and there was no way to shake that many hands and visit that many living rooms. They needed massive amounts of campaign funding to buy the television air time needed to reach that many people. John also scored some major endorsements from the governors of both California and Texas on January 31. Those were two must-win critical states.

One of John’s strengths was that he had a major funding source not available to either Mitt or Mike. The outfit that Marty Adrianopolis and I had founded down in Austin, Austin Consulting Group, had developed all sorts of Internet based funding schemes. In addition to the traditional campaign and RNC websites Austin managed, they also operated the McCain Friendster, MySpace, LinkedIn, and Facebook sites. Nobody knew yet which of these social networks would end up becoming important, but they were operating McCain issue and fundraising pages on each of them. Just as important, they weren’t operating any for Romney or Huckabee. They were pulling in millions off the Internet.

Brewster McRiley wasn’t directly working for John McCain, but his management of my 2004 campaign had propelled him to the top levels of the Republican Party. If John McCain won this fall, Brewster would be a lock for the next RNC chairman. As it was, he was coordinating a lot of funding for the RNC, and at the same time his McRiley Associates group was running three Senatorial campaigns and six House bids. He was also working on purchasing Austin and folding it into his operation. Brewster wanted to become a one stop shop for Republican elections! He wanted John to win, too.

Things got amusing when the pending purchase of Austin was raised in a column on politics in Business Week. Both Marty and Brewster were quoted. Both men were known as long time friends and associates of yours truly, and the question was raised as to my financial involvement in the Austin Consulting Group. Donna Brazile asked them about it the next Sunday on This Week with George Stephanopoulos.

Brewster laughed at the accusation. “Carl Buckman was involved with the Austin Consulting Group only to the extent of suggesting its creation. That was it.”

When asked where I had come up with the idea, Marty snorted and answered, “Everybody knows about Carl Buckman the billionaire and Carl Buckman the soldier and Carl Buckman the philanthropist, but nobody remembers Carl Buckman the mathematician and computer scientist. They forget about the guy I went to RPI with, who got his doctorate in math at the age of 21, who wrote code for Bill Gates, and who sat on the boards of Microsoft, Adobe, and Dell. Carl told me that it was time for a couple of old Keggers to show people how to raise money by computer. After all, he helped invent modern computer networking.”

“What are Keggers?” asked Stephanopoulos.

Marty smiled. “Kappa Gamma Sigma was our fraternity, KGS. We called ourselves Keggers. It was appropriate, too. Both Carl and I were bartenders during parties back in the day.”

Brewster added, “I so believe that of both of you!” to which everybody laughed. It made for an amusing interlude.

Like a lot of people, I spent that Tuesday night watching the election returns on television. On the Republican side, John McCain showed some real strength, and basically put it away. There were 21 states in play for the Republicans, and John took nine, Mitt took seven, and Mike took five. That didn’t sound like much of a landslide, but it was. John McCain took California, New York, New Jersey, and Illinois, the four largest states and the ones with the most delegates to the convention. John took two-thirds of all the delegates up for grabs. It was a landslide.

It wasn’t anywhere near as clear on the Democratic side. Super Tuesday wasn’t the day that determined the winner there. Both Obama and Clinton claimed a victory. Obama won 13 states to Clinton’s 10, but Clinton picked up a few more delegates in the bigger states she won. This thing was going to keep going on the Democratic side, probably for at least another month. Meanwhile, they were blowing through money like it was confetti, the rhetoric kept getting uglier and uglier, and everybody was waiting for somebody to completely fuck up and blow it. All it would take would be one idiotic comment to be caught by somebody with a video camera or a cell phone for a campaign to be sunk.

I couldn’t let the primaries be my whole life, no matter what kind of professional interest I might have. In February Fidel Castro resigned as the President of Cuba, to be succeeded by his brother Raul in a unanimous vote. Like The Who said, “Meet the new boss, same as the old boss!” I doubted there would ever be the political will in the U.S. to make nice with the Cubans until both men were in the ground.

Elsewhere overseas, Hugo Chavez was being a major league asshole down in Venezuela. He fancied himself the new leader of the socialist world, fulfilling the destiny of his hero, Fidel Castro. He did this by playing games with the oil they exported, nationalizing businesses, and giving oil and money to various countries he supported, all the while turning the proceeds over to the poor in grandiose schemes designed to buy their allegiance. For years now I had gotten a variety of requests from the right wing of my party to do something about Chavez and install a President more amenable to American influence. I had always pushed this away. I didn’t need to start a war I couldn’t win, and America had a bad enough reputation south of the border for colonialism and interference. Chavez could strut around like a jackass and make all the speeches he wanted to, but he had no ability to harm us.

In Russia, Vladimir Putin was in the last few months of his term as President, and he was term limited; he couldn’t run for President again. This wasn’t a big problem for Vladimir. His handpicked successor was Dmitry Medvedev, the Prime Minister. Medvedev became the President and Putin took the job of Prime Minister, and ran the place anyway. It would be the equivalent of John McCain winning the election and naming me the Vice President, and then letting me run the country in his name. “Meet the new boss, same as the old boss!” Nobody expected any difference in Russian policy.

I was scheduled for another Middle Eastern tour during the summer. This was going to be a relatively simple tour, hitting Turkey, Kurdistan, and Israel. This would be my third trip to Kurdistan, and the second to Turkey and Israel. In a way this was a farewell tour for me. The Turks and the Kurds were squabbling, but nothing serious. Nobody wanted to screw up the very nice oil relations they were developing. When they redrew the maps, the Kurds grabbed as much of the oil territory as they could get away with, and they now had an awful lot of oil. Behind the scenes, State and Commerce were developing some nice talking points and a three-way trade agreement which I would sign. I wasn’t asking that they love each other, just that they behave and not shoot each other. They could squabble with each other as much as they wanted, but everybody wanted the oil to flow!

Israel wasn’t as happy with me. Yes, we had destroyed Iraq, but that wasn’t enough. They wanted us to destroy Iran for them! They were constantly screaming about Iranian nuclear ambitions, the plans and facilities for an Iranian bomb. The Iranians knew how to build one, but they needed to generate enough fissile material. We had a ton of economic sanctions in place against the Iranians, but they were slowly developing the ability, and there wasn’t much we could do about it short of a full scale nuclear pre-emptive strike. No, I was not going to do that.

Nuclear proliferation was a problem facing the whole world. Technology had advanced to the point that if you could get the fissile material, anybody could build a bomb. It might be big and bulky, but it would work. Shrinking the package down to a size you could put in a missile warhead was a separate issue, and was much trickier, but you could easily make something that would fit in the back of a minivan, and with a little practice, something that could be made into a bomb suitable for an airplane to deliver. In addition to the original five nuclear powers of America, England, France, Russia, and China, the nuclear club now also included India and Pakistan. Israel was known to have nukes, but they wouldn’t confirm that publicly. South Africa under apartheid also had nukes, but had dismantled them before the blacks took over, so there wouldn’t be a “Black Bomb.” Otherwise, there were probably another dozen Western European and Asian nations who had the ability to create a bomb in anywhere from six months to two years.

Generally speaking, these nations were all considered relatively sane places. Even Pakistan had strong controls on the nukes, and weren’t about to let the nut jobs get their hands on one. That didn’t apply to Iran and North Korea, where the governments were controlled by crazies. Iran was a major supporter of Islamic terrorism, and in poll after poll, at least of third of the population thought nuking Israel and America would be a good idea. In my first life, Iran eventually got the bomb, and within a matter of months had turned one over to Hezbollah, with tragic results for everybody.

North Korea was a different matter. Completely sealed inside its own borders, with about zero contact with the rest of the planet, the world’s only Communist monarchy actually seemed to believe the nonsense they spewed out. They constantly provoked South Korea and the United States, lobbing shells over the border or harassing ships and planes. If they had been another country, I would have smashed them years ago, but if I responded to them appropriately, they would attack South Korea. There were tens of thousands of artillery tubes and missiles aimed at Seoul, which was close enough to the border that North Korean troops could walk there in a day. Throw in nuclear weapons, and it gets very dangerous indeed. The South Korean administration wanted us to tread very lightly. They were in the midst of an appeasement mode, hoping their pleasant actions would pay dividends. I couldn’t see any, and I knew the next few South Korean administrations would take a considerably different tone.

For seven years my response to the demands that I do something were the same. Ignore them! Behind the scenes, diplomatically I made sure that the Buckman Doctrine was well known to both countries. Yelp all you want, but if you actually attack us or our allies, you’ll never do it a second time. It was questionable whether the North Koreans believed me or their own press clippings more. To my critics, I simply refused to get into a debate. I didn’t issue challenges or warnings, I didn’t draw red lines or lines in the sand, and I refused to get caught up in hypothetical scenarios. Ambiguity could be quite useful.

As I was leaving office, my inevitable conclusion was that the world was somewhat stable, but massively fucked up in a lot of places. On more than one occasion I wondered what, if any, effect I had on things. Sooner or later, in an awful lot of these places, the locals were going to get sick and tired of the assholes running things, and they would revolt. Generally that led to wholesale slaughter and civil war. The assholes running these countries were often the only people holding things together! Some days you just couldn’t win!

In America, which at times I considered as screwy as any third world shithole, the Republican and Democratic primaries slogged on. John McCain rode his Super Tuesday wins to glory. Mitt Romney dropped out a few days after Super Tuesday, and gave a speech calling for unification of the party under John McCain. Mike Huckabee decided to keep going, betting that he could grab enough Southern and Western states with his religious and socially conservative message. It worked, too, but not to the level that was needed. Mike picked up a few small states, but John picked up the ‘Potomac Primary’ of Maryland, Virginia, and D.C., and then ran the board on ‘Super Tuesday II’ at the beginning of March. That gave John a mathematical lock on the nomination, and Huckabee dropped out. John was the official Republican nominee.

On the Democratic side, things just dragged out. I thought the damn thing was going to go right up to the convention, something that hadn’t happened since 1980, when Ted Kennedy tried to screw with Jimmy Carter’s re-election run. It didn’t work out that way. While Obama and Clinton were essentially tied after Super Tuesday, Obama ran the board in all of the February primaries, generally beating Hillary two-to-one all month long. The March primaries went back to the draw that the earlier primaries had been. The whole damn thing dragged on into June, with Obama slowly gaining ground on Clinton, using crazy ‘super delegate’ rules to pick up more votes. Eventually Barack Obama clinched the number necessary, mid-June, and Hilary dropped out. There had been huge amounts of bad blood shed by then. The odds that Obama would pick Clinton for his running mate were too low to be meaningful. Meanwhile, reports of John Edwards’ zipper problems were slowly surfacing, despite his repeated denials. Within the next few months he was going to self-destruct disastrously. He would not be the V.P. candidate.

Amidst all the sturm und drang of the primaries, my personal life continued forward. Holly’s romance with Jerry (whose last name I had now learned was Spicoli) was moving forward. They were now sharing an apartment in Princeton as they finished up their doctoral work. It wasn’t clear to me what would happen after they graduated. They both had a couple of years to go before that would happen. Would they stay together? Split up? For what it was worth, Marilyn and Holly had dragged Jerry to Philadelphia and bought him some decent clothing, and then had taken him to get a haircut and trimmed his beard. He actually looked human now, and not like something from a homeless shelter. I still didn’t think he was happy with me, but I could live with that.

Bucky and Molly had bought a house in Columbia, Maryland, in January. That was halfway between his operations with Tusk Cycle (four sales locations now and Bucky was the company’s executive vice president) and her job at the Goddard Space Flight Center in Greenbelt. (Yes, I made a call. The Director took a look at her resume and agreed that she was qualified. That was the extent of my involvement. Nepotism is not always a bad thing.) She was also working on her doctorate at night. They were even beginning to talk about children, which certainly made Marilyn giddy with delight! I smiled and told Marilyn I already knew my job with the coming generation — load them up with sugar and give them back to the owners! My wife laughed heartily and agreed completely. Grandchildren are a grandparent’s revenge!

Charlie was healing quickly, but even after months of physical therapy, he was still only about 80 % back to where he had once been. He was out of racing this year, and whether he would ever race again was questionable at best. Megan and he were living together in the 30^th Street house, and she was working for Brewster McRiley, as a receptionist/assistant. (She was the perfect girl — gorgeous for Charlie, Catholic for Marilyn, and Republican for me!) Charlie was now able to get around on his own quite well, and was driving, although he was delaying motorcycle riding until his doctors gave him the go-ahead. That happened in early March, and he took to riding a Honda street bike that Bucky rode over for him; it was smaller and less powerful than his usual Harley. Charlie was disappointed in his performance, though, and I could tell by the scowl on his face later. He was in some pain, and not moving the way he wanted to. He had a lot of metal in his right leg and that seemed to be a real issue.

Then something happened which took him by surprise. In late March, ESPN, the sports network, did an interview of Charlie, one of those ‘What happened to…?’ sorts of pieces. They had footage from the crash, and even the footage of him in Monrovia. Charlie was dressed in a nice suit and looked relaxed and comfortable, and most importantly, was well-spoken and articulate. Marilyn and I almost never watch the sports channels unless we have to, but we watched this show. I thought the best part was when the interviewer asked Charlie about the accident.

Q: “Do you recall the accident and what happened?”

A: “Somewhat. As soon as Bill went down in front of me, I knew I was going to be next, and I couldn’t do anything about it. Then everybody began landing on me, and I just felt some incredible pain and blacked out. I came to the next day in the hospital.”

Q: “How badly were you hurt?”

A: “Pretty bad. I think just about everything on my right side was broken.” (At that he shook his right arm and leg.) “I had a couple of breaks in my right arm, and another half dozen in my right leg, and I don’t know how many broken ribs on that side. Internally I was a mess, with internal bleeding and a messed up liver and kidney. I couldn’t even talk at first, since they had me on a ventilator.”

Q: “You’re lucky to be alive!”

A: “Very much so. I was told that fifty years ago I would have probably died, and thirty years ago I might have lived but probably would have lost the leg or not been able to walk.”

Q: “And now?”

A: “Well, I clank a little when I walk, from all the metal holding my leg together, but otherwise, I’m in good shape. I do a lot of exercise and rehab therapy, and am getting back to my old self.”

Q: “Last year was your third straight AMA championship, though it was on accumulated points, since you missed the last two races completely. Will you be in shape for the season this year?”

A: “We’re not sure yet. I’m not ready today, but we’re going to make a decision in another month or two.”

Q: “Let’s talk about something different. It’s no secret that you are the son of the President, one of the wealthiest men in the nation. There have been some who have claimed that you have used his money to buy your titles. How do you respond to them?”

At that point, Charlie could have gone off on an angry tirade, but he looked calm and composed. I guess he had some experience with that sort of question.

A: “Yes, my father is quite wealthy, but I have to say that if he was using his money on my behalf, it would be to get me to stop riding motorcycles! He and my mother think I’m crazy! What really happened was that when I got out of the Marines and said I wanted to give pro racing a try, he insisted that I develop a plan, a real business plan, with a budget and a timetable. My first sponsor was Tusk Cycle, and Jim Tusk insisted on a plan as well, before he made the investment. Beyond that first investment, my parents and the Tusks have given me no financial assistance.”

Q: “What’s it like growing up in the White House? Did you ever race motorcycles on the South Lawn?”

A: “I’ve never lived in the White House. By the time my father became the President, I had been in the Marines for two years. Really, for me, my real home is in Hereford, in Maryland, and yes, I did race on our lawn.”

Q: “One final question — What did you think when you saw the news of your mother being arrested outside your hospital.”

A: (Charlie’s face lit up with a huge grin!) “Was that cool or what!? I loved it! Mom is simply AWESOME!”

I looked over at Marilyn, who gave me a rather smug look. “See? I’m awesome!”

I snorted out a laugh. “Awesome!”

Marilyn looked very happy indeed. “Awesome!” she repeated.

I thought Charlie did well on camera, and it seemed ESPN did, too. A month later, ESPN called him back, to see if he was interested in doing color commentary for them. ESPN2 was going to be broadcasting AMA motocross and thought he might make a good ‘expert’ about the sport. My son called me after he received the call from his agent, who was still listed as his agent even if he hadn’t done anything since the accident. I told Charlie to give it a try, and maybe he’d like it, and maybe he’d be good at it. He called his agent and said yes, and was scheduled to begin with the first races of the season in May. It was a temporary thing, with him doing one or two races until they got the ratings and assessments back, but it kept him from having to go out and get a real job, and the money was quite interesting.

Marilyn and I made sure we watched when Charlie was to be on the air. It was interesting. Charlie didn’t really spend a lot of time in the booth, but was handed a microphone and sent to the sidelines with a cameraman, to do interviews of the racers. I think the most interesting moment was when Charlie was interviewing one of the racers and asked what he considered about his prospects for the season, and the guy answered, “A hell of a lot better now that you’re on the sidelines!” Charlie just laughed at that.

Marilyn and I never really watched all that much sports. I mean, we always watched the Super Bowl, but that was as much about the commercials as it was anything else. As a politician, though, I had to do some sports attendance and watching. If nothing else, I needed to seem like ‘one of the guys’ with my donators and fellow politicians, some of whom were very much into sports. Every year I would travel up to Baltimore, to Camden Yards, to throw out the first pitch of the season at the Orioles first home game. In addition, as the Fan in Chief, it was required that I call up the winners in most championships and congratulate them, whether I gave a damn or not. I stopped caring about football when the Colts left Baltimore, but I had to call the winner of the Super Bowl and congratulate them, an act that really bugged the hell out of me in February last year when the Indianapolis Colts won the Super Bowl. I was tempted to tell them where to head in, but Frank convinced me to behave. At least I never had to congratulate anybody for beating the Orioles in the World Series.

Meanwhile the primaries churned on through the spring. As soon as it was definite that Barack Obama was going to be the Democratic nominee, I asked John to see me. Something very nasty was about to hit the nation, and I wanted to stop it.

Everybody was proclaiming that the selection of Barack Obama as a national nominee was proof that racism was dead, that America had entered a glorious period where we had managed to put the sins of the past behind us, and we were now truly a nation without race. You sort of expected this blather from the liberals, but even the conservatives were babbling on about this. Of course they weren’t going to vote for him but after all, Barack Obama was a liberal, not a conservative, so they couldn’t be blamed for that.

What wasn’t so pleasant was the underlying tone out of the conservatives. Barack Hussein Obama shouldn’t be elected, not because he was black, but because he wasn’t American! His father was from Kenya. He had been born in Hawaii. He had lived overseas as a child. His father was Muslim. Where was his birth certificate? He was actually a secret Muslim. He hated Christians and wanted to sell America out to Iran and the terrorists. The conspiracy theorists were working overtime on this.

The Republicans mostly kept their mouths shut during the primaries. The hard core base of the party had enough to do running down Mitt and John that they didn’t need to branch out to the Dems. Besides, they hated both Democratic front runners! To the party base, Hillary Clinton was just as hated as her husband had ever been. They would have been just as foaming mad crazy if she had won the nomination, probably claiming that Bill was secretly running the country from his liberal Democratic bunker.

We had begun seeing the hatred well up almost from the day that Obama cinched the nomination. You first saw it from the radio and television talk show hosts, Rush Limbaugh, Glen Beck, and the like. As soon as that happened, it started spewing up from every conservative website and forum. Some of the crap spewing out was unbelievable, going apeshit over the possibility Muslims and blacks were going to take over the country and rape their daughters.

“What’s up, Carl?” asked John, when he settled himself in my office.

“It’s this birth certificate nonsense coming out of the base of the party, that and the crap over Obama being a secret Muslim. Have you been following this?”

He nodded. “I get it in passing. It’s not coming from the campaign, though. I’m not even sure it’s coming out of any 527 groups. I think it’s simple ranting from the mouth breathers.”

“Do you like it?”

“Not particularly, but I don’t know as we can stop it, either. As I say, it isn’t coming from the political side. It seems to be coming from the entertainment side. Fox loves this stuff. It keeps their ratings high. MSNBC, too, now that I think about it. It gives them something to scold the Republicans about.”

I snorted at that, and rolled my eyes. “That may be, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. Remember during the last election when you asked me what I was going to do about the Swift Boaters? Shoe’s on the other foot, John.”

McCain gave me a shocked look at that. “Like I said, Carl, this isn’t anything organized. I can’t go in front of the American Legion and say a specific group is wrong. This doesn’t have an address on it. I can’t show up on their doorstep and tell them to behave. The ones spouting this stuff don’t like me to begin with. They don’t like you, either, just to mention it.”

That gave me a certain feeling of disgust. My Vice President was correct in saying that there wasn’t anybody we could point a finger at and say they were the one responsible for this. What I wasn’t hearing was any expression that he wanted to do something about this. That bothered me. “This is why I have told you we have to watch these guys carefully. Just as bad, however, you have to watch the damn consultants you hire. They like this, believe me!”

“Carl, I don’t…”

I didn’t let him finish. “Yeah, they like it. It’s the perfect negative campaign. You don’t have to spend a penny on it. You don’t have to say anything positive about yourself. You don’t have to make any statements as to what you would do or who you are. There is nothing that can come back to bite you about what you’ve done. You just have to let other people tell lies about the other side while staying out of it. It’s the textbook definition of what is wrong in American politics today.”

“You want him to win?! This is not going to be easy! I spent a lot more money fighting Romney and Huckabee than I should have, mostly because the base was fighting me. For once they actually get to do something positive for me!” he replied, getting a little hot about it.

I didn’t need this to get pissy. “This is going to bite you in the ass, John. Listen, the only way you or me or any of us get elected is by winning the middle, the independents and the moderates. The base of the party wouldn’t vote for Jesus if he ran as a Democrat. You could say the same thing about the Democrats if Jesus was a Republican. All of the money you spend, all of the ads you run, all of everything you do is aimed at the people in the middle. If you don’t come across as somebody who can be trusted and is willing to stand up for a principle, you lose the middle.”

“That is easy to say when you aren’t facing this. People love this guy. He is going to have more money than God going into this. I am going to need every vote I can scrape up.”

I sighed and nodded. “I know. Believe me, I know. He’s a new and shiny toy straight out of the box, a magical Negro able to cure the problems of the nation with a single wave of his hand. He’s not some old fuddy duddy who probably can’t remember how to tie his shoes.” John groaned at that one. “All I’m saying is that it isn’t impossible for you to beat this guy without playing these games. Sure, he gives a hell of a speech, but so what? What’s he actually done? You can’t answer that, since he hasn’t done shit!”

“That’s true enough,” John agreed.

“I have to tell you something. Sooner or later somebody is going to ask me what I think about this crap being stated about Obama, and when they do, I am going to tell them, and I won’t be pulling any punches. You know that sooner or later this is going to happen. Do you want to be ahead of the game or behind?”

McCain made a rude gesture, but one without any heat. “I hear you. I will talk it out with some people. This won’t be easy. The base already hates us. Now they are going to want to tar and feather us!”

John might not like it, but this shit hurt us just as much as it hurt the Democrats. Negative campaigning worked, but it was a devil’s bargain. When you did nothing but complain that the other guy was bad, it brought him down, but it also brought you down by a certain amount. When both sides do it, everybody ends up in the basement. When I had faced down the Swift Boaters, it actually helped me more than it helped John Kerry, since it showed I had ‘character’ and ‘integrity’, both qualities more notable for their lack in American politics.

Unfortunately, John was right about there being nobody you could pin this on. This crap was like a boiling pot full of raw sewage, bubbling up from the bottom. I could easily envision a scenario, following a statement by me that Barack Obama was an American and a Christian, and an appeal to broadcasters to stop repeating lies that they knew were lies. All it would take was for Rush Limbaugh to repeat my statement on air, and ask for comments.

Rush: “So President Buckman says that he doesn’t need evidence that Barack Hussein Obama is actually an American and isn’t a Muslim. What are your thoughts on this? Let’s hear from some listeners!”

Listener: “That’s not true! He wasn’t born here! He was born in Kenya, and was raised a Muslim! You have to see the evidence!”

Rush: “That’s not what President Buckman is saying.”

Listener: “Carl Buckman is a murderer. You can’t trust a word he says. He’s really a Democrat, and you know it! His whole family is a bunch of liberals! He’s not even a Christian himself. He doesn’t go to church!”

From there it would just get worse. Any vestige of principle I had would be swallowed up with this.

I talked to John again a day later, as more of this crap began to surface. I didn’t need my Veep pissed at me, but he had to know what I was going to say if I was asked, because I would surely be asked. Worst of all, was the fact that the people who were most likely to believe and spout this stuff were simply not going to be swayed by truth or logic. They knew what they knew, and if you disagreed with them, you wouldn’t convince them, but you would definitely piss them off. The best that John or I or his campaign people could come up with was a statement along the lines that, ‘I don’t know who told you Senator Obama was [fill in the blank] but they were mistaken. I know the Senator and he isn’t.’

One of the problems we had, not just as politicians, but as Americans, was the multitude of all news channels. You had Fox on the right, MSNBC on the left, and CNN in a diminishing middle. There were a lot of people who watched nothing but news shows all day long. I even saw this in my own family; since he had retired, Big Bob, Marilyn’s dad, watched nothing but CNN when he watched television. Five hundred channels, but he only watched one; the others could all be taken off the tuner. Since the news channels couldn’t possibly come up with actual breaking news every second of the day, they didn’t even try. A typical 24 hours of ‘news’ was actually only 5–6 of what Walter Cronkite would recognize as news. The other 18–19 was actually commentary, talking heads just like the Sunday morning news shows, only with their pet commentators and lobbyists looking to push their paid interests.

John had to begin doing this dance just a few days after Obama clinched the nomination. He was speaking to a town hall meeting in Nebraska when a woman stood up and asked him what he would do about the fact that foreigners were allowed to run for office in this country, and why we weren’t arresting them and deporting them to Africa where they belonged. John visibly winced at that, and then went into his little song-and-dance. It was a two-parter, where he first gave his ‘I don’t know where you got your information… ‘ speech, followed up by ‘The real issue is not whether Barack Obama is an American. He is. The real issue is that he’s a radical liberal… ‘ He would then highlight the differences between Obama’s positions, taken from Obama’s primary battle, and his own positions. I liked that approach, and decided I would use it as well.

The next big campaign events would be the conventions. The timing on these is always complicated by the fact that the Presidential race is also the same year as the Summer Olympics. In general, you end up with the conventions sandwiching the Olympics, with the challenger going right before, and the incumbent right after. I knew there had been some talk of doing both after, but that would have put the Republican convention into September, and that was too late. I told the RNC to select the standard choice, the week after the Olympics, which left the Dems to go the week before.

This was aided by the fact that I had no interest in attending the Olympics. Marilyn and I just weren’t interested. If we went it would be as representatives of the United States, and that puts a different spin on things. Four years ago I had sent John McCain to Greece to represent the country at the Athens Olympics while I campaigned. This time the Olympics were in Beijing, and were supposed to show how Communist China was such a modern and thriving nation, their ‘coming out party’ for the world. Total bullshit, of course. By keeping our deficit levels down to a net zero during my administration, the Chinese didn’t have anywhere near the influence on our foreign policy that they wanted to have. I didn’t need to make nice with them.

I told John that he and Cindy could go if they wanted; I wasn’t going, and if he didn’t go, they would have to make do with our local ambassador. John and his wife went to the opening ceremonies and came home a day later to continue campaigning. The Beijing newspapers and television, all state controlled, reported this as a snub. Will dismissed this at the next press conference; simply reporting that time constraints prohibited either John or me from attending any further. I hadn’t traveled to Beijing on any sort of foreign relations visit either, and hadn’t hosted the Chinese President either. We had met, cordially, at a couple of Asian conferences, but that was it. They had an outsized opinion of their importance at times, and thought that the South China Sea was their personal lake. I made sure that our Navy sailed through there repeatedly to remind them it wasn’t.

Chapter 173: The Home Stretch

The Democratic convention was scheduled to begin Monday August 4 and run through Thursday August 7, and would be held in Denver. The Olympics would begin the next day, Friday August 8, and run for just over two weeks, to close on Sunday August 24. Right after that, the Republicans would take the field, with a convention in St. Paul running from Monday August 25 through Thursday August 28. After that the campaigns would begin in earnest, and it would be tooth and nail for the next nine weeks.

There is a certain rhythm and protocol to the convention speeches, on both sides of the aisle. Normally, the first night the previous President speaks. In this case, I was speaking, and Bill Clinton, despite the cloud he had gone out of office under was speaking to the Democrats. The second night is the keynote speaker, supposed to throw out lofty rhetoric and nothing of substance. The third night is the Vice Presidential choice, and the fourth and last night is the Presidential nominee himself.

Barack Obama picked Delaware Senator Joe Biden as his V.P. choice, a solid liberal white male choice. From what we could figure out, he couldn’t stand Hillary, and they were both smarting from the bitter primary fight. She was actually their keynote speaker on Tuesday, trying to rebuild the bridges she had burned during the primaries. From what I remembered from my first shot, he would end up with her in the Cabinet.

John McCain had been all over the playing field trying to figure out his Vice Presidential selection. He debated picking one of his primary opponents, like Huckabee (a favorite of the conservative base) or Romney (a favorite of the business and liberal wings). He also looked at some of the second tier candidates who had dropped out early, like Tommy Thompson of Wisconsin, who had been a Governor and a Cabinet member, and a few Senators, Governors, and Cabinet members. Ultimately he selected Jeb Bush. I had suggested Jeb, but I wasn’t the only one to do so. Unlike on my first round, George hadn’t had a chance to sully the Bush family name, so Jeb was a very viable choice, and acceptable to the base. Mitt would be the keynote speaker on Tuesday.

I met with the other three men shortly after John got back from Beijing, to discuss our speeches and the tone they wanted to set. John was, of course, the boss on all this, but we all needed to be on the same page. The tone was the one that we had pushed in 2004, and that John had kept pushing this time. We were the grownups, the professionals, and we knew what we were doing. Why mess with success? Send a winning team back for another four years.

Each of us had a different take on this for our individual speeches. Mitt was going for the requisite ‘bringing the Party together’ speech, how he was behind John 110 %, and how their differences weren’t that significant. He was helped in this by the fact that after he dropped out, he threw his delegates over to John, whereas Mike had kept fighting. Mitt had been hoping for the Veep spot that Jeb grabbed instead, and was now angling for something else, maybe a Cabinet slot. Jeb’s speech was going to be targeted to the base because, of the four of us, he was the only one they actually liked. He was going to have the traditional ‘attack dog’ role in the campaign. John’s speech was going to be a fairly standard ‘Why I should be the boss’ speech, only revved up for the masses, with lots of campaign promises. I planned to deliver something similar to John’s but more along the lines of ‘There’s a reason I hired this guy’, with examples of how John had done a great job as V.P. and how we needed to keep the momentum going.

Marilyn and I flew into St. Paul early Sunday morning; if I flew in on Monday it would make for an incredibly long day. The nice thing was that St. Paul is only about an hour-and-a-half up U.S. 52 from Rochester, so Suzie and John drove up and spent the day with us. I might have been talking politics with other people, but Marilyn wasn’t too busy, and I still managed to have a very nice dinner with them. I could have gotten them into the Xcel Energy Center for a behind the scenes look, but they both passed on that. John had an early shift in the morning and they both headed for home after dinner.

It was more politics for me on Monday, and Marilyn was practicing for her speech. Yes, Marilyn was going to introduce me, so she had to practice first, even if it was just five minutes. After almost twenty years of my being in politics, my wife still hated to speak and campaign. She would go with me, and wave and smile, but she hated campaigning on her own. She would always ask, “What if I mess it up?”

My answer was always the same. “Then I’ll have to divorce you and send you back to your family with nothing but the clothes on your back.” Then I would toss in a variety of comments, like how she would have to eke out a living hustling guys on street corners, or driving escort vehicles for her brothers, or even going back to being a cocktail waitress at a bar up on Sacandaga Lake, like she had done in college one summer. The place was long gone, and I used to bust her chops that it was a good thing nobody had proof that I had married a cocktail waitress. At some point she would start laughing and calm down.

Finally, after eighteen years in politics, my wife was actually going to give a national speech, even if it was just a five minute introduction. On the plus side, at least as far as she was concerned, it would be her only national speech, since I didn’t have to campaign anymore. I was standing back stage with her, as she stood there nervously, holding her hand to calm her nerves. I remembered a time when I had been nervous about speaking, but that was over a hundred years ago, when I was on my first go and very young. Then I had gotten my MBA, and you have to make a lot of presentations in front of classes to get that, and I got over my nervousness. Becoming a successful salesman made public speaking even easier.

A producer pointed towards us, and I leaned in to speak in her ear. “The speech is right there on the podium, and the teleprompter is right where you can see it. You’ll be fine.”

“And if I’m not?”

“See that guy pointing at us? He has this big hook and he’ll reach out and…”

She grinned and said, “You’re no help!”

At that point, we could hear, “… and now let’s welcome the First Lady of the United States of America!” and the applause and cheering began. The producer began gesturing wildly for Marilyn to go out on stage.

“Just go out and wave and you’ll be fine,” I told her, and I gave my wife a slight nudge and she headed out from behind the curtain at the side, waving, and the cheering became deafening.

I glanced at a monitor backstage, and Marilyn waved and smiled as she walked to the podium. Below her, the crowd was yelling and cheering, and waving banners marked “McCain — Bush 2008”. She went to the podium, and had to wait for the pandemonium to subside. I noticed that she didn’t calm them down, but that floor wardens were doing that out among the delegations. Finally it was her chance to give her little speech. I knew it wouldn’t be long, and it was simply an introduction for me, but I had gotten a copy of it ahead of time, and I smiled at the total nonsense she was about to offer up.

“Thank you for letting me speak tonight. When Carl asked me to do this, I asked him what to say, and he told me to tell everyone how wonderful he was and any other lies I could think of. When I asked him how many would be watching and listening, he told me it wouldn’t be that many, just thousands of people in the audience, and millions more on television. I have to tell you, my husband can be a real pain at times!”

There was a huge amount of laughter and applause at this.

“Actually, what we talked about was what I would have done if I had known where we would both end up back when we first met. I think that if I had known what was going to happen when I first met Carl Buckman, I would have gone running in the other direction! We were both freshmen in college, and I can’t for the life of me remember what made me go with my friends to that particular party. I’d never been to a fraternity party, or even to Carl’s college, but I went anyway, and I met a really great guy.

I didn’t know anything about Carl, but I knew he made me feel safe and loved. I didn’t even know he was a Republican, a fact that still upsets my parents.”

There was a lot of laughter at that one, along with her next line.

“Carl once told them that I was actually spying for the Democratic Party, so that I would be able to learn the secret handshake. I’m still waiting to learn that one.

That first night I didn’t know he was already halfway to earning a doctorate in mathematics and writing a paper that would form a theoretical basis for computer networking. I didn’t know that he was going to become a combat soldier who would earn a Bronze Star for heroism. I didn’t know that he had become a millionaire before he even turned 18. I didn’t know that when he left the Army an injured hero that he would go on to build a business that would employ hundreds of people. I didn’t know that he would go on to write three books that would end up on the New York Times bestseller lists, and I didn’t know that he would end up running for Congress and beating a corrupt incumbent in a dirty campaign fight. Finally, I didn’t know that someday, that big, tongue-tied, smart, goofy guy would end up as President of the greatest nation in the world!

I think if I had known what would actually happen, I would have gone screaming into the night! I would have settled down with somebody nice and boring and predictable. Now, all I can say is that I am so glad that after that party, when Carl Buckman asked me to go out with him on a date the next night, I said ‘Yes!’ There have been times it has been hard and times it has been painful, but it has never been boring, and I’ve never been sorry!

So, join me in welcoming a man who is my hero, and a hero to the nation. Join me in welcoming CARL BUCKMAN, PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA!”

Marilyn turned to face me and I could see her eyes were wet with tears, but she had a big smile on her face, and the audience was screaming and going berserk. I had asked her to stay at the podium while I came out, so that I could give her a nice PG rated hug for the cameras.

I walked out on stage, smiling and waving at the crowds, with flashes going off and pandemonium out in the crowd. I smiled at Marilyn and gave her a big hug, and then slipped my handkerchief out of my pocket and palmed it to her. She began to wipe her eyes, which set the crowd to cheering even louder. I just grinned and gave her another hug around the shoulders and waved. After a minute, I stepped to the podium, and Marilyn backed away, but I held onto her hand. She looked at me and I whispered, “Just stay with me a moment longer.” She gave a slight shrug and came forward to stand next to me. I motioned for the crowd to settle down, and it slowly calmed down.

“Thank you, thank you. Now, before I get started, I have something to say first, and it’s about this amazing woman who is standing here beside me. They say that behind every great man stands a great woman, but I am here to tell you that Marilyn Buckman has never stood behind me! No, Marilyn Buckman has always stood beside me, facing every challenge with me. For better and for worse, for richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health, Marilyn Buckman has stayed, not behind me, but at my side, and I couldn’t have accomplished a tenth of what I have without her. So, thank you, Marilyn, for taking that chance on me all those years ago, and going out with me on that first date. I have been thanking God for you ever since!”

Marilyn started crying again, and I gave her another hug, and then she kissed me and ran off the stage. I waited a moment for the audience to calm down, and then began.

“Well, now that I have the important stuff out of the way, why don’t we get down to why we’re all actually here. You know, electing John McCain the next President of the United States of America!”

There was a lot of cheering at that, and I went into my speech. My speech was mostly pointing out the various times in the last seven years that I had used John to get something accomplished, like legislation or foreign affairs. In most cases I was able to give some details that weren’t common knowledge, such as the role John had in keeping Erdogan and the Turks on board during the Kurdish War. After each item I mentioned I would hammer home the exact same phrase — “There’s a reason I hired this guy! He gets things done!” It was hard to keep a rolling cadence with this type of speech, but by the end, I was getting the audience screaming along when I hit the note about getting things done.

I skipped any of the spin sessions or political coffee klatches after my speech, and Marilyn and I headed over to the Saint Paul, where we were staying. The only people in the limo were Marilyn and me, and a pair of Secret Service agents. I just stared out the window while Marilyn held my hand.

“Penny for your thoughts?” she said.

“I can’t break a penny. Not worth that much.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just thinking about all of this. Would it have been better to just have gone off and been boring and predictable like you said?” I told her, looking at her face.

She shrugged and smiled. “Probably have been boring and predictable.”

I chuckled at that.

She nudged me in the ribs and laughed. “I’m proud of you. You are a good man.”

I had to smile at her. I waggled my eyebrows and asked, “And all these years I thought women didn’t want a good man.”

“You are so disgusting!” she laughed. Then I got another nudge. “Just how good are you?”

I waggled my eyebrows some more, and Marilyn laughed as we went inside. Later, at the Saint Paul, we spent quite a bit of time determining what was ‘good’ and what wasn’t before we finally fell asleep. I might have hit 52, but the plumbing was still working just fine.

The next day we flew home, and I watched the rest of the convention on television. My speech got some air time Tuesday evening, but that was about it. By Wednesday everybody was talking about Tuesday night’s speech by Mitt Romney, a ‘healing moment’ as he called it, and what this all portended for the future if John McCain won. Jeb did a marvelous job Wednesday night lighting up the fires under the base with a ‘What has Obama ever done?’ speech. He was the designated attack dog, and he did the job well. John gave a great speech Thursday, accepted the nomination, and thanked everybody before sending them all home. We picked up about a 4 % boost after the convention, about the same amount the Democrats had picked up.

I was given a chance to speak to the nation on the upcoming election in early September. I agreed to a meeting with several reporters and a couple of cameras in the Map Room, without too many limits on topics. We talked about current foreign policy and my plans for the balance of my term, and what I thought of how John McCain was doing. Once they began questioning me about politics, it got interesting. For the most part I toed the party line, that John was holding his own, that it was a tight election, and that John would be a far superior President. Some of what I said did not reflect well on Senator Obama.

Chuck Todd: “Senator Obama has been quoted as saying that your administration is behind the citizenship controversy as much as Vice President McCain’s campaign is. How do you respond to that?”

Me: “I heard that and I was somewhat surprised. Certainly none of this is coming out of either my office or that of the Vice President’s and I am personally familiar with most of the people in the McCain campaign, and can assure you the campaign isn’t behind it either. I have repeatedly stated that the Senator is a native born citizen and a Christian. What more does he expect out of me? Does he want me to personally track down every website and tell them to behave? That simply shows a surprising naiveté about the power of the Presidency on Senator Obama’s part! If he thinks that just because somebody is the President that they can shut down rumors and innuendo in a nation of 300 million people, he is sadly mistaken. If I had that power, I think I would have used it a long time ago, in my own life.”

Nothing like bitch slapping a candidate for saying something foolish out of exasperation. It is one thing to call somebody wrong, it is another to call them naïve.

Chip Reid: “It was reported recently in the Chicago Tribune that Senator Obama considers the Republican Party hidebound and antediluvian. How do you characterize the Democratic Party?”

Me: “As good and loyal Americans with a Presidential nominee not worthy of their votes. I like Democrats. I married one, remember!”

Chip: “What about the hidebound and antediluvian characterization?”

Me: “That simply shows how little the Senator knows about the Republican Party and what we stand for. I knew exactly what my party stood for when I joined it back in college. I don’t know what party Senator Obama is talking about. I characterize our party as very progressive.”

Thomas Friedman: “You consider the Republicans a progressive party?”

Me: “Very much so. You simply have to look at our history. Abraham Lincoln, the first Republican President, ended slavery. That’s pretty progressive, don’t you think? That continued on with the passage of the Civil Rights Act of 1964. Were you aware that the Republicans in both the House and the Senate voted for civil rights at a far higher percentage than the Democrats did? Again, pretty progressive. Teddy Roosevelt was a Republican when he broke up the trusts and monopolies, helped unions, passed laws protecting our food and drugs that are still in effect, and created the National Park system. Sounds pretty progressive to me! Dwight Eisenhower created the interstate highway system, a radical idea at the time. Richard Nixon passed the Endangered Species Act, the Clean Air Act, the EPA, and OSHA, all progressive ideas. I would state that it’s the Republican Party which is the true progressive party in this nation.”

Thomas: “That doesn’t seem to be the current philosophy of the party?”

Me: “No? Then tell me how a Republican Congress passed the DREAM Act, the most far reaching immigration reform bill we’ve had in decades. Again, progressive, and certainly not what Senator Obama thinks of us. If he doesn’t understand what we stand for, how does he think he will work with us to run the country? This is a nation with many different beliefs. He is a hard core liberal, which is fine as far as it goes, but he has to be able to work with people who aren’t, and I see absolutely no sign he can do that. John McCain has passed that test, if you ask me.”

Chuck: “Do you think Senator Obama is qualified to be the President?”

Me: “Well, the Constitution specifies that you have to be a natural born citizen, or have natural born parents, and you have to be 35 or older. He meets those qualifications. Other than that, no, probably not.”

Chuck: “Why not?”

Me: “A big part of this job is simply showing up and getting things done. You can throw out all the lofty rhetoric and speeches, but sooner or later you need to actually tell somebody to do something and make it all work. Now, this is simply my personal belief, not the official pronouncement of the President. Still, before I ended up here, I had commanded troops, had run a multibillion dollar business, and had been the House Majority Whip, another leadership position. John McCain had command in the Navy, and had been a committee chair in the Senate, a leadership position. Between the two of us we’ve been behind dozens of major legislative bills. Jeb Bush was a governor and then had business experience running things. Now, I like Barack Obama, even though our politics are different. He’s a nice enough guy, but would somebody please tell me what major legislation he’s ever been responsible for? What he’s ever managed other than his Senate staff? I’ll grant you that he gives a great speech, certainly better than I’ve ever done, but sooner or later you have to stop giving speeches and get something done. What’s he done?”

That caused a real consternation in the Democratic campaign apparatus! Senator Obama spent the next week trying to tell people what he really meant to say, and that he wasn’t naive and that he was able to work with anybody and that he had the skills to actually run things. Meanwhile the Democratic campaign loudly proclaimed how I was using the Presidency to actively campaign for my hand-picked successor. (They seemed to think this was unfair; our side thought it was business as usual.) John told me the next day that he loved my description of the party as progressive, since it both took the wind out of the Democrats’ sails for a few days, and shut down the conservative base for a bit. They hated being called progressive, but they couldn’t argue with the facts I had stated. Mind you, some of the current crop would happily repeal most of the laws I had mentioned, including the Emancipation Proclamation, but they weren’t getting a vote.

Nobody made any major gaffes between the conventions and the election. At times it seemed like the winner would be the guy who made the fewest mistakes, or the loser would be the guy who made the last mistake. Fortunes were spent on advertising in the few remaining swing districts. The polls consistently showed McCain beating Obama, but the margin was thin, in some places less than the statistical error rate. It was going down to the wire.

Election night we turned one of the conference rooms into a war room. I couldn’t be at McCain headquarters, since he had his own advisers and people there. I couldn’t overshadow his parade. Instead, Frank and Will set up a bank of monitors, each tuned to a different network, and then a mess of us sat down and watched. Besides Frank and me, Marilyn was with us, occasionally rooting for the other side, just to get our goats. She earned multiple raspberries for that. Marty Adrianopolis came over, and Mindy stayed late as well. Brewster even sat in, with his cell phone nailed to his ear the entire night.

Even though I wasn’t running, I still had duties to attend to. As was the tradition, I had to call all the new winners and congratulate them, Republican and Democrat, House and Senate. In a typical election year, this might work out to about 40 new Representatives and Senators. For instance, in my 1990 election to Congress, only 15 sitting Congressmen were tossed out, including Andy Stewart, who I had beaten. Probably about as many simply retired. Contrast that to the 1994 elections, when Newt and the rest of the Gang of Eight wrested control of Congress from the Democrats. There was a 60 seat swing in the House! Add in the Senate (another 10) and the various replacements from retirement, and Bill Clinton probably had made well over 100 phone calls that night. I had never had half of that.

The networks all trotted out their latest digital tricks to keep things exciting. In our war room, we brought out a bunch of white boards, and then made jokes about the networks. At 8:00, the first few races began to be called, and some trends became apparent. For one thing, Democrats were turning out in droves, but turnout also seemed higher in traditionally Republican districts. For whatever it was worth, having a black Presidential candidate had stoked everybody’s fires. You were either coming out to vote him in, or coming out to prevent that from happening.

Nothing much was decided as the first states closed their polls. Probably the first state to be called was Massachusetts, for Barack Obama. That surprised nobody. I couldn’t remember the last time Massachusetts voted for a Republican. I’m sure it must have happened sometime, but I wasn’t sure it happened in my lifetime. (I mentioned that to Marty, who corrected me. Both Eisenhower and Reagan had taken Massachusetts both times, but that was it.) As things currently stood, if Jesus was a Republican and Lucifer was a Democrat, Lucifer would win Massachusetts by a wide margin.

Slowly, though, a trend emerged. By 9:00, as blank spots on the television maps began to become red or blue, and as our white board began to be marked up, I looked over at Brewster curiously. “Is it my imagination, or is this déjà vu all over again?”

“That’s the way I’m reading it, at least so far,” he agreed.

Marty added, “I think everybody just wasted six billion dollars!”

“Christ on a crutch!” I muttered. It was crazy, but I think the only thing anybody had accomplished with all the money was make the investors of every local television station in the swing districts a bunch of money. The Northeast was going solidly Democratic and the South was still solidly Republican. Ohio and Pennsylvania, and a few of the Rust Belt states were still too close to call, so it might be a long night. Jeb Bush nailed Florida down, which John had hoped he would do; I had notably failed to deliver Maryland for George Bush eight years ago. We were going to be watching this until at least 11:00, before the West finished up.

Amidst all this, every few minutes somebody would hand me a name and a little Post-It Note with some details on a Congressional or Senatorial newcomer who had just won. A call would be arranged and I would congratulate them, and I would promise to meet them and congratulate them in person in January. It seemed like about the same number and tempo of newbies as the last couple of elections, though the Senate was going more Democratic. That didn’t surprise me, in that Senate elections are statewide, and gerrymandering doesn’t really help them. This didn’t seem to be developing into a watershed election, where the prevailing theme was ‘Throw the rascals out!’ I had seen that in 1994, when the Republicans cleaned out the Dems, and on my first go, it occurred in both 2008 and 2010, first for the Democrats, and then for the Republicans.

Everything about this election said that we weren’t throwing out the rascals. Whoever won as President was going to have to deal with the current crop of rascals. Unless things changed radically as the polls closed going westward, we would have a Republican House, with probably the same margin as now, and a slightly Democratic Senate, with the Dems picking up one or two seats.

John McCain picked up the entire South, and almost all of the Midwest and the Rockies. Barack Obama took the Northeast, the West Coast, Illinois, and a big chunk of the Mid-Atlantic region. It was a repeat of 2004, with only a few variations. It finally came down to the Rust Belt. John needed to take either Ohio or Pennsylvania to lock it up. He took both, with Ohio being called at 11:15, and Pennsylvania not being called until almost dawn the next morning.

Despite the landslide appearance of the final Electoral College count, the popular vote count was not a landslide. John McCain had won the popular vote by only 51 % to 49 %, much lower than my numbers had been in 2004. I did not take this to mean I had run a better campaign, far from it. By any number of measures, John was a better campaigner than I had ever been. His problem was who he had run against. Barack Obama had been wildly popular to the Democrats. In the states that voted for him, especially in the Democratic strongholds, he commanded from 60 % to almost 70 % of the popular votes. It was a lot closer in some of the Southern states that John had won, where the black voter turnout had been high, and John had only scraped up percentages from just over 50 % to perhaps 55 %.

I wondered whether it would have been different if Hillary had won the Democratic primary. As far as the Republicans were concerned she was just as polarizing as Obama had been, but to the Democrats she was almost as popular as Obama was. It might not have been vastly different. Regardless, there was an air of excited exhaustion around our little conference room. We had won, which is a whole shitload better than losing!

I delayed calling either man until almost midnight, after we heard that Obama had called John and conceded. John I congratulated and promised to support, Obama I complimented on a good and tough fight. Politics 101. As I made the calls, I glanced over at the couch Marilyn was sitting in. She had fallen asleep about 9:30 or so, much to everybody’s amusement, and had only woken when she heard the final cheering. She gave us all a disgusted raspberry and then fell asleep again, sitting at the end of the couch, leaning against the armrest, head back, eyes closed, mouth open, and snoring. Stormy was sprawled out on the couch next to her, head in Marilyn’s lap, and she was sleeping, too. After I made the calls, I stood up and thanked everybody, and promised I would talk to them in the morning, and then tapped Marilyn on the shoulder. She snorted and shook herself awake, and I led her and the dog back up to the Residence for a decent sleep.

Epilogue

Marilyn and I hung around the White House for another few days, as I made phone calls to everybody and their brother and congratulated everybody. John McCain made a comment that he was going crazy as he began to get ready to take my job in a few months. I simply gave him an evil laugh and told him it would only get worse from here! Mitt Romney was going to lead his transition team. That usually meant that whoever was running the team was going to play a significant role in the future, usually in the Cabinet. That wouldn’t surprise me.

Me? I was tired! In seven years I think I aged twenty. I needed a serious vacation, and Marilyn agreed with me. By the end of the week, I told everybody they could do without me, and we headed down to Hougomont. As long as the world didn’t blow up before January 20, I didn’t care. John was welcome to the mess. I wondered if I had done a single damn thing to make the world a better place. I really couldn’t tell anymore.

I knew that John had four years to try to make an impact. By the time the 2012 elections rolled around, we would have had three straight Republican administrations, twelve years, an above average record. The big winners had been FDR and Truman, who had racked up twenty years, but that would never be seen again. Reagan and Bush 41 had done twelve years, and Harding, Coolidge, and Hoover had also done twelve years. To go to more than three terms in a row, you had to go back to McKinley, Roosevelt, and Taft (four terms), and before that to Reconstruction, when the Democrats couldn’t even run!

No, John would need to be a miracle worker to get a second term. The odds were that by the time of the next election, the economy would be in trouble, either because a bubble burst and we had a catastrophe, or he avoided bubbles but simply had a routine but ill-timed recession. In 2012 I expected a repeat of the fight between Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton, only Hillary would probably get the nod. The argument would be that Obama blew it against McCain, so let’s give the other team a chance.

Then again, maybe he could pull it off. I truly believed that Hillary wouldn’t be any better a President than Obama would be, or had been on my first go. It would be out of my hands in any case. From here on out, I wasn’t just a lame duck, I was a dead duck! There wasn’t much I could accomplish in the next couple of months, and after that, I could only offer assistance. If I volunteered without being asked, the term that would be used was ‘meddlesome old fart.’

The three of us (Marilyn, me, and Stormy) landed in Nassau, and immediately jumped into a car to head to Hougomont. Frank and his fiancé were with us also, taking a vacation as well. As far as I was concerned, vacations are for lazing around. I expected a short briefing in the morning, and everybody could wear shorts and t-shirts for that. The same went for the National Intelligence Officer who gave me the PDB every morning. Otherwise, go make yourself a rum punch and take a load off. Dinner is on the grill at 7:00. Be there or be square!

The next morning, Saturday, I slept late and woke up when Marilyn crawled out of bed to let Stormy out. After the mutt came back inside, she jumped back into bed with me while Marilyn went to take a shower. There was no going back to sleep, because Stormy decided to crawl on top of my chest and lick my face. That’s very cute when you are dealing with a puppy. When it’s a 140 pound monstrosity, it can cause pulmonary collapse! I pushed her off and restarted my breathing, and then got out of bed myself. I went into the bathroom and brushed my teeth and took my Lipitor while Marilyn showered.

When she got out of the shower, I jumped in and cleaned up. After that, I was about to shave when I noticed it was time to swap out my razor blade, so I hit the ‘Eject’ button and popped off the triple-track head, and chucked it in the garbage. I opened the medicine cabinet and rooted around for a new one. “Marilyn, do I have any razor blades?”

“I don’t know? Did you tell me you were running out?”

“I didn’t know I was running out.”

“And that’s my fault because?”

I rolled my eyes at that. Whether you are the President or a ditch digger, as far as your wife is concerned, it’s always your fault. I rubbed my stubble. “I suppose I can go a day without a shave.”

“Do you want the Secret Service to go out and buy some blades?” she asked. As silly as that sounded, they would much rather do that then send the motorcade out with me so that I could go to the drug store and buy razor blades. There was actually an elaborate procedure for that sort of thing, so that nobody would be able to predict where I bought things and then be able to sabotage them. Randomly selected stores would be used, with the purchases made under phony names and payments made out of anonymous accounts. Similar things occurred with food for the White House

“Later. It’s not an emergency.”

Nobody commented about it that day, maybe because it was a Saturday. Marilyn and I weren’t going anywhere, and I had delayed my usual visit with the Prime Minister until Monday. We just lay around the garden and the beach all day, sucking down the occasional Corona and tossing a piece of driftwood for Stormy to chase. Frank and his fiancée, Jenny, joined us for a nice dinner of grilled shrimp skewers.

Sunday morning was pretty much a repeat of Saturday morning. This time, when I got out of the shower, Marilyn said, “There’s some new razor blades in the medicine cabinet.”

“Thanks.” I opened the cabinet door and pulled out the packet, and opened it. A five-pack plastic cassette came out with its load of blades and I grabbed my empty razor to load it.

And then I stopped.

I looked up at my reflection in the mirror. After two days I had a definite stubble, though it was a mix of my normal gingery dirty blonde and a disturbing amount of whitish-gray. I stared at my face for a few seconds. The last time I could remember not shaving was probably back in 1990, or maybe at the end of 1989, before I officially entered the 199 °Congressional race. It felt strange — and strangely liberating. I slid my razor back into the slot in the holder and put the blades back in the medicine cabinet.

“Wrong blades?” asked Marilyn.

I turned to her and smiled. “No, they’re the right ones.”

“So?”

“So, I don’t want to shave this morning,” I told her.

She gave me an odd look and put her hand on my forehead. “Are you feeling all right? You don’t seem feverish.”

“Why?” I laughed.

“You always shave! I’d send you to the hospital, but the last time that happened, you had to be shaved there, too!”

I stepped back from the sink and went to the closet, grabbing a pink Hawaiian shirt with bright green parrots on it, and slipped into it, along with a pair of bright blue swim trunks. Color coordination, that’s the Buckman way! I turned back to my wife, rubbed my face, and asked, “How’s this for a look? Which of your brothers do I look like now?”

“Ooooh! That’s mean! I am going to tell them you said that!” She pulled a beach cover-up out of a drawer and pulled it on. “Gabriel, maybe.” I snorted out a laugh at that. Gabriel’s beard was so heavy that his five o’clock shadow showed up at four, and his salt-and-pepper hair was more salt than pepper.

“Really? I’d have thought maybe your sister Pearl.”

Marilyn started coughing. “You behave!” Then she giggled. “Besides, you asked which brother you looked like.”

“True, so true.”

“What’s with the beard? You always complain about having to look good for the cameras.”

“What’s the worst that could happen? I lose the next election?”

Marilyn looked stumped at that. “Seriously?!”

I shrugged. “Maybe I’ll let my hair grow out, grow a pony tail, start smoking those funny cigarettes…”

“I can’t wait for you to tell Frank and Will that one!” We went out to the kitchen. “A pony tail and baldness? That ought to look good. Maybe you can have the official portrait redone.”

I had to blink at that one. “Let me think about that one first.”

“Good idea.”

Nobody said anything to me again on Sunday, though Frank gave me a very strange look. He did say something to me on Monday, after lunch, because I was going to meet with the Prime Minister for a brief photo op and then a dinner at Government House. “You planning on shaving, boss?”

“Frank, I’m on vacation.”

“Mister President, you’re the President even on vacation”

“I’m only the President for another eight weeks, Frank. Maybe I’m getting a start on my retirement.”

Marilyn and I were sitting on the rear veranda. Frank looked shocked, and sat down across from us. “Sir?”

“Frank, if I stop shaving and grow a beard, it won’t be the end of the republic. It won’t even be the pause of the republic. What’s the worst that could happen, Frank? A usurper will rise up to throw down the king? Guess what? It’s already happened. I’ll be nothing but a footnote in eleventh grade history in a few weeks. Who cares?”

“We haven’t had a President with facial hair this century.”

“Frank, this is the 21^st Century. The only Presidents we’ve had are George Bush and me.”

“No, I mean, yes, you know what I mean!”

“Frank, Teddy Roosevelt had a mustache, and that was in the 20^th Century,” I told him.

“Really? We’re going back to Teddy Roosevelt?” he exclaimed.

“Nice mustache, Frank, big and bushy.”

“You’re not helping me here, Mister President!” He looked over at Marilyn. “Did you know about this plan?”

Marilyn laughed. “Frank, I’ve seen him with a beard and mustache. He had one through most of the Eighties, before he got into politics.”

I nodded. “It wasn’t as white. That’s a bit disappointing,” I commented wryly.

“When was the last time we had a President with a beard? Lincoln?” asked my Chief of Staff.

I gave him a disapproving look. “Frank, really, Grant was after Lincoln. And he had a full beard and mustache. Lincoln didn’t have the mustache. There were a few others, too.”

Frank threw his hands up in the air. “I can’t wait to see the press release Will writes about this one!”

“Don’t worry. He can include it in his book, ‘I Survived Carl Buckman.’ He’s writing it with Ari Fleischer.”

Frank gave a manic laugh at that, and sighed.

Nobody really said anything at the dinner that evening. I said various statesmanlike things, such as that even though I was no longer the President, the Bahamas had no better friend, and I would be happy to act as an Ambassador of Friendship for President McCain. Our regular Ambassador, Ned Siegel, simply smiled and nodded. He wasn’t going to complain about my facial hair, since he also had a beard and mustache. He simply said, “I like the look, Mister President.”

“My Chief of Staff thinks it’s the end of American democracy.”

“Just tell him the truth. Only real men grow beards and mustaches!”

I laughed and added, “And God only made a few perfect heads. The rest he covered with hair.”

Ned had a head full of hair, but he laughed anyway. “I’d ask if you’ve mentioned that to your replacement, but I want to keep my job a little longer.”

“He’s got one hell of a comb-over, doesn’t he?” Ned laughed at that one, too. “Sucker must be glued down!”

We didn’t hear anything out of the press over the next few days, so nobody back home must have been following the vacation trip. I was old news by now, almost forgotten. Everything was now McCain, McCain, McCain, and the changes he planned and what he wanted to keep. The only way I was going to make it into the news was if Air Force One or Marine One crashed in the near future with me on board.

We flew home on Monday, November 17^th, after eight very pleasant days of doing nothing, without the world collapsing around us. None of the Air Force or Marine staff mentioned my beard, which I had trimmed into a goatee. They did stare, but they didn’t say anything to their Commander in Chief. That lasted about as long as it took for me to walk into the West Wing and say hello. Will Brucis said, “Welcome back, Mister President. Have a good vacation?”

“Very nice, Will. Very restful. It looks like the world survived without me.”

“Yes, sir, we struggled through. When do you plan to shave, sir?”

“I shaved this morning, Will,” I answered, smiling. I figured I could drag out his discomfort.

“Uh, yes, sir, I mean, uh, all of your face.”

“Did Frank call you and tell you about this?” I quizzed.

“There might have been some hair related conversations. Are you going for a new look or something?”

“Why not? Think America will survive the shock? Worried I’ll lose the next election?”

“Well, you’ve seen the uproar every time your wife changes her hair. That will be nothing compared to this!”

That was true enough. Marilyn had changed her cut a couple of times, and the press had given each style its own name! “It’s only eight weeks, Will. The nation will struggle through.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll go warn the barber!”

I laughed loudly at that. Human hair grows about half an inch a month, or so I had been told once. Back when I was a civilian, I used to get a haircut whenever it got a bit too long, maybe every six weeks or so, unless I got caught up in something and forgot. Once I got into politics it became a scheduled event every two weeks! If my hair grew one-quarter inch, it was time for a precision styling. Your hair and appearance can’t change one iota compared to your campaign posters or publicity shots. I could launch a war on somebody, but if my hair appeared mussed that would be the lead topic on the news, before the war.

My new look was national news that evening, with telephoto lens shots of Marilyn, Stormy, and me climbing down from Marine One. The regular networks just did a quick thirty second piece on it, comparing me to other presidents with beards or mustaches, almost all of whom, it turned out, were Republican. (Except for Grover Cleveland, a Democrat; not sure what the significance of any of this really was.) The news networks, on the other hand, spent massive time and money on this, bringing in various experts to consider the significance of my facial hair, and whether I could have been elected with a beard or mustache, and commenting copiously on Thomas Dewey, the last major candidate with a mustache, who had lost to Truman in 1948. Did the mustache cause Dewey to lose? Fox News did a half hour special on this.

Will, who was waging a losing battle against male pattern baldness himself, was at a loss to explain this silliness to anybody. He did point out that if any of the reporters bothered to go into their photo archives from my time with the Buckman Group they would find any number of photos of me with a mustache and goatee. The silliest exchange was on Wednesday morning, when it became obvious that I was ignoring the calls to shave.

Q: “Has the First Lady commented about whether she likes the President’s mustache and beard?”

A: (Staring!) “No, that hasn’t come up in any conversation that I’m aware of.”

Q: “If she complained, would the President shave?”

A: “You’ll need to ask her that.”

Q: “Why are you ducking the question?”

A: “I am not ducking the question. I am giving it the attention it deserves. The Buckmans have been married 30 years. Mrs. Buckman is certainly capable of telling her own husband whether she likes his mustache and beard. He had it for ten years before he got into politics, and he’s had it almost two weeks now. I would think that if she objected to it, she’d have divorced him back in the Eighties! Next question!”

I was dying of laughter watching that, and I made sure we replayed it for Marilyn that afternoon. Everybody wanted to know our divorce plans.

On the plus side, various mustache fanciers and beard lovers groups promptly named me their Man of the Year. It wasn’t quite Time’s Man of the Year, but it was a nice touch. Besides, I had gotten Time’s nod in 2004, after being re-elected. Cosmopolitan had a special list of celebrities with beards and mustaches, and I placed in their Top 10. In the same issue was a list of tricks to use in the bedroom if you had a beard or mustache. I made sure to show Marilyn that article, and she turned beet red! Will simply refused to comment when questioned, and turned beet red himself.

The nation muddled on through the end of November and into December. Nobody was doing anything legislation wise, not with a new administration coming into power, and the Christmas recess beginning shortly. Assuming nobody attacked us between now and January 20, my responsibilities were relatively limited. Congress and the Senate would be sworn in on January 6^th, and John would be inaugurated January 20^th.

The week before Christmas, I had what would probably be my final press interview. I did a one-on-one talk with Tom Brokaw from the Oval Office. Tom was semi-retired from NBC News, having given up his regular anchor spot to Brian Williams several years ago, but he still did occasional stories for them. I never quite figured out how Ari and Will picked out who got to do interviews with me. Maybe it was whoever pissed them off the least lately.

We started off actually in the Map Room, with both Marilyn and me on a love seat facing Tom in a wingback chair. The plan was that he would ask us some personal questions, and then when we were in the Oval Office would segue into some policy questions.

Tom: “Thank you for speaking to me, Mister President, Mrs. Buckman.”

Me: “You’re welcome.”

Marilyn: “Yes, thank you for coming.”

Tom: “Mrs. Buckman, your time here in the White House is shrinking rapidly. Are you going to be glad to leave?”

Marilyn: (Smiling and glancing at me.) “Yes, I really am. Oh, don’t get me wrong. It is an absolute privilege to live here, and the staff is simply amazing. It’s just, well, when we first moved in, we told the kids that living here would be like living in a museum, and that’s really true. It’s amazing, but it’s not home.”

Me: “I think that’s true. The staff here are simply unbelievable, and we can’t thank them enough. Still, it will be nice to just go back to Hereford and be able to have some friends and neighbors over for a barbecue. You just can’t do that as the President.”

Tom: “Is that where you plan to live? Hereford in Maryland? You also have a vacation resort in the Bahamas and a mansion in Georgetown.”

Me: “Home is Hereford. We love our vacation home in the Bahamas, and we’ll definitely spend more time there. The home in Georgetown is not so much a mansion as it is a really big house, and was always more of a residence for when I needed to be in Washington. We haven’t lived there since I was elected as Vice President. We use it for friends and relatives, and Charlie and his fiancé are using it currently, though that’s probably only going to be until they get married and get a place of their own. We’ll keep it, but only for when or if I have business here in town in the future.”

Tom: “You mentioned your children. Mrs. Buckman, when you first moved into the White House, you were still a stay-at-home mom to your daughters and living back in Maryland. Now your children are grown up and moved out. Big change since then, isn’t it?”

Marilyn: “My babies are all grown up! I miss them, but they’re doing fine on their own.”

Tom: “What are they doing? It almost seems like the nation has watched them grow up as well. Your son was in the Marines and your daughters were high school cheerleaders.”

Marilyn: “Well, Charlie can’t race anymore, but he seems to be doing well broadcasting for ESPN. This spring he started with them, and they’ve signed him to be an announcer and commentator. He’s engaged, of course, to a lovely girl and they plan to get married sometime next summer or fall. Holly is still at Princeton and is working on her doctorate, and is with a very nice young man who also is a doctoral student, and Molly is living in Maryland with her husband, and they’re starting to talk about children of their own. That would be very exciting!”

Me: (Laughing.) “I hope they have lots of daughters, so I can get a little of my own back!” (Marilyn laughed and swatted at me.)

Tom: (Smiling) “Looking forward to being a grandfather?”

Me: “I intend to be the grandfather who buys the grandkids the drum set, the guy the parents are always worried about. Then, I’ll load them up with sugar and give them back to the owners.”

Marilyn: “You would, too!”

Tom: “Take it from me, Mister President, you have it figured out already. Mrs. Buckman, let me ask you about what had the entire nation stunned a few weeks ago. What do you think of the President’s new look?”

Marilyn: “I think that’s the silliest thing to worry about, isn’t it? Of course the kids tease him that he’s actually using it to grow hair for a hair transplant.”

Me: “They are out of the will for sure, now!”

Marilyn: “Maybe you can go for the full shaved head look next.”

Tom: “Does kissing your husband tickle now?”

At that Marilyn giggled and I waggled my eyebrows at her, and she giggled some more and swatted me again without answering. After that she retired. They reset the cameras in the Oval Office and we switched to there for discussions of my Presidency.

Tom: “It’s been a tumultuous seven years for you, Mister President, starting with your accession to office.”

Me: “Very true. It’s certainly not how anybody would ever want to get a job.”

Tom: “Would you have ever run for President on your own?”

Me: “Very doubtful. The idea of spending two years traveling all over the country, and spending weekends, if I’m lucky, at home getting ready to repeat the process? No, I don’t think I could ever have subjected myself or my family to that.”

Tom: “You didn’t have the so-called ‘fire in the belly’ for the job?”

Me: “Not for that kind of abuse. I’ve told John more than once I didn’t understand how he had gone through with it, and he did it twice, first in 2000, and then again this year.”

Tom: “Yet you did it in 2004.”

Me: “It’s a whole different game when you only have to fight the other side, and not your own at the same time. Again, I’ll thank John McCain for the help he gave me in 2004. He secured that victory for me. Great guy, and he’ll be a great President.”

Tom: “Do you think President McCain will do better or worse than President Buckman?”

Me: “No idea. I think the question is whether President McCain will be a third term of President Buckman, and the answer to that will be no. John is going to be his own man and, I think, a competent and thoughtful President. Back in 2001, when I asked John to join me and take the job as Vice President, I told him that every once in awhile this country gets an object lesson in selecting their leaders. There have been 44 Presidents, and 9 of us got the job when our boss met his Maker ahead of schedule. That’s a one in five chance, a 20 % mortality rate. You’d never get an insurance company to sell you a policy for that! All too often in this nation’s history, the Vice President gets picked not because he would be qualified to take over, but because it was politically expedient to pick him. Not every one of us has been qualified to take over in case we landed in the jackpot. I told John that if something happened to me, I would be comfortable knowing he would be the next President. I didn’t expect him to do the things I had done, but I did feel confident knowing he would do the right things as he saw them, and not the politically expedient thing.”

Tom: “And Jeb Bush as the Vice President?”

Me: “I think Jeb will do the right thing, too. I feel comfortable with John’s choice.”

Tom: “Who do you think did a good job when, as you say, they landed in the jackpot?”

Me: “Well, Teddy Roosevelt is one of my favorites. He was excellent. The same goes for Harry Truman, and Jerry Ford was very underrated at the time.”

Tom: “And the others? Who didn’t work out?”

Me: “These are just my opinions, but Andrew Johnson was nothing but a political hack chosen by Lincoln to try and hold the country together prior to the Civil War. When Lincoln was assassinated, Johnson was a Democrat surrounded by Republicans, and he was just chum in front of the sharks. Tyler and Fillmore didn’t work out either. I think the most tragic was Lyndon Johnson. He had great domestic plans, but was completely incapable of handling anything overseas.”

Tom: “Where do you think you rate on that scale?”

Me: (Shrugging.) “That won’t be for me to say. I hope on the plus side, but I just don’t know.”

Tom: “What will the historians say in twenty years?”

Me: (Smiling.) “That will be the least of my problems. Strokes and Alzheimer’s run in my family. Twenty years from now I won’t even know my name.”

That was a real stumper for Brokaw. He simply didn’t know how to respond to that, and you could see it in his face. He decided to focus on the overall changes during the past seven years.

Tom: “When you took office the nation was under attack by parties unknown, thousands of Americans were dead, and President Bush was missing in action. On the domestic side, more than a few economists were concerned about future runaway deficits and a recession, if not worse. Today America is the undisputed superpower of the world, and you have managed a net surplus during your seven year administration. Inflation is low and unemployment is low. This is an enviable record for any world leader.”

Me: “I think it’s a matter of knowing what needed to be done, and what didn’t need to be done. When I was sworn in, we had a pretty good idea what was actually happening. The problem was that there were an awful lot of entrenched interests with their own agendas. I came in with only one agenda, which was to keep the nation safe and strong.”

Tom: “What were those entrenched interests?”

Me: “Let me preface this by saying that many of the people involved were acting out of what they honestly felt was the best interest of the country. However, when you total them up, the plans they had would have weakened us, not strengthened us. Defense contractors wanted to sell the Pentagon all their newest goodies, which would have been good for their shareholders, but not necessarily good for the economy as a whole. Congress wanted to use those toys, and a lot of conservatives believed that military action could be used for more than simply defending the country, but could also be used to help build more democratic societies in the countries which threatened us. I disagreed.”

Tom: “How so?”

Me: “My belief was that we needed to take a very hard and realistic look at the rest of the world. We weren’t going to get pluralistic and liberal democracies in nations with rampant unemployment, illiteracy, religious intolerance, and sectarian violence. American has an excellent military, but you use armies and navies to kill people and break things, not to build countries. We needed to play to our strengths, not our weaknesses.”

Tom: “And those strengths were?”

Me: “That plays into our economic strengths. You can’t have a strong defense without a strong economy. That means not buying every weapon ever designed, but investing in America. We needed to invest in our real strength, our human capital and our economic capital.”

Tom: “Could you be more specific?”

Me: “President Bush’s DREAM Act was a perfect example of strengthening our human capital, by fixing parts of our immigration system. His No Child Left Behind Act did the same for education reform. Infrastructure is an example of strengthening our economic capital. For the cost of an invisible bomber, we can buy several very visible repaired bridges and canal locks and sewer systems. Ultimately all of this will make us much stronger than any of our potential foes.”

We broke for a few minutes for a bathroom break but then resumed, only this time on my ‘philosophy’ of governing.

Tom: “What do you think is the most important thing for a President to do?”

Me: “Learn to say NO, and say it over and over. And not just to the other party, either. It’s even more important to say it to your own party, and louder and more often.”

Tom: “What do you mean?”

Me: “Well, saying no to the other party is easy. After all, as a Republican it’s pretty easy to say no to raising spending and creating new programs and agencies that the Democrats want. What’s much more difficult is to say no when the Republican Party is demanding that you cut taxes or go to war someplace or do something else that will totally screw things up for the country. No, no, no! Just say it over and over.”

Tom: “Which is more dangerous, the economy or foreign relations? Where do you say no more often?”

Me: “In the short run, foreign relations, but in the long run, the economy. With foreign relations, we have the most powerful military in the world, bar none, and everybody wants us to use it. The Republicans wanted to invade Afghanistan — No. Iraq — No. Iran — No. North Korea — No. Venezuela — No. The Democrats wanted to send the same army everywhere else, to get into the middle of civil wars and make everybody on the planet behave and be nice. No! You only use the military when you have to, not when you want to.”

Tom: “And the economy?”

Me: “Again, the magic word is No. No, I am not going to raise Social Security and Medicare and food stamps and everything else under the sun. No, I am not going to cut taxes and borrow money from the Chinese. Deficits matter. You can go in the hole on occasion, but you have to pay it back. It’s the same whether you are an individual, a family, or a nation. If you don’t pay the bills, the economy gets weaker and weaker and weaker, and then, very suddenly, you’re not a great nation anymore. So you just keep saying no, over and over.”

Tom: “That doesn’t make many friends. They could say that you are breaking campaign promises.”

Me: “Campaign promises are made by people who don’t have the responsibility of being the President. The job looks different when you aren’t kibitzing from the cheap seats.”

Tom: “Does Vice President McCain plan to continue the Buckman Doctrine?”

Me: “We never really had any specific ‘Buckman Doctrine.’ We always handled foreign relations problems on an issue by issue basis, and Vice President McCain was fully involved in any discussions.”

Tom: “You may not have had a formal doctrine specified, but certainly there quickly came to be an understanding that any nation that militarily attacked American interests was going to be the recipient of a fearsome retribution. You effectively destroyed both the governments and the nations of Afghanistan and Iraq.”

Me: “If you are going to play in the big leagues, don’t be surprised by big league rules. If you attack America, or you attack our allies, nations we have formally promised to protect, don’t be surprised when we return the favor. How we do that, that is up to the President and his advisers, but the fact that there will be a response should be understood.”

Tom: “There have been persistent calls by both the left and the right to use military force to clean up the world, to topple dictators and act as a policeman. You have steadfastly refused to even discuss those topics.”

Me: “It is not in America’s interest to throw our weight around like a bull in a china shop. If people think that we can make the rest of the planet act nice and play well with the other children, they are astonishingly naïve. As for dictators, sooner or later their own citizens will figure out what to do and take care of the problem. If we get involved, nobody will benefit, least of all us. I’ve said it before; we can’t be in the business of running around and shooting jackasses just because they are jackasses. We’ll run out of bullets long before we run out of jackasses. Again, this is just one more example of the need to say no.”

After the interview was broadcast, my thoughts made a bit of a stir. For one thing, NBC investigated my comments about my medical prognosis, and turned that into a special report. As I knew they would find out, my family had a real history of Alzheimer’s and strokes. My father’s mother had died of a massive stroke and his father had died of Alzheimer’s. Both of Mom’s parents had died of ‘senility’, but they died before Alzheimer’s became a common diagnosis. My father had died last year of Alzheimer’s, and both his sisters were currently in homes suffering from the disease. Only my mother was still healthy; I suspected sheer bile kept her going, hoping to see me dead before she gave up.

Neither the conservatives nor the liberals liked what I had to say about policy. The forces I had been fighting were still present. The neocons wanted us to conquer the world and remake it in our image; the liberals wanted us to police the planet and make people behave. The Republicans wanted to lower taxes and the Democrats wanted to increase spending. Everybody figured that I was a cynic and pessimist.

John didn’t say anything to me. I think he was finally starting to feel the pressure, as the demands started landing in his lap, for him to do something after he was sworn in. At one point, following a morning staff session, he asked, “Your advice?”

I smiled and simply said, “Learn to say NO.”

“You’re a lot of help.”

I laughed. “This businessman gets tapped to take over as the boss of a big company, so he goes to the old boss and asks for some advice. ‘What should I do to turn around the company?’, he asks. The old guy tells him there are three envelopes in his desk, and that when things go bad to open the envelopes in order. So, about a year later, things look bad, and he opens the first envelope. Inside is a note that simply says, ‘Blame everything on your predecessor.’ So the fellow calls a press conference and does just that, and things calm down. A year later, things are turning to crap all over again, so he opens the second envelope. Inside is a note that says, ‘Announce a reorganization.’ So he calls another press conference and announces that he plans to reorganize the company. Things settle down again, but another year goes by, and things are looking really bad, so he opens up the third envelope. Inside is a note that says…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. ‘Prepare three envelopes.’ I’ve heard this one before,” he finished.

“Now you know the secret of my success.”

“Like I said, you’re a lot of help!” he said with a smile.

“Welcome to the club, buddy. Now get out of here and let me get back to work,” I replied with a smile of my own.

By the end of December the transition team had the basic structure of the McCain administration laid out. Bob Gates and Condi Rice were staying in place at Defense and State, though Condi privately told me she wasn’t sure how long she would stay. On the other hand Frank Keating was going back to Oklahoma, albeit on good terms. He was cooperating in a search for his replacement, helping with the interviews of several Federal judges with a reputation as being tough on crime. Liz Warren was also history after the 20^th; John was talking to a partner over at Goldman Sachs about Treasury, Liz was talking to a couple of the Ivies about a full professorship.

Mitt was going to take over Health and Human Services; now all I had to do was get John to let him create a decent health plan. I debated to myself about letting John in on the secret of the American Renaissance Initiative. Mike Brown was getting Transportation. Other assorted fundraisers and supporters were divvying up other Cabinet positions. That was a pretty standard method actually. You were always careful with the Core Four, but for the others you generally just needed a political figurehead you could fire in case the shit hit the fan. Other supporters would become ambassadors somewhere around the world, the niceness of the posting varying depending on how much money they raised during the campaign. Again, you had professionals in the State Department to handle the details and clean up what their amateur bosses screwed up.

One interesting change was in the House. My old buddy John Boehner was no longer House Majority Whip, but was slated to become the Speaker. He had been Majority Whip for the last eight years, since I had given up the job when I became the Veep. Denny Hastert had been the Speaker for most of that time, but had decided not to run for reelection in 2006. Tom DeLay became Speaker, and Roy Blunt had snaked John out of the Majority Leader slot. Tom only lasted two years, however, before he had to leave Congress to fight Texas criminal conspiracy and election law fraud charges. (Ooops!) Now it was John’s turn to return the favor to Roy, and he managed to get voted over Roy’s head as the Speaker.

We had worked together for years getting stuff through Congress, and it was relatively well known that part of my success with Congress was due to the fact that we were long time friends and allies. More than a few afternoons or evenings had been spent sitting out on the Truman Portico, with him drinking bad Merlot and smoking, while I drank a much better grade of Riesling. Now I wasn’t really sure how his new job would work out. It is not at all unusual for a really good Number Two to turn out to be a lousy Number One. On my first go, John hadn’t done well holding out against the Tea Party. This time we really didn’t have any Tea Party, but the Republican Party base was more conservative than either of us liked. I wondered how strong an ally he would prove to John McCain.

Meanwhile at the lower levels, people were moving out, up, or around. The ones moving out were typically heading towards much better paying lobbying jobs over on K Street or at some of the think tanks around town. The ones moving up or around were the Assistant and Deputy Assistant Secretaries, often moving up a level or two as their bosses decided they needed better paychecks as they got older and discovered just how much private college for their offspring was going to cost.

The week between Christmas and New Year I sat down with Frank Stouffer. Most of my senior staff was leaving with me, as John brought his own people on board, and I was ashamed to say that I hadn’t been really following what they would do. I immediately started off with an apology. “Frank, I am sorry, but I just haven’t spoken to you about what you are going to do after I’m gone. The last time we spoke about that was that in the Bahamas, and you simply said you were talking to some people. What are you and the others doing after the 20^th?”

He smiled at me. “Well, I talked to some people.” I raised an eyebrow, and he continued. “I wasn’t sure if Marty Adrianopolis had called you yet.”

“Marty? No, but I think there’s a note for me to call him. Why?”

“Marty’s leaving ARI. He and I are going into business together and forming our own lobbying outfit, Adrianopolis/Stouffer. Mindy will come with us until you get your act together. Elsewhere, Brewster is going to be the next RNC chairman, but you already knew that. We’ll still be running this town, Mister President.”

I heard the words he was saying, but they weren’t quite registering, so I just looked at him stupidly and said, “Huh?!”

Frank gave me a smirk. “Marty told me it would take you awhile to figure it out. Marty is quitting at the American Renaissance Initiative, but he’s not folding it. It’s still your lobbying group. He’s bringing in Michael Steele to run it. You’ve met him before, he’s from Baltimore.”

I blinked at that. I knew Michael Steele. It was the knowledge that ARI was ‘my’ lobbying group that had me set back. “But… how… you know…”

“What, that ARI was yours?” he asked, a real shit eating grin on his face. “I’ve known for years! I figured it out during the ’04 campaign. You’d propose something, and within days, ARI is lobbying for it with an endless budget and legislation already written. It was too much of a coincidence, especially if you could see the timing from the inside.”

“I’ll be damned! Who else knew?”

“Mindy picked up on it while you were still in Congress, and she confirmed it with Marty. I snookered Marty Adrianopolis into confirming it for me after I had a suspicion. Tell me, just how much have you spent through ARI?”

“I will be damned!” I sighed and gave it all some thought. I guess Marty and I weren’t the big sneaks we thought we were. I looked back at Frank and admitted, “Since we started? Probably $450 to $500 million, maybe more. I’d have to add it up.”

It was Frank’s turn to stare. “You spent half a billion dollars getting stuff passed! Jesus Christ!”

“It might be more. Frank, you have no idea how much money I am worth. I am worth way more now than when I became the President. The game is so slanted towards the top that I could spend that much money on politics, trying to even out the playing field, and still make more than I was spending!” I shrugged helplessly. “Who the hell else knows?”

He shrugged. “As far as I know, it’s just us four, you, me, Mindy, and Marty. You really had to be inside to see it fall into place. You and Marty buried it pretty good, but not from the real insiders. Neither Mindy nor I would have stuck if we didn’t go along with you, so your secret is safe.”

“Damn!”

“So, you’ll now have two lobbying groups reporting to you, the American Renaissance Initiative and Adrianopolis/Stouffer, and Brewster McRiley will have McRiley Associates, the Austin Consulting Group, and the Republican National Committee working for you. Like I said, we’re still going to be running things.”

“I’m not following you. What do you mean about Mindy joining you and waiting for me!?” I asked.

“She’s coming in with Marty and me, though she’s not a lawyer. She’s going to hang out as a lobbyist and manager until you get your shit together,” he said with a sly smile.

“What do you mean, get my shit together?”

“Mister President, with all due respect, the idea that you are going to simply retire and putter around the garden is ridiculous. In a matter of weeks, certainly within a few months, you are going to drive yourself mad with boredom. At some point you are going to decide to launch another crusade about something. When that happens, Mindy will join you and be your keeper. She’s already cleared it with your wife,” he told me.

“Smart ass!” I flipped him the middle finger, which set him to laughing. “You think you have me figured out!”

“Boss, we’ve already started a pool on how long you last. The minimum is six weeks, the maximum is six months.”

“You’re full of shit! I can’t wait to let Marilyn know this. She’ll get a good laugh.”

“She’s in on it, too. She put a twenty down on you, and not on the long side, either,” he laughed.

“You little bastard! Get the hell out of here!”

Frank left still laughing. I called Marty Adrianopolis and confirmed everything Frank had told me. He also added that Cheryl Dedrick was going to be on the board at ARI. I knew she was out of a job in January. After 18 years, the Maryland Ninth had reverted to the Democrats. Along with the new winners, she had been one of the losers I called election night. Cheryl was going to play the lobbying game, as well as sit on a few corporate boards. I couldn’t fault her; she had children bound for college, too.

Still fuming after both Frank and Marty told me how predictable I was, I went up to the Residence and asked Marilyn about it. Rather than denying Frank’s report, she said, “They weren’t supposed to tell you!”

“You mean it’s true!? You really are betting twenty bucks on when I get bored and unretired!? Marilyn!”

“Oh, you behave. Yes. You’ll go nuts sitting around all day! After a few weeks of vacation, a month at best, you’ll get your knee replaced, and as soon as that’s over, you’ll just be stewing around the house. Mindy told me she was going to start scouting Washington office space in the spring, for whatever you call your new venture.”

I was sitting down, and I harrumphed at her. Marilyn just rolled her eyes at me and then bent down and kissed me on my bald spot, which made me swat at her. A bunch of smart asses, the lot of them!

After lunch I went back down to the Oval Office. I met President-Elect McCain in the hallway. “Find out how long your wife is betting on you?” he asked.

I stared at him for a second. “Don’t tell me you’re in on this, too!”

Behind him a pair of secretaries coming down the hall giggled and turned around, ducking into an open door. I called out, “I saw that! This is treason! Treason!”

John shrugged and smiled. “I’m not too worried. In just a few weeks I’ll be able to write myself a pardon.”

“Treason!”

I already knew what some of the other various senior staffers were going to be doing after leaving the White House. Marc Thiessen had left immediately after the election, and was already working on K Street as a lobbyist. Matt Scully would be going to work as an editor for National Review. Will Brucis was heading over to ARI as the Director of Communications, essentially his current job, even though he didn’t know it was my lobbying company. Both Matt and Will were contemplating books about their time in the White House and the Buckman administration; how successful they would be made me wonder. I suspected Fletcher Donaldson would do better; he had already approached me with plans to write a biography on me and wanted, not so much permission, but cooperation. Even I had been approached by a couple of publishing houses for my memoirs, but it wasn’t like I needed the cash, and I really didn’t care.

Congress was sworn in on Tuesday, January 6^th. John would be sworn in on Tuesday, January 20^th. In between, on Saturday night, the 10^th, I would host my final dinner with the new Congressmen and Senators. I had done this in 2003, 2005, and 2007, and it was still my responsibility. I would speak briefly, but really the evening was to introduce them to President-Elect McCain, and he would be speaking as well.

That night went a little longer than planned, because just about everybody wanted photos taken with both John and me, two Presidents. Then, during the remarks section, I kept my remarks brief. After the usual welcome and a few bland statements about moving the nation forward and always being available to work with them (and mentioning that John McCain would be available in another ten days) I finished with my regular ending.

“Now, I am sure that some of you are probably feeling a bit overwhelmed by now. The folks back home sent you here to do a job, and you aren’t quite sure what to do. Well, I’ll simply remind you all that both John and I started out as freshman Congressmen, and if we figured it out, I’m sure you will, also. However, in case anybody here isn’t completely sure what their job is, let me tell you something that happened to me during my freshman year.

I happened to be at my district office in Westminster, and Marilyn had just started working there as an unpaid intern. While I was there, a call came in and Marilyn answered it, and it was from a woman in Westminster, and she was complaining about something. Marilyn was telling the woman how I was a Congressman and worked in Washington and was very important, and how she needed to call somebody in Westminster to handle such a small problem, and the whole conversation was going downhill quickly. I called a quick time-out and took the phone, and I asked the lady what the problem was. She told me her garbage hadn’t been picked up and wanted to know who was going to fix this! I took down her name and address and phone number and told her I would take care of it. Then I asked her why she had called me, and not the town. Her response? She didn’t want to bother anybody important right off the bat!

So always remember the real reason you have been sent here. Your job in Washington is not to be important and do lofty things. Your job in Washington is to clean up the garbage. Good luck!”

As always, this got a lot of laughs, including from my properly embarrassed wife, who I had rescued back in 1991.

And so it went. The weekend before the Inauguration the staff packed us up and moved everything out, sending it either to Hereford or over to the house on 30^th Street. The kids all came over to grab anything they had left behind, or it was going into storage. Marilyn and I moved over to the 30^th Street house, giving everybody plenty of time to move the McCain’s belongings over from the Naval Observatory. We spent the night of the 19^th over in Georgetown, though we never told the press.

As the outgoing President, I had an open invitation to all the festivities, but that didn’t mean it was a good idea to go. I didn’t need to overshadow the new guy, even if he was my designated successor. Marilyn and I decided that we would go to the actual Inauguration, but afterwards, we would sneak out of town and go home to Hereford. We could claim we were coming down with a cold or something. We told John and Cindy the day before, and said good-bye to the staff before leaving.

We did host a farewell dinner the night of the 19^th, relatively small, for the Bushes and McCains. President Bush was still moving around, but he was looking rather frail. We took a group photo of me, President Bush, Vice President McCain, and Vice President Elect Bush, and I commented to the others that this was a chance to get a photo of four Presidents together. The others all chuckled and smiled, but it was true. As Vice President, Jeb was assuring himself of a run at the White House himself. Whether John won or lost in 2012, Jeb would be back on his own in 2016, and probably be a leading candidate. Something to watch for in the future.

It was an enjoyable dinner. At one point I told Jeb to make sure he got his father to teach him how to salute.

“Salute? What do you mean?” he asked.

“There are a lot of times that you will be saluted by somebody, maybe one of the Marines around the White House, or when you are visiting a base somewhere, and you’ll need to return the salute. Your father, John, and I already knew, since we were in the service once. Your brother, too.” Both John and George nodded at that. “However, when Slick Willie took over from your dad back in ’92, your father had to actually give him a lesson in saluting. At least that’s what your brother told me once.”

President Bush smiled and nodded. “That’s true. We did it in the Oval Office right before the inauguration.”

Jeb shook his head. “I’d better do that, or I’ll never hear the end of it from my parents!” The rest of us laughed at that.

The weather on the 20^th was cold and blustery, with a chill wind out of the northwest that cut through everything. Even though there were heaters in the stage, I was glad I had long johns on under my suit. John gave a good speech Not a great speech, but a good speech. I don’t think any of us were ever going to be able to top John F. Kennedy. Afterwards, I shook John’s hand and wished him and Cindy well, and we were escorted to our limo. We would be driven over to the house on 30^th to pick up Stormy, and then go over to the Naval Observatory, where Marine One would fly us home. It wouldn’t be Marine One for us anymore. That title is only used when the President is flying, and I didn’t qualify anymore.

As we drove off, I had the driver swing by the White House one last time, and I had them stop in front of the wrought iron fence out front. I got out of the car and looked at the big white building, while the Secret Service agents scanned the curious crowd.

Marilyn got out, and asked, “What’s up?”

I smiled at her. “Nothing. Just looking.” She came up beside me and tucked her arm through mine. “Did I accomplish anything? Or was it all just a waste? I don’t think I’ll ever know.”

She was silent for a second, and then answered, “It wasn’t a waste, and you accomplished a lot. The ones coming after you will have big shoes to fill.”

“Clown shoes,” I said with a laugh.

“No, just the shoes of a man who’s like won’t be seen again.” She tugged my elbow. “Let’s go home, Carl.”

I looked down at my wife and smiled. “Yes, let’s go home.”