Lethal Trajectories (16 page)

C
layton McCarty was working at his desk in the Old Executive Office when his secretary advised him the president was on the line.

“Good afternoon, Mr. President,” he said, noting that the time was 3:35 p.m. “It’s so nice to hear from you.”

“Hi, Clayton, it’s good to be back. Hope all is well with you, Maggie, and the kids.” He sounded oddly forlorn. “I’m wondering if you would be available to meet with me tonight at six thirty in my private office. There are a number of things I want to talk to you about, and we can have sandwiches brought up if you’re hungry.”

“I’d be delighted, Mr. President, and I appreciate the invitation. As a matter of fact, it would really work out well. Mags and the kids extended their visit with her mom in California for a week, but they’re doing fine. They’ll be back on Saturday night.

“Wonderful. I’ll look forward to seeing you, Clayton.”

Troubled, McCarty hung up the phone. Burkmeister had made every effort to decouple his official life from his private life, and the location of a meeting signified the nature of the visit: official calls in the Oval Office and private calls on the second floor. The two did not mix.

This would be the first McCarty had seen of the president since he had entered the hospital over a week ago, and he didn’t know what to expect. Coupled with the president’s melancholy voice, it gave him an uneasy feeling he couldn’t shake. He threw himself back into his work. It was the easiest way to distract himself until it was time to take the short walk over to the White House.

When he arrived that evening, he was promptly escorted to the Center Hall on the second floor, through the Yellow Oval Room, to the door of the president’s living room. The butler, Randall Whitehead, a longtime fixture at the White House and a person Clayton had come to know and like, knocked on the president’s door and then opened it. “Thanks, Randall,” said Clayton as he walked in to greet the president.

Clayton was shocked as he set eyes on the frail-looking man sitting in the green leather chair by the crackling fireplace. Burkmeister, dressed in casual clothes—a navy blue V-neck sweater, blue shirt, and dark gray slacks—motioned for Clayton to come over. Though looking exhausted, Burkmeister got up and greeted Clayton with a warm smile.

“Many thanks, Clayton, for filling in for me so well in my absence. I know it has been a rough week or so for you, and I don’t know how you could’ve done it any better than you have.”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” said Clayton, “You’ve assembled a great cabinet, and I would be taking compliments under false pretenses if I claimed responsibility for the work that they’ve done in your absence. We’ve missed you. I’m glad you’re back.”

After an awkward silence, Burkmeister said, “Get you a drink, Clayton? Scotch straight up, if I remember right?”

“Yes sir, I’d like that,” McCarty said, hoping the drink would steady his nerves.
What’s this all about?
he wondered.

Burkmeister walked over to the minibar, looked out at the rain, and poured a healthy shot of Chivas Regal. Then, thinking about the news he was about to lay on Clayton, he made it a double. He walked over to Clayton, handed him his drink, and motioned him toward a chair facing him.

“How’s the family, Clayton? You said they were out in California?”

“Yes, Mr. President. Maggie and the kids are visiting her mother. She had her gall bladder removed two weeks ago, and Maggie’s there for moral support. The kids are playing a little hooky and love seeing Grandma whenever they can.”

“That’s nice. How old are the kids now?

“Melissa is eight and Amy is five,” he answered with as much cheer as he could muster.
Whatever he wants to talk about, he’s having a hard time saying it,
Clayton thought as Burkmeister nodded with a faraway look in his eyes.

After an awkward silence, the crackling fire and a little thunder in the background the only sounds, Burkmeister finally looked Clayton in the eyes as he groped for the right words.

“Clayton, there’s no easy way to tell you this, so I’ll just come right out and say it. I’m dying, Clayton, and the doctors have given me three months or so to live.”
There, I’ve said it and it’s on the table for discussion,
Burkmeister thought with relief.

Clayton’s mouth opened as he stared at the president in stunned silence. Sensing this, the president stirred the fire as Clayton emptied his drink.

“I’m so sorry to spring it on you like this, Clayton, but it’s all obviously beyond my control.” His VP remained speechless, so he continued. “I haven’t been feeling well, not for the last couple of months. I’d chalked up my discomfort to the pressures of the job, indigestion, and a number of things. The telltale signs were there, I guess, but I just didn’t see them.” He shook his head in disbelief.

“A day or so before this Chunxiao business started, things took a sharp turn for the worse. Frankly, I thought I had a flu bug or some other intestinal ailment. It zapped me shortly after the last Situation Room meeting prior to my Rose Garden announcement on Chunxiao. I called Doc Toomay, and after taking one look at me, he said ‘We’ve got to get you to the hospital.’ I told him I had a Rose Garden appearance scheduled, and he gave me something for temporary relief. The pain started to return toward the end of my press conference, and as you know, I was whisked over to Walter Reed shortly thereafter.”

“I’m so sorry, Mr. President,” Clayton said softly.

“Thanks, Clayton, I know you are, and I appreciate your sympathy,” Burkmeister said, touched by his sincerity. He had no real family, and the McCartys were, in a way, as close to him as anyone.

“They knew from day one I had a major problem and a strong inkling of what it was. The diagnostic work was all but done in the first few days, and I spent the rest of the time just trying to get back on my feet and think it all out.”

“May I ask, sir, what the nature of your illness is?”

“I’ve got stage 4-B pancreatic cancer. The docs tell me it’s as aggressive as any they’ve ever seen, and it’s metastasized to several organs throughout my body, including my lungs and brain. There’s no cure, and even with the most aggressive forms of chemotherapy they could only prolong my life for a few additional weeks—a month or so at best.

“I did a lot of thinking and praying in that hospital room, Clayton, and I accept the fact that I will soon be dead. I’ve never worn religion on my sleeve, but I became a believer long before my dear Karen died. I’ve made my peace with the Lord, and I’m not afraid. I’ve often wondered how people faced the prospect of imminent death without some kind of faith.” Clayton nodded thoughtfully as the president continued.

“Since I don’t really have a family, my greatest concern now is the people that I was elected to serve. In a very real way, they are my family, and there is absolutely nothing that I can do about it. The ‘most powerful man in the world,’ sure … I’m going to die, and I won’t be able to complete my term of office. That’s the reality of the situation.”

Clayton’s eyes widened. Burkmeister could sense that Clayton was moving past the shock and ready to get down to business.

“I’ve run through more scenarios than I can count,” Burkmeister continued, “and there are no easy ways to complete your succession to the presidency. Let me suggest what I think might be the most expeditious way of handling this. It’s based on my having about one more month of
good
health—if there is such a thing at this point—but it also makes provision for my not even having that one
good
month.” The president looked deeply into Clayton’s eyes.

“My suggestion is this: I will request airtime this coming Monday evening, the twenty-fifth, and I’ll give a short announcement from the Oval Office. I will basically say that I am terminally ill and will resign my presidency on November first, or earlier, should my health fail. I’ll tell them I plan to do everything in my power to assure the smooth transfer of the presidency to you, and that I have every confidence in your ability to do the job.”

Clayton’s brow furrowed as he pondered the implications of the announcement for himself and the country.

“I know this is a lot to process in one sitting, Clayton, and I’d like to propose that you give this some thought between now and, say, Sunday morning. Let’s get together then at about nine and spend whatever time we need talking through the succession process and how you want to handle it. It’s really going to be your show after Monday night; after that, my job will be to run interference for you in any way I can.”

“Mr. President …,” Clayton said, clearly moved by Burkmeister’s reassurances.

“You’re the first person I’ve told about this, Clayton,” Burkmeister interrupted, “and other than a handful of doctors, I doubt anyone else knows. I plan to meet with George Gleason tomorrow, and my guess is he’ll be leaving the White House with me. Nothing wrong with you, but George is kind of a one-president kind of chief of staff. That’s one appointment you’ll have to make soon, by the way, and a very important one. Another, of course, is to select your vice president. I’ll also be talking to the White House lawyers tomorrow to go over the legal mechanics of a presidential succession, and I’ll have more to tell you on Sunday.”

They chatted for a few more minutes before Burkmeister looked at his watch and said, “I’d better get you out of here so you can get some sleep—you’ll need it.”

They walked to the door together. Burkmeister offered his hand and said, “You’re a good man, Clayton, and I’m deeply sorry I had to drop a bomb like this on you. Please know I’ll do everything I can to help ease the transition for you.”

With tears in his eyes, Clayton dropped all pretense of decorum and gave the president a big hug. “I’m so, so sorry, Lyman. You are a man I deeply admire and respect. I just don’t know what else to say.” Choked with emotion, he left.

As the White House door shut behind him, McCarty took several deep breaths of cool autumn air. Nodding to his driver, he got in his limo for the ride back to the vice-presidential residence. As they drove through the rain-wet streets he made one phone call.

“Jack, this is Clayton. Can you meet me at my place tomorrow morning at seven thirty? Call if you can’t, but I really need to talk to you. I’ll send a car over to pick you up.”

It was raining heavily as Jack McCarty pulled up to his Georgetown condo at ten thirty in the evening. He was exhausted. The climate-change data was pouring in: his throbbing headache was the product of a full day of analyzing data and computer simulations.

Inside, he threw his wet raincoat over a chair and headed straight for his bar to pour a stiff drink. Savoring the warm taste of scotch, he checked the two messages on his voicemail, kicking himself for letting his cell phone go dead.

The first call was from his friend Wang Peng, explaining that he was flying to New York and wondering if Jack would be available for dinner on Wednesday night.
Odd,
he thought, given the busy schedule Wang would surely have at the United Nations.

The second call from Clayton concerned him. Although it was only a short message, he had never heard Clayton sound like this. His message was terse, almost like he didn’t want to talk, but he could tell his brother was troubled. It was close to eleven o’clock, and as Clayton had said nothing about calling back unless he couldn’t make it, he decided to wait until he saw him tomorrow morning. Whatever it was, he would find out in less than nine hours.

J
ack McCarty was already on his third large cup of black coffee by six thirty in the morning. The toast in front of him was dry and cold, and he rubbed his eyes repeatedly as he gazed out at the rainy cobblestone streets of his condo. Theoretically, he had gotten about five hours of sack time, but he doubted he’d slept a grand total of more than thirty minutes. He was tired and wired, and even a long hot shower failed to rejuvenate him.

At least three puzzling scenarios had darted in and out of his conscious and subconscious mind throughout the night. Just as he was about to get his arms around one scenario, the others seemed to collide and completely rearrange the playing field. There was no beginning or end, only middles. Though he suspected they were interconnected, his futile attempts to connect the dots kept him up for most of the night.

As he poured his fourth cup of coffee, the caffeine started to kick in and his mind began to clear. He reached for a scratch pad and began to write down the key concerns on his mind. Somehow, this form of mental exercise always helped him see the bigger picture.

Item one was the disturbing day he had at the IEE. The climate-change data was filling in an increasingly ugly picture, and he wondered,
Could there be something wrong with the software?

Item two was the call from Wang Peng. It was not unusual to hear from Wang, but given his sensitive position and the international uproar over the Chunxiao Incident, it was strange that he’d go out of his way to visit. Peng had been noncommittal when he had called him back to confirm the dinner, but something was not right.

Item three, Clayton’s call, bothered him most. What had Clayton anxious enough to bring him in so early in the morning? Hundreds of possibilities crossed his mind, most of them not good. Were any of these events connected? He didn’t know, but at least he would find out about the third issue in short order.

He bolted out of his chair when he saw the black, unmarked limo pull up to his house. The ride to the vice president’s residence at Number One Observatory Circle was short, but he chafed at every red stoplight. The detour around Dumbarton Oaks Park (due to road construction and poor drainage from the constant rain) made him bounce with irritation. But by 7:20 the limo was through the security gate, and he stepped briskly up to the refurbished 1893 mansion.