Madam President (20 page)

They descended into the PEOC, and the first thing Dale noticed was the elaborate lunch spread. A tray of sandwiches lay next to a vegetable tray in the center of the table. There was a fruit bowl, a plate of cookies, and a fresh bucket of ice next to a neat display of diet sodas. On a console table behind the conference table were a carafe of coffee and two small pitchers holding milk and cream. Dale stared at the sugar bowl and the container holding four types of fake sugar and wondered who had requested all this food.

Peter was standing in the corner talking on a landline. Dale glanced down at her iPhone and BlackBerry and noticed that neither was getting reception. She only heard snippets of Peter’s conversation, but it sounded like he was talking to one of the twins’ Secret Service agents about whether they should travel to Washington.

“What does he think?” Charlotte asked Peter.

She glanced over her shoulder and saw Dale staring at them. Dale averted her eyes and felt like she’d just violated their privacy. She hadn’t seen Peter in two years, and now she was going on her third encounter in one day.

Dale took out a pad and started jotting down notes about who was in the PEOC, what it looked like, and what people were doing. It wasn’t anything like what Dale had expected. There weren’t any screaming aides or loud debates. The television on the wall provided the only noise other than the various military aides picking up incoming calls and directing them to the officials in the room. Someone was setting up the speakerphone in the middle of the table for the interagency briefing that was about to start.

“Madam President, we’d like to tell our press that you’re heading into a second briefing on today’s attacks. We’d also like to issue a statement saying that you condemn today’s terror attacks and that your prayers are with the victims. Do you have any problem with that?” Craig asked.

“That’s fine. Get it out. I don’t want to look like I’m hiding in a cave. Should I deliver the statement on camera and announce that I will address the nation with more extensive remarks this evening?”

“That would be ideal, Madam President,” Marguerite urged.

“Dale?” Craig asked.

Dale looked around the room and thought for longer than usual. “It might be too early to put you out there. You can’t take any questions. I think we should wait until the address.”

“I agree with Dale. We don’t know for sure that there aren’t more attacks under way. We need to get some more information before we put you out there,” said Tim, the president’s national security advisor.

Marguerite glared at Dale again. Craig shrugged at Marguerite. Dale thought she saw Craig mouth, “I tried,” to a clearly exasperated Marguerite. Dale was annoyed with Marguerite. The president had approved the written statement, and to put her in front of the cameras was premature. Sometimes Marguerite was
too
focused on what the press wanted.

“I’m going back upstairs, boss,” Marguerite called from the doorway.

“I’ll call you after the briefing,” Dale promised.

Dale poured herself a cup of coffee and tried to shake the cobwebs out of her brain. Ever since she’d first entered the Situation Room and learned about the attacks, she’d felt she was taking more time than those around her to react to what she was seeing.

“Dale, who is working on my remarks for tonight?” the president asked.

Dale hadn’t had a chance to call the speechwriters yet. “I thought I’d draft a few message points based on this briefing and then let the speechwriters flesh them out.”

The president nodded.

The same faces that had surrounded them in the Situation Room were suddenly arrayed around them on the screens. Plus, now there was a feed from the Situation Room above.

The FBI director started the briefing by confirming the attack on the Mall in Washington. He reconfirmed the attacks in Miami, Los Angeles, Chicago, and New York. He didn’t have very much new information, other than a mounting death toll. About ten minutes into his briefing, everyone around the table in the PEOC suddenly turned to watch the TV coverage. The screens were filled with images of terrified White House staffers streaming out of the Northwest Gate of the White House complex. Dale searched the crowds for members of her own staff. She didn’t see any. She wondered if everyone gathered in the nuclear-blast-safe bunker knew that the mid-level and junior staffers had nowhere safe to go once evacuated.

“I assume they are being evacuated to an alternative location or something along those lines?” Charlotte asked.

Dale spun around to see how Craig and Tim would answer. The evacuation policy was haphazard at best. Staffers were told that evacuation was mandatory unless their functions were essential. While the most senior officials were ensconced in the security of a nuclear-safe bunker, Dale suspected that there were dozens of twenty-four-year-olds upstairs faithfully manning the desks of the White House senior staff. Dale presumed from her last conversation with Marguerite that she was upstairs with most of their staff trying to get the press back onto the premises so they could cover the president.

“No, Madam President, but most of them can walk home with colleagues or friends, and we’ll be in touch with them as soon as it’s safe to come back to the White House complex,” Craig offered.

Charlotte’s look made clear that she didn’t approve of the response. She pursed her lips and extended her disapproval to the lavish spread of food.

“We may be here for a very long time,” Craig explained quietly.

Dale was staring at her notepad and furiously trying to capture everything everyone was saying. She asked one of the military aides when the order had been given to evacuate the White House.

“About two minutes ago.”

Dale nodded and turned her attention back to the conversation around the table. The national security advisor had engaged the attorney general in a conversation about whether the Posse Comitatus Act of 1878 prohibited the military from taking over the U.S. cities that had been attacked.

Dale noticed that one of the networks was now airing a split screen of the White House evacuation on one side and the burning ship in Miami on the other. The shots of the burning ship were being interspersed with interviews of sobbing family members who had just waved good-bye to loved ones. On another screen, the anchor of NBC News was standing in front of the yellow police tape that now rimmed the site of the explosions in Times Square. On another, Dale watched first responders with rescue dogs search for survivors at the airport in Los Angeles. The fourth feed was CNN’s coverage of the White House evacuation.

“Dale? Dale?”

“I’m sorry, Madam President.”

“Do you have enough from everyone in here to get the speechwriters started?”

Dale hadn’t been listening for the last sixty seconds or so, but the speech would go through a million different iterations. She looked down at her notepad and then up at the president. “Yes, ma’am, I have plenty.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Charlotte

C
harlotte’s eyes met Craig’s, and they both knew that Dale was going to have to snap out of whatever state of shock she was in, or she’d need to be replaced for the day by her deputy, Marguerite, who was firing on all cylinders. Craig took a seat next to Dale, as if to convey to the president that he would personally supervise his protégée. When the FBI director rose to take a call from his deputy, the national security advisor took over the briefing.

“Madam President, we’re going to take you through each of the sites that were targeted this morning, starting with New York. The mayor is joining us now by phone. He’s still down at the site. Mr. Mayor?”

“Yes, hello?”

“Mr. Mayor, I have the president on the line.”

“Mr. Mayor, this is Charlotte Kramer. I am calling to see if there is anything we can do for you right now and to assure you that as the day goes on, we will be in constant contact with your staff to provide any resources that you might need.”

“Thank you, Madam President. It looks like a war zone right now. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“How are the first responders holding up?”

“They’re doing exactly what they’re trained to do. We don’t have
a count on casualties, but since I got down here, I’ve seen about two dozen ambulances speed off from the site.”

“I won’t take up too much more of your time, but please call me directly if there’s anything we can do to help the victims and their families or to support the first responders.”

“Thank you, Madam President. The carnage is unbelievable. I can’t believe they did this here again.”

“Mr. Mayor, I know your focus is on the rescue-and-recovery effort, but as soon as you will have us, I will be there.”

“That would mean a lot.”

“Please pick up the phone and call me directly if you need anything.”

“The investigation?”

“Yes, of course. We’ll coordinate with the JTTF and keep your office in the loop at every step.”

The phone clicked, and Charlotte repeated a similar conversation with the mayors of Los Angeles and Chicago. She pledged the full support of the federal government and promised that the federal government would be there with an open checkbook. The mayor of Miami was still at the site and was not available to speak to her, but the FBI director was tracking down the special agent in charge of Miami when they all heard another explosion from one of the televisions.

“What was that?” Charlotte asked.

Dale grabbed a remote off the table and turned up the volume. All of the networks suddenly switched to a live shot of the area outside the Air and Space Museum in Washington. The first explosion had shattered the glass façade of the building. Everyone feared that schoolchildren would be among the victims.

The military aide fielding all incoming calls to the PEOC handed the phone to the national security advisor. “It’s the Situation Room, sir,” he said.

Tim stood to take the call. As he listened to the report from the Situation Room, his face turned gray. He hung up and turned to address the room.

“The FBI is confirming that the D.C. site was hit again. There was
a second explosion where they were staging the recovery efforts. We have FBI assets, victims of the first explosion, and members of the media down. They don’t want to rush more first responders in until they can secure the site.”

“Why the hell didn’t they secure the site the first time?” Craig demanded.

“They thought they had.”

Charlotte’s hands flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp. These types of sequenced bombings were the most lethal. She wasn’t sure why they hadn’t been more prepared, considering that the attackers had used sequenced bombs in New York in the first attacks of the day.

“Why were they staging the rescue effort so close to the site of the first bombing?” Craig asked.

“I don’t know. I guess they thought the site was secure. They’ve got confirmed casualties among the first responders. I’m waiting for an update. At least half a dozen journalists are down.”

Charlotte looked up at the screen and registered Melanie’s flash of concern.

“Dale, please run upstairs and make sure all of the White House correspondents are in the briefing room.”

“Madam President, most of them are stuck at the Women’s Museum. They haven’t been able to get back here.”

Charlotte tilted her head to one side and tried to convey her concern for Melanie’s husband to Dale without saying it. Melanie caught on before Dale did.

“I spoke to Brian a few minutes ago. He was at the Women’s Museum. I’m sure he’s fine,” Melanie offered, her face betraying nothing.

“Let’s make sure,” the president ordered.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Melanie

M
elanie excused herself from the videoconference and moved quickly toward her cabin. Once inside, she dialed Brian’s cell-phone number. When the call didn’t go through, she placed it again.

“Mel?” he answered.

“Oh, thank God. Thank God.”

“What?”

“I thought maybe you’d gone down there.”

“Where?”

“To the Air and Space Museum. I thought maybe you’d walked down there to help cover the recovery effort.”

“No. I’m still at the Women’s Museum. Have you guys confirmed a second explosion there?”

“Yes. They said that a bunch of journalists and first responders were hit.”

“Can I report that?”

“What?”

“I don’t have any information yet on the second blast. Can I go on the air with that?”

“I don’t know. I was calling to make sure it wasn’t you.”

“It wasn’t me. I’m fine. I’ve got to try to get on the air with something, though, Mel. Can I call you back?”

“Of course. Call me back.”

Melanie rubbed her stomach and stood up slowly. She was feeling dizzy and tired. She guzzled a bottle of water and sat back down. She hadn’t allowed herself to think about any of the victims yet, but she understood something that Charlotte’s other advisors did not. The blanket of grief that had smothered the country for months and years after September 11, 2001 was about to return. It would color the president’s decision making and influence her ability to think clearly about anything.

Melanie remembered every instant of September 11, but the day that was seared in her consciousness was the day she’d stood alongside her White House colleagues in the East Room to honor the family members of those lost on Flight 93. They’d visited the White House a week after the plane carrying their husbands, wives, fathers and mothers, sons and daughters had crashed into a field in Pennsylvania. While the president had heralded the bravery of these first soldiers in the war against terror, Melanie remembered holding the outstretched hand of one woman who’d lost her brother and thinking,
How is she standing here right now?

In hindsight, Melanie realized that the family members’ shock and pride had mixed with their grief that day, affording them the resolve to accept the president’s invitation, even during their darkest hours.

Melanie had been unable to sleep or eat for weeks after that. While many of her colleagues plunged back into twelve-hour workdays, early-morning trips to the gym, and the occasional Friday-night cocktail hour, Melanie had struggled to adapt to the new normal.