Power Curve (31 page)

Bender fished his reading glasses out of his shirt pocket and read the message. The old, bitter taste was back. “Has the president been told?” he asked.

Shaw shook his head. “No. Perhaps it’d be best if you told her. She’s in her stateroom.”

Bender did a mental time conversion as he selected the right words to tell the president about the crash. It had happened less that two hours ago, right after sunrise on Friday morning in Okinawa.
It’s going to be a long night here
, he told himself. He went forward and knocked on the door. The entry light flashed green, he counted to three, then entered. Turner was reclining in one of the plush leather airline seats that faced each other beside a window. “Please close the door,” she said. They were alone. He
sat opposite her and leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees. “Is it bad news, Robert?”

“Yes, Madam President, it is. A C-130 carrying ninety-four dependents and five crewmembers has crashed in Okinawa. There were thirty-eight children on board.”

She leaned back in her chair and blinked away the tears. “Were there any survivors?”

“No, ma’am, there weren’t.” He stopped, unable to continue.
You are so beautiful
, he thought,
so frail and vulnerable
. He stiffened. She was also the president of the United States and his commander in chief. She had to be told. All of it. “The plane crashed immediately after takeoff. Witnesses report the left outboard wing fell off. The pilot was able to maintain partial control and crashed into the sea.” He hesitated and for a moment could not find the right words. He considered letting her read the message.

“Go on,” she said. There was a slight catch in her voice, but her words were calm and resolute. “I’ve got to know the truth.”

“The C-130 is a high-wing aircraft, and it immediately sank up to its wings and floated for a few minutes. Apparently, the loadmaster was able to get a number of survivors out through an overhead hatch and onto the wing. Then the aircraft sank. There were sharks in the water, and they went into a feeding frenzy.”

“Oh, my God,” she whispered. She bent forward and clasped her arms to her breast, hugging herself, their foreheads almost touching. “It was my decision, it was my orders that killed them.” Slowly, she rocked back and forth. She stopped, looked up, and spread her hands apart in supplication. “What do I tell their families?”

She was shaking, and Bender reached out and touched her hand. The unbidden gesture was so out of character, so presumptuous, that he was shocked by his own temerity. Suddenly, their hands were clasped together. “You tell them the truth, Madam President.”

“A personal phone call.”

“Perhaps, after they’ve been told,” Bender said. “After they’ve weathered the initial shock.”

She stopped shaking but did not pull back from his touch. “I don’t know if I can do it.”

“Do you have a choice?” he replied.

“No, I suppose I don’t.” The catch in her voice was gone, but she still held on to him. He was all too aware of how warm and soft her hands felt in his. “It’s the faces,” she whispered, “the shattered families, the lost dreams—” Her voice trailed off. Then, “Robert, I’m the one responsible for their deaths.”

“Madam President, you must do this.”

“That’s so easy for you to say.”

“I’ve never had to bear the responsibility you carry, but I’ve had to tell families that their loved ones have been killed in the line of duty. I’ve had to share their grief, their pain. It’s never easy.” She drew back and sat upright, her fingers intertwined in her lap. “It’s something most commanders have to live with.”

“And I am their commander in chief,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am, you are.”

“I never really knew what that meant,” she told him.

“No one can possibly know until they’ve been there,” he replied.

“I doubt if I still fully understand what it means.” She pressed the intercom button on the arm of her chair. “Patrick, will you please gather the reporters in the main lounge. I’m going to make an announcement about the crash.”

“Mizz President,” Shaw answered, “might’en we want to wait on this one?”

“Now, Patrick,” she said breaking the connection. She leaned back in her chair and looked at Bender. After a few moments, she said, “Is there a chance of recovering bodies still inside the aircraft?”

“Yes, ma’am. A very good chance. There’s one other thing I didn’t mention and you need to know. Staff Sergeant Lancey Coltrain was on that plane.”

“Weren’t her children evacuated out earlier?”

“Yes, ma’am, they were. I believe they are already in the States.”

Turner stood and walked to the door. Bender stood to follow her. “We will not mention the sharks until after all the bodies have been recovered and the investigation is complete.” Her eyes were fixed on Bender’s face. “Or is that too political for you?”

He shook his head. “No, ma’am. That’s a kindness.”

Washington, D.C.

B
ender woke with a jerk, rolled over, and automatically checked the time. It was an old habit that died hard, and Nancy swore that she was going to cure him after he retired. “It’s Saturday,” she murmured, waking up. “It’s Groundhog Day. Isn’t this a national holiday for politicians? Don’t you get the day off?”

“You’re thinking of April First,” he said.

She rolled over and cuddled against his back. “I still can’t believe you held the president’s hand,” she said.

“I can hardly believe it myself,” he replied. “It seemed the right thing to do at the time. It was pretty emotional.”

“Speaking of emotional,” she murmured, “I love the negligee.” She moved and felt the silk slide up her thigh and fall away as she moved a leg against his. She felt him respond. Mornings were always good. The phone rang. “Damn,” she muttered. He reached for the phone and listened without comment. She felt his back muscles tense, and she sighed. Nothing had changed, and he was charged with purpose, responding to some new crisis. She sat up and reached for her robe. “The world can get along without you for one day,” she said.

He grunted and rolled out of bed. “That was the White House. The chairman has requested a meeting with the president this morning. I’ve got to be there.”

“What’s got under Tennyson’s hide?” she asked.

“The same as usual, I suppose. Turner.” He headed for the bathroom to shower and shave. “What’s the story with Shalandra?”

There was a long pause before she answered. “I talked to her counselor at the Academy. “There are problems.”

“With boys?” he asked.

“You know how boys are. One of the little bastards called her a black cunt, and she called him a white-assed honky cocksucker. Anyway, he ended up propositioning her.”

“Did he know about her past?”

“No, of course not,” Nancy answered. “But it got out of hand. She got his pants down and scratched his testicles. That ended it.”

Bender finished dressing. “Was Brian involved?” he asked.

“Not really. He was hanging around when it started but left.”

“He is the president’s son,” Bender reminded her. “We don’t need trouble on that front.”

“I know,” Nancy replied. “But who always loses when some poor black kid gets in trouble with a rich, pampered white kid?”

“Who usually causes the trouble?” Bender asked.

“This wasn’t Shalandra’s fault,” Nancy said.

“I don’t think this is going to work.”

“It will work, Robert. Give her half a chance.”

“I’ve got to go. I’ll call from the office.”

“I’ll be at the hospital.” She felt like crying. The morning had started so well, only to crash. But the tension was back, and they were at cross-purposes.
What’s happening to us?
she wondered.

Bender’s staff car dropped him at the South Portico to the White House as another staff car pulled away. A dark-suited aide opened the door, and the sound of the drum echoing from Lafayette Park hammered at him. “How early does it start in the morning?” he asked.

“It never stops, sir,” the aide replied. “It’s worse on the north side. At least we’ve got the building between
us.” He motioned for Bender to enter. “You can hardly hear it inside.”

“Has General Overmeyer arrived yet?”

“No, sir,” the aide replied. “He’s due in fifteen minutes.”

The Marine standing guard saluted and opened the door for Bender to enter. Unconsciously, Bender looked at the corporal and gave her a cursory inspection. Her uniform and bearing were above reproach, but an instinct warned him that something was wrong. He stopped. “Good morning, Corporal.”

As expected, the Marine became even more rigid, if that was possible, and she replied with a crisp, “Good morning, sir.”

In that brief few seconds, Bender saw the slight tick playing at the corner of the corporal’s left eye and heard the catch in her voice. “How long have you been on duty?”

“Approximately one hour, sir.”

“Is the drum getting to you.”

“Negative, sir.”

“Personally,” Bender said, “I’d like to jam that drum up that guy’s ass.”

“I’ll be glad to assist the general, sir.”

“Good answer, Marine.” Bender knew what was wrong. The incessant beating of the drum was ratcheting up the tension and putting people on edge—some quicker than others. He thought of it as combat fatigue and headed for the East Wing, where the first lady’s offices were located. Like the rest of the White House, the East Wing was spotlessly maintained and ready for a white-glove inspection twenty-four hours a day. But without a first lady in residence, it was a dull and lifeless backwater concerned with the routine administration of the White House. He passed the first lady’s offices and entered the Military Office. A Marine captain was sitting at a desk. “Are you the duty officer?” Bender asked.

The captain stood up. “No, sir. Mr. Terry is on call at home on weekends.”

The irony of it all struck Bender: The duty officer was a civilian who wasn’t even present. “I would like to speak
to General Thomas,” he said. Thomas was the Army major general in charge of the Military Office.

The captain looked embarrassed. “Ah, General Thomas has been reassigned and Mr. Terry is now in charge.”

For Bender, it was too much. “Rotate the outside guard detail every thirty minutes.”

“Sir, I can’t do that. Mr. Terry approves the guard schedule.”

“Please call him,” Bender said. The captain made the phone call and handed him the telephone. Bender explained the problem to a very irritated Terry, who claimed the schedule was firm for the weekend. He would review it Monday when he came to work. Bender gave his reply some thought before answering. “May I suggest you come down here, stand outside, and listen to that drum for an hour. You’ll have a better appreciation of what your people are going through.”

“General,” Terry said, “they aren’t my ‘people.’ Mind your own business, and I won’t mind yours.” He banged the phone down, breaking the connection.

“Leadership is a wonderful thing,” Bender said. “Captain, Mr. Terry told me that you are
not
his people. Therefore, I’m giving you a direct order. Reschedule the guard change for every thirty minutes.”

“Yes, sir. But what do I do about Mr. Terry?”

“Write a memo for the record documenting this conversation. I’ll endorse it, and it will be on his desk waiting for him—when he comes to work Monday morning. May I make a suggestion?”

“Check on my people more often?” the captain asked.

Bender smiled. “You got it, Captain.” He spun around and headed for Shaw’s office in the West Wing.

Shaw listened without comment when Bender told him about changing the outside guard schedule. “I was only out there a few minutes,” Bender said, “and that drum was very annoying. Can’t we do something about it?”

Shaw’s lips drew into a narrow line. “Saint Peter shit-a-brick, tell me about it. You can even hear it in here.” The two men were silent, and the faint sound washed over them. “It’s louder in the residence. That’s why Maura and the kids are at Camp David for the weekend and staying
with the Kennetts during the week.” He paused and listened. The drumbeat was much louder and more rapid. “Damn, he’s really got a war dance going now.”

“Why was Terry appointed the head of the Military Office?” Bender asked, changing the subject.

“Maddy feels the military has too strong a presence around here and wants to soften the overall image.” Shaw’s secretary buzzed him on the intercom and said that the demonstrators in Lafayette Park were on TV. Shaw grunted an obscenity and hit the remote, turning on the TV set. The screen filled with a group of demonstrators streaming into the park. Quella O’Malley paraded by, waving a new sign. “Don’t give that bitch air time,” Shaw grumbled. But the TV cameraman zoomed in, giving O’Malley national coverage.

STOP FEEDING FAMILIES TO THE SHARKS

“Damn,” Shaw groaned. “How did she find out about that?” Unfortunately, he knew the answer. “Come on,” he said. “It’s time we talk to Maddy and get ready for the meeting with Overmeyer.”

“Why did the chairman ask for the meeting?” Bender asked.

“You haven’t heard? Maddy stopped the evacuation.”

Bender clamped a tight lid on his reply and followed Shaw into the Oval office. Sam Kennett was there along with Secretary of the Treasury Parrish and Congresswoman Noreen Coker. Only Maura O’Keith was missing from Turner’s kitchen cabinet. Coker patted the couch beside her. “Sit here, honey,” she said to Bender. “You do look good in that suit.” Bender did as she asked, and Shaw retreated to a chair at the end of the facing couches, leaving one vacant for the missing Overmeyer. Bender listened as they discussed the ongoing demonstration in Lafayette Park. During quiet moments he could hear the faint, but insistent beat of the drum.

“We need to do something about that damn drum,” Parrish moaned.

“And about Fireplug O’Malley,” Coker added. “Sam,
didn’t you have some trouble with her when you were mayor of Philadelphia?”

“More than I care to remember,” Kennett answered. They listened with amusement as he described how he had neutralized her with a heavy dose of behind-the-scenes humor. They were still laughing at his stories when Jackie Winters opened the door for Overmeyer.

The chairman entered with his usual ramrod style and sat down, uncomfortable to be in a room of civilians. He shot Bender a disapproving look and came right to the point. “Madam President, I must protest in the strongest possible terms your directive stopping the evacuation of dependents from Okinawa. There are less than 4,000 remaining.”

“I will not put any more innocent lives at risk,” Turner replied.

“Madam President,” Overmeyer said, “the situation is still volatile. They are more at risk remaining there.”

“Are they?” Turner replied. “The secretary of state is of a different opinion. He believes the crisis has peaked and is contained.”

Bender’s inner alarm went off. Was Secretary Francis cutting another deal with the Chinese? What else was going on that he didn’t know about?

Overmeyer wouldn’t let it go. “Madam President, at least give them the option of volunteering to leave. Do not make them hostages against their will.” Everyone looked at him in shocked disbelief. The general had overstepped his bounds.

Turner stared at him, her face granite hard as the drumbeat grew louder in the background. “General Overmeyer,” she finally said, her voice cold and sharp, “they are not hostages, and I am acting in their best interests. Do you have anything else?”

He stood to leave. “Madam President, I’m asking you to reconsider your decision.”

“Thank you, General Overmeyer,” Turner replied. “I will take your request under advisement.” The general gave her a short nod and marched out, his back still ramrod stiff.

“There goes one very angry man,” Kennett said when the door closed.

“What can he do about it?” Coker replied. “Hold a press conference?”

“Robert,” Turner said, “you know the chairman. What do you think he’ll do?”

Every head turned toward Bender as they waited for his answer. “I honestly don’t know.”

“Too bad he’s not the resigning kind’a general,” Shaw muttered.

Turner moved gently back and forth in her rocker. “Well, we shall see. Until then, how do we handle those demonstrators and defuse O’Malley? Apparently, she has a direct line into the White House. How else would she know about the sharks?”

“At last report, we’ve recovered over half the bodies,” Bender said.

“Don’t change your strategy now,” Secretary Parrish said. “Keep calling the families. Hold a press conference, and if a reporter mentions the shark attacks, sidestep. Refuse to comment on rumors. Claim we’re still recovering bodies and you’re doing everything possible to protect the families from more pain and grief. Appeal to the reporter’s sense of compassion.”

“Reporters with a sense of compassion?” Coker scoffed. “You been smoking too much dope. Personally, I think the drummer is the real problem. We need to break his goddamn drum over his goddamn head.”

“‘Such stuff as dreams are made of,’” Shaw said, misquoting Shakespeare. “Not much we can do about it. No president, not even LBJ and Nixon at the height of the Vietnam War or Watergate, ever stopped a demonstration in the park. It’s too politically risky. Best we just outlast the bastard.”

“Sam,” Turner said, “you’ve dealt with O’Malley before. Can you pull her teeth again?”

“Mizz President,” Shaw called, “no need for the vice president to go gettin’ his hands sullied. Let me take care of her.”

It was a quiet dinner at one of Washington’s premier restaurants. The atmosphere was intimate, the food and service world-class, the wine exquisite, the table yours for
the night, the tab outrageous, and coverage in the social columns guaranteed. In short, it was the perfect place for a public liaison and in Shaw’s case, to meet Jessica, his cutout to Senator Leland and the group. She reached across the table and stroked the top of Shaw’s hand. The way she smiled sent the waiter’s temperature up three degrees. The waiter desperately wanted to hear what she was saying and savor the way her mouth shaped the words. But it wasn’t worth his job or the astronomical tip added to the bill. “The senator wants an incident with the demonstrators in Lafayette Park,” she murmured for Shaw alone to hear.

“I’m going to need a good reason,” he replied. “A damn good reason.”

“You’ll think of something,” she cooed. “The senator suggested using O’Malley. He’d like that.”

“I imagine there’s a lot of things the senator would like, darlin’,” Shaw muttered.
Like you in his bed
, he thought.

Jessica’s fingernail doodled on the back of his hand. Again, the little smile for them alone. She knew what he was thinking. “He’s very virile for a man his age.” She saw the waiter watching them and leaned into Shaw. “The senator is worried about Kennett. Can you isolate him?” The tip of her tongue flicked across her upper lip, a promise of things to come later that night. The conversation was exciting her more than any romantic drivel.