ALL IN: Race for the White House (4 page)

“Of course, be right in.”

“Thanks, this is going to be embarrassing!”

“We need her help. I don’t know whether the lady was hungry and wanted to eat you or…”

Sandy walked in completing my sentence, “Who wanted to eat you? If people only knew what you guys talk about in here.”

“A woman bit Bud,” I let myself burst out laughing.
 

“Bit him? Where?”

“On the cheek, Bud asked me what that means. It was too good not to call you in.”

“I hope you got her number,” Sandy laughed.

“Well, we exchanged business cards earlier in the evening. No, really Sandy, you’ve heard it now. What’s it mean when a woman a guy barely knows bites him on the cheek?”

“Honey, you’ve been out of the game too long. She likes you, Bud! Is that so hard to believe? “

“Oh well, that explains it.”

“There’s more?”

“Yeah, when we went to say good night she gave me a hug and an ass grab. Then she pushed herself into me really tight to feel my reaction.”

“Who
is
this woman?” Sandy’s curiosity was piqued.

“Her name is Jacqueline O’Neill.”

“You’re kidding. I’ve read her stuff in the Post; she’s well-known. Bud, I’m impressed.”

“I know, Sandy, but do you think she likes me or is only trying to get close enough to get a story?”

“I think she likes you, Casanova. She wouldn’t have bit you if she didn’t. She might have sought you out for a story, but then she realized you’re a serious, responsible guy and somebody she’s interested in. The fact you’re going to be Chief of Staff helps, believe me. She probably figured she’d spell it out for you. I’d call her.”

“What do you think, Jack?”

“Are you kidding? I can’t wait to meet her.”

Bud’s phone was buzzing. He said, excusing himself, “It’s about the fundraiser in New York. I gotta take this.”
 

“Go get em, talk to you later.” Bud nodded yes and left the room.
 

“Do you want me to stick around for a while?”
 

“No, you’ve got things to do. How ‘bout that Bud? Wild stuff, huh?”

“I didn’t want to burst his bubble, but I think she probably wants a story, or she’s trying to get to you, or both.”

“Thanks for holding that in; you would have crushed the guy.”

“I’m just saying, you watch.”

“Bud can take care of himself. Let’s talk later.”

Sandy gave me a look and started for the door, “Okay, you know where to find me.”

I continued where I left off typing. Barker made a serious misstep with Iran. I’ll harp on that point.
 

The public is far less forgiving when times are bad. They would’ve run Clinton out of town in this economy. Hillary ended up doing good, though. Somebody’s gotta tell America the stimulus can’t work if we buy everything overseas and borrow to do it.
 

Turning around in my chair, I put my feet up on the windowsill. The view from my corner office was amazing, but even with all this glass the view from the Oval would be better.

CHAPTER FIVE

We had a team of agricultural scientists that said it’s possible with our land and climate. Big Oil and greedy politicians had blocked the United States from doing it for years.

Our job was to convince the American People.
 

People are deathly afraid of change. Ideas have a life cycle. Early adopters jump on the bandwagon right away, eager to try the latest thing. Next, you have the show me types; they’re a little afraid to try anything new. They’re worried when they go to the pump there’ll be no gas. Third, there are the late adopters. After most people are convinced, then they’ll buy in. Last, you have the - that’ll never happen types. They’re quick to say it will never work. They wait until an idea is in common practice, then they go around telling everybody they thought of it years ago.
 

Bud liked to educate prospective big dollar supporters, “The first cars ran on biofuel; back in 1880, cars were made to run on peanut oil. Hell, Henry Ford made the 1908 Model T to run on Corn Ethanol; he even had his own plant to produce it. This is nothing new, fellas. It’s been around for years! It’s easier than makin’ moonshine!”

Well, what’s old is new again.
Bioenergy had been hard to get across to the voters. Folks didn’t seem to get how it would create jobs. For this election, our message was honed to American Energy Works; we would link it with a new slogan -
We Can
.
 

Bioenergy sounds like something you flush
.
 

I know people want a president, not a chemist. Focus group testing showed anything we tried sounds better after the words ‘We Can’. I’d say the sexy stuff and leave the science to the talking heads.

America had done so well with corn technology, farmers had tripled the bushel yield per acre a decade ago. If American ingenuity could send a man to the moon, we could do the same for our homegrown fuel.
 

We’d all heard stories of guys working in their garages, who chanced upon a breakthrough technology, only to have it bought out by some oil company. Or worse - tales the inventor were quieted by the government in some conspiracy. That’s all science fiction.
 

We were holding a workable plan, the key feature being the planting of Jatropha, a hardy, grass-like plant that grew in almost any soil. We would convince farmers to grow it and chemists would turn it into Bio Fuel. I preferred Jatropha to other feedstocks like soybeans because it couldn’t double as food.
 

I figured,
why give people a reason to debate?
Our experts laid the country out in a grid showing, by planting, just the available farmland of Kentucky; we could accomplish half our national goal. Imagine what we could grow if we spread it around to all fifty states. The message had resonated so well in my home state, I’d won a second term.
 

Bud was telling donors, ‘It makes good old-fashioned common sense!’

H. Bud Singer was in charge of the campaign and, in addition to fundraising, he was chiefly responsible for reshaping the message. I needed Bud because he could do and say things other men couldn’t or wouldn’t. Besides Bud, three other rising stars rounded out our core team, each in charge of a segment of the campaign.
 

Once we announced, we expected a flood of volunteers in addition to more paid staff. Our offices would be buzzing with enthusiasm and the aspirations of youth seeking a place to make their mark in the world. I had an uncanny knack for turning talented people into true believers.

Bud and I spent hours going over speech notes. The ideas didn’t come cheap; especially the kind that could lift us out of recession and pay our debt to China without going to war. We always ended believing the surest way to National Security and prosperity for America was to produce lots of cheap energy. Top economists calculated, for every one percent of energy produced on our soil, we would lower the import cost of oil by 3% and create a quarter-million jobs. Our goal is to produce twenty percent of the energy we use and cause the price of world crude to plummet.
 

What’s scaring the Saudis is they knew it was possible; even their own scientists were telling them so. At least all the data we are continually
sharing
with them brought them to this conclusion. We have them so worried, the whole Middle East would be planted if they could grow anything in the desert. America has millions of acres of available farmland, a willing workforce, and people who can’t pay their oil bills freezing to death in the Northeast. If ever there was a time for a message to resonate, this was it.

I met Bud Singer at Brown where I majored in economics. Bud was my Political Science instructor. He was teaching to earn his way through law school.
He loved the strategy of politics and started working on congressional campaigns right out of law school. Later he headed a prestigious lobbying group, leaving it only to help me win the election to the senate. Bud was stocky and bald and stubborn, continuing to chain smoke even after having a couple of heart attacks.
 

Bud would say to big money donors – ‘We’ll have cheap energy like we had back in the 50’s and 60’s, so cheap the multinationals fall all over themselves to bring production back to America.’ Privately he had a more ingenious plan. ‘We’ve got to make it economical to manufacture here again. Once we lure the Corporations back and get them hooked, we force them through taxes to keep the money and jobs here. Bud was right: politicians had made a crucial error rewarding American Corporations for sending jobs overseas, searching for cheap labor and short-term profits.’
 

Bud and I agreed that the richest Americans didn’t care where they made the money; they had quadrupled their wealth over the longest recession in history. Once we change the Energy Dynamic, the big players will all rush in for a piece of the action.
 

A trillion dollars worth of wealth would pour back into this country. We would appeal to their massive egos and call them patriotic - after all, they live here, anyway.
 

This time was nothing like our first presidential campaign when our offices were housed makeshift in an old mattress store. One thing the first loss brought me was better positioning in the senate. In the most striking example of ‘it’s not what you know, but who you know,’ greater name recognition had secured me a coveted position with the Armed Services Committee.
 

Our new headquarters were courtesy of our friends at TenStar, a Major Defense Contractor who wanted to get to know me better. They “rented” us space renovated to suit, and agreed to accept delayed payment over ten years.
 

Bud liked the idea, ‘That’s making the paper walk backward, Jack!’

In addition to providing offices, TenStar would make the campaign an unsecured loan of five million dollars and provide the use of a corporate jet. Privately, the agreement was more complicated, involving several components. Provided Bud would sit on their Board and appear at Corporate Events, the lease debt would be considered settled. The caveat attached to the five million was after I left office, I would speak at their annual meetings. Open-ended access was an assumed, but unspoken, part of the deal.
 

All in all, we considered that fair for us at this juncture, as we get closer, the arrangements will get better.
 

Sandy called on the speakerphone, “Brenner’s on the line. Can you take it?”

“Sure.”

Joe Brenner, CEO of TenStar, personally arranged for the space. TenStar made major weapons systems, including a prototype fighter - code name, Phantom, that could enter Earth’s Orbit and fire weapons from space. Sort of an X-35 meets the space shuttle. The problem was, Brenner and his counterparts were the guys who lobbied Congress to shut down the U.S. Shuttle Program.
 

I picked up the phone, “How the hell are you, Joe,” mirroring his usual style and tone.

Joe fired back, “I’m well, Jack, just calling to see how you boys are settling in.”
 

“We’re doing fine.”

“How’s the donor money flowing in?”

“Don’t worry, Joe, you got us cheap.”

He chuckled, “We’ll see. You’ve still got to do well in New Hampshire and you’re not that well-known in the Northeast.”

“Thanks for the heads up, you son of a bitch! If Bud ever decides to leave politics, I’ll know who to call.”
 

Joe laughed, “I don’t think I’m ready for that. I’ve got all I can handle right here, but you let me know if you need anything.”
 

“Thanks, Joe, we’ll have a drink together in the White House, and seriously, I appreciate your support. We’ll talk soon.”

I could count on that since the Phantom’s projected price tag was estimated at eleven billion per copy.
 

“Jack, I heard you were headed out of the country. Anyone I know?”

Joe was always snooping.
 

I laughed, “If I told you I’d have to kill you, so you’re better off.”

Joe’s laugh sounded forced. We said goodbye.
 

Sandy tilted her head in, blonde hair hanging down to the doorknob.
 

Still smiling, I thought she mistook my grin for a reaction to the plunging sweater blouse she was wearing.

Girlishly, “Senior Staff is ready when you are.”

I figured I’d go with it to make up for semi-ignoring her before.

“Hey step in here a second.”
 

“Why, you need something,” flirting.
 

“I didn’t get the chance to tell you before; you look fantastic! Is that a new outfit?”

Sounding like a spoiled twenty, “Yes, do you suddenly like it? I didn’t think you noticed me, running through the building to look at your stupid car.”

“Well, I’m noticing now. You look gorgeous. Wow!”
 

“Well, better late than never, I guess… Thanks.”
 

Her look and the way she practically bounced out of the room told me she was happier.

I was sitting at my desk when Bud arrived, taking his usual seat on one of the sofas.
 

My office was shaped like an L. Our gathering area consisted of two black leather couches, a couple of wing back chairs, and my desk, all in a tight-knit square.

Bud asked, “How’s everything going today?”
 

Looking over my reading glasses, “Good, have you finalized the distribution points for the large donations?”

Bud answered, “Everything is set to go. The pump is primed, all we need is the cash.”
 

“You’re the wizard, Bud, great work.”
 

Bud had been working for months setting up Super Pac’s controlled by us. The Committees could spend and collect vast contributions without burdensome regulations. Advertising on television is expensive, even on the local level. Regardless of cost, it’s critical to catch voters in that semi-conscious state.