ALL IN: Race for the White House (7 page)

“So, Barker was never worried at all, Tip?”

“He really had no need to be, the stealth skin is already available to the Chinese and the Russians. It really isn’t all that hard to come by if you’re a country that wants it bad enough. Barker asked for it back, but he embarrassed America.”

I said, “He should’ve shown strength with a surgical strike to blow the thing up. That’s the type of decisive action Americans respect. Instead, I think he showed weakness in dealing with the Iranians.”

“You’re right, Jack, perception is nine-tenths of the law.”

Sandy added, “People don’t know what’s really going on and we’re not able to tell them.”

“Speaking of perception,” moving my finger back and forth between Sandy and myself.
 

“This isn’t what you might think, Tip. We’re really close friends and I rely on her for…”

Tip interjected, “Everybody has friends. Speaking only for myself, I would walk through fire for you. Don’t ever feel you have to worry about me.”

Sandy’s eyes widened as she explained, “Jack has a vulnerable quality women love.”

Tip stood up slowly, shaking his head, he motioned to excuse himself and left, closing the door quietly behind him.
 

Sandy laid her head back down on my chest, “Wow, he has the sensitivity of a mole rat. I’m going to have a heart to heart with Lisa and ask her to keep a close eye out for you. Too many women will try to throw themselves at you.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Sarah and I stayed up late talking about the plans; she had great ideas and I loved how she thought quickly on her feet. All these years, she was always my closest confidant. My favorite place was at home with her. We always laughed and loved our time together. Sarah was also a good mother. ‘Jack,’ she’d say, ‘I’ll take the girls out of school a few days before break and bring their tutors along, so they don’t miss any studies.’ I could lose track of the kids sometimes, but Sarah made sure they had everything they needed, even when I forgot. She was like my mom in that way.
 

During the evening I explained, “Our message needs a side story about the lackluster press to play along with it, the basic idea on its own isn’t that exciting.”
 

Sarah said, “I’ll play it to the hilt up there. Think of it, reporters ask why the girls and I are in New Hampshire? I’ll tell them we summer in Maine and we’re here doing a little Christmas shopping. When they get to the real question, Mrs. Canon, is your husband running? I’ll give them this,” Sarah gave her best Jackie Kennedy impression, “Oh, I don’t know if my husband is running. I wouldn’t mind, I think the country needs him.” We laughed.
 

“Honey, we’re going to run the press around in circles. We only want one major there and maybe a couple of locals. We’ve decided to tell the press the speech is in Lexington at the William T. Young Library, on the campus of the University of Kentucky. Meanwhile, we’ll be on the front steps of Georgetown College, 25 minutes away.”

Sarah said, still doing Jackie, “Jack, how wonderful! Right in front of those charming white pillars, perfect.”

“Honey, I love it when you do that! When the press finally catches up with us, we’ll give out the complete speech and all the details of our energy plan to take back and tell their editors they got it.”
 

“That’s good. Some things should be read and not said; the details of that energy plan are pretty dull.”

“The sizzle will be the story I’ll tell about how nobody in the press showed up to cover us.”

“The public will be incensed.”

“Carter did it! Imagine, a couple local reporters meet with common man Jimmy, in the rain, on little Main Street in Iowa. Honey, nobody gave the guy enough credit, he was a genius.”
 

Sarah said, “Remember the malaise thing? It was poetry, he put on a sweater and blamed the American people and we believed him.”

“You’re right, the country felt depressed watching the guy. He told us if we’d been more positive, interest rates wouldn’t have been eighteen percent!”

Sarah laughed, “Your mother called today and asked us to Thanksgiving at the ranch. I told her we’d love to come, but to have your dad call you to be sure about your schedule.”
 

“How do you feel about that? Are you up for it, or would you rather stay here in Alexandria?”

“We should go down to Kentucky for Thanksgiving, but when your dad calls you, you have to tell him we’d like to have it over at our place. It will show better for the press. Your dad will understand. Your parent’s ranch will make you look too elitist and out of touch.”

I thought about what she was saying, the colonel’s ranch had 22 large windows stacked 11 per floor and eight white pillars each two feet thick across the front. My father made no apologies for living well. The main house was over 9,000 square feet with barns and outbuildings sitting in perfect white brilliance, behind a twenty acre manicured lawn. He’d built a half-mile long, tree and four-post fence- lined drive leading up to the house. She was definitely right - his over the top consumption was as conspicuous as though he had billions, not millions.
 

Sarah continued, “Anyway, our place is much cozier.”

I said, “That’s one of the things I love about you, you’re always right. We can’t be filmed anywhere near that place until after the election.”
 

“Have you been working on your stump speech?” Sarah asked, sounding tired.

“Yep, we’ve got a team of good writers working on it, so far it’s pretty good. We meet to work on it every morning. Want to hear the first line?”
 

Sarah said, “Sure.”
 

“Americans are called to freedom,” I spoke it like an orator. Punchy and tired she giggled. Then, turning to her side closing her eyes, “I love it, Jack.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

I must have been exhausted because it was the first night in a long time I slept completely through the night. In the morning, my cell phone rang. I always kept it on the nightstand under my lamp beside the bed.
 

Still groggy, I wanted whoever was calling to know they had woken me the hell up, “Hel… lo.”
 

The voice on the other end had obviously been up for hours. Sounding like he’d had too much coffee, “Jack, your mother and I would like you and the girls to come down to the ranch for Thanksgiving. How about it, Son?”
 

My father, Theodore James Canon, nicknamed the Colonel, not because of any military service, it was a fond name his friends called him. Partly in fun, he lived in Kentucky and partly because he owned five thousand acres there. The colonel was 79 years old and had the beginnings of dimentia, though only close family knew it. He’d been bound to a wheelchair the last few years. Suffering from severe arthritis, he could stand only briefly, sometimes in stabbing pain.
 

Other than the chair, the Colonel looked great for a man his age. He had thick white hair, a neatly trimmed mustache, shiny blue eyes, and always a happy smile. His big worn and nicotine stained teeth only added to his charm. My dad had nothing to complain about. He married his high school sweetheart, Mabel Warren, made a fortune in business, and now in retirement, raised prized thoroughbred racehorses.

My mother, Mabel Warren could trace her roots back to the Mayflower, the Colonel loved that fact, and Mom was a proud member of the Daughters of the Revolution. Mom grew up in Boothbay Harbor, Maine, along the seacoast; it was there she met Dad. Three years younger than the Colonel, they met at a dance put on by her church when she was only a freshman in high school. Mabel was still a beautiful woman, healthy and strong. She was so proud to be the mother of the Senator from Kentucky.
 

Theodore Canon had been a bit of a handful for his parents. To keep him out of trouble, the family bought a can company in Portland, Maine. Dad began canning precooked meat at the suggestion of a military man who visited his office to ask if he could help Uncle Sam with the war effort. Always having a keen business sense, once the supply chain was locked, he raised prices every chance he could, factoring in renovations and new equipment. Cost-plus, the military called it, made my father rich.

A Portland attorney worked it all out so everything was basically legal. Once the factory was at its peak, Dad realizing the war was waning, sold out to Northern Can Company. When the war ended, Northern closed the factory, blaming lackluster sales. By that time, my dad was long gone and had purchased the start of what would be his ranch in Kentucky, the Bluegrass State, where I was born.
 

No one ever blamed him for the factory closing. When our family owned the can company it was humming along - the military contract being a cost-plus deal, made Dad look like a hero to the locals. When the military contract ended, the people of Portland blamed Northern for bad management. The press was relentless in its criticisms of the company. The empty shell sits there today, across from South Portland, and the oil tanks along the Fore River. Water has crept in and caused the bricks to crumble around the edges; the buildings are no longer safe or usable for anything.

My official address for voting purposes is Kentucky. Sarah and I own a light yellow southern colonial with four thick white pillars spaced across an open front porch with a glossy gray floor. The Colonel built us the place at the southeast corner of his ranch. Sarah flies down to decorate the house to the nines for Christmas - to the delight of friendly local media who are eager to film the once a year happy story. It’s the highlight of a reporter’s career to land an invitation to this event.
 

The grounds, the lights, the holiday spreads, Sarah lays everything out so beautifully. Kentuckians adore her. She makes gift bags for everyone who visits and writes personal thank you notes. She makes a point to stay in touch with reporters who do a favorable story. Christmas and holidays are really the only time the girls ever stay in Kentucky - after all, they were both born in Alexandria Virginia, which is where we call home.
 

We live a few miles from Pentagon City, where Joe Brenner set us up in the new campaign headquarters. The girls spend most the year in school in Alexandria, but we try to get up to Maine for the summers at Sebago Lake.
 

It’s relaxing up there. I can put on a pair of sunglasses and Boston Red Sox baseball cap and go anywhere in the Portland Area, unrecognized. I fly right into the Portland Jetport, then take a car I keep there and head to the lake to be with Sarah and the girls.
 

I love to drive fast up Route 302, a holdover from my time as an A-10 Warthog pilot with the Air Guard. I remember one time, in particular, I was stopped by the Maine State Police for reckless driving. The trooper told me he clocked me at over 100 miles per hour in a 55.

The officer took a slow walk up to the car, “Sir, license and registration.”

I answered, “Sure.”

In as condescending a tone as I’ve ever heard, “Did you realize you were driving over one hundred miles per hour?”

“Sorry, trying to get home to see the kids.”

“Give me the keys from the ignition, you won’t be going anywhere but jail tonight. Don’t get any bright ideas either, I have backup on the way. Believe me, you don’t want the trouble.”

He was right about that, I was tired and wanted to get home. I reached into the glove box, then handed him my license, registration, and keys.

I said, “You’re right, officer, I don’t want any trouble with the
Windham
Police.”

He corrected me, “State Police,” and mumbled something taking my keys and paperwork back to the squad car. Moments later, returning to my window rather quickly, he gave me my paperwork and keys, speaking apologetically.

“Oh, Senator Canon, I am so sorry for my mistake. I really hope you can realize I didn’t know it was you. It’s late and dark and I didn’t recognize the car. My sergeant wants me to be sure to tell you - in the future - he would personally like to arrange escort if you need it, or happen to be in a hurry, and also he would like to apologize on behalf…”

I cut him off, “Listen, Son, I understand you’re only doing your job and a good job at that. It’s my fault I can’t seem to keep this lead foot off the gas, not yours. Tell your sergeant I said everything is okay, and to forget it and I mean that, to forget it.”
 

Sounding relieved, “Thank you, Sir. It’s an honor to meet you, and I’m sorry for the circumstances. By the way, my sergeant told me you were probably running for president.”
 

“We’ll see, Son, have a good night.”

I hit the pedal all the way to the floor and tore off in the black 63 corvette, the only year Chevy made it with the split rear window. I had dropped the 350 and replaced it with the faster 409 engine. I burned a lot of rubber leaving only a cloud of smoke. I passed three more cruisers, blue lights flashing, still on their way to the scene, hitting 110 as I passed through Raymond. One trooper even started to turn around, siren blaring, but then his lights turned off and all was quiet.
 

By then it was three o’clock in the morning and the roads were empty except for the cops I passed. I respect the police and would never cause a working man any problems. The trooper was a regular guy trying to make a living and support a family. I’m all about helping these guys fight against the big money that makes their lives so hard.
 

Nothing like the Colonel, he had a cop’s leg broken once to keep him from showing up in court. Mom was coming home from a party one night when she was young. After dropping off a few girlfriends, she was picked up for drunk driving. The cops who brought her back to the station were a bit rough with her. The Colonel was so pissed he hired some Portland thugs to rough up the cop who arrested her - enough to scare him into skipping court, dismissing the case against Mom. The men the Colonel hired went too far and broke both the cop’s legs. He never made it to court. Lucky for me no one ever traced the incident to the Colonel. If that kind of thing ever got out it could cause a lot of trouble. The Colonel had a few other skeletons, mostly land grabbing, but nothing that ever stuck.