At Risk of Winning (The Max Masterson Series Book 1) (13 page)

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ChAPTER ThIRTY-ThREE

The Democratic and Republican parties have dominated American politics since the mid-1800s. With the exception of a few popular but disgruntled party regulars who ran on a third-party ticket to make a point, the idea of a third-party candidate advancing beyond the primaries was a thought that bordered on delusional. But run they did and with all of the enthusiasm of the front-runners. There is something honorable and uniquely American for someone without a prayer of winning, to try to win. In exceptional situations, they tried more than once, and became a part of history.

Warren Blythe’s party had no need to oust the previous administration from office. They did that on their own, without any help. For the four years that they occupied the White house, public opinion polls sank to new lows. Inflation was high and so were interest rates. The housing market became stagnant. Nobody was buying, and in the unlikely event that a prospective purchaser had the wherewithal to come up with a down payment, the banks were crawling out of the mortgage business. The war in the Middle East was a quagmire of occupation in Iraq, Iran, Turkey, Pakistan, and Afghanistan. Terrorist activity in those nations and throughout the Middle East threatened the Saudi royal family and the Pakistani government, which the United States had vowed to protect.

Blythe ran on the promise of fixing everything that was wrong with government. he chose as vice president Arkansas Governor Justin Case, and they packaged themselves as outsiders who were going to “go in there and fix Washington from the ground up.” Within days of taking office, the new administration had broken six of their major campaign promises, and Blythe began a misinformation campaign designed to convince the American people that all of those policies had already been in place, and it was up to Congress to fix them. After four years in Washington, the Blythe administration was mired in a malaise of inaction. Worse than life inside the Beltway, though, was the utter paralysis felt by the rest of the country.

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ChAPTER ThIRTY-FOUR

There will never be a pundit who can accurately predict what will happen when a powerful group of influence peddlers spends tons of money promoting their public face to promote their goals. That’s really what big-time politics is all about. We spend lots of money to put our person in the highest office in the land so that our ideals are the ideals of the nation.

In this race, the pundits were convinced by the polls before the debate that the incumbent was never going to be challenged in a big way, and that the president had a secure seat for his second term. When an incumbent seeks a second term, he runs on experience, a quality which he holds uniquely. The only other legitimate claims to experience are held by former presidents, although mayors, governors, and business leaders try to hang that tag onto themselves. But as Ronald Reagan astutely observed, the reality is that the best leaders are not found in government or private industry would lure them away.

Max sat with Luke Postlewaite in the comfort of the den, but Luke wasn’t seated for long. The lesson had been going for twenty minutes, and when Luke was in professorial mode, he paced like a man possessed by demons. he raved as he paced. “You can’t just run for president. There are certain prerequisites. First of all, you need to be at least thirty-five years old. That’s the only reason you can run this time around, my boy.”

Postlewaite strode toward the massive bookcase that occupied every inch of one wall of the den. Although most libraries had been reduced to a small personal database that was accessible electronically from any location, the senator had chosen paper hardcover books to provide him with wisdom that was untraceable. Pulling a gilded edition of the United States Constitution from its confines, he flipped immediately to article two. “The Founding Fathers decided that once a man becomes old, he becomes wise, and back then, most people died by the time they were forty. Three hundred years ago, you were an old man.”

Max chuckled and quickly became serious again as he tried to place his mind in the harsh world occupied by ancestors who were constantly confronted with predators, disease, and war.

“Read the rules, Max. They have been the same for generations. We haven’t fiddled with the Constitution since the electoral college was abolished, and the popular vote is the only reason people like you and Scarlett Conroy have any chance of getting elected president.”

“Luke, what does this have to do with me becoming president? I appreciate the history lesson, but I have to get to the office to go over that sound bite that Andrew and Bill have been working on, and . . .”

Postlewaite glared at Max, his bushy white eyebrows narrowed over piercing grey eyes. Max knew enough to stop talking and start listening.

”Next, you must be a natural-born American.” Postlewaite was
AT RISK OF WINNING

trying to make a point, and his candidate was going to heed his words if he had to strap him into his chair. “Again, the Founding Fathers didn’t want some foreigner coming to this country and taking over. The danger you face today, Max, is that our enemies don’t have to set foot on American soil to harm us. All they need to do is tinker with our economy, make us dependent on them, and then pull the plug. We are in a state of constant war to preserve the American way of life,” he declared in a shaky baritone.

Max stroked his chin, realizing that the pause in his lesson would be brief.
When Postlewaite was convinced he had covered the subject, he moved on. “The last trait of essence to become the most powerful politician in the world is the ability to persuade. This quality is the most important, and without it, a candidate can be too rich, oh so American, old enough, and still lose the election. The president of the United States must be able to stand in front of any group of voters and convince.”
Max absorbed the words and pondered their meaning. Luke instinctively knew when to talk and when to wait. If he moved on before Max signified he understood, the point of the message would be lost. Finally, Max nodded. “It is irrelevant what your political platform is or whether you actually believe the rhetoric generated by your campaign advisors. You are the spokesperson, the mouthpiece, the person who engenders trust. Americans need to believe in the image of the one they choose to lead.”
Postlewaite was spry for his age. Jumping up from his chair, he strode confidently toward the senator’s liquor cabinet, confident that his student was reaching the end of his studies. Extracting his favorite brandy from its reserved location, he deftly mixed himself a drink as he had done hundreds of times before. he took a long sip and continued. “There is a fourth trait that defies logic. It’s petty and never discussed openly by your handlers, but in private, they obsess about it. It’s ‘The Look.’ A presidential candidate must look like a president. Take presidential debates for example; the advance team spends weeks before the debate negotiating the height of the podium, the temperature of the room, when the candidates shake hands, what camera angles are most flattering to the candidate’s image, and the color of the lights that illuminate their faces during the broadcast. Over time, that look has changed. And Max,” he concluded, “you have ‘The Look.’”

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ChAPTER ThIRTY-FIVE

From the Oval Office, the view was magnificent. As many times as he had seen Washington from his pillar of power, Blythe never grew complacent about what that view symbolized. From the safety of the security-enhanced Plexiglas front window, he could look across the tidal basin, past the Washington monument, and see the distant profile of Thomas Jefferson seated in the Jefferson Memorial. he had survived most of his first term intact, and despite last year’s “Bimbo attacks” by his political adversaries, the president was secure . . . at least for the foreseeable future. The public opinion polls gave him a 41% rating, not as good as his rating before the latest blow-up in the Middle East, but the best since his infidelities became the subject du jour for the press to focus upon.

When the scandal became public, he took the advice of his closest aides and went on the attack, forcing his opponents to acknowledge that they, too, had secrets to hide. The Senate minority leader was delivered a dossier on the sex lives of five Ways and Means Committee members, three from the Judiciary Committee, and two from Finance. Within days, his opposition dissolved. The press turned its attention to abortion, education, and health-care reform. If my marriage hasn’t hit rock bottom because of the disclosures, certainly the American people will ignore them in the next election, he thought.

Sitting before the president were Presidential Advisor Ted Schoolcraft, Party Chairman Richard Portman, and White house Chief of Staff Roscoe Walsh. As the president blew cigar smoke against the armored glass of the Oval Office, Schoolcraft poured bourbon from a cut- glass decanter that had occupied the Oval Office since Grant’s administration. “I never stop thinking that ol’ U.S. poured his drinks from the same bottle. Things are more complicated now.” Schoolcraft spoke to nobody in particular, and nobody responded. Regardless, he kept talking. “We need to look like it’s a done deal. I don’t want to spend two seconds on these guys. You just need to sit back and let them chew on each other until after the primaries, then just act presidential. You can coast through this preliminary campaign on your approval ratings, and then we’ll see how you look after they get done bashing each other. We can focus on the front-runners and get ready to attack with what we have on them after we know who we’re dealing with.”

Portman took the pause as his opportunity to float his opinion. “I get nervous when we don’t act proactively. We have more money in our campaign chest than anyone out there, and we need to start doing some cozy ads that get people to warm up to you, Mr. President.”

Blythe ignored the advice of his party chairman and continued to gaze at the pink spring display of the cherry trees lining Pennsylvania Avenue. his mind was never really in the room, absorbed in the thought that his legacy would be intact for another four years. he turned and addressed his three advisors. “I want this thing to go off

AT RISK OF WINNING

without a hitch. From what I’ve seen, my competition looks like they were recruited from Clown College, and I want to keep it that way. Brief me.”

They took his request as a call to attention, and they all stood. These men were referred to by the press as the president’s spin doctors. They were his most trusted advisors and had direct access not only to the Oval Office, but to the offices of corporate heads and leaders throughout the world as well. The topic for discussion was the reelection campaign of Warren hudson Blythe, president of the United States, and it was, in their minds, their sole purpose in life.

Portman had just finished informing the group that the frontrunner, Representative Bob Cunningham of Massachusetts, had raised ten million dollars in contributions, making his party’s presence felt months before the primaries. In his attack ads on the president, Cunningham was the first to call for debates, and his handlers were turning up the heat.

Schoolcraft was the first to express his opinion. “Mr. President. You cannot afford to stand head to head with Cunningham in a public forum. To do so at this point would validate his candidacy and make him a sure thing for his party’s nomination. There are other candidates out there in his own party who can debate with him until they run out of things to say, but I think that you should stand behind the presidential seal and watch them duke it out.” he sat down and took another sip, savoring the smoothness of the sour mash.

Blythe turned, directing his gaze over the head of his advisors. “I can’t just sit here and do nothing. That may have worked for Nixon the second time around, but look at what happened to him.” Even though he wasn’t quite making sense, he was the president, and nobody, especially those in the room, had the balls to correct or contradict. “I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit in the White house and let the challengers take potshots at me.”

Walsh waited for a pause in the conversation. When it came, he injected his views. “Sir, the only way you are going to get through this election and stay in office is to attack. If you don’t get out there and mix it up with the opposition, every sound bite, every news clip, every editorial will be filled with their faces, their words, their voices—”

The president interrupted. ”how the hell do I face off with Cunningham without strengthening his shot at the presidency? If I open my mouth too soon, he might rocket to the top in the polls, and I’ll have a real battle on my hands.”

Seconds turned into minutes. Schoolcraft broke the silence by rising out of his chair. As he poured yet another bourbon, he spoke quietly. “I may just be paranoid, but if you’re going to debate, you may as well debate every lunatic who is running for president. Then, it’ll be you against them. From what I’ve heard, you can make a great showing by letting them pick each other off. We can prescreen all of the questions and structure the debate so that nobody gets an opportunity to address you directly. Remember Clinton, Perot, and Bush one? Clinton came out of it looking presidential, Perot got his licks in on the Republicans, and Bush tired himself out by trying too hard. We can do a series of debates after the primaries, each limited to subjects we decide to debate. Until then you can issue a statement that you will attend to the pressing issues of your administration until your opposition is defined by the voters.”

“That’s what we’ll do. It’ll look like a three-ring circus, but at least I’ll be able to campaign again. Who is my competition, anyway?”

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ChAPTER ThIRTY-SIX

he was movie-star handsome. he glowed with sex appeal. he was single, and he was running for president. Most of Max’s adult life, and part of his adolescent one, were spent in the solitary pursuit of thrills. he never had to worry about holding a job or serving a tour of duty in the armed forces. The senator had seen to that. Those essential activities were meant for others. It was his single-minded goal, his job, to run for president, and he couldn’t be delayed or distracted from what he had been taught was his life’s purpose. Max was a president in training, if the truth be told, and he was comfortable with that label. After all, he had never done anything else.