Power Curve (5 page)

That was 1938
, Bender thought.
Haven’t we learned anything in sixty-three years?

Overmeyer was back in tight control, binding his emotions with an iron-hard clamp. “When Roberts died of a cerebral hemorrhage, he really left Turner with a headache.”

“Sir,” Bender said, “I honestly don’t think President Turner knows a thing about this.”

“We agree on that,” Charles told him.

“That makes anything I tell her about the Far East misleading,” Bender replied.

Overmeyer threw the remnants of his cigar into a waste can. “Correct. And that’s the problem.” He stood and walked to the door. “I want you to tell her.” He stared at Bender. “And then I want you out of the White House. Dead or alive.”

Washington, D.C.

The door to Robert Bender’s small office was open. His coat was off as he sat at his desk trying to create a meaningful briefing on China for Madeline Turner. But he was drowning in the shear mass of information the Pentagon had thrown at him. It was too much, and he changed direction, outlining a new briefing book for the president.
The first step is to hitch the horse to the cart
, he thought. He personally doubted if Turner would ever see the briefing book or, for that matter, him once the briefing was over. That outcome didn’t bother him, and as he had told Nancy the night before, “I was looking for a job when I found this one.”

A “Hi” caught his attention, and he looked up to see Sarah Turner standing in the doorway. “May I come in?” the ten-year-old girl asked.

He waved to the only chair. “Sure. But it’s not very comfortable.” Sarah stepped inside and crawled onto the straight-back chair. She was wearing light blue warm-ups with white running shoes. But instead of the presidential logo on the embroidered name tag, it only said Brat.
She’s a prototype of her mother with blond hair
, he thought,
and is going to be a beautiful teenager
. “What brings you down here?”

She slumped back in the chair and kicked her feet back and forth, the unhappy gesture of a little girl. “Just looking around.”

A Secret Service agent walked by, a rarity in that part of the basement, and smiled when he saw Sarah. “Please leave the door open,” he told Bender before he retreated down the hall. Bender saw him raise his left wrist and speak into his whisper mike. Sarah looked even more unhappy.

A warm smile spread across his face, and he remembered when Laurie was young. “Looking for the place?”

Sarah nodded. Like many ten-year-olds, she needed a hiding place where she could find refuge from the cares and traumas of being a little girl growing up. A niche that was hers only and safe from the prying eyes of adults.

“It’s going to be hard in the White House,” he told her. “But I bet your grandmother could help.”

“Grams,” Sarah said, fuming. “She doesn’t let me get away with anything. The ushers talk to her and tell her everything. They’re afraid of my mom but not Grams. Everybody talks to her.”

“That’s life,” Bender said. “But you’ve got the inside track. Your grandmother loves you.”

That cheered her up, and she stopped kicking. “Mom’s going on a big trip over Labor Day, but I’m not going. Maybe me and Grams can find a place then.”

“Lots of places to hide down here,” Bender said.

The little girl gave him a serious look. “Why don’t you like my mom?”

Are my feelings that obvious?
Bender thought. He did not like the president, but then, he did not totally dislike her. So what was the problem? He was brutally honest with himself. His was a male-dominated, elitist world, and now women, like Madeline Turner, were shaking that world to its foundations. He did not object to change, but he was extremely reluctant to tinker with a system that had been tested in combat and worked. However, social equality was not in the equation, and his standards of success hinged on mission accomplishment, combat effectiveness, and low casualties in that order. But how could he explain that to an outsider, much less a little girl?

“Do you like your teacher?” he asked. She nodded.
You probably like all your teachers
, he thought,
because you’re a perfect kid and the teachers love you
. “But what about your principal?”

“I don’t know her.”

“Who enforces the rules at school, I mean, really swings the big bat?”

Sarah smiled, liking the image of her principal with a baseball bat. “The principal, I guess.”

“So how do you act around your principal?”

“Everyone is very polite, and we never talk when she’s around.”

“Does that mean you don’t like her?” he asked. She shook her head. “Your mother,” Bender continued, “is like my principal.”

That satisfied the little girl, and she changed the subject. “Why do you like airplanes?”

“Oh, boy—”

“Shouldn’t you say ‘Oh, girl’?” she interrupted.

For the first time since he had been in the White House, Bender laughed heartily. “You are absolutely right. Oh, girl, that’s a hard one to answer.” How could he explain to a child his love of flying? The attraction of the machines? The challenge? The unparalleled sense of freedom and being in control? The sheer beauty of breaking out on top of clouds to meet a crystal blue sky? The sense of peace?

“Airplanes, especially jet fighters, are beautiful things and fun to fly,” he said.

“Mom says jet fighters and bombers are killing machines.”

“They can he used for that, but no one I know wants to.”

“Could you shoot another plane down?”

“If I had to, yes.” He wasn’t about to tell her that he had shot down an Iraqi MiG in the 1991 Gulf War and watched the pilot fall to his death when he ejected too low to the ground. “But I don’t want to.”

“My brother, Brian, wants to go to the Air Force Academy and be a fighter pilot. But Mom says she’s not going to let the military kill her son.” Bender didn’t know how to answer that one. “Do you have a son?” Sarah asked.

He held up a single finger. “We have a daughter.”

“Oh. Girls don’t have to fly, do they?”

He smiled. “No, they don’t.”
But kids have a way of growing up different from what parents want
, he thought.

“See you,” Sarah said, flouncing out of the office.

The Secret Service agent walked by, following her. He stopped and nodded at Bender. “The kid’s all over the place,” he said.

“Say,” Bender replied, “I haven’t seen Chuck Sanford or Wayne Adams around lately. What happened to them?”

The agent looked around to be sure they were alone. “You didn’t hear this from me. They’ve been relieved and are looking at an administrative firing.”

Bender’s eyes narrowed. “Shaw?” he asked. The agent
only looked at him. “Because of what happened at St. Louis when I told Turner the president was dead?” The agent grunted an answer and disappeared down the hall.

Bender leaned back in his chair, thinking. He’d have to do something about that. Another thought came to him. He knew why Madeline O’Keith Turner hated the military.

Washington, D.C.

T
he butler hovered behind the two women and little girl, ready to be of instant service. He liked the easy and warm family atmosphere that enveloped him when they ate breakfast, and of all the families he had waited on in over thirty years of service in the White House, he liked this one the best. He even liked the children, Brian and Sarah. But without a doubt, the little girl was his favorite.
If you’re going to be a princess
, he thought,
you’ve got to start young
. And this one was going to be a princess.

“Mr. William,” Sarah said, concerned about his welfare, “when do you eat breakfast?”

A warm smile spread across his dark face. “I eat in the kitchen mess early in the morning, Miss Sarah. Right after I come to work.”

“Why can’t you eat with us?”

“Well, thank you,” he said, “but my job is to see that you get a hot breakfast. We all gotta do what’s expected of us.”

Madeline Turner smiled at the man. “Thank you, William.” He keyed on that and withdrew, leaving them alone.

“I don’t like having servants,” Sarah announced. “It doesn’t seem fair.”

“They’re helpers, not servants,” Maura O’Keith told her. “They help your mother by doing little things so she
is free to do the big, important things. You and me get helped because we’re here with your mother.”

“Your Grams is right, Sarah,” Turner said. “I couldn’t be president without people like William. He knows that and is proud of what he does. Now hurry up, or you’ll be late for school.”

“I’ll go with her,” Maura said, standing up.

“Thanks, Mother.” Turner stood up and glanced at her watch: 7:20. She had forty minutes to herself, a precious forty minutes of quiet before the day exploded around her. But she was honest with herself and admitted she loved the hustle and constant activity, the stream of people who surrounded her and never left her alone.

William was waiting outside in the corridor, familiar with her morning routine. He followed her into the study pushing a tea cart with a carafe of fresh coffee. Turner settled into her corner on the couch while he poured a cup. “William, what did you do over Labor Day?”

“We had a family reunion at my brother’s place in Bethesda,” he answered. “Quite a gathering, everyone was there.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Mostly you, ma’am. Of course, I didn’t say much. I never do.” It was the truth. It was easier to get information out of the CIA than the White House’s household staff. William fussed over the tea cart for a moment. “I did tell them about Sarah and the way she prowls around the mansion, trying to hide from the Secret Service and driving them crazy. I hope I didn’t overstep my bounds.”

Turner smiled. “You know the bounds better than I do, William.” Again, that was the truth, and he would never say anything bad about the first family. Further, Turner was certain the reserved and proper African-American would never talk to the press, and if members of his family did pass on charming little tidbits about the first family, so much the better. “I appreciate your honesty. Did they talk about any major political issues?”

William understood exactly what Turner was doing. The White House was an institution that could swallow up and isolate a president. He had seen it many times and knew that Madeline Turner needed a window to the world. And
she had chosen him to be one. But Patrick Shaw had warned the entire staff about talking to her alone. And he had also seen that before. Access to the president of the United States was power.

But he was eligible for retirement, and it hurt to get out of bed on cold, early mornings. “Mostly they talked about jobs, Madam President. There’s a lot of unemployed or underemployed people out there. They don’t want welfare, they want good jobs. Ones that allow them to raise a family.”

She nodded. William had confirmed what she had sensed during her Labor Day trip. “Thank you. Please don’t tell anyone what we talked about. If Mr. Shaw questions you, tell him I asked what you did over the holiday.”

“Yes, ma’am,” William replied.
Indeed, I will
, he thought as he left and closed the door behind him.

Shaw bumped into William thirty minutes later outside the family kitchen on the second floor. “What did you talk about this morning?” Shaw asked. The tone of his voice was warm and friendly.

“The president asked what I did over the holiday,” William answered, his voice stiff and formal. “I told her we had a family reunion at my brother’s.”

“Was that all?”

“She did thank me for the coffee,” William answered.

Shaw’s tone never changed. “That had damn well better be all you talked about or your ass will be on the streets.”

“She does expect an answer to her questions, Mr. Shaw.”

“And I want to know what the questions are,” he said. He took the few steps down to Turner’s private study and checked his watch. Jackie Winters, Turner’s superefficient personal assistant, was already there with the black leather organizer that was the center of her life. For the rest of the day, Jackie would shadow Turner wherever she went, waiting outside in corridors or at her own desk, never more than a few steps away. Jackie Winters was a mouse by appearance and trade, but she was fiercely protective of Turner and would willingly take a bullet for her.

At exactly eight o’clock, Shaw knocked twice and entered. Jackie was right behind him. The day had started.

Shaw sat down opposite Turner and handed her the day’s schedule while Jackie retreated to a chair in a far corner. Shaw counted to three—she had read the schedule—and handed her the President’s Daily Brief, the slickly printed summary of the best intelligence the CIA could produce. She read the twelve-page document in less than three minutes. He handed her a list of people she would be meeting, complete with a short one-paragraph biography on those she didn’t know. He counted to twenty on this one. Then he handed her an action list, items that needed a decision in the near future. At the top of the list was the selection of a new vice president. She glanced at it and looked up.

“Patrick, I want to take a new direction.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He didn’t like the tone in her voice.

“Over Labor Day, I got the sense that economic conditions are worse than we thought.”

“Our statistics are pretty accurate, Mizz President.”

She took off her reading glasses. “Once, during a senate committee hearing in California, I had to listen to a group of Ph.D.s from the university. They were trying to sell a high-powered study on welfare reform based on statistics and economic projections. Then I discovered that not one of them had ever met a welfare recipient.”

Shaw smiled. “I can put our statisticians in the streets.”

“Not the streets, Patrick. I want them and their bosses in the employment offices talking to the people who are looking for work.” She paused for effect. “We’re going to create an employment program.”

“Hard to do, Mizz President, without expanding government handouts.”

“Not handouts. And I’m not talking about creating a generation of hamburger flippers either. I want meaningful, well-paid jobs.”

“How do you propose we do that, Mizz President?”

“We’re going to overhaul the tax system from the top down with the bottom line being productivity and jobs.”

Shaw was seldom at a loss for words, but he was now. “Ah, ah, that’s been tried before. Didn’t work, upset too many personal manure wagons.” He glanced at his watch,
anxious to get out of this conversation. “Your staff meeting is in—”

“Ten minutes,” Turner said. “Tax reform is not going to happen overnight, but start working on it. Today. I want background on my desk by this afternoon. We’ve got three years to make a difference.” Jackie made a note in her organizer. The material would be delivered as ordered. Turner stood and walked to the door. “And Patrick, I asked for a briefing on the Far East. What happened to it?”

“I’ll check on it, ma’am.” He followed her out as Jackie made another note.
What’s this three years crap?
he thought.
What happened to the next election? This is what I get for working with amateurs. They always want to do the right thing
.

Shaw’s blunt fingers beat a relentless tattoo on his desk as assistants darted in and out of his office, minimizing their exposure time to his anger, as they hurried to build a background file on tax reform. The West Wing was buzzing with rumors, but no one knew what or who had sent Patrick Flannery Shaw into a towering rage. At one point, he chased Alice Fay, his secretary, out of his office with, “I’d rather be a hooker than own a politician. The hooker gets to spit it out afterward.”

That outburst provided the clue Alice Fay needed about the who behind his anger. But it wasn’t worth her job to talk about it.

“Get me Bender,” he shouted to the vacant doorway.

Almost immediately Alice Fay answered, “General Bender is on line 1.”

“In person,” Shaw shouted back. He wanted real meat to chew. Within moments, Bender was in his office. “What happened to the briefing you were preparing for the president?” he asked, his voice not betraying what he felt.

“The slides and briefing book are being prepared and will be ready this afternoon,” Bender replied.

Shaw heard the answer, but he wasn’t really listening. His mind was still working the problem Madeline Turner had laid on him that morning. The more he thought about
it, the worse it got. Meaningful tax reform would kill her politically. There were too many powerful interests behind the current system, and they would take her down along with anyone standing too close—like Patrick Shaw. For Shaw, there was only one constant in his life: power. He savored it like a junkie on a heroin rush or an alcoholic when the first shot hits bottom. Of all the addictions, his was the least curable—he was a power freak—and he wasn’t about to sacrifice all that he had attained over a hare-brained scheme that was political suicide.

“You sure it will be ready—when?” Shaw asked.

“This afternoon,” Bender repeated. “Anytime after 1400 hours.” He would have to call General Charles, the Air Force chief of staff, and have the chairman, General Overmeyer, approve the briefing soonest. But it could be done.

“Good. Be ready when I call. We’ll do it in the Situation Room. The president has never used it before.”

“Do you want to review the script or the briefing book first?” Bender asked.

Again, what Bender was saying didn’t register. “Gawddammit! Just be ready.”

“I’d suggest the national security advisor and the secretary of state be there,” Bender said.

Shaw’s grunt was unintelligible. Bender spun around and retreated out the door. “Leave the door open, sir?” he asked.

Shaw ignored him and went back to work on the hard problem. The implications of what she was proposing were staggering.
What a load of shit!
he thought.
Basing a tax system on productivity and jobs! Maybe I can divert her attention away from this tax reform business. I’ve saved her from herself before. But if I can’t, it’s time to get out of Dodge
.

Jesus H. Christ
, he moaned to himself.
How the hell do I get out of Dodge and still stay alive in this town?

The Marine sentry unlocked the door to the Situation Room in the basement of the West Wing. He flicked on the lights and stood back for Bender to enter. It was not a large room, perhaps twenty by fifteen feet in size, and
contained a conference table and comfortable chairs. Sliding doors on the paneled walls could roll back to reveal maps, video displays, or the big screen at the far end. But other than that, it was totally devoid of the electronic gadgets and telecommunications as portrayed by the movies and TV. What was impressive, however, was the communications array in the comm center a few steps down the hall.

“I’ll need to use the thirty-five-millimeter slide projector,” Bender said.

“I’ll set it up for you,” the Marine said.

“You better let me do it,” Bender said. “Believe me, your clearance doesn’t go high enough.”

The Marine unlocked the projection room behind the big screen and waited outside while Bender loaded the slides into the projector. He cycled through the slides to make sure they were properly reversed so the audience could read them from the backside of the screen. The Marine relocked the room when Bender came out. “I’ll restrict access,” he assured the general.

Bender returned to the Situation Room, plugged in the projector’s remote control, and ran the slides—a double check of the slides and the projector. He was a very methodical man, willing to rely on others to do the small, critical jobs that ultimately made the system work. But if he had to, he could do it himself. And sometimes, he wanted to. Finally, he sat the blue briefing book on the table in front of the president’s chair and retreated to his spot beside the screen where he would give the briefing. He sat down and stared at the briefing book as he mentally rehearsed the words he would say. This wasn’t what he had in mind when he joined the Air Force.

He closed his eyes and for a few moments, he was back in the cockpit of an F-16 high above the earth, free and alone. Now he was back with the Thunderbirds, lined up on the runway, quickly going through the cockpit checks. Then Thunderbird’s lead voice over the UHF radio. “Cockpit check.”

The quick response from each pilot that he was ready to go. “One.”—“Two.”—“Three.”—“Four.”—“Five.”—“Six.”

Always a short laugh from the lead. “Thunderbirds, let’s run ’em up.” And the show was on.

“Smoke on.” He was blasting through the show box and spiraling high into the sky, reaching, always reaching, pushing the limits, striving for the perfect show, trusting his teammates, sure that they would be there for him.

Turner’s voice brought him back to the present. “Disturbing your nap, Robert?”

He looked up and felt his face blush. “Only daydreaming, Madam President.” She was smiling at him from the doorway. Bender came to his feet in a rush as she walked in. He was back in control and standing quietly, his hands folded in front of him, holding the remote control and laser pointer.