The Governor's Lady (27 page)

“Fifteen minutes.”

“The Guard’s on the way,” Cooper said.

“Tell ’em to hurry!”

“They will, Carl. Everything’s going to be okay.”

Rick Jankowski was at Cooper’s elbow. “We need to get word out to the media.”

“Get ’em in here where the action is,” Wheeler said. “Let everybody see what’s happening.”

Colonel Doster’s head burrowed through the crowd. “Can’t do that. This is a secure area.”

Cooper ignored him. “If any press people need transportation, Rick, work with the Guard folks to provide it.”

“Governor,” Burgaw said, “the choppers may not be able to land when they find the bus, so I’ve had one of them pick up some folks from the ranger company in Graceville. They can rappel in from the choppers and lift the people out.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“They know what they’re doing.”

“Good. You’re way ahead of everybody on this.”

Cooper felt a hand on her elbow. She turned, and there was Woodrow.

There had been no avoiding each other over the years, especially after Pickett began his rise in state politics. It had been terribly awkward for a long time. At first, after she broke up with Woodrow, he virtually disappeared from political life, and he disappeared completely from Cooper’s.

And then, two years later, they met quite unexpectedly. The paper had sent her to cover the National Honor Society convention in the capital. En route to a speech by one of the state’s business leaders, Cooper was working her way through a hallway crowded with noisy high-schoolers when suddenly they were face to face. They both stared. Finally, he spoke her name and offered his hand, and she took it.

“How are you?” he asked.

“Okay,” she said. “I’m okay. You?”

He shrugged.

And then she managed, “What are you doing here?”

“Running for Congress.”

The congressman he had been working for had decided to retire. Woodrow, barely of legal age to serve, intended to succeed him.

“I hope you win,” she said, and knew it was genuine.

He gave her a brief attempt at a smile and disappeared into the crowd.

His campaign was a disaster, though he exhausted himself in the effort. Two wealthy and powerful opponents—a real-estate developer and a veteran legislator—joined the race, and he never had a chance. They referred to him as “the kid”—raw, inexperienced, in over his head. He finished a distant third, well out of a runoff. It took him years to repair the damage, both to his political image and, Cooper was sure, to his psyche.

Woodrow went to law school, established a practice in his hometown, dabbled in other people’s campaigns, and resumed the tedious work of rebuilding political contacts. When he emerged from his self-imposed exile, he was in his early thirties. He ran for a seat in the legislature and won. His rise in the statehouse was diligent and patient. By the end of his second term, he was chairman of the Appropriations Committee, a man known for bringing warring factions together, a pragmatic politician. He continued to work the state, building a fresh base, then ran for state treasurer and won. Along the way, he married a high-school classmate. She was nice, quiet, had a pleasant smile, stayed mostly in the background. They had no children. Now, he was in his second term as lieutenant governor. And here he was, looking almost boyish in a white cable-knit sweater, jeans, and boots, a heavy parka over one arm, flakes of snow melting around the collar.

“Plato called,” he said when it was just the two of them. He took a seat at the far end of the conference table.

“I’m glad you came,” she said, and meant it.

“What can I do to help?”

She studied him. The overeager earnestness was gone now, replaced by something more reflective. His hair was graying at the temples, and his face was more angular. If anything was left of the guile—and surely there must be, in a man who had so successfully revived a political career—he wore it well.

“How much do you know?” she asked.

“Some.”

She gave him a quick rundown and told him about putting Burgaw and the National Guard in charge.

“So that’s where we are. Ideas?”

Woodrow smiled. “I know just about everybody in the state worth knowing, right down to the lowliest member of the Water and Sewer Board in Dogpatch. So …”

The door opened, and Wheeler stuck his head in. He looked the two of them over, eyebrows raised. Cooper motioned him in. He took a seat halfway between them, crossed his arms, glanced back and forth from one to the other, sizing things up.

Cooper nodded toward Woodrow. “The lieutenant governor was just telling me he knows some guy on the Water and Sewer Board in Dogpatch.”

“And,” Woodrow added, “I was about to say I can get on the phone to all of the mayors and county commission chairs in the state to put a personal touch on the state’s efforts.”

“But it will be more efficient if we divvy up the list and both start making calls,” Cooper said quickly.

Woodrow gave her an odd look she couldn’t fathom, then said, “That’s even better.”

“Good government, good politics,” Cooper added.

Wheeler pushed his chair back, gave them a long look, and walked out without a word.

“That man can be insufferable,” Woodrow said.

Cooper smiled. “That’s why I made him my chief of staff.”

Ten seconds, and Wheeler was back. “You need to see this.”

Somehow, a television station’s helicopter had managed to get airborne and was beaming video. It filled the big screen, the image shaky and frequently breaking up. They could make out two larger, olive-drab helicopters moving fast. Everybody—Woodrow, Wheeler, Guardsmen, troopers, civilians—crowded around, riveted.

Rick was at her elbow. “Channel 7,” he said. “I don’t know how the heck they did it.”

The screen went blank, to loud groans from the room. A minute, two, five. The tension was unbearable. “Come on! Come on!” somebody pleaded.

Suddenly, the picture was back—the two National Guard helicopters hovering above an abrupt curve in a narrow, snow-clogged road. Then the camera panned to show, perhaps thirty yards off the road, a broad slash of yellow that was the rear end of the school bus, the rest of it hidden by thick underbrush and snow. And then, a short distance away, a dilapidated barn and a woman standing just outside, wildly waving her arms.

They watched, spellbound, as ropes snaked out the open doors of one of the choppers and two soldiers descended them into the snow and disappeared inside the barn. In a few minutes, they were back, carrying blanket-bundled children. After being strapped into harnesses, the kids were lifted into the chopper, followed by the driver and the two soldiers. The choppers hovered a moment longer, then flew up and away.

The command post erupted in cheering.

Cooper realized she was barely breathing. “Thank you, Lord,” she
said softly. “And you, General Burgaw.”

“Thank the guys who did it,” he said, and for the first time all day, she saw him smile.

“I will, when I pin medals on them.”

As the room settled back to business, Cooper felt the renewed energy. She took time to walk around, shake hands, pat backs, and chat briefly. She hadn’t really done anything except to be there in the middle of it with them. It seemed to be enough.

She put in a call to Carl. “Did you see it?”

“Power’s out,” he said. “But one of your folks there gave me a play-by-play.” He took a deep breath, and his voice broke. “You’re all incredible. Thank you.” He hesitated, then: “I gotta tell you, I didn’t vote for you.”

“Maybe next time,” she said with a smile.

The pressroom was packed with reporters and photographers in a hot glare of lights.

“So far,” she said, “we’ve put the priority on responding to emergencies, and I believe we’ve done a fair job of that. Now, we start digging out and getting services restored. We’ve got a long way to go. We have to help each other and be as patient as possible. I’m confident the state will do that.”

She turned the briefing over to Burgaw, who spent fifteen minutes going over details. And then she opened it up for questions.

Wheeler had warned her: Doster had tipped off Felicia Withers, who had given marching orders to a reporter from the
Dispatch
.

“When did you mobilize the National Guard?” the reporter asked.

“This morning,” Cooper said, looking the man straight in the eye.

“Not last night?”

“The National Guard was mobilized this morning. I signed the authorization at seven-thirty. Rick, do we have a copy we can hand out?”

“Yes, Governor.”

“Does that answer your question?”

“Not really,” the reporter said.

“All right, let me say this: I should have put the Guard on duty earlier. We would be in better shape if I had. That was my mistake, and I take full responsibility for it. I am proud of the Guard, state troopers, local folks—everybody who’s working to get us through this, the Guard especially. I put them in a hole, but they’re climbing out of it magnificently.”

The reporter wasn’t satisfied. “You didn’t try to call out the Guard last night?”

“I repeat,” she said, keeping her voice even, “I mobilized the National Guard this morning. I don’t know how to say it any more plainly.”

Woodrow took a couple of quick steps and joined her at the podium. “Excuse me for interrupting, but I want to say this: I admire the way Governor Lanier is handling this. It’s about as difficult a baptism of fire as I can imagine, but she’s doing just fine.”

“The lieutenant governor has been a huge help,” she said. “I value his experience and his advice.” The
Dispatch
reporter’s hand shot up again, but before he could fire off another question, she said, “Thank you all for coming. I know you’re having a difficult time covering this situation. Tell us how we can help. We’ll do the best we can.” And she walked out.

Wheeler closed the door to the conference room and stood with his back against it. “So that’s the deal.”

She gave him an arch look. “Yes, it is.”

“It was a royal screwup that put you in one helluva bind.”

“Right, Wheeler. Yes, I took the fall.”

“Why?”

“Because I got something I wanted. Pickett agreed to back off and let me do my job.”