17

MARTIN CHALMERS, Vice President of the United States, sat in the front cabin of Air Force Two. He wore a light headset and microphone attached to an open line that led to a conference room in the Executive Office Building, a gingerbread building next door to the White House.

He was alone in the front cabin by choice. He did not completely trust his traveling staff. Some were a conduit to the President's men. Unfortunately, this knowledge induced a paranoia that was counterproductive. He needed a clear head, an alertness to subtlety and nuance.

The stakes, he assured himself, were larger than mere personal ambition. Yet the dilemma was unavoidable. He was, indeed, next in line. The President was a hostage and he, the Vice President, had been, to the President's men, an outsider. Now they would consider him a usurper. The thought made him exceedingly uncomfortable.

No Vice President in history had ever been caught in such a situation. Others, he knew, would characterize it as a catastrophe. Surely, in national terms, it was a crisis of the first magnitude. As soon as he arrived in Washington he would take charge—fully, completely, speedily. They would have to accept him now. Indeed, it was their patriotic duty.

Earlier they had patched him in to the conference room devoted to the crisis management of this situation. He was waiting for Vic Proctor, the Secretary of State, to report to him on the results of any conversation with the President.

Despite his paranoia, despite his suspicions and uncertainties, Martin Chalmers, in fact, had never felt more whole, more alive, less frightened. He savored the thrill that trickled up and down his spine. His main worry, of course, was his own worthiness. Would he have the resources, the talent to be, well, presidential? Such a condition was wholly apart from performing as Vice President, which was essentially a waiting game.

He also worried that he would be equal to maintaining the image and tone of a man meeting his destiny. Think of Lyndon Johnson, he urged himself, remembering those days nearly thirty years ago when the whole world became a camera eye focusing on the Kennedy assassination. Old Lyndon had pulled it off with dignity.

Martin Chalmers searched his heart for the levers of magnanimity, even forgiveness. The President's men had put him down, ignored him, insulted him with their indifference and silence. Above all else, he hated being patronized. Nor did he have any illusions. Attitudes like that filtered down from the top. Suddenly he heard a momentary burst of crackling static, then a whooshing sound.

"Martin." It was Vic Proctor's voice coming through again. Chalmers had put the Secretary of State in charge until he got home. Whatever his faults, Vic had probity. Never mind that he would be one of the first to go in a Chalmers administration. Most of them would in any event. No vindictiveness there, he assured himself. A leader needs people around him with whom he could be comfortable.

"Yes, Vic."

He wanted his voice to sound purposeful, commanding. He had ordered that the conversations between him and the crisis team be recorded. The world must have evidence of his leadership.

Paul had picked him as his running mate for his region, the Southwest sun belt, his antecedents—his father had been the beloved senator from Texas, Tad Chalmers—and his innocuousness. All his life he had been a figurehead, a one-term governor of Texas, the chairman of the board of Chalmers Industries, a professional board member of a dozen corporations. When you need a good rubber stamp, get old Marty. He was, above all, a professional ingratiator. It was a role he despised. Coming up at last was the moment he had waited for all his life.

"The President has asked to see Jack Harkins. No reason given."

"You spoke directly to him?"

"Directly. No other conversation."

"Did you mention the..."

"The procedure?" Proctor asked. They had chosen the word for the euphemism.

"Yes."

He would have to be cautious. Procedure meant the legalities of the Twenty-fifth Amendment, specifically the necessity for the President to put in writing his admission that he was unable to govern. It was explicit in the amendment. Section three. For the Vice President the Twenty-fifth Amendment was holy writ. The words were engraved in his mind. The amendment read:

"Whenever the President transmits to the President pro tempore of the Senate and the Speaker of the House of Representatives his written declaration that he is unable to discharge the powers and duties of his office, and until he transmits to them a written declaration to the contrary, such powers and duties shall be discharged by the Vice President as Acting President."

"He said nothing about that," Proctor said. "But then he has a gun to his head." Proctor paused. "A figure of speech. But it means the same thing."

"Perhaps we had better put the procedure for Section Four on standby," the Vice President said calmly. He felt the pounding of his accelerating heartbeat. It was, after all, explicit: in writing. He supposed the President could scribble the words on a piece of toilet paper and get it out through Harkins. It was possible to do it if he was clever, and it would save them all the back-biting and trouble. Section Four could be a real problem. The Cabinet would have to decide. He had that down too.

"Whenever the Vice President and a majority of either the principal officers of the executive departments, or of such other body as Congress may by law provide, transmit to the President pro tempore of the Senate and the Speaker of the House of Representatives their written declaration that the President is unable to discharge the powers and duties of his office, the Vice President shall immediately assume the powers and duties of the office as Acting President."

It got more complicated after that. One step at a time, he told himself, although a black thought lapped at the edges of his mind, despite his conscious refusal to acknowledge it. Blow him up. Jesus, Marty, he told himself, you blood-thirsty bastard.

"Shall we give them Harkins?" Chalmers asked.

Proctor hesitated at his end of the line. For a moment the Vice President confronted the statical void.

"I ... I didn't think we had a choice," Proctor said. "It was a request from the President."

"The man's a hostage, Vic." It took a great effort of will to keep his voice down.

"But he's still the President."

His paranoia flared.

"What about Harkins' life?" Chalmers asked. Of all the President's gang, he detested Harkins the most.

"We gave him the option of not going," Proctor said.

"Since when is that bastard calling the shots," Chalmers blurted, immediately regretting the outburst. Proctor's hesitation was diplomatic. Both knew that the heart of the problem was the recognition of the President's authority. Proctor, of all people, would stick to the most orthodox legalities.

"I must say, he has got a lot of courage stepping into the eye of the storm," Proctor said with the barest hint of deflection.

"I think it's very stupid," Chalmers muttered. He hoped the man would get his ass blown up.

"Maybe—" Chalmers paused to calm himself "—we should have that cabinet meeting. Explore Section Four just in case."

"I'll get them together."

"And I'd like to be kept informed."

"Of course," Proctor snapped. Chalmers heard the man suck in his breath. "TOA still the same?"

"About seven hours to go," Chalmers said, looking at his watch.

"They'll be here waiting," Proctor said.

Chalmers thought he had detected a slight note of deference.