22

AIR FORCE TWO TAXIED to a stop in a remote corner of Andrews Air Force Base. Armed men packed into a tight circle surrounded the plane. A man dressed in one of Chalmers' suits stepped out of the opened cabin door, saluted, and rushed down the stairs. The tight circle opened briefly, the man stepped into a waiting limousine, and a convoy of armed vehicles took its place in a phalanx that quickly moved down the tarmac. Others began to file down the stairs.

A man in battle dress burst into his cabin. He had been instructed to stay inside, alone. The man saluted and Chalmers returned the salute.

"Put this on, sir," the man said crisply. He obeyed without protest, sliding into the bulletproof vest, then putting his hands through the sleeves of an oversized camouflage jacket.

"The height of fashion," Chalmers said. He felt testy, annoyed. The words echoed and reechoed in his mind. Proctor's voice had been hoarse with strain. "We have a problem," he had said over the line. "No kidding," Chalmers had responded, but then had come that long pause.

"No kidding," Proctor had repeated, like a blow struck at his solar plexus. Then the Secretary of State had said, "I wouldn't use this line to tell you what's going on. Just in case. We've got to keep it out of the press. I'm sorry. Wait until you get here."

He followed the man down the center aisle, moving quickly toward the rear of the cabin. Other men, who had been posted along the cabin windows, followed behind him, automatic weapons drawn. Perhaps, he thought, the President is dead.

It was a thought to be chased away, not to be dwelled upon in its raw unconfirmed state. Unthinkable, he told himself, not wishing to experiment with his own sense of guilt and inadequacy. He was not quite ready to handle the situation. Not with Proctor's ominous words ringing in his ears.

At the rear cabin door the man who led stopped, using his arm as a turnstile. Chalmers waited, sucking in deep breaths. It was all so mysterious, like a child's game.

"Now," the man said.

He followed him quickly down the stairs to a waiting car. In the distance he heard a chopper's staccato chomp. The car, he noted, was brownish, nondescript. There were no flags on the fenders. As soon as he got into the back seat, the car began to move.

"Welcome home," Vic Proctor said. Chalmers turned to find a pale, tired face offering a grim smile. At that moment the driver, too, turned to show his profile. Ned Foreman, the President's National Security Advisor. He waved two fingers in acknowledgment.

"We bring you greetings from the snakepit."

"What the hell is going on?" Chalmers demanded.

The car had gone barely a few feet when it moved upward suddenly into a dark space. Foreman cut the motor.

"It's the latest form of transportation," Proctor said. "Silly. But, the Secret Service says, very effective. At least in theory."

He felt movement below him, but it wasn't the car. They were obviously in some kind of moving van.

"The meeting is still set?" Chalmers asked.

"It may be academic," Proctor sighed. "He says he can govern."

"He must be out of his mind." The comment had seeped out too quickly for Chalmers to stop it.

"Maybe." Foreman shrugged.

Suddenly Chalmers was seized by a sense of unfairness. He wanted to protest. They were paying it out like a fishing line, torturing him deliberately. He wanted to strike out at them.

"It's a dilemma," Proctor was saying. Chalmers wondered if he had already missed the explanation. "We have it in writing, too. His own hand." The Secretary of State reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a letter on presidential stationery written in a firm, unmistakable hand. Chalmers read it, then reread it while the words swam randomly in his head.

"Despite my present circumstances, I am physically and mentally able to carry out the duties of my presidency." It was signed Paul Bernard, President of the United States.

"It's one bitch of a catastrophe," Proctor said. "There's only the three of us who have the word."

"So far."

Chalmers licked his lips, which had suddenly dried. "Seems pretty clear to me. We ignore it."

"The Twenty-fifth Amendment?"

"Fuck the Twenty-fifth Amendment," Chalmers snapped. "The man can't operate. He can't move freely. It's a matter of national security."

"But there is no precedent," Proctor said.

"Precedent, hell. We can vote him out."

"Not so easy according to the Twenty-fifth," the Secretary of State cautioned. "If he says he can govern, we have to throw it over to Congress. They can impeach him."

"This is crap, Victor, and you know it. We just go ahead, have our little meeting, and appoint me Acting President. The man obviously cannot function. You know it. I know it. Every goddamned person in this country knows it. He's out. That's final. So let's get on with it."

It felt good, but just for the moment. They were moving, but no one in the car had any control over their movement. Foreman looked at him archly.

"Comes down to, are we a country of men or laws?" the National Security Advisor said.

"Jesus, Ned," Chalmers responded.

He was furious. But it was the kind of fury without an outlet. He felt it sticking in his throat.

"Then we call their bluff," Chalmers said.

"Who gives that order?" Proctor sighed.

"I do," Chalmers said.

"Under what authority?" Foreman asked, but gently.

"We're..." Chalmers faltered. "We're responsible men. Millions of people throughout the world depend on us. There are predators out there. People who would take advantage. The Soviets..."

"Let the string run out," Proctor said.

"What the hell does that mean?" Chalmers asked.

"He says he can govern," Foreman answered. "Let him govern. Meanwhile we throw it to Congress. Impeachment may be the only solution. Should take a few days to bring them home. The thing might resolve itself in a day or two. Surely the country can get through forty-eight hours without a President. Meanwhile we do our job. He thinks he can do his job. Remains to be seen."

"And this Mafia man, this Padre, what happens to him?" Chalmers asked.

Foreman shrugged.

"He's got his own ax to grind. Maybe he'll frighten them into giving up his daughter and grandson."

"Sounds like you're grasping at straws," Chalmers said.

"I suppose we are," Proctor mused. "The trick is not to panic. If we panic, the country will panic. Indeed, the world will panic."

"I think it's dangerous as hell," Chalmers said.

"Any way you look at it, it's a tough call," Foreman said.

They exchanged glances. Suddenly the movement stopped. They heard the van door squeak open. Light flooded into the space.

So they will try to put it off as long as possible, Chalmers thought, wondering if the idea was prompted by paranoia, ambition, or an inordinate respect for the law.

"There's only one issue here," Chalmers said. Above all, he would keep his dignity.

"What is that?" Proctor asked.

"What's best for America."

Chalmers wondered if he sounded sufficiently presidential.