29

"THEY'VE GONE BERSERK," Chalmers was saying for the third or fourth time in the last hour. He was giving himself the once-over with a cordless electric razor. He had also changed his shirt three times since coming into the conference room nearly twenty-four hours before.

A number of television sets had been placed strategically around the room. Each passing moment brought a new and startling revelation. To make matters even more bizarre, the networks and the local stations had begun to run commercials again. He's right, Foreman thought. They have gone berserk. Not just the little group in the White House. The whole country.

With cots brought in by the military, they had set up a kind of dormitory, utilizing various nearby rooms. Foreman had tried to get some rest. The National Security Advisor was not sure whether he had slept or merely floated in some subconscious haze on the murky edge of a nightmare. Concocting scenarios was the literal spine of his expertise. His job was to deal with present realities on the basis of an imagined future. His tools for this enterprise were logic, experience, knowledge, and intuition. Had somebody stolen his tools?

The military had also set up a mess kitchen. A duty roster had been posted outside the room. Since the crisis began, Foreman had been spending most of his time sitting around this table or talking to world leaders. Now, once again, he was reporting on his latest conversations with the Soviet Foreign Minister.

"And what does the President say?" Chalmers asked, nodding his head in the direction of the White House.

Foreman had been in touch with the President a number of times during the day. He had suggested that he speak directly with the Soviet General Secretary.

"Why?" the President had asked.

"To soothe his fears. They are getting more and more nervous, Mr. President. This nuclear thing has them up the wall."

"Good," the President had countered. "Teach them not to mess around with those terrorist crackpots."

"And our own allies. I've been in touch with all of them. They're terrified."

"Their problem. They've never gone along with any of our ideas and suggestions about terrorism. Let them stew."

"They've alerted their forces."

"Let them," the President had countered.

"You still do not want to put our forces on full alert," Foreman said.

"No," the President had said. "No more saber-rattling for us." He recalled waiting for the President to complete what seemed to be a half-articulated thought. He didn't, but, despite the denial, the message was clear. No more paralysis. Only action.

The media was adding fuel to the fire. What he reported to the group was almost simultaneous with the reportage on the tube. Information seemed to be careening forward like a brakeless truck going down a steep incline. It was almost impossible to absorb what was being said.

Khomeini, one of whose grandsons had been kidnapped, had fumed once more about the Great Satan and threatened massive retaliation. The Syrian President offered his own threats, and the Saudis, as always, expressed extreme caution. Qaddafi was ominously silent, as were the Israelis. With the four television sets blaring out their cacophony, it was the Tower of Babel come alive in the twentieth century.

They sat around the table going over the same ground endlessly. At one point Steve Potter, the President's press secretary, burst into the room.

"Poll results are in," he said, his face flushed with excitement. "A quickie, really. But the results are phenomenal."

"Who authorized that?" Chalmers asked.

"The party people. Damned clever of them, too. The networks are also doing them. Gives us a good handle on the situation."

No one in the room had the temerity to ask the results, although Potter's face was an excellent barometer.

"Eighty-nine percent approval. Highest in history."

"Jesus." Chalmers swallowed any further comment.

"They figure the President knows what he's doing," Potter said.

"Politics as usual," Vic Proctor said.

Nervous politicians would never risk disturbing any calibration that went against an enormously popular act by the President, hostage or not. But didn't everyone know that the President was acting under duress? Nonsense, the polls indicated. It was the other way around. The President was manipulating the kidnappers. So the world was topsy-turvy, after all, Foreman decided. The country must be out for lunch.

"Might as well send everyone home," Chalmers said. "The President is in charge."

As if in response to his remarks, the other networks came on with their poll results. All were remarkably similar.

The system was eating itself from within, Foreman thought.