Authors: Patrick Robinson
A few more minutes slipped by and the level of restlessness grew. It was always the same at feeding time. The Lions began to lose their cool if the keeper was late. Actually, it wasn’t his lateness that was relevant. It was the pack’s perception of lateness that mattered.
Where the hell is he…? Christ, it’s getting too late for the afternoon papers…Stupid time to call a briefing anyway…Who the hell cares if he sends the taxpayers’ money to Montserrat?
By 1625, the room was buzzing. And the sudden appearance of Lee Mitchell, Vice President Bedford’s spokesman, had no effect on the noise level whatsoever. But when he walked up to the dais, turned on the microphone, and asked for their attention, they gave it reluctantly.
Mr. Mitchell, a tall young former political reporter for the
Atlanta Journal Constitution
, came right to the point. “I am here to announce formally that Charles McBride has resigned from the office of President of the United States less than one hour ago. At seven minutes before four o’clock, under the precise requirements of the Constitution, Vice President Paul Bedford was sworn into office.”
The entire room exploded with the shrill, desperate, near-panic-stricken sound of fifty-odd reporters flailing between the quest for more detail and the overriding desire to speak to their newsrooms.
RESIGNED! Whaddya mean resigned? When?…Where?…Why…? How?…Where is he? Is he still in the White House? What caused it?
It took a full two minutes for the row to subside, and only then because it was obvious that Lee Mitchell had not the slightest intention of uttering a single word until there was silence once more from The Lions he was supposed to feed.
“Thank you,” he said, carefully. “There will be no questions at this briefing. But I will tell you that former President McBride is resting under medical supervision at Camp David. He has suffered an apparent nervous breakdown and may not recover fully
for some weeks. The First Lady is with him. Under the circumstances, he felt he had no options but to resign.”
Again, the suppressed pandemonium of The Lions was let loose. Regardless of the “no questions” edict, they stood and roared…
This is a national issue…The people have a right to know…What do you think I’m gonna tell my readers…What kind of a nervous breakdown…? Has he been ill for long…? This is America not Czarist Russia…C’mon Mitchell, you’re paid to tell us what the hell is happening to the President of the United States…
The journalists did have some power, and some of them had more than a few brains, but nothing to match the shrewd orchestration masterminded by Morgan, Scannell, and Bedford. And at this point the scene shifted. Lee Mitchell moved aside to formally greet the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, then in quick succession appeared the Head of the Navy, the military Supreme Commander of NATO, and the Commandant of the United States Marine Corps, who all took up the positions allotted to them by Arnold Morgan, port and starboard quarters to the dais.
And as they did so, the noise from The Lions subsided, to be replaced by a more dignified sound. Through the loudspeaker system came the unmistakably familiar tones of the band of the U.S. Marines playing “Hail to the Chief,” loudly, robustly, summoning that overwhelming sense of patriotism within the chest of every American in the room.
By now the White House phone lines were back on, and the place was connected to the outside world by a zillion kilowatts. The television cameras were rolling, commentators were speaking, the wire service reporters were filing copy from the back of the room. Everyone else, confined to their personal seats by both protocol and tradition, was scribbling.
And into this media feeding frenzy stepped the heavyset, balding Virginian Paul Bedford, making the short walk to the dais in time to the music.
He faced the gathering with outward calm, flanked by the High
Command of the U.S. military standing behind the armed Marine guards. He stared at the phalanx of microphones arrayed before him, and then said firmly, “It is my honor to inform you that one hour ago, I became the 45th President of the United States of America. As I believe you have been told, President McBride was compelled to resign at short notice for reasons of health. It was both unexpected, and unfortunate, and we all wish him a swift and full recovery.
“Meanwhile, the business of government must continue, and it is my most unhappy duty to inform you that today we stand in perhaps the worst danger this nation has ever faced. I will not take questions, but I will endeavor to outline the scale of a forthcoming terrorist attack we believe will happen…”
“Any connection between the attack and the President’s resignation…?”
someone yelled.
“I wonder if you’d be kind enough to let my secretary know your native tongue?” replied the President. He was reading off Arnold Morgan’s only offering of a riposte to unwanted questions.
The laughter subsided, and Paul Bedford never missed a beat. “Four months ago, we received a communiqué from the Middle East that the terrorist organization Hamas had been responsible for the eruption of Mount St. Helens in Washington State. Our investigations subsequently showed this was likely true.
“We were then informed that we had just a few weeks to completely remove our military presence in the Middle East and to force Israel to vacate the occupied territories on the West Bank. The Administration, needless to say, was skeptical about the validity of this demand, but cautious. We even moved some troops and ships around.
“However, we received another threatening communiqué, and this one contained a further detail—that if we did not comply, they would do the same to a volcano in the Canary Islands as they did to Mount St. Helens.”
A deathly hush had fallen over the Briefing Room, as the journalists waited for President Bedford’s next words.
He paused for a few moments longer, fervently wishing he had either Winston Churchill or Arnold Morgan passing him notes, never mind the one-side-one-sheet decree.
He soldiered on, outlining briefly the scientific predictions.
“Well, President McBride remained skeptical. He was quite worried, but the military was
seriously
worried. And then came the final communiqué, which said (a)
‘we will now show you what we can do, at midnight on Tuesday, September 29,’ and (b) ‘we will hit the volcano around October 9.’ ”
“DO YOU HAVE AMERICAN SCIENTIFIC OPINION ON THIS?”
“Of course not,” replied the President, trampling all over his “no questions” ultimatum. “We never thought of that.”
This time he reduced the Associated Press reporter to a figure of fun. And once more, he never missed a beat.
“And so, ladies and gentlemen, we are left with two tasks—to track down and kill the submarine, which we believe launched cruise missiles at Montserrat and Mount St. Helens, and to begin to evacuate the East Coast. Just in case we are unable to achieve our Naval objectives.”
“SONAR,” yelled a reporter, displaying a certain in-depth nautical knowledge. “CAN’T WE CATCH ’EM ON SONAR?”
“Well, we’d prefer trained dolphins, but we may not have enough,” shot back President Bedford. “I have asked you not to interrupt me, particularly if you can only shed a glaring light on the obvious.” This was the sharp, sardonic turn of mind that would make the press more wary of this new President than they had initially expected to be.
“In any event,” Paul Bedford continued, “this defensive operation is 100 percent military. And I have appointed the former National Security Adviser Admiral Arnold Morgan to head up both the search-and-kill submarine operation and the evacuation program. He has the total support of the most Senior Commanders in the U.S. Armed Forces, who are standing behind me.
“That’s all I have to say right now, but I hope you will urge your
readers and viewers to cooperate fully at this most difficult time. There is enough time for everyone to leave, but we have to remain calm and organized. Naturally, you will be informed of the day-to-day operations in the cities, and everyone is advised to move west to higher ground, to camp out with relatives and friends. If this tidal wave, or tsunami, hits, there will be no survivors. Everyone must leave the East Coast, under the guidance of the military…Thank you.”
President Bedford turned and walked out of the room, accompanied by Generals Clark and Boyce. Admiral Dickson remained with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, who now stepped up to the dais.
“For anyone who does not know, I’m Gen. Tim Scannell, and I’m here to support the President. Right now I will be happy to answer five or six questions regarding the military, so make them pertinent, since we are very busy, as you may well imagine.”
“Sir, will there be wholesale changes in key White House positions, Secretary of State, et cetera…?”
“That’s not military, but I do understand President Bedford will appoint a new Secretary of Defense tomorrow.”
“Can you describe the scale of the search in the Atlantic for the submarine?”
“Not really. But we have decided that a wide search area of maybe a thousand miles out from the Canaries would be unlikely to succeed. Admiral Dickson, right here, believes a well-handled nuclear submarine might evade even a hundred U.S. pursuers on an indefinite basis.”
“How do you know it’s nuclear?”
“That’s our appreciation of the situation.”
“If so, how did the terrorists get it?”
“I cannot answer that. But I will say, if it’s not nuclear we would have caught it by now, and will almost certainly catch it in the next ten days.”
“Can’t the sonars pick it up? We’re always hearing how technically advanced the U.S. Navy thinks it is.”
“A modern nuclear submarine is just about silent under 8 knots. And if he’s running deep, over 500 feet below the surface, he’s dead silent…Anyone wants to ask more about the submarine, Admiral Dickson will answer.”
“Sir, how will this tsunami develop if the volcano erupts?”
“We’re looking at a rock face maybe six cubic miles in volume, crashing hundreds of feet down into the ocean. It will hit the floor, maybe 2,000 feet below the surface, and roll westerwards, building to speeds of over 400 mph, like the ripples on a pond if you drop a big rock into it.”
“How long to hit New York?”
“According to the scientists—
all of the scientists
, that is—around nine hours from impact.”
“Can the terrorists be stopped?”
“Maybe.”
“Can you outline your plan to find and destroy the submarine?”
“No.”
“Does that mean you do not have a plan yet?”
“No. It does not. But to tell you is to tell the submarine and its masters.”
“Will you be providing us with details of the evacuation plans?”
“Absolutely. We will be on air again shortly to inform the public of evacuation measures and procedures. Thank you for your time. No more questions.”
General Scannell and Admiral Dickson left the dais and headed back to the Oval Office, leaving the Fourth Estate to tackle one of the biggest political and military stories of modern times.
They were accompanied by four Marine guards, and on the way, fell into step with Henry Wolfson, press officer to Charles McBride, and one of many senior staffers who would retain their positions in the new Administration.
He offered a handshake to the two officers and introduced himself. “Guess our paths have never crossed before,” he said.
“But I have a feeling that that’s liable to change as from this moment.”
“Correct, Henry,” replied General Scannell. “We’re counting on you to try and keep this situation under control. The object is to prevent an outbreak of public panic without concealing the seriousness of the situation. We’ll do a more detailed briefing on this later, but one thing’s for certain. Hamas did slam a broadside of big cruise missiles into both Mount St. Helens last May and Montserrat last night.
“It would take something larger to blow the volcano in the Canaries apart. But a nuclear warhead on a medium-range cruise would probably do it. The bastards are firing from a submarine, submerged-launch, and that’s real hard to locate. You coming to see the President?”
“Yes, sir. And Admiral Morgan. And that scares the hell out of me.”
“Don’t worry. His bite’s worse than his bark. And he scares the hell out of all of us at times. But I’m glad he’s on board for this one.”
“That seems to be the general opinion around here, sir,” said Henry Wolfson. “Makes everyone feel a little more confident.”
“We’re supposed to be apolitical in the military,” said the CJC. “But things are usually easier for us when the GOP are at the helm.”
They reached the Oval Office. Generals Boyce and Clark were just leaving, and General Scannell joined them for the return journey to the Pentagon. Meanwhile, Arnold Morgan had turned the most hallowed room in Western government into a Naval strategy room. He had charts of the Atlantic Ocean all over a central table that he had ordered to be brought up especially from the office of the National Security Adviser. It had a dark polished teak surface and had been in the same place since Admiral Morgan’s own years in that office
Cyrus Romney, the Liberal Arts Professor from Berkeley, had been somewhat irritated by the sudden appearance of White House removal staff and had demanded to know where his table was going.
“Oval Office, orders of Admiral Morgan,” was the reply.
Cyrus Romney, who had heard the rumors around the offices, had decided wisely not to pursue the matter on the basis of being certain that he too, in the next couple of hours, would be making a similar, but equally sudden, exit from his office.
In the next thirty minutes, the table became a far busier place than it had been for many months. It now displayed charts of the western Atlantic and the approaches into the Leeward Islands and of the central Atlantic above the Mid-Atlantic Ridge.
There were maps of the western approaches to the Canary Islands, and three different charts of the Canaries themselves—one showing all five islands from Grand Canaria to Hierro, including Tenerife, Gomera, and La Palma; another showing the other two big islands of Lanzarote and Fuerteventura much farther to the east, the latter only 60 nautical miles off Morocco’s northwest headland.