The Race (35 page)

The area was cordoned off and surrounded by police and Secret Service agents, a reminder of the fear that permeated post-9/11 America and, in particular, the emotions that swirled around Corey himself. At his back was a thirty-story building with at least five hundred windows; the building on his right had at least a thousand more. But the Secret Service had been prudent by placing the platform at the foot of a building, which eliminated countless lines of fire.

Corey put this out of his mind. He was just beginning to speak when sirens split the air, their number increasing as their sound grew fainter. A section of the crowd seemed to stir organically, as though in response to news or rumor. The head of Corey's Secret Service detail, Peter Lake, headed swiftly to the platform with a contingent of uniformed police, his face drawn. "They've attacked the Golden Gate Bridge," he said in a choked voice. "An airplane full of explosives—they think terrorists."

Reflexively, Corey asked, "How bad is it?"

Lake shook his head. "It's not clear."

Corey hesitated, his mind reeling with disbelief. He struggled to compose himself, then turned to face the crowd, raising his hand for quiet. "Listen up," he announced in the no-nonsense tone of a military officer. "It appears that there has been an attack on the Golden Gate Bridge."

Cries issued from the crowd, drowned out by a deeper moan of shock and horror. "It's moments like this," Corey called out, "that define us for all time.

"We are all in this together. The first thing we need to do is think of those around us—to leave in an orderly manner, helping anyone who needs help. Those of you who live in Marin County should listen for instructions from civil authorities. The rest of you should go home to your family, setting an example of calm for others.

"If this is an act of terror, those who planned the attack will pay for it. Right now, let's show them the resolve and resilience that built—and rebuilt—this city." Corey searched for some final words. "Perhaps our enemies have tried to destroy a landmark. But no one can destroy your courage and compassion. Whatever people remember about this day, let them remember that."

Stirring, the crowd seemed to reach a collective decision; a few pockets of panic were overcome by a steady, orderly progress toward the exit paths. Turning to Peter Lake, Corey said tersely, "If you can, take me out there."

They got as far as the Marina District. Surrounded by Secret Service agents, Corey and Spencer walked to Crissy Field, where hundreds had gathered, their demeanor so subdued that it evoked the aftermath of 9/11.

By miscalculation or sheer luck, the plane had hit the toll plaza just short of the bridge. Corey knew at once that it had been packed with explosives. The plumes of smoke still rose above the wreckage; no doubt many commuters approaching the toll booths had died, and the approach to the span surely had become a crater. But the bridge, though eerily empty, remained intact.

At a distance of several hundred yards, Corey struggled to absorb what the attackers had attempted, an assault so brutal and yet so symbolic that it could sear the nation's soul. He imagined what could so easily have happened: the twin spires collapsing, the tide pulling a few half-submerged cars, kept afloat by air pockets, out to sea. Turning to Spencer, Corey saw tears in his eyes.

At this hour, Corey realized, close to a thousand commuters would have been on the bridge; had it toppled, no one would have survived a precipitous descent in what would have become hundreds of metal coffins. Next to him, a young girl in spandex running clothes turned to him, her lips trembling with the effort to speak. "I saw it." Her throat worked. "A small plane. It hit the top of a span, and then ..."

She could not say more. Registering Corey's features, her eyes widened in belated recognition. As though relieved by the sight of anyone familiar, she reached out, briefly hesitant, then pressed her face against his shoulder.

A small plane,
Corey thought.

AGAIN AND AGAIN in the hours that followed, America watched the same amateur video: a plane hitting the span, a spectacle made even more eerie by the silence of the film. In seeming slow motion, the plane spiraled off course, crashing into the toll booths. Obscured by thick smoke that swirled in the wind like oily fog, the spire remained standing. The later replays included a tape in Arabic, issued by the leader of Al Qaeda, proclaiming this as its latest response to America's war on Islam.

Many had died, perhaps more than one hundred. Amid national anger and revulsion, Rob Marotta's statement mixed the bellicose with the Churchillian; Bob Christy's fervent prayer for God's assistance contained the faint but ominous intimation that this was His warning that America should examine its soiled collective soul. Both men were eclipsed by the president, the governor of California, and the mayor of San Francisco, their uplifting but businesslike responses informed by the experience of 9/11. In this company, Corey alone stood out from his rivals: for his initial words of calm; for his presence at Crissy Field; and, most vividly, for his warning about private aircraft that now seemed hauntingly prophetic.

Gathered with Spencer and Dana Harrison in his suite at the St. Francis, Corey said, "Pull our ads."

Spencer rubbed his eyes. "Already have," he said in a hollow voice.

Corey excused himself to call Lexie.

"THIS TIME WE were lucky," Corey told her. "But standing with those people, it was like they were imagining the end of the world."

"Maybe the end of
their
worlds," Lexie amended gently. "In some ways, people on the West Coast never felt 9/11 as intensely as people who were closer. In
my
world, it's like we were armored by health food, exercise, hybrid cars, and plastic surgery. This feels like a second wake-up call, a reminder that we're not immune."

Curiously, this sad but sober assessment reminded Corey anew of how much he missed her. "I wish you were here."

Lexie hesitated before saying softly, "I know."

Quiet, Corey tried to decipher her meaning. "What will you do now?" she asked.

"Help wherever I can—there will be hundreds of people trying to learn about missing relatives, praying that there's some explanation better than the obvious. The election will have to take care of itself."

Lexie paused again. "I think it will," she said at last. "I think this changes everything."

AROUND THE COUNTRY, Americans gathered to mourn the victims, give thanks that the carnage was not worse, and, in several cities, protest a war in the Middle East that seemed to have made America no safer. But San Francisco was somber, its pulse stirred only by efforts to identify the dead or missing. Corey spent the weekend manning a help line and quietly attending public events organized to salve the spirits of the living. At the city's ecumenical prayer service, Corey sat beside Bob Christy, deliberately avoiding Marotta.

Christy seemed as pensive as Corey himself—burdened, Corey sensed, by the weight of believing that this was not simply the act of terrorists, but of God. Only at the end, standing on the steps of the Grace Cathedral, did Christy refer to Marotta. "This makes him look smaller, doesn't it? Like the little man on Price's wedding cake."

Corey shrugged. "Maybe to us. We've both seen him at his worst."

"Maybe so. But some men match the moment, and others don't." He shook Corey's hand. "Be well, Corey. And God bless you."

Curiously touched, Corey answered, "You too, Bob. Take care of yourself."

Leaving, he had the sense that, despite their differences, an act of terror had moved Christy to give him a kind of benediction.

THE IMPULSE THE attack stirred in Magnus Price was far less generous.

With grim satisfaction, Spencer and Corey imagined his dilemma: with the campaign suspended, Price had little choice but to follow Corey in pulling Marotta's ads. What remained were images of Corey perpetuated by the media—old photographs of Corey receiving his medal; the famous photograph of Corey, Marotta, and a dead terrorist; recent clips that captured Corey's warning, his presence of mind in the first moments after the attack, and his compassion to those gathered at Crissy Field. Whether intentional not, the subliminal message was plain enough: faced with trying times, Corey Grace was a leader.

Price's only recourse was to work through surrogates, trying to break through to voters preoccupied with a trauma that made partisan politics seem trivial, even noxious. The Rohr newspapers in Los Angeles and Sacramento endorsed Marotta and attacked Corey, asserting that "Grace's criticism of the war in Iraq emboldened our enemies to bring the war to California." But this was kind compared to the remarks of Rohr News' leading commentator on a Sunday night broadcast called "The Bridge: Assault on an American Icon." With a stern expression that did not quite conceal his self-satisfaction, Frank Flaherty said, "I'm willing to take the hit for this. But someone has to ask these questions: Why did the Iraqis allow Corey Grace to survive and become a hero? Why did Grace survive the attack on Senator Marotta? Why did this attack by a private plane follow by three days Grace's prediction of such an attack? Why is it—in short—that there is such curious synchronicity between our Arab enemies and Senator Grace's rise to would-be president of the United States?'" Pausing, he looked into the camera. "Those are the questions Californians must ask themselves when they go to the polls on Tuesday. The future of their fellow Americans may depend on their decision."

Furious, Corey stared at the screen. "The only Arabs that coward will ever see were in
Lawrence of Arabia
."

"No help for him," Spencer said with resignation. He set about issuing a short and dignified response, knowing, as Corey did, that slander so irresponsible was all the harder to rebut.

ON MONDAY, THE DOW lost two hundred points in the first hour after it opened; in San Francisco, absenteeism ran high, fueled by lingering apprehension and the sheer difficulty of commuting to a city with a gaping crater blocking one of its major arteries. "If our chances depend on the San Francisco area," Spencer said grimly, "God knows if these people will turn out to vote."

On Tuesday morning, the weather across California was sunny and mild. As the day proceeded, it was clear that voting could surpass the previous record: in the San Francisco Bay area, voters—as though returning to life—began to crowd the polling places. "The shocking events in San Francisco," Bill Schneider said on CNN, "seem to have awakened California's Republican voters to this simple fact: they can either hand the nomination to Senator Marotta or send Senator Grace to the convention in New York with a real shot at winning."

Corey spent the day manning the help line, trying to put aside the fact that his campaign and, perhaps, his relationship to Lexie hung in the balance. By nine o'clock, the polls were closed and Corey was back at his hotel with Spencer, Dana, and a handful of supporters, knowing only that early returns suggested that he faced a very long night.

To his surprise, he was running a close second to Marotta in conservative southern California—Hispanics were turning out for him, and Christy was drawing evangelical voters from Marotta. In San Francisco and the rest of northern California, less populous but more moderate, Corey was running fifteen points ahead; overall, Marotta led by under forty thousand votes. At midnight, Spencer told Corey, "Get some sleep. When you wake up, it'll still be like this—a few thousand votes one way or the other."

Corey left a message for Lexie and tried to nap.

When he awoke, close to dawn, Hollis Spencer was still up, bleary-eyed and drinking his third pot of room service coffee. With a weary smile, Spencer waved at the television. "Congratulations, Mr. President. You're up by thirty thousand, with ninety-six percent of the precincts already in."

"You're kidding."

"Nope. I just finished drafting your victory statement. More than usually eloquent. Suited to the occasion, I think."

Corey felt a torrent of emotions—astonishment, exhaustion, a deep feeling of responsibility, and, quickly following, questions about Lexie. As Spencer stood, Corey gave him a bear hug. "Seems like you made a comeback, Hollis."

Once again, tears sprang to Spencer's eyes. "Getting lachrymose in my old age. Anyhow, I couldn't have done it without you."

"And Al Qaeda," Corey answered, continuing to absorb the fact that whatever Rohr and Price had attempted to imply, Californians had chosen to believe in him at a moment of trauma and challenge.

He shaved, showered, and dressed, constructing a fair facsimile of himself for his supporters and the cameras. When he picked up his cell phone to call her, he found that Lexie had already left a message. "Congratulations," she said with quiet warmth. "After all, the country needs you. Please know that I'll be thinking of you, and wishing you luck all the way."

And that, he feared, was the answer to his question.

RIDING TOWARD THE HEART OF NEW YORK CITY IN HIS BULLETPROOF black limousine, Senator Corey Grace watched himself on CNN as he left La Guardia a half hour before, confronted by picketers who believed that his nomination as president would ignore God's warning and violate His will.

It was the eve of the convention, a hot and muggy Sunday in July. Driven by a Secret Service agent, the limousine cruised down Fifth Avenue amid the screech of sirens, cocooned by a phalanx of black limousines and police on snarling motorcycles. Overhead, police helicopters added to the sense of a city under siege. Replacing the film of Corey, CNN's anchor materialized in front of the cordon of police officers and steel barriers that surrounded Madison Square Garden, the latest in a collage of jumpy images that, to Corey, suggested that the viewers of cable news must be afflicted by attention deficit disorder.

"Amid deep national anxiety," the anchorman began, "Senator Grace is headed for a showdown with Senator Rob Marotta of Pennsylvania that makes the most jaded political observers feel young again: the first deadlocked nominating convention in recent memory, pitting the maverick Grace against the candidate of the Republican establishment, with the Reverend Bob Christy, the choice of many conservative Christians, holding the balance of power. In the next four days, one man will lose and the other will become the nominee—perhaps our next president."