center stage with a roomful of steel-and-glass furniture. The interior glass wall was fitted with electronically controlled drapes so he could close off the Rim if he needed privacy. He had an array of TV screens built into the far wall so he could monitor the other network news shows and a computer bank that was hooked into a Nexus program to update breaking stories worldwide. Brenton usually kidded with Cris from makeup but tonight he was distracted.
As he was getting ready for his broadcast, he went over some of the copy he had been given on the Haze Richards announcement. He had looked at the file film on the governor earlier in the day, and noted that Haze Richards was extremely handsome, a growing requirement in American politics. United States political campaigns had become beauty contests where men with capped teeth and two — hundred-dollar haircuts claimed to be just plain folks-the only tangible result of this that Brenton could see was America had the best-looking Presidents with the best haircuts in the world. The governor from Rhode Island fit the profile perfectly. Haze Richards had nothing in his back-story to recommend him. He amassed an undistinguished voting record while in the Rhode Island State Legislature; he'd gone right on some issues, left on others. The pattern continued after he became governor. He seemed, to Brenton, to be externally directed, a man who would chase public opinion.
'Little lip gloss?' Cris asked as she put some on with a Q-Tip. She was finishing the touch-up when Steve Israel, VP of the nightly news, stuck his twenty-nine-year-old bald head in, unannounced, and said, 'You're on in two minutes.'
Brenton heaved out of the chair, grabbed some aspirin for his dull headache, and winked at Cris.
'Break a leg.' She smiled.
'Only if you'll nurse me back to health,' he said, his heart not in the interplay, his temples throbbing.
'And now, a political commentary from Brenton Spencer,' the P. M. announcer said. And then Brenton was on camera, seated in front of the world map in the center of the Rim while news staffers ran around in the wide shots with arms full of empty folders. The newsroom look had been Brenton's idea. Then the camera moved in close for his political update section of the newscast.
He looked seriously into the lens. 'What New England governor is mad as hell and about to do something about it?'
The shot switched to some edits of Haze Richards. They'd picked his 'angry as hell' sound bite.
The film clip started. 'I'm mad that our system of government has been stolen by special interest groups. I want to take America back,' Haze said from the rotunda.
In the control room, Steve Israel hunched in his seat behind the director looking at the 'line' monitor as the 'B-roll' footage on Haze's press conference was running. On the 'preview' monitor, he could see Brenton fidgeting with his tie. 'Tell him to sit up. He looks shifty,' Steve said as the director hit the 'God Button' and repeated the instructions to Brenton who sat up and put his hands to his temples and massaged them briefly. 'Coming back from the B-roll on camera one in five-four-three-two take one. . '
The shot switched back to Brenton, who looked into camera as they made a slow push-in. 'With that startling declaration, Haze Richards, a man unknown to most of America, hurried out of Providence and became the last Democratic candidate to head to Iowa and the big show that is scheduled to open tomorrow with the Register- Guard debate. So who is this man and why is he so angry? We know very little beyond the fact he was born rich, the son of a doctor. He has had a life of privilege. His govenunent watch in Rhode Island has been marked by inconsistencies, failing even the most modest list of prerequisites for the greatest office in the world. How can a man with no outstanding achievements join a select group of qualified, tested politicians seeking the Democratic nomination? Unfortunately, in these times of media-created candidates, his lack of credentials seems of little consequence. He has no stated position, policy, or point of view. He wavers on important issues, even in his own state.'
He went on to say what he'd been told to say. He'd never taken on a candidate so directly, and it scared him. He had moved outside his role of news reporter and entered the fragile territory of participant. And tomorrow he would fly to Des Moines, where he'd take a dive on national TV.
After the show, he felt light-headed and queasy. He went back into his office, pulled the curtain, and poured himself a shot of whiskey to calm his nerves and relieve the pounding pain in his head. Then, without warning, before he could drink it, he threw up into his wastebasket.
Chapter 18
Forty minutes out of Des Moines, the huge jet took a series of bone-jarring, fifty-foot drops off of air ledges, throwing open overhead luggage compartments and spilling their contents. The flight attendants had their smiles fixed with adhesive insincerity, their lips pulled tight against dry teeth. 'It's okay. We're just experiencing a little turbulence.'
'Turbulence, my ass,' Ryan thought. 'We're in a Mix-master.'
Haze Richards lost his cool completely. Ryan had been trying to film him sitting in the coach section. Rellica Sunn had been kneeling in her seat, facing backward, gunning off footage of the governor, who was sitting a row behind her studying Iowa grain-export reports. But when the plane took its first huge kaboom, Richards's eyes went wide.
'What's that? What's happening?'
Susan Winter tried to soothe him from the seat next to his. 'Just turbulence.'
Rellica went flying and would have hit the ceiling if Ryan hadn't grabbed her belt. She never took the camera off her eye. Ryan continued to hold her as theplane hit another deep air pocket.
'Turn around,' Haze whispered in panic. 'We have to turn around.'
The plane lurched to the right, winged over, and dropped five hundred feet, fire-falling. . the engines screaming, handbags and briefcases showering down out of the overhead compartments like calfskin raindrops.
'Turn around, that's an order,' Haze barked, his voice suddenly strong. 'I'm the governor of Rhode Island. Turn around!'
A. J. Teagarden was slowly making his way to Haze, holding on to seat backs, pulling himself up the aisle, once losing his footing and falling to his knees with a painful whack. Finally, he reached Haze's side.
'Just Iowa Republicans throwing up a little antiaircraft.' He grinned.
'I want us to turn around.' Haze was pale as a Russian princess, his eyes darting around the plane in panic. And then the plane rolled left, falling sideways in a wing slip, both engines screaming as they sucked in the light, vacuous air.
'This is a direct order from the governor of Rhode Island. Turn us around immediately!' His voice was shrill, terrified.
Rellica Sunn was still shooting. Ryan was holding her around the waist with both arms, trying to keep her from flying around the cabin. A. J. Teagarden leaned over to speak to Ryan and Rellica.
'Turn that camera off. I don't think we're gonna wanna use much of this.' When Rellica shut off the camera, Haze appeared to be sobbing.
'Damn it, Haze, stop it!' Finally, A. J. slapped the startled governor.
Miraculously, at that moment, the plane found stable air and they were all sitting in the cabin with the blank expressions of condemned prisoners, their luggage and papers strewn around in the aisle.
They landed twenty minutes later in Des Moines, Iowa, and piled out of the back door of the Republic 737, dragging their luggage, like refugees from a Texas flood.
The Rouchards met them at the gate.
They went to the Iowa Feed and Grain Show, where Governor Richards had his picture taken with the 4-H pig, sold kisses in the kissing booth, and watched prize Herefords on show in the small ring. The Rouchards had found a farm in Grinnell, Iowa, owned by a near-bankrupt couple named Bud and Sarah Caulfield, where Haze would spend the night.
The meeting between Haze Richards and the Caulfields was captured by Rellica Sunn on film. Haze hugged
