knows we wouldn’t be making this up. He’ll trust us, and he’ll give us his total support. You can count on it.”
And now Charles McBride was on his feet, with a Marine guard on each elbow, being frog-marched to the door of the Oval Office. Upstairs, Mrs. McBride was being escorted more gently along the corridor, carrying only her purse. Their personal possessions would be ferried up to Camp David in the early part of the evening. The announcement of his retirement, to a shocked nation, would be given in a broadcast within the hour, when President Bedford would cite McBride’s nervous breakdown.
The six White House visitors walked behind the Marine escort as far as the portico door to the lawn. One hundred yards away they could see the huge rotors of the helicopter already howling. Mrs. McBride emerged from a different door. General Clark remained to watch the U.S. Navy helicopter take off, bearing the President and his First Lady into exile from the seat of Government. The others headed directly to the office of Vice President Paul Bedford. They had agreed to ignore the intricacies of the Twenty-fifth Amendment, which essentially dealt with the transfer of power to the Vice President if a President was incapacitated and unable to carry out his duties. (The Twenty-fifth has only been used twice — once when President Reagan was shot, and once when President Bush underwent general anaesthesia in April 1989.)
In this instance, it was decided that the VP would be immediately sworn in. There was, after all, no possibility of McBride making any kind of a comeback.
Senator Kennedy had already arrived in the VP’s office, and Judge Moore intoned the sacred words that all Presidents must recite: “I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of the President of the United States, and will, to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States.”
Section 2 of the Constitution made him, at that moment, Commander in Chief of the Army and Navy of the United States.
Within moments, he had signed the prepared document that appointed Adm. Arnold Morgan his Special Adviser for the forthcoming crisis with Hamas. He willingly signed the rider to the document that ensconced the Admiral in the Oval Office, as Supreme Commander of all U.S. military forces involved in Operation High Tide, “with civilian powers as far-reaching as may be necessary for safe evacuation of the citizens of the affected areas.”
General Clark, the only person in the room with a working knowledge of a digital camera, photographed the entire scene for the public record, somehow managing to wipe out four pictures taken by Mrs. Bedford the previous week at Camp David in the process. But they had to avoid the intrusion of an official photographer and the endless ramifications of this incredible private ceremony being leaked to the media.
Senator Kennedy observed the formalities and swiftly headed back to the Capitol to brief the heads of Senate Committees on the oncoming political bombshell. The remainder of the House would learn of the shift of power at more or less the same time as the media, and indeed the nation. The Military Chiefs were confident that Teddy would combine his legendary down-home friendliness with the certain tough authority that was his trademark, to convince the elected representatives of the fifty States that the nation stood in mortal danger.
Meanwhile, back in the West Wing of the White House, it was plain that staff members had to be informed and then silenced, until the press had been given the news. Admiral Morgan, standing in the Oval Office with General Scannell, decreed that senior staff should report immediately to President Reagan’s specially built Situation Room in the basement of the West Wing. There they would be briefed by the Admiral himself, and there they would watch the television address to the nation by the new President of the United States. A guard of four Marines outside the door would ensure that no one left the room, and all mobile phones would be surrendered to the guards as each senior staffer arrived.
“It’s important that Paul tells our story just the way we want it,” emphasized Arnold Morgan. “We do not want some newsroom rewrite asshole speculating and jumping to conclusions. This White House already has a reputation for press leaks, and we don’t want
He glanced at his watch. It showed five minutes before four. He walked out through the Oval Office door and past the ex-President’s secretary to tour the building and inform all heads of departments to report to the Situation Room. Since internal communications were down, he ordered one of the Marine guards to walk down to the Press Room and inform those present that there would be a Presidential Address in twenty minutes in the White House Briefing Room.
By now, Admirals Dickson and Doran, in company with Generals Boyce and Clark, had arrived back in the Oval Office. Arnold Morgan, already seated behind the only available desk — that of the former President — was writing fast on a legal pad, on which the former occupant had been drafting a personal speech to the Third World Initiative.
Still scribbling, he spoke without looking up. “Okay, I’ll take Frank Doran with me to the Situation Room, where I’ll stress the enormous task of the Navy to the senior White House Staff. I think everyone else should go with President Bedford and stand behind him on his port-and-starboard quarter. General Scannell and General Boyce on his four o’clock, Admiral Dickson and General Clark on his eight. That’s the Head of the Pentagon, the Head of NATO, the Head of the Navy, and the Head of the United States Marine Corps. Solid, right?”
Just then, Paul Bedford walked in, and Admiral Morgan immediately stood up, nodded, and said, “Mr. President…I’m just drafting a few notes for your address…They’re only notes…but we have no time…You’ll just have to wing the speech, but it’d be a good idea to stick to the outline here…
“Stress the nervous collapse and subsequent resignation of the President, who is currently under medical care at Camp David…Tell ’em how shocked we all are…then come clean over the Hamas threat, tell ’em the whole story, not in detail, but start with Mount St. Helens, then the demands of the terrorists…” His finger ran down the notes on the legal pad. “Then the threat that convinced us of the imminent danger of our country, when they blew Montserrat. Explain the terrible danger, the silent terrorist submarine with its nuclear-warhead guided missiles, the vulnerability of Cumbre Vieja, and the certainty of the tsunami,
Paul Bedford nodded as firmly as he was able to. Right now, in his own mind, he was not so much President of the United States as a Naval Lieutenant receiving a briefing of the most staggering importance from one of the most senior Admirals ever to serve his country.
Arnold ripped the page off the writing pad and handed it to the new Chief Executive. He had printed everything in bold capitals, including the first two sentences, then a clear synopsis of the rest.
“Is that it?” asked President Bedford.
“As best as we can do,” said Arnold agreeably. “You’re on parade in fifteen minutes, and I’m out of here with Frank, right now.”
“Okay, sir,” said Paul. “I can follow this.”
“You can call me anything you like in this room,” replied Arnold. “But for Christ’s sake don’t call me ‘sir’ in public!”
“No, sir,” said Paul Bedford, laughing, despite the gravity of the situation.
“And, Mr. President…” said Arnold, as he headed for the door. “Remember one other thing…when Sir Winston Churchill demanded an entire reorganization of the Navy fleets in the North Atlantic…he told his First Sea Lord if it wouldn’t fit on one side of one sheet of paper, it hadn’t been properly thought out.”
And with that, he was gone, the Commander in Chief of the Atlantic Fleet, with Admiral Frank Doran somewhere in his wake.
“Jesus,” President Bedford said to himself. “Is he something, or what?”
And then, to everyone’s surprise, Admiral Morgan’s head popped back around the door. “Oh, Paul, I forgot. You’d better fire Defense Secretary Schlemmer and NSA Romney right now, and then Hatchard, right after he’s released from my briefing. Handwritten notes thanking them for all they have done. One side of one sheet, right?”
“Okay, Arnie, you got it,” replied the President of the United States, slipping into the easy informality enjoyed by men under severe stress. “Is it okay if I borrow your desk?”
Still chuckling, Admiral Morgan headed for the West Wing basement, where he found a scene of extraordinary restlessness. The heads of White House Departments had mostly arrived. Protocol, Secret Service, Communications, Catering, the chief Butler, Security, Transportation, the Press Office, the State Department, Speech Writers, Bill Hatchard, and indeed the former President’s secretary were crowding into the room. All requesting information, yearning to know what was going on. The four Marine guards had taken up positions outside the door, and two more guarded the exit from the elevator. With the correct credentials, they would let you in, but
