HE HAD been running for the state senate back in Ohio, years ago, Harrison Tucker recalled reading a story about Air Force One on 9/11, and how its pilots—desperate to get the President off the ground from Sarasota, Florida—had taken off at high speed, forcing passengers back into their seats, nearly crawling vertically in the air to gain altitude and safety.
Now, as President, Harrison sits in his well-equipped and comfortable office on Air Force One’s main deck, next to his forward suite, wishing this massive and expensive aircraft could fly him somewhere to safety and isolation.
But that’s not possible.
There is no safe haven from what has happened in Atlanta, and the news will get worse with every passing minute. His allies up on Capitol Hill will hesitate to expend political capital on his behalf. The influential columnists and bloggers will reevaluate their support as Election Day draws near. The governor of California will see a chance to turn the race around in his favor. And all of Harrison’s plans and dreams to help those millions down there in the wide expanse of this country … are now in jeopardy.
Sitting on the other side of his wide and polished desk is Parker Hoyt, his chief of staff, the man who has been behind the scenes for years—making the deals, pulling the strings, putting out the fires that took him from the Ohio Statehouse to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. His dark blue eyes are solemn, his gray-white hair crew cut, and he has a hawklike nose mocked by political cartoonists from coast to coast.
Parker gives him a sympathetic glance. “I told you that you’d eventually get caught.”
“I know.”
“I told you that the most-photographed, most-watched man in the world couldn’t get away with having an affair forever.”
“I know.”
“I told you—”
Harrison holds up his right hand. “Damn it, Parker, no more I-told-you-so’s, all right? Give me a plan, a blueprint, something to get me out in front of this story, to get me … out of this mess.”
Parker says, “Well, speaking of this story, we have about a dozen members of the press in the rear of this aircraft waiting for a statement.”
“Let them wait.” Harrison shifts in his seat, looks out the row of five windows, the drape hanging to the left, seeing the empty, wooded landscape of southeast America pass underneath. So much open space in this country … and he has a brief moment of envy, of men his age living down there in small towns, with small homes and even smaller problems.
He swivels his chair back and says, “Parker …”
His chief of staff crisply nods. “All right. We’re going to need to come clean about your relationship with Tammy Doyle.”
A hard, cold feeling settles into his chest. “Can’t we just say she’s … well, a friend? A travel companion? Someone to keep me company on these long trips?”
A brutal shake of the head. “Mr. President, with all due respect, grow up. You’ve tossed a huge piece of raw meat to the press four weeks before the election. They’re going to chase down her background, her travel records, her relationship with you. They’ll match up your campaign stops with trips she’s made to check on her lobbyist clients. That’s step one. Step two, they’ll start talking to people, and people love to talk. All it’ll take is one chambermaid, one room service clerk, one loose-lipped person looking for his or her fifteen minutes of fame, to verify that the two of you spent the night together somewhere, in New Orleans, or LA, or Chicago.”
Harrison sighs. “Never Chicago.”
“Lucky you,” Parker says. “So we need to get ahead of the story, and that means following a script. And fair warning, you’re going to hate it.”
The cold feeling in his chest is still there, but he knows from experience to trust Parker Hoyt. His chief of staff not only knows where the bodies are buried, but also had a hand in putting them there in the first place. Harrison likes to think of himself as a realist—something he told the voters four years ago during his first run for the White House—and knows he wouldn’t be sitting here without Parker’s advice and counsel.
“All right,” Harrison says. “What’s the script?”
Parker nods with satisfaction. “It starts with a phone call to your wife, then a day or two at a retreat, an apology, and then a photo of you walking hand in hand across the South Lawn as you take Marine One to Camp David. Maybe get