But Isabel had refused. “Personal drama belongs in the background right now, okay?” she said. “But promise me you’ll say nothing… especially to Ed. And Davey, too.”
AFTER the Secretary of State’s impromptu media conference in DC, he and Marcus Bentley, Foster’s Attorney General, had buckled up next to each other on the flight from Andrews Air Force Base to talk to Isabel. They’d shared many trips over the years; both started in politics as assistant secretaries in the Clinton Administration and, during the politically lean years before Obama, managed to hew illustrious and remunerative careers for themselves outside politics, one in law and the other in electronics, crossing paths frequently and making life easier for each other when they could. They were great friends, and so was Mitch Taylor before his death. The three went back a long way, and with Foster too. But Marcus Bentley and Bert Robinson were also hard-nosed professionals and weren’t going to let sudden personal grief blur their focus on the gravest matter of state either had ever been charged with.
Neither had been with the President when the attack happened, but they’d heard it all from Chief Franklin who had phoned the two of them at 3 AM, joining them into the one call and saying he was under strict instructions from the President to speak to the two of them, and only them.
Franklin had explained how the President wanted them to be ready on a moment’s notice if, heaven forbid, his condition deteriorated and Isabel in fact needed to be sworn in. That was President Foster’s Plan B, he said, though he declined to reveal Plan A even when Robinson pressed him. And despite both men screaming down the phone line, Franklin also refused to say where the President actually was.
Robinson and Bentley saw they were in the vortex of a potentially paralysing constitutional crisis.
They knew that under the Presidential Succession Law, if Foster died—or was already dead—Isabel would automatically step into his role. Permanently! After her mother’s revelation on FOX there was no longer any impediment, since any doubt that Isabel was not a natural-born citizen had been quashed.
On their flight over to Manifold, even the engine noise couldn’t drown out the concentrated hush that bore down on the pair as they read and swapped files, and exchanged whispers.
Neither man could believe the coincidences… first Mitch Taylor, then the President… thank God, Bobby was okay… well, at least Franklin kept telling them he was. But if he was fine, then why the urgency surrounding the contingency plan?
BACK in the corridor, Ed once again challenged Secretary Robinson, “The President is dead, isn’t he? Yet you’re delaying, putting up every block you can to stop…”
“You say that, General,” Robinson replied, emphasising Ed’s title to remind him that the chain of command was civilian over military. He stepped forward even closer. “But in case you hadn’t noticed, we’re still running this show,” which Robinson hoped was true, though by now his need to speak personally to the President was reaching a point of quiet desperation.
“Robinson,” said Ed, the snarl on his face betraying his contempt for the Secretary. “You call this running…”
“I’ll take my chances with history,” Robinson interrupted and, as he turned to the door to Isabel’s room, the agent posted there started opening it for him.
Ed grabbed Robinson’s shoulder and stopped him. “If the shit hits the fan, Robinson, what then? Who the hell’s in charge of this country?”
“The President. Who else?” Robinson snapped, praying he was correct, though uncomfortably unsure. He hoped that would change after he spoke to Foster in an hour’s time, a call Chief Franklin had arranged.
Ed swung himself in front of the Secretary. Threateningly, Ed let the tip of his nose actually touch Robinson’s this time, then suddenly, as though he’d achieved his objective, Ed pulled back, knocking Robinson into the door before heading to the washroom.
Bert Robinson might have been as tall as Ed but he was wiry and slight. It was why he’d got the wading bird nickname Crane in college. He stood there shaking. To calm himself, he leant back against the insipid green wall and, to make his nervousness less obvious, he removed his glasses, held the lenses up toward the fluorescent light, and hurred two sharp breaths onto them before wiping them with his tie. But his heart wouldn’t stop pounding. Winding the wire back over his ears and doing his best to mimic a cheery wink to the agent on guard, he took a deep breath and pushed himself inside Isabel’s room to get back to finalising the arrangements.