THE air was thick with anticipation. Once Isabel had settled the House as best she could, she nodded to the Sergeant at Arms. He in turn signalled the Deputy Sergeant at Arms who announced that the Senators had arrived outside the Hall. As near to a single organism as 435 anxious people can be, the Representatives present rose, as was traditional to receive the members from the other legislative chamber. The public gallery followed suit, with George standing only when Isabel raised her eyebrow at him.
Spencer Prentice was down toward the front and three rows back. A student of protocol, he knew that the first senator to enter would be Eric Mallord, the Senate President pro tempore. For the joint sitting of both Houses, Eric would be taking the high-backed chair to Isabel’s right.
With the flag draped behind her, Isabel waited to strike her gavel until Eric sat beside her and the bustle of senatorial silk and wool and the smattering of huffs and grunts had ceased.
“To escort the President of the United States into the Chamber, the Chair,” she pronounced formally, “appoints as members of the committee on the part of the House: the gentleman from Missouri… the gentlewoman from Ohio…” and after appointing another eleven representatives, “the gentleman from Massachusetts, Mr Prentice.” She winked at Spencer, but without a smile.
The glint when their eyes met spoke enough for him and, pumped up, the six-foot-six son of a Boston hospital nurse and pre-school teacher—hardly the black Boston Brahmin many people assumed from his bearing and diction—winked back at his old friend, also without a smile. Impassive, tough, she watched him as he stood and swivelled around to go to the doors.
As Spencer and the others headed up the centre aisle, Senator Mallord took his cue and appointed a similar number of senators as additional escorts.
Next, the Deputy Sergeant at Arms welcomed the Dean of the Diplomatic Corps and the Chief Justice and the Associate Justices of the Supreme Court.
Isabel caught the Chief Justice’s smile, and searched for other friendly faces among the otherwise impressive gathering.
There were many faces, though few actual friends.
FOSTER’S Cabinet entered next, all except the Secretary for Health who, under the Continuity of Government plans that demanded one person in the succession be located elsewhere, had drawn the doomsday short straw.
The Cabinet members shuffled in with their heads appropriately grave and low. Their colleague and, for several of them, their good friend Vice-President Mitch Taylor had died; and only two of them were in the tiny loop of knowledge about what was really happening with the President.
Every Cabinet member, even Robinson and Bentley, was hoping or praying that President Foster would appear tonight safe and well. The repercussions would be enormous if he didn’t: the unspeakable possibility of a double assassination; and with Isabel Diaz seated up ahead of them, the unthinkable toppling of a hard-fought, near-miss Democratic White House.
Paying evident respects to the tragic circumstances, they took their reserved seats at the front.
75
ISABEL CAUSED THE first real stir of the session when she asked Congress to grant the privileges of the floor of the House to Ed and Davey so they could take the two remaining seats up front. Normally the Speaker’s relatives sat in the gallery, where George was. Even the President’s family sat up there, though oddly neither the First Lady nor her children were there tonight.
“What the…?” was the most common reaction that flittered around the Chamber. Everyone present knew that they were in uncharted territory tonight and a hesitant acclamation granted her request. The doors opened and, preceded by the Deputy Sergeant at Arms, Ed and Davey brushed their way past the President’s welcoming committee. Spencer Prentice, standing beside the doors, grit his teeth as the former General passed. If Ed had noticed the Congressman, he would have done likewise.
THE President’s motorcade snaked towards the Capitol Building. The vehicles hadn’t come from the White House—no one knew where they were from—so their mere approach was newsworthy.
“The motorcade is about three minutes away, Kevin,” the newscaster told her ABC sidekick on air. “And as yet, no one has actually sighted of President Foster.”
“Yes, Patsy, and with the First Lady not even in the Chamber, which is most unusual, there are many who could be forgiven for being in severe doubt that he’s even behind those dark-smoked windows.”
“There’s been so much speculation about tonight’s session that bloggers are calling it ‘The Fate of the Union’…”
“A week ago, the events of the last few days would have been inconceivable… plunging the country into a turmoil that, hopefully, will be quelled tonight. Who could ever have contemplated that nothing—not a peep—could have been heard, or seen, of the President since his…?”
“Kevin, this attendance by the Speaker’s husband and stepson on the floor of the House… it’s most irregular, too. We’re crossing now to Leighton Smith, a longstanding expert on House formalities… Leighton, what do you make of this?”