Ryne Pearson - Capitol Punishment

The NSA’s face curled a bit at that. The “odd man out” was nothing more than a colloquial term for the lone member in the line of presidential succession who was normally kept away from events where all the other members were present, such as the approaching State of the Union message. It was a matter of security, a safety measure that, should some catastrophe strike when all the other members were together, ensured there would be a constitutionally recognized successor to the presidency available to assume the powers of state. For the State of the Union the choice had already been made: Energy Secretary Raleigh McCaw would do the honors, watching the constitutionally required report to Congress from the safety of his home — guarded by the Secret Service for that one evening. All very simple. All very proper.

So why were the most powerful men on the Hill sneaking into the White House to discuss the matter? Why indeed? Bud wondered. “The odd man out? It’s Secretary McCaw. What’s to discuss?”

“Whether he’s the right choice,” Parsons responded flatly. He didn’t like McCaw, but then he didn’t like the president, either. Neither, though, was behind the reasoning of his questioning.

“Right choice?” Bud snickered a bit. “You lost me, gentlemen.”

“Me, too,” Gonzales joined. “Raleigh did the duty last year. Energy isn’t exactly tops on the agenda for the speech. He doesn’t need to be there.”

“He’s second to the bottom, Bud, for Christ’s sake!” Parsons challenged.

Murphy raised a hand to quiet his excitable colleague, then focused his attention on the president’s advisers. “Listen. Curt and I don’t make a habit of flying back to D.C. during recess for just nothing. We’ve had calls, my good men. From our friends across the aisle. They have a bug in their bonnet about McCaw. You know that. After that MicroGen bullshit he had to prove himself innocent of, and then laying it on one of their boys. Well, they don’t like him. And they don’t trust him.”

“Wait,” Bud said. “This isn’t 1963. Soviet bombs are not going to drop during the State of the Union.”

“No, but those black revolutionaries—”

“Terrorists!” Parsons interjected.

“Whatever,” Murphy said. “Those fellows have the ability to do some major damage, Bud. Kill a lot of people. And that vehicle they found in the river not fifteen minutes from here is making folks on both sides of the aisle nervous. Real nervous.”

“Mr. Speaker, there is no way they’re going to be able to do anything during the State of the Union.” Bud turned to the chief of staff. “The Service already went heads-up on that, right, Ellis?”

Gonzales nodded emphatically. “They’re working close with the FBI, and from what I understand there will be an airtight lock on anything near the Capitol that night. It’ll actually start a few days before, I recall. Ted O’Neil gave me a brief rundown. Plus every African-American group and organization from the NAACP to the most radical fringe has offered to help. The odds are on our side, gentlemen.”

“Promises,” Parsons commented. “Those did our president’s predecessor a hell of a lot of good in L.A. a few years back.”

“There’s a damn big difference between shooting rockets at the president’s motorcade, while it’s sitting still, and sneaking a tank of nerve gas into the most heavily guarded building in D.C.” Bud took a breath, realizing he was letting Parsons get the best of him.

“Tank,” Parsons observed. “I saw the Bureau report on the damn thing. It’s smaller than a football.”

“And made of metal,” Bud pointed out.

“Even you gentlemen are going to have to go through metal detectors on January nineteenth,” Gonzales said. “Unless the president himself carries it in, it’s not getting in.”

“They could release it outside,” Parsons suggested. “Upwind.”

Gonzales shrugged. “There’ll be gas alarms galore. Plenty of warning, and plenty of—” It was the chief of staffs turn to look to Bud. “What does the Army call them?”

“MOPP suits,” Bud answered.

“Plenty of MOPP suits,” Gonzales continued, “for everyone.”

“An attack outside would be stupid,” Bud observed. “That doesn’t mean they wouldn’t try it, but it would fail. Period.”

“Hold on, hold on, hold on,” Murphy said, repeating the mantra-like admonishment familiar to all in the House chamber. “The plain truth is that enough people are uncomfortable with the idea of McCaw possibly ending up as president — God forbid — that it just won’t fly. Whether you two want to admit it or not, there is a risk here. A real one where there usually isn’t, and that requires careful consideration.”

“Are you saying you want someone else to be odd man out?” Gonzales asked.

“Exactly,” Parsons answered.

“Someone more suited to the potential,” Murphy explained. “McCaw was, what, some sort of computer executive before taking over Energy? That’s not what the country needs if…”

Bud slid back on the couch. “This is really concerning you?”

“Bud,” Murphy began, tapping his own chest with a thick thumb, “I’m number three on the list of succession. I was elected. People voted for me. But I’m gonna be sitting right up there behind your boss next month. The vice president is gonna be right next to me. Pardon what comes next, but just about everyone else who can take over according to the Constitution are appointed schmucks. Normally, sure, McCaw wouldn’t raise an eyebrow. But this isn’t a normal time. People on the Hill want to fry Gordon Jones for what happened in L.A. last month, and they aren’t sure they trust promises of security.”

“It will be secure,” Gonzales said forcefully.

“Fine,” Murphy responded. “Then we’ll all walk away happy. But McCaw has got to go. Choose someone better suited to the ‘maybes,’ not the promises.”

“If someone doesn’t take care of this before too long there’re going to be public calls from some of our Republican friends for a change.” Parsons’s stomach rumbled loudly as the antacid began its fight with the remnants of the previous night’s revelry. “Some on our side, too. That can be damn embarrassing.” He pointed a long, tan finger at Gonzales. “You more than anyone should be tuned in to that. Earl Casey is going to have your ass if this blows up.”

“It doesn’t need to blow up,” Murphy countered. There was conciliation in his voice, but also direction.

Embarrassment . Ellis knew all too well the ramifications of that. In a way he was the president’s point man, walking ahead of the chief executive through the election-year minefield. It was important the rest of the term, also, but now was the time when it most counted. People wouldn’t vote for a man whose own party fired a shot across his bow. No way. This wasn’t worth risking that.

“All right,” Ellis said. “I’ll talk to the president.”

“Soon,” Murphy prodded.

“This week,” Ellis promised.

“Make it someone everyone can accept,” Parsons directed.

Gonzales nodded.

Bud stood. “That does it, then. Crisis averted.”

Murphy and Parsons also rose to their feet and gathered their coats.

“Thanks for the hurry-up, Bud,” the speaker said, putting a hand on the NSA’s shoulder.

“Thanks for dropping in,” Bud said with a slight chuckle attached, then closed the door behind their visitors. He turned back to the chief of staff. His face was blank. “Parsons can be an ass.”

Gonzales quietly nodded. “Do you think there’s a reason to worry?”

“Worry?” Bud sat in the chair vacated by the speaker. It was still warm. “No. Concern, yes.”