Stephen Cannell - The Plan

"I hope I'm not gonna be singing to an empty church."

"It doesn't matter. I don't want this announcement to be too big. Since we're coming in late, I'd rather take them by surprise, hit them from the blind side at the Register-Guard debate in Des Moines tomorrow. Keep it short, stay on the message, no issues."

"Come on, A. J., I wanna talk about issues. I've got a great thing on immigration." He stopped because A. J. Teagarden had buried his bushy head in his hands and was groaning in mock misery.

"Don't pull that shit, A. J. I've seen that routine a hundred times."

"We're going to run above the issues," A. J. said, taking his meaty hands down and looking at Haze. "I don't wanna talk about the issues. You talk issues, I'm the fuck outta here."

"What else can we talk about?"

"We're gonna run on the message. The message is:

Haze Richards feels the anger, America! He feels the frustration! He feels the disenchantment, the alienation, the sense of loss. And you know why he feels it? He feels it because he's one of you! Haze Richards is a fucking American citizen before he's anything else and, like every American, he is angry about all these special interest gurus. . angry because, damn it, all these guys have been bought. Haze Richards never spent a day in Congress, never had a lobbyist buy him a free meal. . never cut a deal with special interests that he had to pay back. Haze Richards is pure, man. He is the only goddamn candidate in this race who hasn't been bought."

"You kidding me?" Haze said, thinking back to the meeting in the motor home.

"Okay, but that's what you're going to say. You're gonna lead the second revolution in America, Haze. A revolution for the discontented. You're gonna make America work again, goddammit. And if you say a word about abortion or gay rights, I'll fucking kick your sorry ass off the stage."

There was a silence in the room.

"If you do this the way I tell you," A. J. said, softly, "I'll get you into the White House."

Ryan had taken a cab to Providence early that morning and met his camera crew. A tall, Oriental girl with a bodybuilder's physique, a plain face, and long black hair stepped up to him with a bone-crushing handshake.

"I'm Rellica Sunn," she said, grabbing the fifty-pound Beta-cam in one hand, her shoulder muscles flexing in a sleeveless shooting vest that held camera equipment. The temperature was in the mid-thirties and this girl was walking around in Palm Springs clothing. Standing with her was a narrow-shouldered sound man with a Naga unit and a directional mike.

"Ryan Bolt," he said, introducing himself.

"Quite a party; what's going on?" Rellica asked.

"I think Governor Richards is going to announce for President."

"Of what?"*

"Funny."

The announcement was short and Ryan got blanket coverage. Haze stepped to the podium at exactly eleven o'clock and looked out over the crowd of friendly faces that A. J. had paid to show up as window dressing.

"I detect, in America today, a sense of loss and frustration. . a sense of profound anger. The American dream, for many of us, has died. We no longer have a national purpose. We are reflections in a fractured mirror. We are fighting with each other and tearing the fabric of our nation to shreds. Why is this happening?" His voice rang in the rotunda. "Prices have gone up. Our GNP is down. Blacks and whites are rioting. Our products are inferior. We are losing out to foreign interests. In World War Two, we had a goal. . and we won that war. The war we fight toda y i s no less a war. . no less about preserving America. But we are losing this war. It's called the war of economic survival. I don't think America is about losing. I'm mad, like all of you, because we've become second-rate. I'm mad that our system of government has been stolen by special interest groups. I want to take America back. I want to make America work for you. This is your country and mine. Let's stop being angry. Let's change things." He took a long moment and looked at the cameras with resolution. "With that as my goal, I am announcing my candidacy for President of the United States."

The national big feet and local blow-dries packed up their equipment and got back in their vans as Haze moved off the rotunda into the statehouse.

"How did it go?" Haze asked A. J.

"Truthfully, you were all over the road. Riots? The economy? GNP? Don't bring up issues unless asked, then you shift back to the message. But it's a start."

Republic Airlines had twenty seats roped off for the Haze Richards campaign. They were all in the back of the 737.

Ryan and Rellica just managed to make the flight. To save money, they had sent the sound mixer home. Ryan could run the Nagra recorder. Rell said she'd work with available light. They shook hands to seal the deal. They buckled their seat belts and were off to Des Moines.

Ryan knew where the plane was headed but had no inkling where he was going.

"Look up," the makeup lady said, as she applied Brenton's eyeliner. They were in his office on the Rim a few minutes before "Air."

Brenton's office was on the east side of the floor. White pile carpet, oak walls, and abstract art fought for center stage with a roomful of steel-and-glass furniture. The interior glass wall was fitted with electronically controlled drapes so he could close off the Rim if he needed privacy. He had an array of TV screens built into the far wall so he could monitor the other network news shows and a computer bank that was hooked into a Nexus program to update breaking stories worldwide. Brenton usually kidded with Cris from makeup but tonight he was distracted.

As he was getting ready for his broadcast, he went over some of the copy he had been given on the Haze Richards announcement. He had looked at the file film on the governor earlier in the day, and noted that Haze Richards was extremely handsome, a growing requirement in American politics. United States political campaigns had become beauty contests where men with capped teeth and two — hundred-dollar haircuts claimed to be just plain folks-the only tangible result of this that Brenton could see was America had the best-looking Presidents with the best haircuts in the world. The governor from Rhode Island fit the profile perfectly. Haze Richards had nothing in his back-story to recommend him. He amassed an undistinguished voting record while in the Rhode Island State Legislature; he'd gone right on some issues, left on others. The pattern continued after he became governor. He seemed, to Brenton, to be externally directed, a man who would chase public opinion.

"Little lip gloss?" Cris asked as she put some on with a Q-Tip. She was finishing the touch-up when Steve Israel, VP of the nightly news, stuck his twenty-nine-year-old bald head in, unannounced, and said, "You're on in two minutes."

Brenton heaved out of the chair, grabbed some aspirin for his dull headache, and winked at Cris.

"Break a leg." She smiled.

"Only if you'll nurse me back to health," he said, his heart not in the interplay, his temples throbbing.

"And now, a political commentary from Brenton Spencer," the P. M. announcer said. And then Brenton was on camera, seated in front of the world map in the center of the Rim while news staffers ran around in the wide shots with arms full of empty folders. The newsroom look had been Brenton's idea. Then the camera moved in close for his political update section of the newscast.

He looked seriously into the lens. "What New England governor is mad as hell and about to do something about it?"

The shot switched to some edits of Haze Richards. They'd picked his "angry as hell" sound bite.

The film clip started. "I'm mad that our system of government has been stolen by special interest groups. I want to take America back," Haze said from the rotunda.