James Grippando - The Abduction

“The thing I remember most about my combat experience in Vietnam,” he said in a commanding voice, “is the eerie feeling of fighting an invisible enemy. As we marched through the thick tropical jungle of the A Shau Valley, gunfire would quickly erupt, men would fall-and then all was quiet. The enemy was nowhere to be seen.

“This presidential campaign has been strangely reminiscent of that experience. Marching along the campaign trail, I get machine-gunned out of nowhere with a barrage of clever sound bites created by my Democratic opponent’s high-paid advisers. When it comes time to stand and fight, however, Ms. Leahy is nowhere to be found.”

A combination of light laughter and applause rolled across the auditorium.

General Howe flashed a serious expression straight into the camera, his voice growing louder. “The American people deserve better than that. So today I issue this challenge. Come out from your hiding place in the Washington jungle, Ms. Leahy. Debate me on the issues, one on one!”

The crowd cheered, but the general kept talking.

“I’m not talking about another round of sickeningly sweet question-and-answer sessions, like those so-called debates we held earlier this month. No more use of a single moderator who would sooner pick up a rattlesnake than ask a potentially embarrassing question. Forget the town-hall format, where the tough questions may or may not be asked. Let’s have a panel of four independent experts. You pick two, I pick two. Let them ask the questions the American people are asking. And let us answer them!”

The crowd erupted into louder cheers. Balloons fell from the ceiling. Supporters clapped their hands and waved their red and blue cardboard signs, chanting, “We want Lincoln! We want Lincoln!”

The television coverage quickly shifted back to a stiff and serious anchorman fingering the small audio piece into his ear. “Joining me now from Washington is CNN political analyst Nick Beaugard. Nick, why does this challenge come now?”

The screen flashed a head-and-shoulders shot of a silver-haired reporter before a mock-up of the White House. “If you believe General Howe’s campaign staff, they’ve been trying to persuade the nonpartisan Commission on Presidential Debates to approve another debate ever since the first round failed to produce a clear winner. But the real urgency for the Howe campaign stems from the painful reality of recent trends in public opinion polls. For the eight weeks following the August conventions, General Howe ran neck and neck with Attorney General Leahy. That’s not surprising, since they’re both moderates and, apart from the question of military spending, their stand on the issues is quite similar. Conservative Republicans have recently dubbed the general ‘Lincoln Center,’ an unflattering play on the native New Yorker’s middle-of-the-road politics.

“In the past nine days we’ve seen a dramatic shift. The major polls show that an increasing number of previously undecided voters are now leaning toward Leahy. Today’s CNN/ USA Today/ Gallup poll shows Leahy up by a whopping six points. A clear victory over Ms. Leahy in a no-holds-barred debate may be General Howe’s only hope. Otherwise, when faced with the choice between a black man and a white woman on November seventh, the American people may well elect their first woman president.”

The anchorman furrowed his brow inquisitively. “Has there been any response yet from the Leahy campaign?”

“None yet,” said the correspondent. “Some say the attorney general is content to sit on her lead. But there are also reports of concern within the Leahy camp as to how their candidate would fare in a debate against General Howe in a format where, essentially, anything goes.”

“All right, thank you. In other news today-”

Allison hit the mute button on her remote control. Her expression had fallen. “I’m already being cast as the chicken. We can’t go another minute with no response to a challenge like that.”

“Let’s not be knee-jerk,” said Wilcox. “We need to check things out, make sure it’s the right thing to do.”

“Of course it’s the right thing. He’s proposing a format that actually forces the candidates to think on their feet. If the previous debates showed anything about his speaking abilities, General Howe has more of the old college football jock in him than the commanding general.”

“Careful, Allison. You’re dealing with a military mentality. Howe wouldn’t invite you to debate unless he were thinking ambush. Before we agree to anything, we need to have a very clear understanding of what he’s proposing.”

“Work out the details later,” she said with a wave of her hand. “Set up a press conference before the rally in Philly. I want to make sure we air my response in time for the six o’clock news.” Her mouth curled into a confident, almost imperceptible smile. “I’d love a good old-fashioned debate with Lincoln Howe. Anytime. Anyplace. Of course I’m accepting the challenge.”

All four thousand red velvet seats at Atlanta’s Fox Theatre were filled with partisan politicos. Signs and hats were prohibited inside the auditorium, but the political buttons fastened to lapels indicated an audience fairly evenly divided between Leahy and Howe supporters.

Immediately following Allison’s Monday-night acceptance of General Howe’s challenge, the Commission on Presidential Debates scheduled the debate in Atlanta on Thursday, twelve days before the election. Allison had spent the balance of Wednesday night and all of Thursday studying up on the issues, meeting with advisers, and gathering last-minute tips from her consultants.

Allison stood behind a mahogany podium to the audience’s left. She wore a bright blue St. John suit, and her hair was up in a stylish twist that completed the serious but feminine look that had graced the cover of thousands of magazines. Lincoln Howe was to the right, dressed in a well-tailored suit with a light blue shirt, red tie, and gold cuff links. He’d campaigned in civilian clothes all along, of course, but he had somehow always looked like a soldier caught out of uniform. Tonight, he looked decidedly presidential.

“Good evening,” said the moderator, “and welcome to the Campaign 2000 presidential debates. We have an unusual format tonight. A panel of four distinguished journalists, two selected by each candidate, have absolute freedom to ask whatever questions they wish.”

Allison scanned the audience as the moderator introduced the panel. She shared a subtle smile with her husband, who was seated in the second row. Peter Tunnello was, according to Business Week magazine, “a visionary self-made millionaire” who had pioneered the plastic recycling business-a highly profitable and politically correct line of work for a politician’s spouse. At age fifty-six he was eight years older than Allison, with distinguished flecks of gray in his hair and dark eyes that could charm his wife or chill his enemies. They’d dated casually a few months before Emily’s abduction. He’d never been gorgeous, but if the ensuing tragedy and endless search had proven anything, it was that Peter was that rare breed of man who came through in times of need.

Allison was no slave to intuition, but something in the air-the vibes, the setting-was suddenly making her feel as if tonight could be one of those times of need.

The moderator continued, “As this is the third debate, we will dispense with opening statements and move straight to questions.”

Allison sipped her water, relieved that she wouldn’t have to hear the general recite his résumé yet again. Certainly it was impressive. A Medal of Honor from Vietnam. His bold triumph as the four-star general in charge of the Special Operations Command that had liberated thirty-eight American hostages from heavily armed terrorists in Beirut. The well-earned reputation as a fearless hawk at the Pentagon. She wondered, however, when his strategists would finally realize that all the military machismo was making even his biggest fans nervous about electing a president who might be a little too eager to send their sons and daughters marching off to war.