Christopher Buckley - Boomsday

“Straightforwardish,” Randy said. “They couldn’t exactly issue a press release about it.” He gave her a peck on the forehead. “Cheer up. You’re going to be First Lady of the United States someday. And then”-he grinned-“you can have your own Transition commission. We’ll even make Transitioning mandatory-at age fifty. How would that be?”

“Thank you. That was truly patronizing.”

“Darling, I can do a lot more for your debt-ridden generation from inside the White House.”

“Yeah, well, send me a postcard when you get there,” Cass said, her heels making a clickety-click on the polished wooden floor of the Georgetown mansion as she headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” Randy called after her.

“To overthrow the government.”

“Cassandra.”

She’d kept a relatively low profile blogwise during her stint as a commissioner. Now, sitting in front of the glowing screen, she felt like a fighter pilot strapping herself into the cockpit, firing up the engines, and doing a weapons systems check.

She posted: “Further Study Needed- into Transition Commission Whitewash… ” and happily, busily blogged until dawn.

Randy’s first inkling that all was not well came when he called Bucky Trumble-only to have a difficult time getting through to him.

“Can I tell him what it’s about?” Bucky’s assistant said.

“It’s Senator Jepperson,” Randy repeated. “Senator Randolph Jepperson.” He wondered if he should add, “Of Massachusetts?”

The assistant said she would “pass along the message.” Randy hung up and stared at the phone. After ten minutes, he began to think that there might be a more therapeutic use of his time than trying to will an inanimate object to ring and busied himself with inserting an earmark into a highway bill. Bucky called him back five and a half hours later.

“Sorry,” Bucky said. “Busy day. The Middle East just blew up.”

“How unusual,” Randy said stiffly. “It’s normally so placid.”

“So what’s up? Hey, listen, what’s with your girlfriend?”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s going after us on that blog of hers. Saying the commission was fixed.”

“Well?” Randy said. “Wasn’t it? That was the whole point.”

“Tell her to lighten up. She called the president ‘a manipulative scumbag.’ That’s not the sort of language a presidential commissioner ought to be using.”

“I didn’t know. She doesn’t clear her stuff with me. And I’ve got better things to do than keep up with blogs.”

“Maybe you ought to start. She called you a wimp.”

“What?”

“She said you were part of the quote-unquote whitewash.”

“I…” Randy made an exasperated sound. “I’ll give her a good spanking. Look, meanwhile, I need to see the president.”

“Okay,” Bucky said, sounding unenthusiastic. “Anything special you’d like to discuss?”

Anything special? “Well, yes. In fact.”

“Like?”

“Excuse me, do I have the wrong number? Is this the White House? Washington, D.C.?”

“Yes,” Bucky said, sounding as though he might be doing a crossword puzzle or sketching out ideas for a State of the Union speech.

“Is this call coming as something of a mystery to you?”

“No. No, no. Just swamped, is all. Let me take a look at his calendar.” Bucky made a clicking sound with his tongue. “It’s pretty chuggy-jam this week. And the next. Is it something you want to just run by me first over the phone so I can give him the gist?”

“Not especially, frankly.”

“Then we’re probably…looking at next month.…”

“Next month? Look here-”

“Unless you want to fly with him on Air Force One next week.”

“Oh. Well, sure.” That’s more like it.

“He’s doing a flyover of the drought-stricken states. The vice president’s coming along. Please don’t mention that to anyone, for security reasons. Normally, they don’t fly together. But since the vice president is from Oklahoma…Ought to be a really interesting trip. The top experts on drought and irrigation will be aboard.”

“Sounds riveting. You say the vice president is going to be there?”

“Yeah. Is that some kind of problem?”

“Well, Bucky,” Randy said, “that’s rather what I was hoping to discuss with the president.”

There was silence over the line. “Oh,” Bucky said, “I…see. I see. Yes. Yes . Well, Randy, gosh, kind of awkward. But let me give it to you straight up. There’ve been developments on that front. The vice president indicated to the president that he wants to stay. He got a clean report from the prostate docs at Bethesda Naval. So he’s still on the team. As you know, the president is nothing if not loyal. It would have been great to have you on the team, but as it is, the slot’s filled. I realize this must be a disappointment to you. You did a hell of a job with the commission. We’d love to use you as a surrogate during the campaign. I shouldn’t be saying this, but there are going to be some cabinet openings coming available after next November. But we’re going to have to work our tails off. It’s going to be one tough election.…?Randy?…Hello?”

Terry and Cass were going over a presentation for a client who owned a nationwide string of 550 pet stores. He wanted the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service to relax its ban on importing a species of Amazonian salamander called a motato that absorbs moonlight and glows in the dark. He foresaw a huge demand for glow-in-the-dark salamanders and, on top of the normal fees, was offering Terry a $5 million bonus if it went through.

The problem was twofold. The head of the imported salamanders division within Fish and Wildlife had to be persuaded that the motato was not, strictly speaking, endangered. The other problem was that the salamander was considered holy by a tribe of indigenous Indians, which meant that various environmental deputies in the Brazilian government would have to be persuaded, which is to say bribed-or, in the parlance of K Street, “accommodated.” Terry and Cass were analyzing this particular aspect when the door burst open and in limped the senator from the great state of Massachusetts.

“I’ve been calling you for two days,” he said grumpily to Cass. “Why haven’t you returned my calls?”

“I’ve been dealing,” Cass said airily, “with salamanders.”

Terry said to Randy, “Don’t ask.”

Cass said, “Less slimy than certain human beings.”

“If you two want to slug it out, I could leave,” Terry said.

Randy threw himself into a leather chair. “It wasn’t very nice of you to call me a ‘wimp’ on your blog.”

“Actually I toned it down. Originally I had called you a backstabbing sellout.”

“Thank you,” Randy said. “I’m touched. You didn’t help me much with the president. I was given the impression that he doesn’t like being called a ‘manipulative scumbag.’ Really, Cass.”

He described his phone call with Bucky Trumble. “So, it would appear that we’ve been had.”

“No, darling,” Cass said, “ you’ve been had.”

“Whatever,” Randy said. The kinda spooky look came over him. “But let me assure you-they will rue the day that they tangled with Randolph K. Jepperson.”

“Rue?” said Terry.

Cass said, “It’s WASP for ‘pluck out their eyes.’ So, Senator? What’s the plan now? Gearing up to write an earthshaking op-ed piece?”

“Screw that. We’re running.”

Cass and Terry stared.

“For president,” he added.

“Darling,” Cass said, not unkindly, “what on?”

“What do you mean?”