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“Leave it open,” the President ordered. “And turn on the TV.”
The screen showed the stage of Auditorium Three above a moving legend on the bottom, WOLF NEWS BREAKING NEWS, THE PRESIDENTIAL PRESS CONFERENCE AT CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VA.
The image was of assorted people, including the Vice President, trying to do something about the non-functioning microphone.
The voice of Vice President Montvale crying “Oh, shit!” filled the passenger compartment of Marine One.
“Oh, shit,” presidential press secretary Parker said softly.
The Wolf News camera now turned to the VIP journalists in the front-row seats, finally settling on C. Harry Whelan, Jr., who was shaking his head in disbelief.
The voice of the Vice President announced, “As the President has left the building, this press conference is over.”
The camera quickly shifted to the podium, just in time to see the Vice President march away from it. Then it shifted to a shot of the dignitaries quickly hurrying after him.
“Mr. President, I have no idea what happened,” Porky Parker said. “But I’m sorry.”
“You should be,” the President said. “I never thought you had what it takes to be the President’s press secretary.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re fired, Porky. Get off my helicopter.”
“What?”
“When I get back to the White House, I will announce that I have accepted your resignation.”
“Mr. President, I was in no way responsible for—”
“Nobody’s likely to believe that, are they, Porky? Now, get off my goddamn helicopter!”
Parker went to the door and down the door stairs.
Mulligan threw the switch that caused the door stairs to retract.
“Well, that took care of that disloyal sonofabitch, didn’t it, Bob?” the President asked.
“I thought that everything went very well, Mr. President,” Mulligan said.
“I owe you one,” the President said. He pointed toward the cockpit. “Tell him to get us out of here.”
III
[ONE]
Auditorium Three
CIA Headquarters
McLean, Virginia
1120 12 April 2007
Roscoe J. Danton had decided, without really thinking about it, that he was going to have to write a “think piece” about this clusterfuck, rather than just covering it. Other people, simple reporters, would cover the story. But he was, after all, a syndicated columnist of the Washington Times-Post Writers Syndicate; his readers expected more of him.
His biography, on the Times-Post website, written by some eager-eyed journalist fresh from the Columbia School of Journalism, said, “Mr. Danton joined the Times-Post immediately after his service in the U.S. Marine Corps.”
That was true, though it hadn’t happened quite the way it sounded.
