Conspiracy

151

The presidential limo and the caravan of agents and aides traveling with it followed a preplanned exit strategy, racing to the highway in the direction of the airport. Though by now the Secret Service not only was in control of the situation there, but also understood exactly what had happened, they were taking no chances with the President’s life. Feeder roads were shut down, and even traffic in the opposite directions was stopped. The airport itself was locked down. Air Force One was reported to be ready to leave as soon as the President went up the stairs.

President Marcke, however, had other ideas.

“In this political climate, leaving like this will make it look exactly like I’m running away,” he told Vince Freehan, the head of his Secret Service detail, as the limo headed for the airport.

“Please, Mr. President. We really do know what’s best.”

“No, I’m afraid you don’t,” snapped Marcke angrily. “I am the President. Your job is to do what I say. Not the other way around.”

It was the first time Dean had ever seen the President mad.

It was more than the natural reaction of a headstrong leader when an underling tried to tell him what to do. Marcke was angry that McSweeney had been shot; it had been his responsibility to keep the senator safe, and he felt he had personally failed.

Dean guessed that the President was carefully considering his next move, thinking not about his own safety but of the effect of the incident on the country. While the chief of staff and the head of the Secret Service detail spoke excitedly to a variety of people outside the limo, Marcke switched on the live television feed and watched the initial reports of the incident on the local news stations.

He remained silent until the motorcade pulled onto the airport grounds.

“Find out where Senator McSweeney has been taken,” he told the chief of staff.

“Pardon me, sir, but it’s Sisters of Mercy Hospital,” said Vince Freehan. “We have secured the hospital.”

“Good. We’re going to visit him.”

“Jeez, Jeff, that’s not a good idea,” said Cohen.

“Bullshit it’s not,” the President told his chief of staff.

“Listen, if this is a conspiracy, if the Vietnamese are involved, there could be other shooters.” Marcke turned to Dean. “Are the Vietnamese involved?”

“Not that I know of, sir.”

If Cohen’s eyes had been daggers, Dean would have bled to death. Freehan began making logistical arguments about why the President should stay away from the hospital.

“I am the President of the United States,” said Marcke finally, his voice calmer than before. “The President goes where the President has to. What if an enemy thinks he can scare me into running away?”

“There’s a difference between running away and showing prudence, Mr. President,” said Cohen.

“If that hospital is secure enough for Senator McSweeney, it’s secure enough for me,” said the President.

“You still have to be in D.C. for the Ira ni an-Israeli crisis,” said Cohen. He was still arguing, but he had the tone of a defeated man.

“We’ll get there,” said Marcke.

Then he turned to Dean.

“Do you know what the most important moment of the Reagan presidency was, Mr. Dean?” asked the President.

“No, sir, I don’t.”

“The moment he joked with his doctors after being shot.

Now most of the accounts of that are apocryphal, but even so, it was the sign of strength and vitality that the country needed. They rallied to him. His approval ratings soared after that, and his image was sealed forever. It allowed him to accomplish a great deal.”

Dean nodded.

“People want to believe in their leaders,” said Marcke. He turned back to Cohen and Freehan. “Let’s get this show back on the road.”

“Give us a few minutes, Mr. President,” said Freehan.