Transfer of Power

DALLAS KING STRUTTED back and forth in front of Baxter’s desk. The two had been debating what to do with the new information, that there was a good chance Aziz was in the process of extricating President Hayes from his bunker.

In his typical defeatist tone, Baxter had whined that it was over.

Everything they had done was for naught. Helicopters would be sent in, the men in black would rappel from ropes, and the blood bath would ensue. He would forever be remembered as the man who presided over the destruction of the White House and the deaths of dozens of Americans.

His presidential ambitions were gone. Snuffed out. This would be a disgrace the fragile American ego would want to forget.

And Sherman Baxter the Third in the Oval Office would be a constant reminder of this entire ugly week and this gruesome assault on the American way.

King stopped his pacing and started snapping his fingers in front of Baxter.

“You’re not listening to me. Pay attention.”

“Shut up, Dallas. I’m listening to you. I just don’t believe you.” The vice president leaned back in his chair and tossed a black pen onto his desk. It hit a leather-bound desk calendar and skidded to a stop in between a photo of Baxter’s family vineyard and a photo of his parents.

King looked down at his boss, not really hurt by the harsh words, but acting as if he were. King was practicing patience.

His boss needed to be both coddled and whipped, depending on the situation. Looking down, the chief of staff pulled back the white cuff of his blue dress shirt and looked at his watch.

“Maybe I’d better leave you alone for a while. You seem like you could use some rest.” King pulled his cuff back over the watch with an aristocratic flair.

Baxter pointed to King.

“Don’t speak to me with that condescending tone of yours, Dallas.”

“Well”-King looked down at his fingernails-“my opinion doesn’t seem to matter much to you, so I thought it would be best if I left you alone.”

Baxter rocked forward.

“Don’t give me this crap, Dallas.”

King turned to face his boss. Now was the time to dig in and then hit him over the head with both the carrot and the stick.

“Then why do I have to fight you at every turn?” King put his hands on his hips and looked to his boss for an answer.

“Sherman, no one ever said this would be easy, but for Christ’s sake, I’m getting sick of your loser attitude.” To himself he added. If you had my problems, you’d want to crawl under a rock and die.

Baxter pulled away, leaning back in his chair. After eyeing his agitated chief of staff for a second, he said, “I don’t see what in the hell I should be so positive about.”

“How about the fact-“ King stopped and looked over both of his shoulders, making sure no one was around. Then leaning over the desk he whispered,”-that maybe a certain person might not make it out of the White House alive.” Nodding his head confidently, he added, “One heartbeat away.

Don’t ever forget it.”

Baxter looked down at his desk for a moment, too embarrassed to let King see the thirst in his eyes The politician in him told him to say the right thing. “I don’t want to become president that way.”

“I know you don’t, but, Sherman, it would be your duty.”

Baxter chewed on the thought.

“We don’t know where this thing is going to end up,” King continued.

“That’s why we have to stay loose. That’s why I need your head in the game.” King studied Baxter to see if he was getting through.

“Keep the pressure on the UN, and I’ll worry about the rest of it. I have some ideas on how we can handle things if Flood and Stansfleld keep leaning on you, but I have to think them through.”

King looked out the window while he thought about his plans. It was getting late in the day. Maybe four more hours of sunlight, and then it would be dark again. If they could just make it until the morning and get another third of the hostages released, that would go a long way toward a victory. Then they could turn Flood and Stansfield loose, and hopefully his other problem would then be taken care of.