Transfer of Power

VICE PRESIDENT SHERMAN Baxter had returned to Washington from a fund-raising trip to New York as fast as his entourage could pull up stakes and ship out. Air Force One had landed at Andrews about forty minutes before Rapp and Dr. Hornig had set down.

Baxter sat in the back of the tanklike presidential limousine with his chief of staff, Dallas King, and Attorney General Margaret Tutwiler. As the motorcade of Secret Service vehicles raced through DC.” Dallas King laid out their strategy. The Stanford Law grad and San Diego native ran a hand through his signature bleach-blond hair.

“This crisis presents us with a unique opportunity.” King paused for emphasis and then looked at Attorney General Tutwiler.

“Your job in this is going to be crucial. Marge. We need to let the FBI know that Shem is in charge. We can’t have them withholding information from us, and we definitely can’t have them trying any rescue operations without our approval.” The thirty-two-year-old rising star smashed his fist into the palm of his hand for emphasis.

“Nothing goes down without our approval. Am I clear on that?”

Marge Tutwiler was just starting to get used to Dallas King’s ambitious style. Vice President Baxter’s lap dog was a charmer. He had good looks, a sharp mind, and a good sense of humor. The only thing he lacked was a sense of his place in the pecking order. Marge Tutwiler-California political activist, self-anointed law enforcement critic, and former USE law professor-was not used to anyone speaking to her in such a tone, let alone someone not much older than her not-so former students.

With a tired expression. Tutwiler said, “Dallas, I was dealing with the FBI when you were still riding around your little San Diego neighborhood on a Big Wheel. Don’t worry; I can handle them.”

Dallas smiled and reached across the back of the limo, gently placing his hand on the attorney general’s knee.

“I’m sorry, Marge. I didn’t mean to imply you didn’t know how to handle the FBI.” The perpetually tanned chief of staff released her knee and held both hands up in a token form of surrender.

“I just meant we need to strategize together.” Dallas flashed his wily smile and thought to himself. This bitch’s ego is bigger than her ass.

Sherman Baxter the Third, former governor of California and current vice president of the United States, cleared his throat and interjected, “No matter what our tides are, we are outsiders in this town, and don’t forget it. Dallas is right, Marge, and it doesn’t hurt to remind us that we need to keep the FBI on a short leash.” Sherman Baxter, like most politicians, had two very distinct personalities. Behind closed doors Baxter was extremely demanding and prone to fits of rage. The fifty-four-year-old Californian had grown to look at the Oval Office almost as if it were his birthright. In his mind, he deserved it a hell of a lot more than his running mate. If it hadn’t been for Baxter and his California connections. President Hayes would never have made it to the White House.

In public they were the perfect picture of cooperation, but behind closed doors Baxter’s contempt for his boss could not be concealed. In his eyes, Hayes was a complete simpleton who had managed to stumble into the White House because he had a cleaner sexual past than any of the other candidates-and, most important, because Sherman Baxter had delivered California.

When Baxter had decided to run with Hayes, he had looked upon the endeavor as a stepping-stone to the presidency.

After a grueling campaign and just five short months in office, Baxter was already tired of playing second fiddle to Hayes. Sherman Baxter the Third, heir to one of California’s finest family wineries, did not take kindly to receiving orders from a man whose family had made their money manufacturing radiator hoses. Three more years would be hard enough to take, and seven was absolutely unthinkable. As King and Tutwiler continued to talk, Baxter gazed out the window. His black hair was thinning, and he wore it slicked back. Baxter folded his left arm over his slightly bulging midsection and remembered something that King liked to say when they discussed the agony of another three years underneath Hayes the simp: “Don’t forget, you’re one heartbeat away from the presidency, boss. You never know when some nut might punch Hayes’s ticket.”

How prophetic Dallas could be, Baxter thought to himself.

As the motorcade pulled onto the George Mason Memorial Bridge, the tightly wound Baxter allowed himself a moment to relish the fact that for now, he was for all intents and purposes the president of the United States.