As the crowd watched patiently, he cleared his throat and charged on. He was going to finish this speech if it took all day.
Casting his gaze back and forth to make eye contact with the two wings of the crowd, the President awaited the next string of blue letters.
They never came. Instead, another crawl of red marched past: "For God's sake, Mr. President! Please cut short your speech. This is an emergency!"
"In conclusion," the President said, shifting gears, "a vote for continuity is a vote for electoral balance, and a vote for electoral balance is a vote for future and lasting change."
Three minutes later, the crowd was applauding and the red, white and green balloons-some advance man had screwed up-went up to the sky.
Surrounded by a diamond of moving Secret Service agents, the President rushed to the waiting armored limo. Or was rushed by them. Sometimes it was hard to tell.
The Secret Service agents looked nervous. More so than usual. The President wondered if they had read the bulletins, too.
They clapped the door shut on the presidential limo, and a running roadblock of armored Secret Service sedans escorted the careering vehicle to the Charlotte airport.
In the back, the press secretary offered the Chief Executive his choice of secure telephones.
"What's this?"
"Director, FBI. On the explosions."
Indicating the second cellular with its light on, the President asked, "Is that for me, too?"
"Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms."
"What do they want?"
"I think they want to beat FBI to your ear."
"Are they fighting again? Damn!"
"Which do you want first?"
The President hesitated. "You decide."
"I can't. You're Chief Executive."
"Hell, hand 'em both over." And the President clapped both cell phones to his head, one to each ear. "This is your President," he said in his best authoritative voice. "Consider this a conference call between FBI and ATF."
"Damn," a small voice said.
"Which one of you said that?" the President demanded.
No one answered. They figured he might not be long for this political world, but couldn't chance offending him.
"FBI, bring me up to speed on these explosions."
"Yes, Mr. President," said the right-hand cell phone. That meant it had been ATF that had cursed. "First, at approximately 11:20 Central Time, an unidentified gunman burst into a federal courtroom in the new federal building in Oklahoma City, He killed everyone in the room except a court officer who is now talking."
"Who did it?"
"I'm coming to that."
"At 12:10 Eastern Standard Time, an explosion took place at the corner of Eighth Avenue and Thirty-fourth Street in midtown Manhattan. It was determined that a postal relay box had exploded. Then at 12:20 EST-note the time-several other relay boxes also detonated in midtown."
"Eleven-twenty in Oklahoma and 12:20 Manhattan time are the same time, aren't they?"
"Accounting for the time difference, yes. There's more. The relay boxes can be opened only by a postal employee with a master key. The Oklahoma City court officer claims a letter carrier committed the massacre."
"What are we looking at here?"
"On the surface, disgruntled postal employees."
The President looked doubtful. "What about under the surface?"
"If I may get a word in?" ATF began to say from the opposite cell phone.
"Hold on. I'll get to you."
"Damn," the ATF head whispered.
"Well, Mr. President," the FBI director resumed, "disgruntled postal workers haven't to date operated in concert. Certainly not coordinated across state lines as this situation appears to suggest."
"They just flip out and shoot at anything that moves, right?"
"That's what my Violent Postal Worker Task Force behavior team says."
"You have a Violent Postal Worker Task Force?"
"Postal crimes have quadrupled in the last five years, sir."
"What gets into these people? Is it the uniforms? The routes? Paper cuts? All of those zip codes they have to remember?"
"We're still working up psychological profiles on that, Mr. President," FBI continued. "In any event, these are clearly federal crimes, and FBI would like the authority to take the tip of the spear in this early investigatory phase."
"Objection! Objection!" said ATF, who suddenly sounded like a lawyer. Ever since the O.J. trial, a lot of federal employees had gotten into the habit of shouting objections.
"You can object later. The President and I are talking," FBI told ATF, apparently using the President's head as a sound-conducting medium. "This is a federal matter. It falls under FBI jurisdiction."
"Don't hand me that. Explosions are ATF."
"Courtroom shootings are FBI. And these events are connected. FBI had suzerainty over ATF in this instance."
"Then we work together," ATF insisted.
"Not a chance," said the President, realizing the last thing he needed a month before his possible reelection was another Waco.
"Very well," the ATF head said. "You must decide, Mr. President."
Thinking that the next last thing he wanted to do before the November election was make an important decision that could backfire, the President clapped the two cell phones together and said, "You two work this out. I have a better idea."
Air Force One was suddenly visible ahead. The President was astonished at how much ground they had covered.
Exiting the presidential limo, he hurried up the air stairs with his entourage and when he entered the gleaming 747, was immediately handed a thin sheaf of papers.
"What are these?" he asked.
"Updates on the incidents in Oklahoma and New York."
His press secretary then offered what appeared to be a block of white wood.
"What's this?"
"Text of your next speech, sir."
"Cancel it."
"All of it?"
"We're headed back to Washington."
The press secretary looked as if he'd been summarily fired.
"Mr. President, we have the Washington vote all sewn up. We can't."
"And get me the postmaster general on the line. What's his name again?"
The press secretary looked blank. The chief advance man looked blank. Everyone looked blank. "Doesn't anyone know who the postmaster general of the United States is?" the President demanded.
"Is he important?"
"If what I hear is true, he may be the most important man in America today."
And the President rushed to his private cabin to hide before the White House press corps surged onto the plane like a human tidal wave in search of quotes and free pretzels.
They were in the air when the presidential press secretary knocked once and poked his head in. "Damon Post on line 1 for you."
"Who?"
"The postmaster general."
"Oh, right. What do I call him - 'Mr. Postmaster'? 'General'?"
The press secretary looked startled. "I don't know. Should I pull the etiquette book?"
"I'll wing it," said the President, picking up the secure cabin phone.
"Damon, this is the President. I hope you don't mind if I call you 'Damon."
"Call me whatever you want, Mr. President."
"Damon, I've been brought up to speed on these incidents. What can you add?"
"We have people on the Manhattan matter."
"And Oklahoma City? What about that?"
"I have no comment on Oklahoma City."
"No comment? What kind of answer is that to give your President?"
"A politic one, Mr. President. It did not involve a postal employee." And from the tone of the postmaster general's voice, the President of the United States understood that he was calculating the odds of not having to deal with executive-branch interference until after the election.
"What do you mean, it didn't involve a postal employee? A dying witness described the assailant as a mailman."