The White House, Washington, D.C
The secret, Lloyd Taylor had discovered, of staying on top of things as President of the United States was information, information, and more information. Gather as much as possible from as many sources as possible, and as quickly as possible. Moreover, although he had a capable and trustworthy staff, the information should not be diluted or encapsulated by his staff. Interestingly, he found that if he got his information from the same sources that served most of the American people, he was able to stay on top of events that the people were most concerned about. He rarely found himself caught up in events in the Persian Gulf, for example, if most Americans were really concerned about the economy.
It was not a foolproof system, but it had served him well during his first three and a half years in office and, with luck, would serve him well in a second term.
Taylor’s predecessor was a fanatic about daily exercise the way Taylor was about information, and so Taylor combined the two shortly after arriving in the White House. After rising at five-thirty every morning, the President would change into shorts and sneakers and make his way into the well-equipped exercise room in the back west corner of the White House.
There, in the middle of the room, sat a walking/jogging treadmill, a self-contained physical fitness evaluation device that measured and recorded two dozen different vital signs from pulse to weight to blood pressure’ as he walked. That was his predecessor’s contribution. In front of the treadmill was Taylor’s — a large-screen voice-command computer monitor and terminal.
“Good morning, Mr. President,” Paul Cesare, the Chief of Staff, greeted him. Cesare set a glass of orange juice and a fresh towel on a table near the treadmill. “How do you feel this morning?”
“Just fine, Paul.” The President stepped onto the treadmill. The pre-programmed machine beeped five times in warning, then automatically started. Taylor slipped his hand into a glovelike device on the handlebar that had sensors in it that would feed information to the body function monitors. As the President started walking, the computer terminal came to life.
“Good morning, Mr. President,” the terminal said in a quiet feminine voice. On the screen was a recorded view of the Potomac and the Jefferson Memorial. The screen changed to several columns of information in large letters showing the weather, date, important holidays and the day’s appointments. “The following is an encapsulation of your morning appointments:
“You have a Cabinet meeting at eight o’clock. At ten o’clock, a meeting with the Senate Foreign Relations committee. At noon, the luncheon with the International Kiwanas at the Ambassador Hotel. There are five desk flags.” Desk flags were items left on his desk that would require some study or consultation. A brief description of each flashed on the screen; none seemed too important. “Would you like to review them now?”
“No.”
“Would you like to review the afternoon appointments?”
“No.”
“What would you like, Mr. President?”
The treadmill had sped up to about three miles per hour as it automatically sought to raise Taylor’s heart rate to its optimum aerobic exercise rate. “Go back to bed,” he said, stepping up the pace.
The computer thought about it for a moment, then, “Please make another choice, Mr. President.”
“Thanks,” he said, and Cesare grinned. “How about wire-service headlines?”
“Please select a keyword, or select ‘All.’ “ The keywords were phrases used to narrow down the huge selection of news items.
“ ‘White House,’ ” the President requested.
A long list of news bulletins flashed on the screen, all containing the words “White House.” The computer-synthesized voice continued: “Selected headlines as of five A.M. Eastern Standard Time: ‘White House may announce decision on Korean trade bill today.’ ‘Foreign Relations Chairman Myers travels to White House to break impasse.’ ‘Russian KGB spy disaster stymies White House advisers.’ ‘First Lady will receive veteran’s group in White House ceremony …’ “
Taylor pounded a fist on the treadmill STOP button. “What the hell …? Stop. Read item three.”
“Headlines Stop,” the computer acknowledged. “Review. Item three. Washington Post Wire Service, date twenty-one June, nineteen hundred and ninety-six. Washington desk, first paragraph: ‘A Russian KGB deep-cover agent may have caused the crash of an experimental B-52 bomber in the southern Nevada desert on Tuesday, an unnamed military source said today. He may also have been responsible for the downing of an F-15 fighter over Mexico and the crash of a second F-15 over southern Arizona, with loss of life as high as six. Second paragraph: Despite the attacks, the White House has apparently decided to take no action that may provoke the Soviet Union until more evidence has been received and analyzed. Third paragraph: Sources confirm—’ “
“Stop, dammit. Who the hell authorized that news release? I didn’t—”
“It sounds like it came from the Pentagon, sir …”
“The Pentagon? Get General Kane on the phone.”
Cesare hit the auto-dial button for the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “I’ll get hold of Walters, too,” Cesare said. Ted Walters was the White House Press Secretary. “He might be able to keep that story from going out on the morning news shows if we catch it in time.”
“The morning news …Goddamn, get on it, Paul. Of all the things to leak out …”
“General Kane on your speakerphone, sir,” Cesare said a few moments later. The President punched the flashing button.
“Bill, there’s an article on the Washington Post wire service that mentions our discussion yesterday about the—”
“Open line, Mr. President,” Cesare interrupted, his hand over the mouthpiece of his phone.
“—the aircraft incident. Know anything about it?”
“No, sir. I certainly authorized no release about that at all.”
“Better get over here, Bill.”
“On my way, sir.”
“Ted’s on his way too, sir. He can make some calls from his car.”
“When I catch the sonofabitch who leaked this, I’ll kick his butt out of Washington, out of the country …”
Cesare, always protective of the Boss and concerned about his blood pressure, tried to soft-pedal the news. “It sounds a little sketchy. Maybe an imaginative reporter heard about the B-52 crash and just kept on digging until he found—”
“There’s no way any reporter could start from a B-52 crash and end up with KGB deep-cover agents without help from this office. We’ve got to assume Walters can’t stop the media from picking up on this and spreading it all over the country. So what are we going to say about it?”
“The story is so far out,” Cesare said, “that if we deny the whole thing, people will believe us. A Russian KGB agent shooting down a B-52 bomber over Nevada? Who’s going to believe that?”
“Eyewitnesses. They could have interviewed someone from Dreamland. They could confirm the fact that the B-52 was shot down deliberately. There could be eyewitnesses to the plane being shot down over Mexico or the crash in Arizona. There—”