Wow, nice. Cut back to close in on Norcross, look at the firm way he’s laying it down. Okay, next reaction is… that slightly bewildered young family in robes and pajamas… catch them right when Norcross hits his authority voice—yes! look at Daddy nodding solemnly, and taking Mommy’s hand, perfect! Gotcha!
“—no backbiting, no second-guessing, no analysis of how this affects our chances—just get in there and help. There will be time enough for politics later. So this is my—”
Wow, he’s already winding up. That was fast. Okay, throw in all the reactions I can:
Maid in uniform leaning on a dust mop, next to the obvious Washington guy, face careworn and exhausted, in the pricey perfect-fit suit.
Young black father holding a small girl.
White hair, DAV cap, wheelchair, how come those guys always have a flag with them? Never mind, on to:
Desk clerk in uniform, slumped against a pillar but smiling radiantly, as if she had just heard exactly what she wanted to hear, bowing her head in prayer.
Back to select, close up, focus, hit it:
Norcross’s grin, like a boxer who is half a minute from going back into the ring; here was a guy who believed.
“—beyond liberal and conservative, beyond Christian and secular, beyond business as usual. It’s about our country. So if you support me— support the president. Support our officials, support the nation, and pray for them and for all of us. Thank you and good night.”
Stay on him… expression of a man sure he has just done the right thing.
Pull back to show the room. Pop cuts around to:
Stone-faced Secret Service.
Eager reporters clicking away at their computers.
The crowd: young, old, men, women, children, many races, uniforms, jeans, T-shirts, bathrobes, suits—all nodding, solemnly, seriously, as gazes caught, held, were acknowledged in one another’s reactions.
He caught, over and over, that instant when fearful grimaces and stunned slack jaws became weary, determined smiles, like Norcross’s, as they decided we are in it together, and we will get through it.
In the corner of his screen: lexy: strike&go if no qns. Norcross was already at the door, so Chris moved swiftly, automatically, shutting down remotes and slipping them into cases, locking the cases onto his cart.
Residual pride insisted that he avoid taking the phone call that fired him in front of other people. He zipped through shut down and pack up. No call.
Back in the hotel room, he set about the ritual mechanics of pretending to himself that he would relax—pouring a double of Myers’s Dark Rum and RC Cola over cracked ice; taking a fast shower while thinking, don’t-ring-don’t-ring-don’t-ring, I don’t want to be fired while I’m wet and naked at the phone on the sink; settling the thick, soft robe around his shoulders.
The phone didn’t ring.
He nerved himself and dared to look on BackChanL, the instant archive on demand; they had broadcast it just as he’d sent it. He watched right to the end. Yep, my best work. Ever. And it went out to the public and look at all those hits, twenty times the nearest competition, my work defined that event for history! Worth getting fired for.
Cletus still didn’t call. Now, that was interesting.
Chris took a slow, welcome, savored sip of the rum and cola. Till it rang, life would be good. It might even be okay after.
ABOUT THE SAME TIME. I-25 SOUTH. ABOUT THIRTY MILES NORTH OF CASPER. WYOMING. 9:13 P.M. MST. MONDAY. OCTOBER 28.
The headlights swept out a long path as they descended the hill, and for a moment a fox’s eyes shone back at them like tiny, starry mirrors from the pointed face; then the bushy tail flickered over the railing, and the fox was gone.
All the news feeds filled up with chattering commentators, and Jason said, “I think I can do better commentary than any of those guys. Sheesh. That’s a way I’ve never seen Norcross. Is that what everybody on your side talks about, that he’s real different in person than he is through the media filter?”
“Well, I didn’t see the screen, busy driving, but yeah, it sounded more like the two times I saw him in person and not like the usual chopped-up version on TV.”
“I guess I can see why people vote for him.”
After a little while, Zach said, “You know, I hope when everything settles out from Daybreak, and this, and all, we will still have a President. Having one is kind of comforting.”
“Like Pendano would be, if he’d just talk.”
“Yeah.”
After a while, because no more news was coming in, and it didn’t sound like the president would be making a statement soon, they put the laptop into news-warn mode and talked about family, and music, and how confusing and wonderful it was to deal with women. The lights reached out in the darkness, and Jason watched for more wildlife, but apparently that fox was going to be it for the night.
ABOUT TEN MINUTES LATER. WASHINGTON. DC. 11:25 P.M. EST. MONDAY. OCTOBER 28.
Graham Weisbrod arrived and went straight into a small conference room with Pendano. Though Weisbrod was twenty years his senior, the president hung on his arm. The silence in the ops room was even deeper and more awkward than it had been, until Cam said, “All right, everyone, break’s over, noses to the screens, let’s have some good options waiting when the President comes out.” People got back to work, but much too quietly.
Cameron coughed politely behind her. “Heather, I’d like to borrow Arnold Yang for a couple of minutes, because I need a public-opinion expert, and you, because I need a Weisbrod expert.”
“Better get Allison Sok Banh in on it too. She’s good at keeping Arnie focused, and she’s even more of a Weisbrod alum than I am.”
A minute later, the four of them huddled in a conference room. “Dr. Yang,” Cameron said, “I remember how useful you were with helping to prevent panic during Hurricane Gordon.”
Arnie nodded. “I had actual data and could monitor it in real time, then—I don’t know how useful I can be this time.”
“Noted. I know I will have to go on guesses, but it’s my guess that you will have a better guess than I will.” Cam adjusted his glasses as if he might need to read some complex, subtle message from Arnie’s face. “Here’s how I see it. Will Norcross just finished making a public statement, and we still haven’t heard from the President of the United States yet. And it’s bedtime on the East Coast. People will be staying up to see how the crisis comes out. Individually, they’re brave and reasonable. In small groups of neighbors, especially if they know each other well, and there’s something they can do right away, they are often downright heroic. But as an audience, powerless to do anything but watch, people spread their anxiety and sense of defeat around the Internet like a bad cold. So we don’t have a lot of time. Right?”
“That’s consistent with my experience and everything I know,” Arnie said. “And I have no idea what to do about it.”
They nodded, not sure where Cam was going. He turned his intense gaze on Heather and Allie. “Heather. Ms. Sok Banh. You’re both Weisbrod—um, whatever you call the former students who…”
“Disciples, if you want,” Allie offered.
“You won’t offend us,” Heather added.
“So Weisbrod is a good friend and a kind man and all that, but—what are the odds of having a reasonably confident, ready-to-make-hard-decisions, President of the United States come through that door in the next ten minutes?”