No Corner to Hide (The Max Masterson Series Book 2)
Page 2
of the Potomac. The water from his morning swim dripped onto
the terrazzo floor. He was oblivious to his casual status: standing
in front of the Vice-President barefoot, clad only in his swimming
trunks. “You can have all of the speech-making, except the State of
the Union, and you can sit in meetings while I’m out doing important stuff. You can even do most of the big parties, except the ones
I’m attending. I’ve already been informed that the President and
Vice-President don’t appear together in public. Something about if
terrorists get to one of us, the other one has to take over to prevent chaos, or something like that.” Max was rambling, and Scarlett was ignoring him. She was intent on sipping her morning tea while she
scanned the news and an intelligence report on her iPad. Scarlett didn’t like Max—sometimes her disdain bordered on
contempt—but she respected him more than she would admit.
From their childhood days in training for future political office,
she secretly bore a crush for the brash, handsome son of a retired
senator. She watched as Max grew into adulthood, and she saw his
easy way with women. For Scarlett, her relationships were more of
a distraction from her core purpose.
Women in politics are the serious pursuers of perfection and
principle, and she simply did not have time to pursue him or any
other man. She was single-minded in her quest to become the first
female president of the United States, and she ran for every elected
position that she considered to be another rung on the ladder that
led to her goal. She had done well.
Elected to the House of Representatives at the age of 25 from
by her home state of South Carolina, she defeated long-time
congressman Dempsey “Bubba” Chambers after he was caught up
in a scandal caused by his sleeping with a string of buxom prostitutes. His long-suffering wife and five children back in Charleston
had no clue about his philandering until Bubba was the feature of
a five-part video expose. The salacious report showed him out on
the town with a different woman each time he was in Washington,
seemingly oblivious to the fact that he had been married to the same
woman for 28 years.
All Scarlett had to do to score her first win in national politics
was to run campaign ads before and after each report. She used a
clip of her speech to the League of Women Voters. She was seen
dressed in a conservative blue dress, her red hair standing out against
a white blouse, with the American flag proudly displayed on her
lapel. Her words were succinct, and her message clearly contrasted with the public image that Bubba’s indiscretions had created. She calmly announced, in her best Charleston accent, “Now is the time for a woman to take back South Carolina and restore dignity to our state and all of our citizens. Women in politics simply don’t do those
sorts of shameful things.”
When Scarlett was 30 she was elevated to the Senate by default.
Senator Terrell Parks, an icon in the South for having been the first
African-American to be elected to the Senate in the former confederate state, quietly passed away in his sleep at the age of 77. He was
the victim of too many years on the campaign trail, eating fried
food and being waited on hand and foot. He had been a talented
linebacker at Clemson and played for the Chicago Bears for six years
before blowing out both of his knees. Reel footage of the pileup that
ended his professional football career was continually played more
than 50 years later, a painful image of the fragility of a human body
destroyed by a mountain of muscle.
He never exercised again, and the senator’s waist grew ten inches
in the time he held public office. When the senator was in the room,
he occupied more than his share of space, but that worked for him.
He was always the center of attention. At the time of his death,
Senator Parks was morbidly obese, and his doctors had long-since
given up any effort to diminish the acceleration of his demise. The image of a petite, red-haired woman as the successor of the
formidable senator was striking. Scarlett wasted no time in proving
what she was made of, and she took on the Washington political
establishment at its core. The party had appointed her to finish
out the term of her predecessor, but it was a decision that was not
well-received by the men’s club within the United States Senate. No
woman had dared to enter the Washington headquarters of Skull
and Cross or to demand membership, but Scarlett did just that.
She entered the male refuge accompanied by three film crews and
a contingent of woman politicians carrying signs.
The doorman had been trained to deny any female access to the
male sanctuary, and members used their special status to enter the
building from a private underground entrance using an electronic key
that only Senate males possessed. Although a complete investigation
was later conducted by a committee of enraged members during the
year after the “intrusion”, Scarlett’s possession of a duplicate key was
never satisfactorily explained.
“I’m here to apply for membership,” announced Senator Scarlett
Conroy to the desk clerk, who was startled to see a woman inside the
traditionally male refuge, no less the film crew that was memorializing the encounter. While her female followers launched a diversion
from the front of the building, Scarlett had slipped away and gained
access by way of the parking garage next door.
Scarlett’s foray into the exclusive lives of her male counterparts
never resulted in the first female membership in Skull and Cross.
The day after she entered the building, the club filed an action for
an emergency injunction to prevent her from being considered as a
member. Scarlett counter-sued as a matter of principle, but joining a
male club was not a goal. Publicity and fame were her only goals, and
she reveled in the way the public reacted. She now could command
an audience at will, usually just by showing up.
It became sport for her to appear at an event, make a short speech
about the issues of the day, and then do a few press interviews from
prepared statements. These statements were prerecorded and copied
to flash drives, which she would then palm in her hand and deliver
during a handshake. Each evening, her message—misquoted—ran
on every major network, and she soon began to develop a national
persona.
Scarlett’s fellow statesman in Washington was long-time Senator
Hamilton Simpson, the king of Washington earmarks. He had
earned the adoration of fellow South Carolinians by his ability to
bring federal funds and jobs to his home district. He was an old Southern gentleman, and he looked the part. Ham was known as an accomplished orator, and when he spoke, words would slide out
of his mouth like butter on a hot biscuit.
In public, the senator took on the personality of everyone’s jovial
old uncle, telling jokes and amusing stories at every opportunity. He
could work a room like nobody else. In public, Ham referred to his
junior senator as “Little Lady,” much to Scarlett’s eternal embarrassment. In private though, he
referred to her as “that manipulating,
scene-stealin’ bitch.”
As the oldest living member of Skull and Cross, Senator Simpson
treated Scarlett with polite disdain in public and with vituperous
contempt over bourbon and cigars among his peers. Their relationship was cordial in public, as that was expected of elected officials in
South Carolina. In private, the cotillion-like atmosphere had quickly
dissolved into mutual disdain for the remainder of Scarlett’s Senate
career. Scarlett was denied access to Simpson’s private world of back
room deals and the privileges of his male world.
While Scarlett was the prototypical female politician, Max didn’t
fit any of the molds that had shaped the political careers of any of
his male counterparts. He had no political career, and he held the
deeply ingrained view that the President of the United States should
not be a politician.
The election wasn’t much of a contest. The incumbent president,
Warren Blythe, had been carried from the final debate, raving like a
madman. In a moment, there was only one person to be president.
The popular vote of the citizens had voted Max Masterson into office,
and Scarlett was his surprise running mate. He had literally stolen her
from a probable third-place finish after being rejected by her party’s
elite, and she was the best choice to balance the ticket. A man who
had never held political office had been elected to the presidency
for the first time since Dwight Eisenhower. At least Eisenhower had
been a general. Scarlett had been a United States Senator. Max wasn’t even a politician.
He had only been trained to be one thing in life; President of the
United States of America. Scarlett was the Vice-President-elect of
the United State of America, and she was a diligent public servant
without peer. She was the first woman to reach that pinnacle, and
she was better-qualified than Max to be President. He knew that,
too, and it had become a private joke between them. Scarlett had
done everything right, but her gender was a God-given impediment
in politics. Politics is, and has always been, a boy’s club. Max, on the opposite end of the political barometer, was a renegade, and that made the political establishment perch on the edge of
incontinence. He was the President-elect whether they liked it or not,
and in his irreverent way, the political world of Washington, DC, was
about to be turned on its ego-swelled head. Max and Scarlett had
the potential to transform the executive branch in ways that would
become the new standard that America would follow for generations,
but for now, they were just President-elect and Vice-President elect.
u
CHAPTER 4
F
or the moment, the control center of the presidency consisted of the kitchen and den of the Masterson estate, Fairlane. The large, antique, oak table was strewn with laptops, iPads, and file folders. The paper files had been delivered by courier from some
nameless government department that presides over the transition from one administration to the next, and they were marked with time-worn labels of the past.
Max thumbed through one 300 page binder marked “Ambassadorships,” but he rapidly lost interest when he realized that the protocol for choosing ambassadors was directly linked to the size of the contributions that were made to political campaigns. His philosophy was fresh and untried, but he knew it would work: The ambassadors of the United States would be visible negotiators, who had been trained as mediators and excelled at their craft. They would represent what is right about America, and they would be charged with the responsibility of providing the world with what they craved most: to be American. The goods and styles, music and movie stars, cars and planes, technology and ideas—all crafted with quality and innovation—were the products that Americans would sell to the world.
“Our friends and trading partners will benefit from peaceful alliances with the United States of America, and our enemies will be deprived of the benefits of doing business with us. During my time in office, I believe that I can transform the country from a consumer society to a productive economy. We will restore our standard of living,” said Max.
“For now, we are bound to debt through dependence on foreign oil and products built with technology stolen from our ingenuity. I believe this. I see it happening, and I don’t like it. There are others who don’t share that belief.” He shifted impatiently, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
“I can’t sit idly by and watch as America gets lazy and soft, while the rest of the world out-competes us,” Max continued, still fidgeting. He had sat still for as long as he could without doing something. It made for short meetings, but it was annoying to Scarlett, who thrived on committee hearings that went on for hours. She didn’t fidget. Max was at his best when he could dive into a problem, devise a course of action, and go for it without prolonged deliberation.
In Max’s campaign, he only owed allegiance to the legacy of his long-departed father, Senator John Masterson, who had left him more money than he could ever spend, and to the American people, who had given him their votes. Masterson and Conroy had won the presidency with 80% of the popular vote, a landslide by anyone’s account.
Setting the folder aside, he turned his attention to his iPad, and he accessed the confidential information that had been prepared for his transition team from the nameless bureaucrats that had provided invisible support for previous incoming administrations.
Like most social gatherings, people tended to congregate in the kitchen. Various staffers sauntered in and out, but they left Max and Scarlett deep in conversation without interruption, assuming that the affairs of government were being crafted by the two individuals who were best suited for the job. After all, the people did elect them.
“You know that we aren’t supposed to be together,” Max said. “What if some psychotic terrorist is evil enough to predict when we’re in the same spot, and they make history? We are going to have to be really sneaky.”
Scarlett Conroy was unphased. Unlike Max, she was a politician first and foremost, and her years in public office had taught her to be cautious. Cautious meant safe, but she was not one to obsess about the unknown.
“That’s why we have the Secret Service, the CIA, the NSA, three branches of the military, and Homeland Security to protect us,” she countered. “With you in office, they may as well paint a bullseye on your forehead and toss you out on the street for target practice, but I am not going to sit around worrying about it. We have a country to run.” Scarlett had shifted from the news to an online search centered on the duties of the Vice-President.
“You know, Max, at the start of our nation’s history, vicepresidents weren’t running mates, they were runners-up. So the president and the vice-president were political enemies from rival parties who probably hated each other. My friends would have been gunning for you, not some terrorist.” She chuckled at the thought. “Here’s a quote from Will Rogers that I know you’ll like,” she teased. “The man with the best job in this country is the vice-president. All he has to do is get up every morning and say, ’How is the president?’”
Max smiled at the thought and responded. “Scarlett, if you want to be the first woman in the Oval Office to legitimately sit behind Jack Kennedy’s desk, I respectfully request that you wait until the voters put you there…after I have completed my second term.” He smirked, and both of them broke out in laughter. Scarlett was content, for the moment, being vice-president, and Max had delegated to her most of the politicking and social functions of the presidency, which she enjoyed.
“Okay, Mr. President, if you think you’l
l last that long,” she answered. “But let’s get back to work. We have cabinet members to pick and calls to make.”
They retreated to the conference room at Fairlane, created by his father. Called “the den” all of his life, the room was modeled after the Jefferson Library at Monticello. Senator Masterson had studied and emulated Thomas Jefferson during his political career. He was most comfortable here, and most of his best thoughts were created in this room, recorded for posterity for Max to review after his death. He had not only devised the schematic Max had used in the campaign for president ten years after his death, but also the Maxims that his son had revised to address the issues of the presidency: a code of conduct that would govern his approach to the challenges ahead of him.
Max leaned back and admired Scarlett’s ability to achieve the kind of intense focus that blocks out all distractions and allows creative people to achieve great things. He could do it sometimes, but she could do it at will, and that reason alone had her on the path to succeed him. She would become president after he had served his time.
“I won’t be like the others,” Max exclaimed.
“You aren’t telling me anything I don’t already know to the core of my being,” Scarlett responded sarcastically. In time of need, she reverted to her best Charleston accent, delivered like honey pouring off a cliff.
“It’s bigger than you can imagine,” Max explained. “I’m not a politician, and I intend to be a non-political president.” Scarlett began to protest, but Max raised his hands in a nonverbal shush. He needed to get his words out while they were clear in his mind.
“I know that’s hard for you to understand, but hear me out. Congress is composed of politicians who believe that they have unlimited power. They don’t. If they took the time to read the Constitution, which I have memorized down to the last word, they would realize that I can make treaties, appoint ambassadors, and take care that the laws are faithfully executed, but not much else.”
“I’m basically the Commander in Chief of the whole country, not just the military, and people are going to look at me to lead. I can’t do that by being a politician, worried about getting elected to another term. If I fail to lead, I won’t get re-elected. I won’t even run if I fail, but I’m not going to tell them that. I’m going to be the big idea guy, the nation’s cheerleader, and you are going to be the big explainer, making speeches that expound on those ideas. I know how you like to make speeches.”