The Trust Of The People

by Christopher Read

  Chapter 19 – Tuesday, November 8th

  Washington, D.C. – 08:50 Local Time; 13:10 UTC

  Jensen sat in the White House Situation Room next to the Secretary of Defence, their animated discussion on the magic of New York merely a brief diversion from the tension of the moment. The others seated around the table together formed the Homeland Security Council and until the President returned from New York, Jensen acted as its Chairman; however, unlike Cavanagh, Jensen had no authority to veto or push through the difficult decisions, that falling to a straight vote from the five attending Cabinet members.

  Dick Thorn was due to speak in front of the Lincoln Memorial in just over an hour, tens of thousands already gathering in the National Mall. His day of protest had transformed into a march along the Mall, past the Washington Monument to finish outside the United States Capitol. It was being referred to as a ‘March for Reform’ and the organisers had wisely chosen to do everything by the book, the necessary permit rushed through by Eugene Henry, Washington’s Mayor – or more properly the Mayor of the District of Columbia.

  Jensen and Deangelo had spent a good part of the last twenty-four hours co-ordinating their efforts to cope with the expected half-a-million demonstrators, the pledges of support on social media sites passing 100,000 well before midnight. The combined police presence from the D.C. police department and various federal agencies would total close to six thousand, the option of bringing in a few thousand National Guard rejected as being inflammatory.

  In retrospect, that might have been a mistake, no-one anticipating the organisers’ ability to charter some 3000 buses and a dozen airliners; they had even arranged pickup points for car-sharing. Virtually every route into Washington had been clogged with traffic for several hours, frustrated passengers getting out and walking, cars parked wherever they could. For some reason the Stars and Stripes had become a recognised symbol for the protestors to display, mostly as a lapel pin, Jensen dismayed to hear that uniformed police officers had been observed wearing the emblem on the inside of their jacket collars in a silent show of support.

  Apart from Thorn, various others speakers – as yet unnamed – were expected to endorse his message, people anticipating another verbal attack on America’s discredited voting system; possibly even a second diatribe against Cavanagh. The President’s approval rating was stuck in the low twenties, his TV address and speech at the United Nations at least stopping the rot. To pick Election Day for Thorn’s protest march was in itself a slap in the face for Democracy, another few hundred thousand voters potentially disenfranchised by their decision to travel to Washington.

  And it wasn’t just D.C. In New York, Boston, and Chicago simultaneous marches were also planned, support offered by a confusing amalgam of civil rights groups and unions, plus several veterans’ organisations. The major TV networks were re-adjusting their schedules in order to bring live coverage, the march gaining a pre-eminence its origins barely deserved.

  Although still in New York, the President and Amy Pittman were both expected to join them sometime during the afternoon, their recovery more rapid than anticipated. The poison used had been identified as Diallopine, a less potent form of Atropine, the exact source still unknown. Tests on Thorn’s resignation letter had proved negative, but Jensen remained unconvinced, wondering whether the letter that the President had read was the same as the one the Secret Service had retrieved. A dozen people could have swapped it, and even its arrival in Amy Pittman’s hands was shrouded in mystery. The sealed letter had been passed to her by a member of the State Department – she couldn’t remember who exactly – and she had naturally presumed it had gone through the security checks.

  One of the screens on the wall in front of Jensen showed the scene around the Lincoln Memorial, the crowd patiently awaiting Thorn’s arrival, entertainment provided by opportunist buskers. More people were streaming in from every direction and the organisers were busy handing out leaflets – nothing controversial, just a map of the National Mall with added details such as emergency centres and toilet facilities. The police were there but keeping well back, Jensen able to listen in on the various messages passed back and forth to the Unified Command Centre. The fear of a coup was still just that – no indication as to how or when it might happen, or even who might be involved. Jensen and Deangelo were prepared for the worst, hopeful that it would all be totally unnecessary.

  By the time Thorn arrived the crowd had grown significantly, the organisers still deliberately vague as to the precise timetable and the list of speakers. At just after ten o’clock, the master of ceremonies made an appearance: a well-known talk-show host, he was someone well able to work his audience, cracking a joke one minute and then subtlety changing the tone into something more sombre and restrained. A young girl, aged no more than fourteen, moved up to the microphone and without music sang ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’. Jensen listened transfixed, amazed at her maturity – and her bravery, the song’s lyrics and range difficult even for a professional. The resultant applause and cheers rang out across the Mall, the stage perfectly set for Thorn and his supporters. The number of protestors was estimated at around 350,000, with more still arriving – it was less than Thorn might have hoped for but enough to prove he had popular support.

  The first speaker was a political correspondent late of CBS, his three minutes of rhetoric underlining Thorn’s earlier speech to the American Legion and its criticism of the voting system, the speaker adding in yet more supposed evidence. Next, it was Mayor Henry’s turn to rip into the incestuous and sterile nature of the two-party system – and this from a serving Democrat.

  Jensen was distracted by an animated conversation between the Secretary of Defence and Admiral Adams, his brain selecting out the keywords of Spratly and China. Moments later, Deangelo leaned across to relay the bad news.

  “Reports are coming in that China has landed marines on one of the Spratly Group; West York Island, presently held by the Philippines. No details yet as to casualties.”

  It was not what Jensen had wanted to hear, China either trying to take advantage of Cavanagh’s illness or deciding that – having already been judged guilty – they might as well seize something to bargain with.

  There were three more speakers before it was Thorn’s turn, one a former Republican Senator. No-one talked for very long, their own fairly specific frustrations with U.S. democracy not overstated, merely refined. In the White House, Jensen listened intently to every word, making an occasional note, looking for some hint as to what might be planned. The stance of Washington’s Mayor was a shock, Henry arguing against his own party, and for him to willingly risk his political future, then the reward would have to be significant.

  Thorn’s arrival at the microphone was greeted with rapturous applause, and when eventually he was allowed to speak, his first words were a heartfelt thanks to the young singer. There was more applause and more words of thanks; it taking a full minute for Thorn to move on to the main point of his speech.

  “Many of you will have read,” he said, his voice booming out across the Mall, “that I have some personal grudge or a vendetta against President Cavanagh. That is certainly not the case and I need to state for the record that Will Cavanagh is a man of high principles, genuine and honest as the day is long; someone we would all be proud to call a friend.”

  Thorn paused, letting the sentence hang in the air. “But just because he is all of those things doesn’t make him the right man to lead America out of this crisis with our heads held high. Will Cavanagh’s sensitivity to the problems we presently face is obvious; we can all see it in his face and hear it in his voice. When he returns here from hospital, how long before the President is again overwhelmed by the stress of his world role? I saw a news report this morning which suggested Cavanagh was deliberately poisoned: if that is the case, then give the people the facts. Who, why and how? Surely we have the right to know if there was some attempt on the President’s life.”

  Aga
in Thorn paused as if for effect, “The Washington Post has implied that I am part of some clandestine attempt to force Cavanagh from office. Once again The Post is inaccurate, as my opposition to the President’s policies is hardly a secret, my frustration with the Administration obvious to all. Do I want the President replaced? Yes, that is certainly my personal view; one I believe is also shared by millions across America. The people of the United States need a steady and robust hand in the White House and we cannot wait another two years. Some of you may not have heard that just under an hour ago, Chinese marines forcibly took over two of the Spratly Islands and I understand that several Philippine marines have been killed. And why should anyone be surprised, when America does nothing to avenge the attack on the USS Milius and the murder of thirty-two of her crew.”

  Beside Jensen, Deangelo let out a string of expletives and demanded to know why no-one had told him about this second attack; Adams was similarly outraged, staff frantically trying to work out what was going on. Jensen was more irritated by Thorn once again twisting the facts to suit his needs, planting the idea that the story of the President being poisoned was no more than media exaggeration. Cavanagh had ignored advice and refused to go public with the truth; at least until they had better answered some of Thorn’s who, why and how.

  Thorn continued, “We have seen over the past months the quality of many of our elected officials, many more concerned with earning a fast buck than serving the people that voted for them; others revealing their arrogance or a lack of morals. Maybe some of what we’ve read is an exaggeration, but not everything and the sheer number of revelations is a humiliating indictment of American democracy.

  “The day-to-day governing of the United States is not controlled by those sitting in the White House or Congress, but managed by the hundreds of thousands of men and women who work in small offices and nondescript buildings across America. Each of them has achieved their success through hard work and natural ability, and none were thrust into a position of power by the whim of voters. President Cavanagh’s Cabinet follows that very principle, its members chosen by their perceived ability to do the job. If they fail, they are dismissed; the President certainly wouldn’t wait years before replacing someone who wasn’t up to the task. The same should be true whatever high office a person holds.”

  An aide abruptly directed Jensen’s attention to one of the TV screens, it now tuned into a live news update from the Philippines, Jensen automatically swapping focus to listen: an official government source was reporting a second helicopter-borne assault, this time against the Philippine-held island of Thitu. The number of fatalities was said to be high, although there was no indication as to whether the attackers had successfully occupied the island. The smaller West York Island was now firmly in Chinese hands, the garrison of Philippine marines standing little chance against overwhelming odds.

  A burst of applause dragged Jensen’s attention back to the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, Thorn’s brief speech finally winding down.

  “…show the people of America our strength of feeling, trusting that together we can ensure that our nation can truly claim to be the land of the free and the home of the brave.”

  The applause was sustained, although Jensen remained unconvinced that Thorn had made the impact he had wanted. The MC returned to formally start the march along the National Mall, Thorn being guided through the crowd to lead them from the front, their first destination the Washington Monument. A brief wait for photos; then Thorn, his wife, and the various speakers joined arms to walk slowly east. Thousands streamed behind them, placards waving, the mood good-natured, with variations on ‘Cavanagh Out’ chanted as if to remind everyone why they were there.

  Jensen’s fears that the march would turn into something more sinister were starting to recede and the news from the Spratly Islands was now of far greater concern, with the Philippines and Vietnam finally going ahead with their exclusion zone. The atmosphere in the Situation Room became more animated as additional reports flooded in, with a third attack now confirmed against Spratly Island itself – Truong Sa Island to its Vietnamese occupiers.

  “Again it’s a flea bite in size at less than forty acres,” stated Adams, sounding exasperated. “Vietnam has increased its military presence there over the past month; if China played it safe and started with a naval bombardment, we could easily be looking at several hundred killed. Both Spratly and Thitu have a small civilian population with homes and a school just yards away from the concrete bunkers.”

  Deangelo asked, “How far away is the Carrier Group?”

  “Sixteen hours; maybe thirteen at flank speed. That won’t give us long to work out what to do once they get there.”

  “I assume,” said Jensen, “that we need to get the President’s okay first?” Jensen didn’t assume anything of the sort; he well knew that if the Carrier Strike Group was likely to be sailing into harm’s way, then their Commander-in-Chief would need to give the order.

  “Of course,” Deangelo replied, with a hint of irritation. “But let’s at least try to give the President a few options first.”

  Deangelo and Adams huddled together with a team of advisers, both men seemingly of one mind as to what to recommend, but wanting to make certain they were prepared for every possibility. The fad for exclusion zones extended to Admiral Adams, and he insisted that the U.S. formally declare a one-hundred nautical mile total exclusion zone around the USS Gerald Ford; two hundred miles would have been the ideal, the Admiral only willing to compromise because of the busy shipping lanes. Now any vessel or aircraft approaching too close to the Carrier Group would be warned away – if that failed to have the desired effect, then it would be sunk or shot down, no further risks taken.

  China too was repositioning its forces, the Aircraft Carrier Liaoning edging south and closer to the Spratly Group. Although not in the same class as the Gerald Ford and needing support from shore-based aircraft, she would be an intimidating presence to China’s neighbours and perhaps the first true test of Vietnam’s resolve.

  Naval strategy was not part of Jensen’s concern, and his attention moved back to the National Mall. Thorn’s slow walk to the Capitol had only just reached the National Gallery of Art, an FBI drone tracking his every step, the image wide enough to show something of the press of people following on behind. A second, wider view, showed the whole eastern side of the Mall from the National Gallery to well beyond the Washington Monument filled with demonstrators. Several thousand were starting to move north along 15th Street, determined to wave and chant outside the White House.

  The marchers’ mood was still peaceful, the latest estimate as to total numbers increased to around half-a-million. The security reports detailed just two arrests and the police were continuing to keep a low profile, with the additional units waiting close to key government buildings being kept on standby at least until early evening.

  The advance line of photographers was now approaching 3rd Street and the last few hundred yards up onto Capitol Hill; ten yards behind them walked Thorn and his wife, hand-in-hand, the Mayor and other celebrity supporters sauntering along beside them. Outside the Capitol there would be more speeches, its status as the seat of the United States Congress deserving of special criticism. How many of its 535 members would actually be within its walls was debatable, neither the Senate nor the House of Representatives due to meet until Thursday.

  Thorn and his wife separated to allow a young couple to be photographed with him, the protest march becoming more like a morning stroll. Jensen simply wasn’t convinced that the trauma of the past weeks would peter out so easily – Thorn was paying lip service to the accepted norms of free speech. Very soon, and it would be time for something rather more persuasive.

  New York – 12:37 Local Time; 17:37 UTC

  Cavanagh dressed quickly, eager to return to the White House and trusting that medical advice to give it another two hours wasn’t actually enforceable. He was still suffering minor side-effects from the Dia
llopine and its antidote, but a good night’s sleep had made him more than ready to face the world, and more importantly the public gaze. First, however, he had to contend with the Attorney General, Cavanagh unsure whether her arrival at Mount Sinai was in her official capacity or as a representative of the Cabinet. There was also the possibility that she had been persuaded to act as a spokeswoman for the Democratic Party’s elder statesmen, their sense of panic obvious from the incessant phone messages.

  A private room on the fourth floor had been set aside for their meeting, Secret Service agents stationed outside, just in case. Ellen Ravich was one of Cavanagh’s braver appointments: the war on terror, political scandals, electronic voting, civil rights abuses – the Attorney General’s short time in office had seen its fair share of controversy.

  “Mr President, I’m delighted to see you looking so well.” Ravich stood politely as Cavanagh entered, looking nervous, even apprehensive.

  “Cut the crap, Ellen,” said Cavanagh, his warm smile of welcome countering the harsh edge to his words. “If you want my resignation, think again. The bastards drugged me up to the eyeballs and I will not give them the satisfaction of just giving up.”

  They sat down opposite each other at a small table, Cavanagh feeling he was being assessed and determined not to show any sign of weakness. Legally, he felt on safe ground, Congress unable to impeach him without just cause, specifically charges of ‘treason, bribery, or other high crimes and misdemeanours’.

  Ravich took the President at his word and got straight to the point. “Mr President, you need to nominate a Vice-President and call an emergency joint session of Congress; for tomorrow if possible. The members are already heading back to Washington in preparation and will do what they can to speed up the confirmation process. The country needs a Vice-President, Sir; the attack on you proves that.”

  Cavanagh had expected such a request, the various names still rotating their order in his mind. The danger was that whoever he picked, then the 25th Amendment could immediately be enacted, the Vice-President and Cabinet working together to oust him – a month, three months at most, and the daggers would be out. And if he chose someone who wasn’t up to the job, either Congress would block him or the United States would end up with someone even more of a turkey than himself.

  “Is this a request or a demand?”

  The Attorney General’s face softened, “It’s pretty much a demand, Will. Refuse and they’ll go for impeachment and damn the legal arguments. They know they can’t win but the members are getting desperate; they feel they need to prove to voters that the United States Congress does actually have some balls.”

  “And yet this is legal, rushing through the confirmation process with a joint session?”

  “With the Chief Justice in hospital and Enrique Garcia dead, the Speaker was left with Judge Sanderson. He’s looked into it and agrees that it’s all legal and above-board.”

  Cavanagh thought of making an acerbic comment but knew it would be pointless: the Attorney General certainly wasn’t his enemy, nor even the Senate and House of Representatives. “Very well, Congress can have its joint session tomorrow. I’ll give you my nomination once I’m back in D.C.; I just need to make a few phone calls first.”

  The Attorney General nodded her thanks. “There’s more, Sir, I’m afraid. Congress needs a personal commitment from you to support the Philippines.”

  Cavanagh finally showed his true feelings, “But not Vietnam?” he said angrily. “The President doesn’t take his orders from Congress. I can give no such commitment, but I am determined to honour all of America’s obligations, both moral and legal...”

  Their conversation was interrupted by a double rap on the door, a Secret Service agent barely waiting before thrusting it open.

  “My apologies, Mr President; we need to move to a more secure area.”

  Cavanagh knew better than to question or argue, thrusting back his chair and following the agent out into the corridor, Ellen Ravich close behind. Six Secret Service agents were fanned out along the corridor, none with guns drawn, their demeanour determined but not outwardly concerned. Amy Pittman and a dozen others stood around looking confused, the gaggle of suited figures moving quickly along the corridor past surprised hospital staff and patients, no-one speaking, just staring in shocked silence.

  The lead agent paused, hand clamped to his earpiece. A quick word of confirmation, then they followed the signs to a bank of stairs, ignoring the elevators, to head higher; still no word of explanation.

  Amy Pittman’s phone sounded and she waved the others on. The rest were escorted up the stairs, the President allowed to set the pace; only now did it dawn on everyone that there was no medic in close attendance should the President feel faint, the Secret Service doing their best by keeping a wary eye on Cavanagh’s every step.

  After four flights the lead agent signalled a pause, moving across to speak quietly to the President.

  “There’s been an incident in Washington, Sir; at the protest march. Shots fired; one fatality. Some demonstrators from the New York march have started to gather outside the hospital and the situation is in danger of turning ugly. It seemed advisable to move you, Sir; just in case.”

  “Move me to where exactly?”

  “Just away from the lower floors, Sir. Unfortunately, there’s no helicopter pad at Mount Sinai and we need to wait until the situation outside is secure.”

  Cavanagh understood the concerns but he wasn’t happy at having his return to Washington delayed further. The mantle of power seemed to slipping slowly away and he desperately needed to get a grip on the situation. He’d give the doctors their two hours, and then he’d get winched off the roof if he had to.

  Washington, D.C. – 13:51 Local Time; 18:51 UTC

  The key reports and images revealed the drama of what had happened no more than three hundred yards from the White House, Jensen knowing that these could well be the first planned steps on the road towards chaos.

  It had all started so modestly, when a few on the fringe of the crowd had berated the FBI and Secret Service agents lined up outside the South Lawn of the White House. It wasn’t exactly abuse, more derision as to whether the agents felt embarrassed at having to protect such an unpopular and weak president. The situation had gradually become more troublesome, four young men trying to climb the railings into the White House grounds. A struggle ensued, more people and agents joining in, shots fired.

  One of the young men had been shot in the back, dying at the scene. With close to half a million demonstrators in the Mall, most not understanding what had happened, the FBI had an impossible task to try and secure the area. Thorn’s band of volunteer marshals had bravely stepped in, managing to coerce many of the marchers to join those headed for the Capitol or move back beyond Ellipse Road, but it was a good twenty minutes before the area around the attack site had been cordoned off.

  Two protestors had been arrested but neither was armed. The agents involved had been re-assigned elsewhere once their guns had been checked, but none had been fired, the gunman presumably one of the protestors. The FBI had begun an investigation but the situation around the Ellipse was particularly tense, the agents subject to catcalls and chants, with the police keeping well away.

  As news of the shooting had spread, the mood of the protestors had quickly bypassed shock to become outrage, their anger directed at anything associated with the government, whether it be human or inanimate. Many of the police now openly displayed the Stars and Stripes emblem on their jackets, leaving the FBI as the prime target for the crowd’s wrath. Agents had been spat at and abused, several coming close being attacked. Fearing that more arrests would only inflame the situation, the majority of uniformed agents had been pulled back from the Mall, it almost becoming a no-go area for those identified as being FBI.

  The main group of demonstrators, headed by Thorn, were now gathered close to the Capitol Building’s west entrance. Surrounded by police, Thorn and Mayor Henry were h
olding a question and answer session, hosted by the MC, the two of them managing to turn it into a series of reasons why the present government was corrupt, the President incapable. Several of the more-coherent amongst the protestors were invited up to the microphone to give their views, the MC skilfully cutting off the more extreme while encouraging those that reinforced the key message.

  Under different circumstances, Thorn and Henry could have been ignored as two citizens making the most of their right for free speech; even though they were certainly verging on the limits of slander, the police seemed unlikely to intervene, acting more as an honour guard, with the D.C.’s Chief of Police joining them at one stage before slipping away. Hundreds more police were clustered in groups around the outside of the Capitol, no-one in the White House able to discover why they were there; in fact, all attempts to contact the upper echelons of the D.C. hierarchy failed to get past an electronic wilderness of static or an annoying silence.

  The whole eastern side of the National Mall was still thronged with demonstrators; there even seemed to be thousands more drifting in from the surrounding streets as though drawn there by some invisible force. In fact it turned out to be the mundane pull of social media and chain texts, Jensen being guided through a jumble of messages to the crucial edict.

  “Listen up!” Jensen shouted, needing to be heard above the general hubbub around him. “We have Thorn on social media calling for people to blockade the Capitol and the White House in order to force the President to step down. He claims to have broad support for his actions from the unions, business leaders and the military – no names as yet. It’s not a coup d’état but we’re getting close.”

  But what to do? Jensen and Deangelo started the discussion, with virtually everyone from the White House Chief of Staff to the Director of National Intelligence wanting to have their say. No-one was even sure what specific federal law Dick Thorn had actually broken. Treason seemed a little extreme, Malicious Mischief not relevant, Conspiracy unclear. The most promising was an all-embracing Chapter 84 crime: ‘whoever knowingly conspires to impede or disrupt the orderly conduct of Government business…’

  The Cabinet vote to arrest Thorn was an equal split: Deangelo and Jensen in favour, two against, one abstention. As a vague compromise, Jensen proposed that they try a simple test, a gauge as to the extent Thorn and Henry were prepared to go. And along the way, they might even gain some insight into the D.C. police: given a choice, would the average officer obey his Chief, his conscience, or his Oath of Office?