by Gene Brewer
“Many others do. Presidents and comparable ministers of state. But they are only human, just as you are. They have grappled with this responsibility at some time or other in their histories and have concluded that they can handle it. Because someone must handle it, whatever the situation. I don’t know if many people give their leaders enough credit in this regard. There are many who could not deal with the pressure. We want to make sure you are not one of those.”
I certainly was one of those. My doubts were sickeningly profound. One last time I tried to think of a way out of my dilemma, but could not. I sucked on the straw, and the last of the Coke climbed noisily up the tube as if it were a death rattle.
“We’re descending,” Jones advised. “Seat belt fastened?”
“Can I go to the bathroom?”
“Yes, but make it fast.” He thumbed to the rear.
The restroom was just in front of a room filled with desks, TV sets and telephones, with more private facilities further back, I presumed. I was tempted to take a look. But nature trumps curiosity. I relieved myself in the beautiful, shiny toilet. But when I turned to wash my hands I saw the reflection of a man with tears running down his cheeks. I remember telling myself to get a grip. I rinsed my face and went back into the “dining room” to confront my unwanted responsibility. Out the window I could see that we were already on final approach.
“Do I get a tour of the President’s quarters?” I asked hopefully. “After all, how many chances will I have to ride in Air Force One?”
Jones smiled warmly. “Maybe another time. By the way,” he added, “it’s only Air Force One when the President is on board.”
I barely felt the landing. Before I knew what was happening, the plane rolled to a smooth stop, the engines were shut down, and we climbed down the stairs and into a waiting helicopter, also embossed on the side with “UNITED STATES OF AMERICA,” and known familiarly as “Marine One” (but only when the President is inside, presumably). In another minute or two we were flying toward the nation’s capital — I could see the Washington monument in the distance. As we buzzed unrelentingly toward it, Jones asked me questions about my past, including my medical and psychological histories. I confessed that I had been a smoker decades ago, though, like many people, I became more concerned with my health when I was in my forties, quit smoking and began a desultory exercise program. I still jog a couple of times a week, and all of my medical exams in recent years have turned up nothing of importance. A stress echocardiogram within the past year and a CT scan a couple of years before that showed nothing ominous. It was comforting to know that even the federal government didn’t know any of this, or appeared not to know, though I might have been mistaken about that. In any case, he then turned to my lifelong fear of public speaking.
“Why do you think that is?” he asked me, his eyebrows raised, his pen poised.
“I’ve asked myself the same question,” I replied. “It probably has to do with my insecurity, my feelings of inferiority when I compared myself to my father. He was an authoritative figure who had strong opinions which he rarely questioned. I felt that he wanted to run my life, and I suppose that made me feel incompetent to run it myself. So my dislike of speaking in public is a result of a fear of not being up to the job, to put it in the simplest possible terms. It’s basically a fear of laughter and ridicule.” I looked him right in the eye. “In my professional opinion,” I added, “fear is probably behind much of our personalities, not to mention our religions. It can be both a strong motivator and a powerful inhibitor of much of what we do in life.”
He chuckled a little at this analysis. “You sound like a psychiatrist.”
“I was, once.” I added that most psychiatrists possessed some sort of mental quirk or another, which often motivated their choice of profession.
“I see. So do you think you wouldn’t be able to carry it off?”
“Carry what off?”
“Your mission. Speaking to the UN Security Council.”
I stared at him. “I honestly don’t know what might happen. I don’t think I would faint, but I would probably be shaking, and so would my voice.”
“I’ll tell you another secret. Even presidents and kings have that problem. Especially at critical times like this. The trick is to control your trepidation enough that no one notices. We have people who can help you with that. And one more thing: audiences always pull for a speaker, even if unconsciously, hoping he will do well. They tend to put themselves in his or her place. It’s only human nature.”
“I’m happy to hear that,” I replied. Nevertheless, glancing out the side window at a city full of historically significant buildings, I felt very, very small. I wondered whether presidents and kings ever felt like that.
“On the other hand,” he went on, “many people rise to the occasion, and perform quite admirably under very stressful conditions. I’ve been told that they never felt more confident and happy than when they were thrust into a situation like this. Perhaps you fall into that category.”
I noted that we had descended, and were flying between the Lincoln monument and the Capitol building. The sight made me shiver, but whether with awe or terror I wasn’t sure. In any case I gawked around at the historic landscape like any ordinary tourist.
Three of the G-men were in the helicopter with us. Two of them were stoically staring out the windows, but who knows what they were thinking. Did they even know what was going on? The other was texting someone. I wondered whether it was the President, or maybe his Chief of Staff or the like. Jones was reading something on his Blackberry. I took a look at his face. His expression was one of serene professionalism, whatever that might mean. Someone who wouldn’t be ruffled easily. Whatever it was he did all day, he was obviously good at it. A fairly handsome guy, in an off-kilter kind of way. Otherwise he was rather average-looking, the kind of man you wouldn’t notice in a crowd.
I saw that he was wearing a wedding ring. When he clicked shut the phone, I asked him whether he had any children.
“Two,” he replied without hesitation, and whipped out a photo kept safe inside his wallet. His wife was attractive, though not strikingly so, and the kids looked absolutely normal. Both boys were wearing soccer uniforms. They looked to be about ten and eight.
“I’m surprised you are being so open and honest with me. Dartmouth and Wang — ”
“We’re not CIA. I’m a presidential assistant, and these men are Secret Service agents. As you probably know, their responsibility is to the Department of Homeland Security and, ultimately, to the President. You’re in good hands, by the way. Their motto is, ‘Worthy of Trust and Confidence.’”
“I’m still surprised.”
He looked directly at me. As a psychiatrist, I’m supposed to be able to judge certain feelings by a person’s facial expressions. What I saw in his was mainly concern, mixed with a hint of sadness. “I’m being honest with you because this is no time for guile. Or politics of any kind. This is about our survival, Dr. Brewer. I can’t put it more plainly. Or more strongly. Walter is our only concern right now.”
“And after that, you go back to the lying and deceit?”
He stared at me for a moment before breaking into a smile, then a high-pitched, squealing laugh. We both felt a welcome release from the tension. When it stopped, he said, “You may find this hard to believe, sir, but sometimes lying and deceit are necessary in order to run a government.”
“Call me Gene.”
“Mike,” he said, offering me a strong, rough hand, surprisingly toughened by physical work of some sort. I squeezed it for a moment before letting go. Maybe I was holding on to it for support, for reassurance. All I know is that at that point I needed a hand. I wished my wife had decided to come along.
We were already descending to the White House lawn. The well-known home of Presidents was mere yards away. Indeed, it was only another few minutes
before we were striding across the well-trimmed grass toward a back entrance. Another pair of Secret Service agents (I presumed) appeared from somewhere and opened the doors. Unsmiling men (and a couple of women) in uniform stood silently, staring straight ahead. Again I wondered whether they knew what was happening or merely assumed I was a visiting VIP.
We followed a young woman carrying a clipboard into a foyer displaying marble busts of various people. One was unmistakably of Abraham Lincoln, I noted. Once more I wanted to cry. Only a hundred and fifty years earlier, he would have been the resident here. A mere grain in the sands of time. Everything was happening so fast! I could feel my heart pounding, my respiration rate increasing. The phalanx proceeded in lock step deep into the building and down a long corridor. I thought briefly about green rooms and blue rooms and Lincoln bedrooms, but there was no time to dwell on such matters. We strode briskly into what I thought was going to be the Oval Office, but it turned out to be the Cabinet Room. It was filled with people, some of whom I recognized immediately. The President, who was sitting at the center of the long, oval table, jumped up to greet me, hand outstretched. My knees almost buckled, but I managed to squeak, “Mr. President.”
“Thank you for coming, Dr. Brewer. Before we sit down, I’d like to introduce you to everyone here.” We proceeded around the table, where I shook hands with almost all the members of the cabinet (the Secretary of State hadn’t yet returned from a visit to the Middle East, and the Vice-President was on his way back from Asia), the Speaker of the House of Representatives and other Congressional leaders, as well as the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and certain other government officials and invited guests, a couple of whom were identified by the title, “Doctor.” Were they medical men hovering around the President? Or perhaps they were academic types. There were a few Secret Service people standing along the walls. Perhaps there were other Presidential aides and assistants as well. I caught the eye of Mike Jones, who smiled and nodded reassuringly. After all that, the President waved toward the table. “Please — take this seat.” It was the one just to his left. “Coffee? Tea?”
I found myself saying, “I would love a cup of tea.” It must have been around four o’clock (I had forgotten my watch), the time my wife and I usually set aside for tea and a nosh, a custom we began after a visit to England a few years ago.
“Herbal, or the real thing?”
“I think I need the real thing.” He nodded understandingly, and someone literally ran to fetch it. I took this brief opportunity to look around at the paintings, the bust of George Washington, the numerous draped windows facing the front lawn, the unlit fireplace. Who knew if I would ever be back here again?
The President immediately cleared his throat and began. “Just to bring you up to snuff,” he said to me, “we’ve all been briefed on this morning’s events. I can assure you that everyone here is fully aware of the situation, and the focus of our efforts from now until this matter is resolved will be to support you in any way we can.” He paused to gaze at me — or perhaps look me over. I think he was waiting for me to respond, to indicate in some way that I had heard him.
“Thank you, Mr. President.” What else could I say?
Satisfied that I could hear all right, perhaps, he nodded and bestowed on me his famous smile, up close and personal. “Our first priority, of course, is to determine what these, uh, Bullocks, want to tell us. Or maybe I should say, what they want you to tell us — all the citizens of the world — through the United Nations. Apparently they didn’t inform you when or where you would be given their demands, if that’s what they will be — is that correct?”
“He said nothing about that. Only that he would be back soon. I think he wanted this meeting to happen first. To make sure I had the backing of the government, I guess.”
“Yes, we assumed that. And I can tell you now that an appearance at the Security Council has already been tentatively arranged, except for the exact time. This you can convey to ‘Walter,’ or whoever they happen to be the next time you see them.”
Satisfied, myself, in some ass-backward way, I replied, with as much confidence as I could muster, “I’ll do that.” At least I knew now that I wouldn’t be shouldering the responsibility alone.
“The next thing to decide is whether you should stay in Washington until they show themselves again, or return to your home. Do you have any feelings about that?”
At that moment the tea came: a full pot, with a matching porcelain cup and silver spoon, along with ample milk and sugar. An aide poured a little into the cup and waited, apparently for me to indicate whether it was strong enough. When I nodded, she filled the cup and I took a quick, grateful sip. For some reason the only thing that came to mind was, My God! I’m having tea with the President! “Well, Walter didn’t indicate where I should be. My guess is that it probably doesn’t matter.”
He nodded. “We think the same thing. That leaves the question of what you, yourself, would prefer.”
“Of course I would like to be home. Unless that would create some kind of difficulty for you.”
“Not at all. And that may be where Walter would expect to find you. Of course, we will have to send some people to facilitate communication and to keep a close eye on the situation. I’m sure you understand that we need to be certain there are no misunderstandings between you and the Bullocks, or between you and the various governments of the world. And that there is nothing that might prevent you from delivering their message to the UN. We will be sending you advisors and facilitators and security people, and anyone or anything else we feel you might need in order to accomplish your mission, whatever that may be. There will be daily meetings and briefings. Every detail of your appearance before the Security Council must be worked out to the Nth degree. Is any of this a problem for you?”
“Well, my wife and I were planning a little trip to Vermont next week. But I suppose we could put it off… .”
There were ripples of mirth around the room. The President smiled understandingly. “Yes, we would appreciate it if you could do that.”
“No problem,” I assured him, grinning weakly at my own little joke.
“Now, while everyone is here, do you have any questions for us, Dr. Brewer? You might not get a chance like this again before — well, we’re calling it ‘Message Day.’ Or ‘M-Day.’”
I glanced around the room. Every single face was turned toward me with anticipation. But my mind was a blank. All I could come up with was, “Does anyone have any suggestions?”
There were smiles and nods of — I don’t know — relief, maybe. Relief that I wasn’t planning to do anything stupid on my own. I heard someone say, “Just do your best, Doctor.”
The President added, “We all understand how difficult this must be for you, sir. Let me just reiterate what you’ve been told already. All of us — every one of us — is with you. The whole world is with you on this. You have been chosen to do something that has never been done before. But we want you to know that when you give that speech at the UN we will all be there with you. If you fail, it merely means that we all share that failure. We all share the responsibility. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Suddenly I saw something like Walter in my mind’s eye. What the President was saying was very much like the way Walter described the Bullocks. A colony of like-minded individuals. All for one and one for all. It suddenly seemed like a very good idea. “Yes, sir, Mr. President, and I’ll do my very best.”
There was spontaneous applause. I even heard a few cheers. Ordinarily I would have been very gratified by all that. None of it seemed important now. I realized that I hadn’t asked for this. But for the first time I thought that maybe I could do it, and for the same reason that others have done what had to be done. Damn the torpedoes, etc. At least that’s what I felt at that moment.
The meeting broke up shortly thereafter. Everyone except the Secret Service agen
ts passed along the table shaking hands with the President and with me. “You have my full support.” “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.” And so on.
After almost everyone had gone, the President said, “Walk with me.” We (Mike and I and the President’s Chief of Staff) strode a little distance and into what was unmistakably the Oval Office next door. Everyone knows what it looks like: the shiny desk with the big windows behind it facing a tree-filled lawn and fountain, lots of comfortable chairs and sofas, huge chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. I realized that the whole world was still oblivious to what was going on here. I felt sorry for everyone out beyond Pennsylvania Avenue.
The President indicated that I should sit. He leaned back against the desk. “I’ve never met an alien,” he confessed, grinning broadly. “Though some people think I am one. Tell me what they’re like.”
“Well, the first one, prot, was like almost anyone. From Earth, I mean. He looked just like one of us. In fact, he explained this by saying that, throughout the galaxy, most species like ours look pretty much like we do. Same for all the plants and animals. Evolution sees to that. He didn’t suffer fools gladly, but at the same time he was quite personable. He actually became something of a friend, or even more like a son, to me.”
“Yes, I’ve read your books,” he said. “But only recently, I’m afraid. What about fled?”
“Ah. She was entirely different. You’ve read my book about her, too?” He nodded. “Well, all I can say about fled is that you had to see her to believe her. She looked a lot like a chimpanzee, but was the size of a gorilla. Like prot, though, she spoke perfect English. And you know what I remember most? Her smell.”
“What was it like?”
“I don’t really know how to describe it. Have you ever stuck your face into a dog’s fur?”
The President snorted. “Yes, I have.”
“It was something like that, only stronger and wilder. Something like that of an actual chimpanzee, I imagine. But, of course, unique to her own species. Her own planet, maybe.”
