Supreme Courtship (20 page)

Dexter looked up at the screens about the Situation Room table. They depicted the paths of incoming missiles. But also outgoing missiles. Oh, yes. Yes. After lunch, they would shoot the scene where the Chief of Naval Operations informs him that cruise missiles launched from the
Nimitz
carrier group were on their way to destroy the presidential palace of Mumduk bin Shamirz—“Mad Ali” as he was known—the America- despising ruler of Badganistan.
Our friend Mad Ali has a nice warm surprise headed his way. Oh, yes. Yes. Yes.
Dexter visualized the two cruise missiles, hurtling in tandem toward their target, contour-hugging Badganistan’s wild and rugged terrain, zooming past a minaret, their rocket engines torching the
muzzein
in the tower as he called the people to prayer. The
muzzein
falling to the ground, a human torch, screaming.
Nice touch. Clever, those writers. Overpaid, but clever.
Well, it had to be done, didn’t it? Mad Ali had given him no choice. He’d tried to reason with him—again and again and again. He’d gone to the UN. He’d offered concessions. Trade agreements. Medicine for oil. An exchange of ambassadors. All rebuffed.
Okay, then, Ali, my friend. Have it your way. But for this President, no more dicking— messing . . . whatever—around.
Mitchell Lovestorm was not going to sit around and cool his jets while this towelhead went nuclear. Hell’s bells, even the
French
are with us this time.
Allons, enfants de la Patrie . . .

And yet . . . how lonely it felt. At such a moment, only a president, on whose shoulders these matters ultimately rest, could truly know the terrible loneliness of command, the terrible isol—

“Dex.”

“Um? Oh. Yes, Buddy. What is it?”

“You looked like you were heading past Pluto there. You okay?”

“Yes. Yes. Just . . . reviewing the situation. Going over my lines.”

“The loneliness of command, huh? It’s a bitch, isn’t it?”

Dexter stared at Buddy.
You have no idea. But then, how could you?

“You going to eat something?”

“Not hungry,” Dexter said.

“We got a lot of scenes this afternoon. Don’t let your blood sugar drop. We need you
in the zone
, baby.”

Baby? This was no way to talk to the President.

“I’ll get something,” he said. “Buddy—a word?”

“Sure.”

“It’s about the First Lady.”

“What’s up?” Buddy said cautiously. Ramona Alvilar was on fire as the ironically named Constance Lovestorm. Her steamy flirting scenes with National Security Director Milton Swan had even the crew breaking out in sweats and adjusting their trousers. “She’s doing a hell of a job, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” Dexter said. “She’s a fine actress. It’s not that.”

Buddy nodded. “So?”

“I just feel . . . she’s my
wife
, Buddy. She’s the First Lady of the United States of America. Why is she rubbing the thigh of my National Security adviser?”

Buddy stared. “That’s the story line, Dex.”

“Well, I’m not sure I’m comfortable with it.”

“Ramona is helping to make this show hotter than one of those cruise missiles you just launched. Nothing’s broken. Let’s not fix it.”

“But where’s the dignity? Mitchell Lovestorm is a good and decent man. President of the United States. He’s fighting off the Islamic hordes and the Russians and the—”

“Little yellow bastards. Don’t forget them. They’re still shitting themselves in Shanghai over the
Nimitz
’s little visit there. Ha-ha.”

“Yes, meanwhile, my wife is reaching for the zipper of my right-hand aide. And he a former Navy SEAL commander. A decorated war hero . . .” Dexter shook his head distastefully. “To me it just feels . . . demeaning. To everyone.”

“Look,” Buddy said, “Milton hasn’t boinked her. We haven’t even decided if he’s going to boink her.”

“I for one would greatly prefer that he
not
boink her.”

“We’re having a script meeting on that very point this afternoon. I’ll definitely—we’ll take a good hard look at it.”

“I just don’t think that the President of the United States ought to be made out to be a—cuckold.”

“I respectfully disagree. To me, it enhances your humanity.”

“How?”

“Didn’t Abraham Lincoln have some problems along those lines? And look at how well
he’s
regarded.”

“No, no. No. His wife was a nutcase, but she wasn’t diddling the help. Look, according to all these amazing reviews we’re getting, the viewers like President Mitchell Lovestorm. They admire him. Shouldn’t we respect
their
feelings?”

Buddy resisted the impulse to swat Dexter with the rolled-up script in his hand.

“Dex,” he said, “to me, to them, all this personal stuff makes you an even greater president. Look at the situation. The whole world is on fire, the economy’s crashing—through no fault of your own, remember, it was your predecessor’s reckless fiscal policies that screwed everything up. Meanwhile, your wife is trying to give the National Security adviser a hand job under the cabinet table. This is
precisely
where your dignity comes in. Do you let it get to you? No. No, sir. Mitchell Lovestorm rises above it. I see tremendous dignity in that. I see
greatness
in that.”

“From where I’m sitting,” Dexter said, “it’s the NSC Director who’s doing the rising.”

“Your wife is a beautiful, highly sexualized being—from the barrios of Puerto Rico. So, okay, she’s a bit frisky.”

“Frisky?” Dexter snorted. “She’s a complete slut.”

“Hey, that’s the First Lady you’re talking about. No. I think that’s a tad harsh.
Passionate. Latina. En fuego!
And any guy whose crotch she was stroking would rise.
Lazarus
would rise from the dead again if Ramona were reaching for his wiener. But you’re forgetting about episode fourteen.”

“What about it?”

“The reconciliation scene? On
Air Force One
? Talk about hot. I got blisters on my fingers just from holding the script when I read it the first time. You’ve won the war. Mad Ali’s on his way to a month of serious CIA waterboarding. Connie’s come to her senses and realizes that it’s you she loves, not Milton Swan. You tumble into the bed on the plane. Through the window while you’re ripping each other’s clothes off, we see F-
16
fighter escorts framed in the setting sun. Jesus, I get a hard-on just thinking about it. I want to put a warning after the opening credits, like the ones they have for the pills?
In the event this episode causes an erection that lasts more than four hours, seek immediate medical help.
Then, in episode fifteen, what happens to NSC Director Swan? Hel-lo? The Russians put that radioactive shit in his borscht at the state banquet at the Kremlin and the next thing you know, he’s glowing like a lava lamp. And you and the First Lady—going at it like
rabbits.
I need a cold shower just from thinking about it.”

Dexter considered. “What about if it turned out that Swan was working secretly
for
the Russians? Yes. And they didn’t want that to get out, so that’s why they killed him.”

Buddy sighed.
Actors
. He yearned for the day when they were computer generated. “Why,” he said patiently, “would your National Security Director have been working for the Russians?”

“I don’t know,” Dexter said with annoyance. “Can’t the
writers
figure that out? Isn’t that why you pay them so much?”

“It’s an intriguing idea. Let me discuss it with them. Meantime, let’s stay with the program, okay? Speaking of which, did you see that write-up in
People
?”

“No,” Dexter lied. “I didn’t. Was it good?”

“Good? ‘
Monday nights this season, vote Dexter Mitchell for President. He’ll give you goose bumps every time he says, “Send in the
Nimitz
!”’
”

“Nice,” Dexter said aloofly. “Yes.”

“Nice? By the end of season two, they’ll be screaming to have you in the real White House. Now, go get some lunch, would you please, Mr. President? You don’t want to send in the
Nimitz
on an empty stomach.”

CHAPTER 20

P
resident Vanderdamp sat at his desk in the Oval Office, warming up his instrument. He had been in the glee club in high school and found that it helped before a speech.

“Do do do doooo do do doooooooo. Da da da daaaaa da da daaaaaaaa . . . Dee dee dee deeeeeee dee dee deeeeeeeeeeeeeeee . . .”

He knew that he must look somewhat ridiculous to the dozen people in the room: the ever-fretful Hayden Cork, the TV techs, his press secretary, the gloomy-looking Secret Service agents. He glanced at the TV camera suspiciously. His predecessor had been caught on tape picking his nose before a speech. It got twelve million hits on YouTube.

“Is that thing on?” he asked.

“Yes, Mr. President, but no signal is going out.”

“Hope not. Wouldn’t want to see myself doing this on the Internet. Would I?”

“No, sir,” the technician said.

“Two minutes, Mr. President.”

“Thank you.”

“Dum dum dum dum dum dum dummmmmmmmmm . . .”

A makeup woman leapt forward like a gazelle to powder puff the presidential forehead.

“Am I sweating?”

“Oh, no, sir. Just a teensy . . . sheen. These lights, they’re so gol-darned hot.”

“They certainly are. And what’s your name?”

“Maureen, sir.”

“Well, thank you for taking such good care of me, Maureen.”

“No sweat, sir.”

“That’s very funny.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“You said, ‘No sweat.’ And we were talking about sweat.”

“Oh. Yes, sir. I guess it was funny.”

Donald Vanderdamp considered. He probably should be sweating. Odd—darned odd—to find himself in this position. All he’d wanted to do was get the job done and go home. The address he had planned to give, from this very desk, was a paraphrase of what his hero, Calvin Coolidge—that least appreciated of American presidents—had said: “I do not choose to run for President in
1928
.” And now here he was. Doing . . . this.

“One minute, Mr. President.”

“I’ve. Got. A. Lovely. Bunch. Of. Co-co-nutsssss.”

“Sorry, sir?” the technician said.

“Vocal exercise.”

“Yes, sir. Stand by.”

“Good evening,” the President began. “This is the—let’s see—third time that I have spoken to you from the Oval Office? I’ve tried not to do this too often. I used to hate it when I was growing up and the President would come on and preempt
The Jack Benny Show
or
Bonanza
or some other favorite television program. Of course these days we have a jillion channels, so you can always just switch. And anyway most of the networks won’t preempt for a presidential announcement unless it’s nuclear war. Well, it’s all about ratings, these days. Ratings and polls and endless numbers.

“Speaking of that, my approval ratings—if you could call them that—are pretty darn dismal. Most of you think I’m doing an awful job. Well, I’m sorry about that. But I’ve always said, and you’ve heard me say it—you can look it up—that the presidency ought not to be a popularity contest. Certainly doesn’t seem to have been one in my case. But let’s get down to it.

“Every president’s hope is to bring the country and the people together. I seem to have accomplished that. I’ve managed to unite most of you in disapproval of me. And now both houses of the U.S. Congress have set aside their partisan differences and passed an amendment that, if ratified by the states, would limit presidents to one single four-year term. I have a few things to say about that.

“First, I congratulate Congress on—finally—passing a bill that wouldn’t require billions of dollars, plunging the nation into even worse debt.

“But now let’s be honest. This amendment isn’t about future presidents. This is about me.

“Let me remind the Congress that we already have mechanisms for denying presidents a second term. They’re called elections. And—what do you know—we have one coming up just sixteen months from now. If the Congress can’t wait that long, they could just impeach me, but since my crime consists of trying to force the Congress to be fiscally responsible, I’m not sure that dog would hunt. So they’ve gone about it this other way. And here we are.

“Now, the plain truth of the matter is I wasn’t planning to run for reelection. It’s been an honor and a privilege to serve as your president, but I wasn’t going to ask for seconds.

“But this amendment, this absurd, ridiculous, petty amendment, changes that.

“This is politics at its worst, if that isn’t redundant. So now I
am
going to run, if only to make a point. I will not be dictated to—nor will I allow future presidents to be dictated to—by what I consider to be, quite possibly, the worst Congress in United States history.

“Let me go further. I don’t think there’s been such concentration of rascality and unscrupulousness under one dome since the worst days of the Roman Empire.

“Frankly, it feels darn good to get that off my chest.

“Now, since we’re speaking candidly, I’ll tell you something else. I hope I
don’t
win in November. I’m not the sort to hang around where I’m not wanted. But there’s a point to be made and, by gosh, I’m going to make it.

“I’ve got a swell family back home in Ohio. And some really swell grandkids I haven’t seen nearly enough of. I’ve got a dandy front porch with a swing chair on it. To be honest, my fellow Americans, I wouldn’t trade all that for four more years of the White House if you made me emperor for life and threw in the Hope diamond and a Las Vegas chorus line.

“I’m sorry it’s come to this, but here we are and here we go.

“And I’m sorry if I butted into your favorite TV show. Good night, my fellow Americans. God bless us, and God save the United States of America.”

There was a hush in the Oval Office after the President finished speaking. No one moved. Then one of the TV technicians began to clap and suddenly the whole room was applauding, even the Secret Service agents, who never, ever register emotion, much less applaud.