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Saving The President
Saving The President
Saving The President
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Saving The President

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When Margaret Massey is elected America's first female president, dictators from the Castro Brothers to Vladimir Putin, and even Somali pirates, see the nation as an easy target.

The president shows international bullies how strong an American woman can be with help from Lt. Colonel Aaron Kaplan, an Army officer with an uncanny instinct for winning battles.

But the collapse of Europe's banks has plunged America into a second Great Recession and a presidential strategist decides that only kidnapping leading bankers and forcing them to open up credit for loans can save the economy.

Was President Massey complicit in his plan? This time Aaron Kaplan's battle skills can't save her. Whether she is thrown out of office and goes down in history as a failure depends on what the iron-willed Speaker of the House decides.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherMiles David
Release dateMay 19, 2012
ISBN9781476409207
Saving The President
Author

Miles David

Miles David has been on the front lines for a broad sweep of history, first serving in the combat engineers as American forces defeated Germany, then reporting on significant events including the Nuremberg trials for Stars and Stripes, the army newspaper. Upon returning to civilian life, he followed the trail of new technologies as an editor of Science Illustrated, and then became an editor of Sponsor Magazine, a broadcasting trade paper. Later, as CEO of R.A.B., the trade association for the radio industry, he rubbed shoulders with advertising's Mad Men and eventually became vice chairman of an ad agency. Miles and his wife Florence were longtime residents of Scarsdale, a suburb north of New York City, where they brought up their three children, Steven, Amelia and Heidi. While it might seem logical for a man whose done this much to retire, that would be too dull for this time traveller. Instead, Miles can now add author to his list of credits. His debut novel, SAVING THE PRESIDENT takes place in a not too distant future where Margaret Massey, America's first female president, fends off dictators and political strategists as she struggles to leave a positive mark in the history books.

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    Saving The President - Miles David

    Prologue

    Strategy in the Bedroom

    Margaret Massey wore a low-cut pink nightgown so well fitted to her trim body she could have been a model in a Victoria’s Secret lingerie commercial. Her husband Walter, who was her chief political strategist, ignored her figure’s appeal and concentrated on a subject more compelling than sex—how to get her nominated for president.

    Actually, they were arguing strategy in their bedroom.

    She said she needed to redouble her appearances on cable TV where she could dominate the national dialogue with phrases cutting Democrats off at the knees.

    He said she already had more visibility than any other candidate.

    What you need to do now, Walter contended, is overcome the party establishment’s prejudice that you lack presidential gravitas. They demand more depth from you than if you were a man

    Just how do I achieve all that gravitas? she asked, her anger flaring. I am who I am. And I have the biggest base before the primaries even start than any male candidate. What should I do—go study at Harvard?

    Walter Massey laughed while he buttoned his pajamas. Margaret, that’s just what you should do, but at our own state university. I’ll arrange private tutorials on economics and history with our best professors that no one will know about.

    Now he had her full attention. I’m listening. But Walt do you actually think I can win the presidency by hitting the books and spouting more facts?

    You can, Walt answered, very certain. With America into a second Great Recession now that the banks in Europe have crashed, President Obama is a pushover. More knowledge will insure you winning the debates. Your only real obstacle is our own party’s leadership.

    * * *

    Wallace Dry wanted to be president so badly he could only sleep a few hours a night. Then he woke up and started writing checklists that each began with a question:

    Q. Whose important ass have I failed to kiss in the next state to run a primary?

    Q. Why can’t I sell my record of success as a strong former state governor?

    Q. Why am I running third among the seven primary candidates?

    In first place, was a flip-flopper. In second place, was Margaret Massey. She had the good looks of an actress with lush brunette hair framing her face and a great smile; add to that the fast tongue of a Sarah Palin, though Margaret Massey was said to have trouble controlling her temper.

    But there was a new X factor confounding him. The Margaret Massey running second in the primaries seemed to command more facts now, adding to her skill as a debater and news dominatrix. If the journalist chairing one of their debates brought up the flat tax, she could describe it like Steve Forbes.

    As Wallace Dry weighed his worsening situation, one of his smartphones buzzed. Who the hell is up at 5 a.m., knows this number, and is willing to risk waking me up? he thought. But he took the call.

    It was Walter Massey, very businesslike, as if it were a midday call. He and Margaret wanted a secret meeting. Walter Massey didn’t give away the subject, but it was easy to guess—let’s make a deal. Wallace Dry would be asked to drop out, endorse her, help her campaign. And then he knew he would receive a quid pro quo: appointment as Secretary of State or nominee for vice president.

    He concluded instantly—a shot at becoming VP was the best deal. But not good enough. If Margaret Massey wanted to, as president she could bury a VP. He wasn’t about to be hidden away from the media spotlight for the next four years.

    Immediately, Wallace Dry got an idea for a concept to protect his stature. He would accept the role of candidate for the vice presidency but extract an agreement that he would also serve as White House Chief of Staff.

    That meant he would use his experience in government to help shape policy, stay in the public eye, and be likely to follow Margaret Massey in the presidency. Meanwhile, he would share the power of the presidency to a degree unprecedented in American history. He was convinced his idea would work and, suddenly, he felt sleepy for the first time in months.

    * * *

    Russian Prime Minister Vladimir Putin was at work in his home twenty-five miles west of Moscow, where his workday often lasted till Midnight. It was 10 p.m. and he was being briefed on the next American presidential election by the U.S. politics specialist of the FSB, successor to the KGB secret police.

    Mr. Prime Minister, the specialist began, we think the woman could win.

    Putin was in a good mood. He had dined well, including vodka with the appetizers, some of his favorite Spanish red wine, and cognac to finish off the meal.

    Laughter broke through Putin’s usually stern look and he said, You can’t be serious. I know we sent you to Stanford University in California with all the big-brain American students, but she has the thinnest record of any candidate. She can’t win.

    No, Mr. Prime Minister, the FSB man persisted, none of the other candidates have as committed a base before the elections even start.

    Putin controlled his laughter, knowing he was still feeling the cognac, and tried to understand. Tell me how she is able to destroy the men, he asked.

    The men will destroy each other in their debates, the FSB briefer answered. Each has weaknesses. She will wait patiently till their flaws are repeated endlessly. Then she will make shrewd alliances, and use her sharp tongue to win the election.

    Putin issued instructions. I want her watched by our best agent in Washington and have weekly reports sent to me. An American woman as president is a great opportunity.

    The briefer from the FSB was a brave man—and also a cousin of Putin’s wife—so he wasn’t afraid to disagree.

    Mr. Prime Minister, remember that under Catherine the Great ruling as queen, Russia became a great power and took over three other empires in Europe.

    Yes, Mr. Expert, but American women are too spoiled to have the steel of a Catherine the Great. The American woman will be polishing her nails one day while we take over objectives no American man as president would let us near. Keep bringing me good news like this and maybe I’ll listen to my wife Lyudmila and get you a better job.

    * * *

    The Regent of Saudi Arabia, Prince Neyaj, ran the government while King Abdullah, at 90, lingered between life and death. The lingering had gone on for a year while Prince Neyaj maneuvered the support of the Ulema, the country’s religious leaders.

    Saudi Arabia was an absolute monarchy, but the Ulema could exert independent force and it opposed any movements toward modernity, like putting a woman in charge of education for women, which the old king had done.

    Prince Neyaj had to be seen as battling against women’s liberation. He knew how male leaders, many of the 7,000 princes and the Ulema, felt about women—they were vessels for the pleasure of men and producers of babies. But Allah intended them for little else. A woman as chief executive in America would increase the pressure of Saudi women for modern roles, including licenses to drive cars.

    But Prince Neyaj wanted the American woman to win because he felt she would not be capable of opposing aggressive plans he had to expand Saudi Arabia’s power in the Middle East. He called in the Saudi Arabian ambassador to the United States who had been home visiting some of his wives.

    Mr. Ambassador, he asked, "can we donate fifty million dollars to the election campaign of the woman candidate in America without anyone knowing, including the Ulema? The ambassador said it would be easy. He would filter the money through a Saudi company in America, and U.S. law allowed them to donate secretly.

    Give the money to her campaign in stages while we watch the trend, Prince Neyaj said. Who knows? One of the male candidates could gain momentum. But the best-known candidate is considered two-faced and the other man getting big attention has been in politics too long. They make it possible she can win.

    Chapter 1

    January 21, 2013

    FIRST DAY AS PRESIDENT

    The excitement of the morning’s Inaugural ceremony was over and the President and Vice President were seated in the Oval Office, finally winners after the months of campaigning. But both looked glum, not triumphant.

    The VP had insisted they meet, despite the President’s objection she had to get ready for the evening’s Inaugural Balls. Their meeting was a surprise to the White House staff, many still on vacation, because the President wasn’t expected to be at work in the Oval Office until the following day.

    There were two beige couches in the center of the Oval Office, and each sat in the middle of a couch, separated by a low cocktail table, she the slender brunette with a perpetual smile who barely looked her age, in the fifties; and he a tall thin black-haired man in his mid-forties, always showing a look of serious contemplation, unless an assistant nudged him to smile for the cameras.

    Madam President, the VP began.

    Oh let’s not do that stuffy formality, the President said. When we’re alone, it’s just Margaret Massey and Wallace Dry.

    Makes sense, right way to do it, he said.

    Now Margaret, we made a deal and shook hands on it; I would be your chief of staff as well as Vice President in return for dropping out of the race and campaigning for you, including my speech at the Republican Convention. In a tight race, I got you the margin you needed to win the nomination.

    I haven’t forgotten.

    But for months you have refused to discuss naming me chief of staff. I’ve been chasing you like a bill collector.

    "Wally, there’s never been a good time to talk. With the European banks going bust, the second Great Recession is worse than the first one and everything is changing so fast.

    There are dozens of strikes all over the country. Even the Washington police went out on strike a week ago—probably just to spite me.

    Then, out of a speaker came the voice of the President’s secretary, Jane Francis. Madam President, turn on the TV, there’s something you have to see. And Jane Francis, usually unflappable, spoke with fear in her voice.

    The President tapped a button and a huge ten by fourteen foot TV came on showing a riot on Washington’s streets.

    People had turned over dozens of cars and set them on fire. Windows were smashed. Buildings were burning. There were fist fights. But there were no police. Every Washington policeman was out on strike after a pay cut due to the second Great Recession.

    Almost screaming now, the President called out, Wally, what the hell do we do? The world is watching Washington on Inauguration Day and we look like we’re in the middle of a revolution.

    Vice President Dry, as shocked as she, answered, There are no good options. The security service Washington hired for traffic control has no guns. And Washington is a tense town with people mad as hell about the economy and unemployment higher than in most cities.

    Then the scene shifted on their giant screen as the news anchor described a new phase in the rioting. A group estimated at 20,000 is marching toward the White House and reporters on the street say they’re demanding a meeting with the President.

    The screen showed the huge crowd walking toward the White House, many carrying signs saying OCCUPY THE WHITE HOUSE.

    Wally, call out the National Guard, President Massey said.

    Before we do that, let’s get advice, the VP said. Bring in the Secret Service and let’s talk to the two Army officers who are here for a photo-op of you giving them medals.

    In minutes, the Army officers and Associate Director of the Secret Service Steve Hemming were led into the Oval Office.

    The VP took over. Gentlemen, don’t sit down, look at the screen.

    I’ve been watching, Steve Hemming said. Looks like the Muslim riots outside Paris a few years ago. There’s never been anything like it in Washington.

    Then the VP asked the officers, both wearing formal blue uniforms showing colorful ribbons for their medals, to describe their backgrounds.

    The officer who spoke first was over six feet tall and razor thin and he spoke quickly as if he were ready to take charge. I’m Lieutenant Colonel Aaron Kaplan, he said. Major Tom Phillips and I are in the Infantry and Major Phillips is getting a Bronze Star for heroism beating back a surprise Taliban attack in Afghanistan.

    Major Phillips, a black man with the bulk of a middle linebacker, which he had been on a West Point football team, joined in. "I’ll tell you about Colonel Kaplan. He got to a soldier wounded by an Improvised Explosive Device, an IED, by squirming over ground full of mines, sticking his pocket knife in the sand to see where it was safe because no one nearby had a metal detector.

    He’s getting the Soldier’s Medal for saving a life and he’s won a Bronze Star twice. The Colonel has a reputation for improvising solutions—and for very good luck.

    The VP said, You both have great records and we need advice. That mob of 20,000 is headed for the White House and they want to see the President. The police are out on strike. Can the Army help?

    Colonel Kaplan said, The major’s in command of a Military Police battalion and can get them here fast. I’ll take the Marine Band members I just saw coming into the White House with their instruments and we’ll hold the crowd still with a concert till the MPs get here.

    The President entered the conversation. I like your plan, colonel. It’s gutsy. Director Hemming, your opinion?

    "Madam President, it could work, or it could get the colonel and the musicians stomped to death. But holding back the mob is important. Ordinarily, the police would have kept a mob this size from forming and heading toward the White House.

    We can handle a few crazies who climb the White House fence. But with a whole bunch of fence-climbers, maybe some of them drunk, we’d have to use snipers on the roof to shoot them down. That’s a bloodbath history would never forget.

    The President interrupted, And it would destroy us. Colonel Kaplan, let’s go with your plan.

    The two officers went to work in Jane Francis’ work area next to the Oval Office. While Major Phillips called his MP unit, Colonel Kaplan spoke to Sergeant Major Richard Esposito who was in charge of the White House marines.

    Colonel Kaplan asked for four marine Honor Guards in their colorful blue jackets and white contrasting pants and peaked hats; and he wanted a portable loudspeaker so he could be heard by the mob.

    We have loudspeakers, the Sergeant Major answered, and the eight members of the Marine Band here at the White House for the medal presentation can improvise a concert in seconds.

    Sergeant-Major Esposito rushed Colonel Kaplan to the large East Room and he explained his plan to the musicians practicing there.

    Gentlemen, with the police strike, there’s no one to stop that mob headed for the White House. We’re afraid a bunch of them who are drunk might try climbing the fence and the Secret Service would have to shoot to stop them.

    His solution was to do a concert out in front of the mob, moving into music fast, to hold the mob’s attention long enough till a nearby Military Police battalion arrived. The marine musicians were shocked. They had no military training and never anticipated they would face danger in the Marine Band.

    The ranking musician said hesitantly, This could work, but it has to be voluntary.

    "I know it can work, guarantee it, Colonel Kaplan said. It’s mob psychology. Break the momentum and their mood changes. But it’s up to each of you. If you’re willing to do it, raise your hand."

    Eight hands went up and the slide trombone player said, We don’t deserve to be called the Marine Band if we aren’t willing to act like marines for a little while; but we’re in trouble if that mob goes wild.

    Colonel Kaplan suggested that the marine Honor Guard members carry loaded combat weapons and the colonel and musicians also got Sig Sauer P229 pistols from the Secret Service to wear out of sight in shoulder holsters after Commissioner Hemming gave the group a fast orientation on the pistols.

    The Honor Guard, three with rifles, one with the American flag, and Colonel Kaplan would look like they were part of a parade on the Fourth of July. The eight Marine Band members would follow in their bright red jackets, blue pants and white hats, playing their brightly polished brass instruments.

    They formed up just outside the White House gate and then marched straight toward the mob, by now a mile from the White House. When they drew close, the musicians moved into playing a lively rendition of When the Saints Come Marching In until, when they were 100 yards from the mob, Colonel Kaplan called out, Marine unit, HALT.

    The crowd sound surrounding them was like an animal roaring, but with parts of shouts heard rising above the hubbub: Bunch of bastards. Mother fuckers. Talk to the President.

    Colonel Kaplan got their attention, using the loudspeaker: Ladies and gentlemen, we have the famous Marine Band here to do a concert for you.

    The crowd was moving very slowly now, hesitantly, seeming puzzled, and with the roar diminished. The front ranks of the mob were now thirty feet away from Aaron Kaplan and the Marines and moving very slowly toward them.

    Immediately, the colonel announced, Your attention please as the band plays ‘The Star Spangled Banner.’

    But before the Marine Band started, a shot was fired. The bullet whizzed through the top of Colonel Kaplan’s blue dress beret, knocking it off his head. And suddenly there was silence.

    The colonel’s impulse was to run and grab a tall pale man with dark black buzz cut hair who was near the front of the mob and seemed to be sliding a weapon into his back pocket. But, controlling his anger, he spoke to the crowd.

    Folks, let’s not get anyone hurt…Now, the music…

    And immediately the marine musicians began playing the national anthem while Colonel Kaplan bent behind him and retrieved his beret.

    People in the huge crowd apparently felt as if they were at a ball game where everyone stands for the The Star Spangled Banner. Some in the crowd put their hands on their hearts. Colonel Kaplan slipped his hand across his chest and under his jacket so he had a grip on his pistol in its shoulder holster, keeping his eyes on the man he thought had shot at him. The mob was standing still, but close enough, now twenty feet away, he could smell alcohol on the breath of those in front who had been drinking.

    As the band played, some in the crowd sang, with the number growing very slowly until, at the closing verse, Oh say does that star-spangled banner yet wave half the crowd was singing.

    Then a few applauded and finally almost everyone began clapping, which sent a boom running down Pennsylvania Avenue.

    Thank you, Ladies and Gentlemen, the colonel said, and then, with no pause, the musicians played Hello Dolly and Yankee Doodle followed by America the Beautiful and then the Marine Hymn.

    The Marine Band musicians were eight of the best brass instrumentalists in the world and, playing the old familiar songs, they made exciting music.

    After each song, the clapping came more quickly and lasted longer. And some of the group in the rear of the mob began to drift away. The tall man with the buzz cut disappeared into the crowd.

    But time was passing and Colonel Kaplan kept his eyes roaming over the crowd, which was getting restless. He could see a few people in the front rows were moving toward them again in slow shuffling steps. Their faces had calmed when the music began, but now they looked angry again and he heard people muttering to each other, seeming to be getting up the courage to rush them.

    As the colonel watched, he thought, If they come at us, we have to shoot some, and he reached inside his jacket to grip his pistol. Then, with relief, he heard the MP trucks, which rolled up slowly in two columns, their motors rumbling, and stopped, one column on either side of them.

    Major Phillips left the first truck, walked up to the colonel, saluted, and said: We have 600 men and three ambulances back behind the trucks.

    Meanwhile, the MPs got out and stood alongside their vehicles, with rifles slung on their shoulders.

    Next the band played My Country ‘Tis of Thee and, by the time they were finished, there were barely half left from the original 20,000 in the mob still standing there.

    Meanwhile, each TV station in the area had covered the concert using news trucks parked alongside the crowd. The TV news personalities, safe in their studios but relieved they weren’t witnessing the mob trampling the Marine Band, said the President had cleverly decided to calm the rioters with a concert, and how lucky she was it had worked.

    As the last of the crowd drifted away, Colonel Kaplan suggested to Major Phillips that the MPs keep watch near the White House grounds until dawn.

    Then Colonel Kaplan and his unit marched back to the White House where the colonel was escorted to the Oval Office. The President and Vice President had watched the concert on TV and the President said, Lieutenant Colonel Aaron Kaplan, I congratulate you for your guts. It was amazing to see you keep cool after someone shot the beret off your head.

    Suddenly, she pointed and yelled, Colonel, there’s blood on your forehead. He took off his beret, she looked closer and said, You’re going to the White House doctor’s office and have that looked at, and she took a tissue and blotted the blood on his forehead.

    The colonel said: Thank you, Madam President. But I can tell it’s just a scratch. It was amazing. Those songs held the crowd.

    Then the President asked, How long have you been a lieutenant colonel, Aaron?

    Three years, Madam President.

    That’s long enough, the President said, looking at the VP. Vice President Dry will talk to the Pentagon and request they accelerate your promotion to full colonel.

    And she added, Just tell the brass hats they have a new commander-in-chief and she likes things done her way and fast, which is what Colonel Kaplan did by looking a mob of 20,000 in the eye and holding them still.

    It was a team operation, Aaron said. The Marine Band was terrific under pressure and Major Phillips got his MPs there lightning fast.

    After the colonel left the Oval Office, the President said, Thank God we planned a medals photo-op for Day One in the White House and had some of the Marine Band here.

    The VP agreed and said, I’ll come see you tomorrow morning to continue our chief of staff discussion. How about first thing in the morning at 9 o’clock?

    Let’s make it 10:00, the President said, there’s a late night ahead of us for all the Inaugural Balls.

    Chapter 2

    Evening of Same Day

    MESSAGE FROM A CENTURY AGO

    Colonel Kaplan followed Jane Francis to the White House doctor’s office and a nurse squeezed Polysporin antibiotic ointment on the shallow groove the bullet had cut on his scalp.

    Then the colonel refused Jane Francis’ offer to get him a car. No need, he said, I’m going to check in at the JP Marriott three minutes away, and he quickly strode over to the hotel where his travel bag had already been dropped.

    It was a luxurious Marriott, more expensive than hotels the colonel usually chose, but he was just back from an Afghanistan inspection tour that day and now had two weeks of leave. He thought the Marriott, close to the Washington Mall, with its monuments and jogging path around the reflecting pool, would be enjoyable as a base for Washington sightseeing and time he hoped to spend with a new girlfriend.

    After entering the spectacular lobby of the JP Marriott Hotel with its gold columns and bright red furniture, he checked in at the front desk and the hotel clerk handed him a large envelope showing the name of his father’s law firm, Cromwell Manning Kaplan, LLC, which he had been alerted to look for by an e-mail.

    His room was large, carpeted in red like the lobby, and had a flat TV screen 10 feet high that was built into the wall opposite the double bed. The huge screen was lit and showed a still picture of the Swiss Alps, but an instruction panel explained there were twenty scenes to choose from. He picked a forest with a stream running through it but also set it to turn on and show a picture of a sunrise at 6 a.m., when he usually woke up.

    Then he hung his jacket and beret in the closet, took off his tie and opened the envelope. It contained papers he had been looking forward to reading, including an old high school composition describing the voyage to America in 1895 by part of his family.

    After Room Service delivered his food, he began reading the composition, which was written in the slanting, elaborate penmanship of many years ago but was tightly phrased.

    HOW WE GOT TO AMERICA AFTER OUR SHIP SANK

    By Rachel Kaplan

    My mother, two younger brothers and I were asleep in a large open space called Steerage where immigrants travel. Suddenly, our ship’s whistle began blasting—seven short blasts/one long, the abandon-ship signal. Mama rushed us up to the deck where they were firing rockets as a signal to other ships that we needed to be rescued.

    The crew pushed us into lifeboats and the ocean was rough and tossed the boat up and down. We held on to each other, frightened we would be spilled into the water. Then a man in another lifeboat began chanting the Jewish prayer for the dead. My Mama yelled, Stop. Forbidden. Alongside us, there was another immigrant Mama named Greta Muller, with three children. She was praying with her Rosary, which had blue crystal beads. Greta Muller said, Mrs. Kaplan, praying helps.

    Please, don’t let me interrupt you, Mama answered. My shout was for those men praying for a person who dies. But no one will die. A ship will come to rescue us. I know it.

    She was so convincing, Mrs. Muller put away her Rosary and she and Mama talked about their husbands. We were going to New York where Papa had a job. Greta Muller’s husband had a job in a city called Hoboken. Just as the sun rose, we saw a ship sailing toward us with smoke coming out of its funnels. We were all saved, but we never saw the Muller family again.

    Colonel Kaplan had heard all during his childhood the story that some of the Kaplan family came to America on a ship that sank. And there was

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