Lethal Trajectories - Michael Conley [52]
“I’m so sorry to spring it on you like this, Clayton, but it’s all obviously beyond my control.” His VP remained speechless, so he continued. “I haven’t been feeling well, not for the last couple of months. I’d chalked up my discomfort to the pressures of the job, indigestion, and a number of things. The telltale signs were there, I guess, but I just didn’t see them.” He shook his head in disbelief.
“A day or so before this Chunxiao business started, things took a sharp turn for the worse. Frankly, I thought I had a flu bug or some other intestinal ailment. It zapped me shortly after the last Situation Room meeting prior to my Rose Garden announcement on Chunxiao. I called Doc Toomay, and after taking one look at me, he said ‘We’ve got to get you to the hospital.’ I told him I had a Rose Garden appearance scheduled, and he gave me something for temporary relief. The pain started to return toward the end of my press conference, and as you know, I was whisked over to Walter Reed shortly thereafter.”
“I’m so sorry, Mr. President,” Clayton said softly.
“Thanks, Clayton, I know you are, and I appreciate your sympathy,” Burkmeister said, touched by his sincerity. He had no real family, and the McCartys were, in a way, as close to him as anyone.
“They knew from day one I had a major problem and a strong inkling of what it was. The diagnostic work was all but done in the first few days, and I spent the rest of the time just trying to get back on my feet and think it all out.”
“May I ask, sir, what the nature of your illness is?”
“I’ve got stage 4-B pancreatic cancer. The docs tell me it’s as aggressive as any they’ve ever seen, and it’s metastasized to several organs throughout my body, including my lungs and brain. There’s no cure, and even with the most aggressive forms of chemotherapy they could only prolong my life for a few additional weeks—a month or so at best.
“I did a lot of thinking and praying in that hospital room, Clayton, and I accept the fact that I will soon be dead. I’ve never worn religion on my sleeve, but I became a believer long before my dear Karen died. I’ve made my peace with the Lord, and I’m not afraid. I’ve often wondered how people faced the prospect of imminent death without some kind of faith.” Clayton nodded thoughtfully as the president continued.
“Since I don’t really have a family, my greatest concern now is the people that I was elected to serve. In a very real way, they are my family, and there is absolutely nothing that I can do about it. The ‘most powerful man in the world,’ sure … I’m going to die, and I won’t be able to complete my term of office. That’s the reality of the situation.”
Clayton’s eyes widened. Burkmeister could sense that Clayton was moving past the shock and ready to get down to business.
“I’ve run through more scenarios than I can count,” Burkmeister continued, “and there are no easy ways to complete your succession to the presidency. Let me suggest what I think might be the most expeditious way of handling this. It’s based on my having about one more month of good health—if there is such a thing at this point—but it also makes provision for my not even having that one good month.” The president looked deeply into Clayton’s eyes.
“My suggestion is this: I will request airtime this coming Monday evening, the twenty-fifth, and I’ll give a short announcement from the Oval Office. I will basically say that I am terminally ill and will resign my presidency on November first, or earlier, should my health fail. I’ll tell them I plan to do everything in my power to assure the smooth transfer of the presidency to you, and that I have every confidence in your ability to do the job.”
Clayton’s brow furrowed as he pondered the implications of the announcement for himself and the country.
“I know this is a lot to process in one sitting, Clayton, and I’d like to propose that you give this some thought between now and, say, Sunday morning. Let’s get together then at about nine and spend whatever time we need