Lethal Trajectories - Michael Conley [53]
“Mr. President …,” Clayton said, clearly moved by Burkmeister’s reassurances.
“You’re the first person I’ve told about this, Clayton,” Burkmeister interrupted, “and other than a handful of doctors, I doubt anyone else knows. I plan to meet with George Gleason tomorrow, and my guess is he’ll be leaving the White House with me. Nothing wrong with you, but George is kind of a one-president kind of chief of staff. That’s one appointment you’ll have to make soon, by the way, and a very important one. Another, of course, is to select your vice president. I’ll also be talking to the White House lawyers tomorrow to go over the legal mechanics of a presidential succession, and I’ll have more to tell you on Sunday.”
They chatted for a few more minutes before Burkmeister looked at his watch and said, “I’d better get you out of here so you can get some sleep—you’ll need it.”
They walked to the door together. Burkmeister offered his hand and said, “You’re a good man, Clayton, and I’m deeply sorry I had to drop a bomb like this on you. Please know I’ll do everything I can to help ease the transition for you.”
With tears in his eyes, Clayton dropped all pretense of decorum and gave the president a big hug. “I’m so, so sorry, Lyman. You are a man I deeply admire and respect. I just don’t know what else to say.” Choked with emotion, he left.
As the White House door shut behind him, McCarty took several deep breaths of cool autumn air. Nodding to his driver, he got in his limo for the ride back to the vice-presidential residence. As they drove through the rain-wet streets he made one phone call.
“Jack, this is Clayton. Can you meet me at my place tomorrow morning at seven thirty? Call if you can’t, but I really need to talk to you. I’ll send a car over to pick you up.”
Georgetown
22 September 2017
It was raining heavily as Jack McCarty pulled up to his Georgetown condo at ten thirty in the evening. He was exhausted. The climate-change data was pouring in: his throbbing headache was the product of a full day of analyzing data and computer simulations.
Inside, he threw his wet raincoat over a chair and headed straight for his bar to pour a stiff drink. Savoring the warm taste of scotch, he checked the two messages on his voicemail, kicking himself for letting his cell phone go dead.
The first call was from his friend Wang Peng, explaining that he was flying to New York and wondering if Jack would be available for dinner on Wednesday night. Odd, he thought, given the busy schedule Wang would surely have at the United Nations.
The second call from Clayton concerned him. Although it was only a short message, he had never heard Clayton sound like this. His message was terse, almost like he didn’t want to talk, but he could tell his brother was troubled. It was close to eleven o’clock, and as Clayton had said nothing about calling back unless he couldn’t make it, he decided to wait until he saw him tomorrow morning. Whatever it was, he would find out in less than nine hours.
18
Naval Observatory, Washington, DC
23 September 2017
Jack McCarty was already on his third large cup of black coffee by six thirty in the morning. The toast in front of him was dry and cold, and he rubbed his eyes repeatedly as he gazed out at the rainy cobblestone streets of his condo. Theoretically, he had gotten about five hours of sack time, but he doubted he’d slept a grand total of more than thirty minutes. He was tired and wired, and even a long hot shower failed to rejuvenate him.
At least three puzzling scenarios had darted in and out of his conscious and subconscious mind throughout the night. Just as he was about to get his arms around one scenario, the others seemed to collide and completely rearrange the playing field. There was no beginning or end, only middles. Though he suspected they were interconnected, his futile attempts to connect