The chief of staff silenced it with a raised hand. "I believe he can be persuaded to give this speech on one condition."
"What is that?"
"That he believes it is the President's wish that he resign. "
"My God, you're talking about a palace coup!"
"No," the chief of staff countered. "I am talking about a necessary political preemptive strike. The Vice-President resigns. Then and only then do he and the nation learn that the President has died."
"But consider the political firestorm."
"Imagine, worse still, the Vice President taking his rightful place at the head of this table."
"But the next in line is what's-his-name-the Speaker of the House-a Democrat."
" I can't help that. You all know the Vice-President. He can't chew gum and walk at the same time."
"Hell, we lived through one of those presidencies back in the seventies. And the VP's a much better golfer than that guy was. At least the Vice-President never brained anyone with his nine-iron. "
The Secretary of Housing gave a nervous little laugh. It came out like a giggle. He swallowed it.
"Gentlemen, if you have any arguments that might persuade me not to put this plan into operation, give them now. Just remember that your party is your party, but we're considering the future of America. Can the ship of state navigate these uncertain times with such an unseasoned man at the helm?"
The Cabinet exchanged unhappy, sick-eyed glances.
They talked among themselves in low, urgent tones.
The chief of staff waited, his fingers steepled. He knew their decision even if they did not as yet. It was the only decision that could be made. Once again he rued the day the President had made his choice of a running mate without consultation. If only he had picked one of the other aspirants.
The decision was reached and the chief of staff looked up from his grim thoughts.
"Do what you have to," he was told.
"Thank you, gentlemen. I would join you in a prayer at this time, but every moment counts. Feel free to go ahead without me."
And as the chief of staff left the room, the remaining Cabinet members folded their hands and closed their eyes. Their lips moved, but no audible words came forth.
Chapter 11
Federal Judicial Officer Guadalupe Mazatl strode across the flat sierra, her broad face a copper mask of resentment.
Overhead, the helicopters were clattering like tiny Erector Set dragonflies. The sight of their Estados Unidos insignia made her blood boil.
She did not hate the norteamericanos. She merely resented them, just as she resented the criollos who had subjugated her Indian ancestors four hundred years ago under Cortez and his mad dogs. No, she despised the criollos, who considered themselves more Mexican than the pure-blooded Indians, even though they were Spanish.
Glancing back over her fawn-colored shoulder, she saw the gringo and the old Asian he called papacito-"Little Father"moving through the twisted, tortured cacti like the almighty lords of the desolation.
And as much as she despised the criollos, they had already done their damage. That was in the past. The norteamericanos threatened manana.
She hurried back to the crash site to speak with the arrogant criollo, Comandante Odio. More was happening under the hot Mexican sun than an American airplane accident.
Remo Williams' eyes read the flat sierra like an open book.
The winds had disturbed the sand little. It was dark, hard-packed stuff, retaining footprints in shallows, but not in the flat crusty stretches where rainwater had stiffened the sand.
"Two men," Remo said, his eyes on the broken ground as he walked.
"Yes," Chiun said. "But one walking strangely."
"Maybe the President," Remo muttered, looking up toward the nearby mountains. "Wounded."
The Master of Sinanju shook his frail old head. "He walks heavily, but not from injury. He walks with heavy tread. As if grossly fat."
" I wondered about that," Remo said. " I thought mabye he was wearing heavy boots or something."
"Boots made of lead might leave such marks," Chiun intoned.
"Doesn't make sense," Remo said. "Let's just see where they lead us."
They led into a passage cut between two towering mountains, where ancient and rusted railroad tracks followed sunbleached ties.
"Footprints stop here," said Remo. "See how the toes dig in, then vanish? He hopped the train."
The Master of Sinanju placed one delicate ear to a rusty rail.
"Anything?" Remo asked, looking down the tracks, which converged at the horizon line.
"There is no vibration," Chiun intoned. "The train passed some time ago."
"Well, we got something," Remo said as Chiun stood up and looked back toward the crash site. "Now all we have to do is find out where that train went, without tipping our hand."
"We should inform Smith."
"You carrying a telephone up one sleeve?"
"Of course not," bristled the Master of Sinanju.
"'Then finding a phone has to be step one. Let's get back to the site."
They had covered most of the distance back to the blue-and-white broken-backed bird that had been Air Force One when a Mexican Army helicopter suddenly lifted up and roared toward them.
Inside the helicopter, Comandante Oscar Odio smiled broadly beneath his mirrored sunglasses. "You will be very wise to keep silent," he told FJP Officer Mazatl. "These matters must be handled with diplomacy. I will do all the talking, mestiza."
"I am no mongrel mestiza!" Officer Mazatl spat. "I am pure azteca."
"Still, you will remain silent." He patted her knee. "And I would not be so proud of ancestors who cut the hearts out of the living, thinking their blood fueled the sun."