Power Curve Read Online Free

Taiwanese, and the lack of protest from China’s neighbors, the United States is not in a position to intervene.”
    “Perfect answer,” Shaw announced. The press conference continued to play out as planned.
    Then the sound technician with a boom microphone walked past Elizabeth Gordon. “Madam President,” Gordon called.
    “Yes, Liz,” Turner said.
    “Why did she recognize the bitch?” Shaw grumbledfor the benefit of the technicians in the control room. “That’s not in the script.”
    “Madam President,” Gordon said, “you have been described as a political lightweight only nominated to run on your party’s ticket to bring in the women’s vote. Your record in the California state senate supports that allegation and can at best be described as thin since you have focused primarily on one issue: women’s rights. Madam President, what are the issues that define your administration?”
    “I think,” Turner answered, “that if you carefully examine my record, you’ll find that—”
    Shaw came to his feet, shouting, not waiting to hear the rest of her answer. “Gawd damn!” he roared, filling the control booth with his anger. “Everyone of those meat-heads knows what your record is.” He could hear the reporters shouting for attention as the dam burst.
    Behind Shaw, a voice blurted, “It’s out of control.”
    Rather than listen to what was being said in the East Room, Shaw barked new marching orders into his microphone. “Get to Whiteside, tell him to change the subject. Turner will recognize him when he stands up.” He pushed a technician out of his seat and overrode the script reader in the president’s podium. He typed furiously:
     
    RECOGNIZE PETER WHITESIDE IN THE BACK—NOW
     
    He looked up at the TV monitors. A press aide was talking to Whiteside who immediately stood up and raised his right hand. On cue. Turner’s voice rang out. “In the back—Peter.”
    A sound technician was already in place and thrust a boom mike in front of him. “Thank you, Madam President,” Whiteside called.
    “Peter,” Turner said, her voice amazingly calm, “what are you doing way back there?” A few titters ran through the audience. Whiteside was renowned for the way he lorded it over the lesser lights in the press corps and took offense at the slightest infringement of his preeminence or prerogatives.
    “Madam President, I have no idea. But it’s a lot saferhere than up front.” The titters turned to laughter, and Shaw relaxed. “For one, Madam President, I am not concerned with your past record but with the future. Right now, our economy is in a slump. Unemployment is spreading, and we’re seeing more and more homeless people on the streets everyday. What are your immediate plans to get this turned around?”
    The reporters quieted as Turner answered. “Back on track,” Shaw said, wiping his face with a huge handkerchief. He was quiet until the press conference ended and Madeline Turner left the East Room, retreating up the main hall, still walking alone. Again per Shaw’s script.
     
    Shaw’s staff crowded into his large corner office for the postmortem on the press conference. They were surprised to find him so expansive and relaxed after the near disaster caused by Elizabeth Gordon. “Folks,” Shaw said, “it got tense out there today. We gotta learn from our mistakes ’cause there’s no more second chances.”
    The intercom on his desk buzzed, and he jabbed at a button with a stubby finger, missing on the first attempt. “Damn machines,” he muttered, punching again. This time he made contact.
    “Mr. Shaw,” his secretary’s voice said, “the president wants to see you in ten minutes. She’s in her private study. And you might want to watch CBS. Peter Whiteside is on.”
    A young assistant was poised by the TV, ready to do Shaw’s bidding. Shaw punched off the intercom and nodded. Peter Whiteside’s face immediately filled the screen. “President Turner weathered her first