Excerpt: TBD

The day everything changes is the day nobody forgets. The weather – brisk, but warm for January – hinted at a different kind of memorable day. The crowd, abuzz with anticipation, sang songs in unison with little prompting other than the joy of the occasion. The eyes of the world watched. Red, white, and blue bunting draped across the fences in front of the White House, across the front of the stage in front of the Capital and the front of the podium in the center.
We remembered how we felt. Some apprehensive, unsure how the next leader would handle his newfound responsibility. Some of us were relieved, glad to find a voice of our own, someone who spoke to our concerns and hopes; someone who saw things in a similar way. Looking across the throngs of people, you couldn't corral them into one type or social group. You saw everyone from all walks of life, collectively assembled to witness the exchange of power.
“I'm so excited,” said a voice. “I think we'll be much better off in a new direction.”
“I didn't vote for him,” said another. “But you'd think he has to do better than what we have now.”
Heads nodded in agreement.
We watched the stage. Watched the Senators and voices of leadership of the past as they sat on stage waiting along with us. And we waited. And watched. There were mentions of the time, of how things were running later than they were meant to. We figured it was a typical delay in such a large public event.
Before too long, though, everything changed.

“So tell me this,” he said. He poured two fingers of scotch into an old-fashioned glass and turned to face the young man seated at his desk. “I can't imagine that's going to go over well. I think I've pissed enough people off as it is.”
Hank Atkins spoke in plain language, had few pretensions, and would be someone anyone would call “salt of the earth”. But his physical stature – he stood six-foot-six and weighed nearly 260 pounds – coupled with his position as Chief of Staff for President William Lynch to forge a character of massive influence. He spoke and people listened, or damn them all.
“Right, sir,” said Mark Barnes. “But you really can't consider getting gas prices to drop as something that'll piss off anyone.”
Atkins leaned his head back and the scotch slid down. He sat in his high-backed leather chair and sat in silence. He looked to be considering the proposition. He leaned forward against his desk, peered over the picture frames along the edge at Barnes.
“If you can't sell me on this plan,” he said. He didn't blink and spoke each word with deliberation. “How do you think I'm going to sell it to the people?”
Barnes shifted in his seat and watched the floor. Drummed his fingers on the armrest. He opened his mouth to speak but stopped, huffed.
Atkins continued to stare.
“Well sir, I guess a chart, showing prices before and after.”
“Son, no chart's going to convince 250 million people of anything. These people see charts on TV all day and they don't bat an eye at them,” he stood back up and slammed the glass onto the bar counter. “You gotta sell me on it, and I can tell you don't have the spine for it.”
Barnes started to speak, but Atkins raised a hand while he leaned over and pressed the transmission button to the front desk.
“Bradley, come show Professor Barnes to the exit.”
He returned to his seat, turning it so he was looking at various photos of past events, framed certificates, clippings. He turned so Barnes got the back of the chair.
“Don't bother trying us again,” he said. “We've got our own team already working on this. And with better results than you're telling me about.”
He paused.
“Well better profit, at least.”
The office door creaked open and a tall man wearing an earpiece stood in the doorway, motioning for Barnes to follow him out the door. Barnes closed the binder in his lap, tucked it into his leather briefcase and hurried out. Atkins didn't move his chair but kept looking over the artifacts on the wall.
Some of the clippings had yellowed over the years, but the ink still stood out. “Atkins headed to the Hill” in large type-face screamed at him from the top of the “Merton Gazette” from November 1972. He was only twenty-five then – barely out of college and working at his family's law firm – when he found a call to public service. He also had a cousin who had a few union ties that helped out. They used their connections to raise funds and put out fliers on every block in the district. His (or rather, their) opponent was a two term incumbent who had voted to raise taxes but also supported Vietnam – a lethal combination of positions and Atkins won with little real effort.
Like any young man with ambition, he did what he needed to to remain in power and achieve it in greater levels. He made some connections there, moved to the Senate, became a player in Washington. Every stereotype of a politician fit him, and he made no apologies.
He spun around and looked out the window. Men in suits, taxis passing by, a clear day outside. He turned to the phone, pressed a button and waited for the other side. After a moment, he spoke.
“Get me Collins.”