To complete the identification of President and TV screen — a consummation of which his political advisers had dreamed for so long the White House staff arranged for further layers of information to be transmitted. Soon a third of the nation’s TV screens was occupied by print-outs of heartbeat, blood pressure and EEG readings. Controversy briefly erupted when it became clear that delta waves predominated, confirming the long-held belief that the President was asleep for most of the day. However, the audiences were thrilled to know when Mr Reagan moved into REM sleep, the dream-time of the nation coinciding with that of its chief executive.
Untouched by this endless barrage of medical information, events in the real world continued down their perilous road. I bought every newspaper I could find, but their pages were dominated by graphic displays of the Reagan health bulletins and by expository articles outlining the significance of his liver enzyme functions and the slightest rise or fall in the concentration of the Presidential urine. Tucked away on the back pages I found a few brief references to civil war in the Asiatic republics of the Soviet Union, an attempted pro-Russian putsch in Pakistan, the Chinese invasion of Nepal, the mobilisation of Nato and Warsaw Pact reserves, the reinforcement of the US 5th and 7th Fleets.
But these ominous events, and the threat of a Third World War, had the ill luck to coincide with a slight down-turn in the President’s health. First reported on 20 January, this trivial cold caught by Reagan from a visiting grandchild drove all other news from the television screens. An army of reporters and film crews camped outside the White House, while a task force of specialists from the greatest research institutions in the land appeared in relays on every channel, interpreting the stream of medical data.
Like a hundred million Americans, Susan spent the next week sitting by the TV set, eyes following the print-out of the Reagan heartbeat.
‘It’s still only a cold,’ I reassured her when I returned from the clinic on 27 January. ‘What’s the latest from Pakistan? There’s a rumour that the Soviets have dropped paratroops into Karachi. The Delta force is moving from Subik Bay…’
‘Not now!’ She waved me aside, turning up the volume as an anchorman began yet another bulletin.
‘…here’s an update on our report of two minutes ago. Good news on the President’s CAT scan. There are no abnormal variations in the size or shape of the President’s ventricles. Light rain is forecast for the DC area tonight, and the 8th Air Cavalry have exchanged fire with Soviet border patrols north of Kabul. We’ll be back after the break with a report on the significance of that left temporal lobe spike…’
‘For God’s sake, there’s no significance.’ I took the remote control unit from Susan’s clenched hand and began to hunt the channels. ‘What about the Russian Baltic Fleet? The Kremlin is putting counter-pressure on Nato’s northern flank. The US has to respond…’
By luck, I caught a leading network newscaster concluding a bulletin. He beamed confidently at the audience, his glamorous copresenter smiling in anticipation. as of 5:05 Eastern Standard Time we can report that Mr Reagan’s inter-cranial pressure is satisfactory. All motor and cognitive functions are normal for a man of the President’s age. Repeat, motor and cognitive functions are normal. Now, here’s a newsflash that’s just reached us. At 2:35 local time President Reagan completed a satisfactory bowel motion.’ The newscaster turned to his copresenter. ‘Barbara, I believe you have similar good news on Nancy?’
‘Thank you, Dan,’ she cut in smoothly. ‘Yes, just one hour later, at 3:35 local time, Nancy completed her very own bowel motion, her second for the day, so it’s all happening in the First Family.’ She glanced at a slip of paper pushed across her desk. ‘The traffic in Pennsylvania Avenue is seizing up again, while F-16s of the 6th Fleet have shot down seven MiG 29s over the Bering Strait. The President’s blood pressure is 100 over 60. The EGG records a slight left-hand tremor…
‘A tremor of the left hand…’ Susan repeated, clenching her fists. ‘Surely that’s serious?’
I tapped the channel changer. ‘It could be. Perhaps he’s thinking about having to press the nuclear button. Or else—’
An even more frightening possibility had occurred to me. I plunged through the medley of competing news bulletins, hoping to distract Susan as I glanced at the evening sky over Washington. The Soviet deep-water fleet patrolled 400 miles from the eastern coast of the United States. Soon mushroom clouds could be rising above the Pentagon.
