“Time for what? I’m the decisive President, remember?”
“I understand your anger about Andrew but it’s not your fault.”
“He was keen to be in the spotlight. He practically ran forward to talk to the press.”
“No guilt then? You can’t face the nation, and the wolves, showing even the slightest bit of guilt.”
Ross threw the remote against the wall. The plastic exploded and batteries rolled across the floor. “You know me pretty well, Karl.”
“Perhaps better than anyone.” Van Ness rubbed the smooth outline of his faithful pipe, resting in his coat pocket. “They’re outside, waiting.”
“I know. I know. CIA, FBI, Secret Service, Homeland Security. I can just imagine the denials and finger pointing.” Ross Pierce touched the wound on his forehead.
“As always. But like I said, we need a little time. Get yourself together. The next few hours may well set the course of history. And your political career.”
“It’s a funny thing about being a Navy Intruder pilot, Karl. Every moment is filled with potential and real danger. Heat seeking missiles, random fire from the ground, enemy aircraft, and night landings on a pitching deck. Shit scary. But none of them ever had a face. Christ, Karl, she was right in front of me. I saw her face. Twisted hatred and serenity at the same time.”
Van Ness nodded, and he waited.
“Remember how back in New Mexico we talked about running for the presidency?”
“Over some excellent Napa Valley wine as I recall. Sundown in the desert is a good time for thinking.”
“You’ve always been an excellent listener and sounding board. Look what we pulled off together: an enviable record as governor of New Mexico, then as a US Senator.”
“You worked hard, Ross. And you fought hard. Just like all your posts along the way: the Navy, the construction business, the ranch. It was more your effort than mine, Mr. President. You’re into your second year after a close race. And I have a feeling you may just pull off the biggest miracle of all.”
“Forget the sales spiel. Neither of us believes it. The state of the economy and worsening conditions in the Middle East were my real concerns. Anyway, I’m sitting here; sliced up by steel pellets from a suicide bomb, lucky to be alive, and soon I’ll have to face the nation and the world. With answers. I will need your help again, Karl. Big time.”
“Where’s your tin cup?”
“You don’t think I use it too much? It’s important for me, just as much now as it was in the prison camp in Vietnam. Reminds me of my purpose. In an odd way it gives me courage, too.”
Karl van Ness nodded. “It’s certainly good theater, and every good politician needs a little theater now and then. But yes, you over do it sometimes, banging on the podium during the Presidential debates to make your points.”
“We’re from different generations, Karl.”
“I respect more than most what that tin cup means to you. I was one of those waiting on the tarmac in Hawaii after your release from the Hanoi Hilton. You looked like hell, but you were proud.”
“I believe strongly in the importance of open communication. That’s what the cups were to us in prison, our only means of communicating, through code banged on the prison bars. And open communication is what I’ve tried to provide throughout my business and political career. But it gets harder and harder as this world gets more and more complex and intertwined. Sometimes I feel like I don’t have the intestinal fortitude anymore.”
“Your mother still believes you do.”
Ross smiled. “If I only had a tenth of her courage. She’s a Quaker, and a good one. She actually says what she thinks and practices what she preaches.”
Van Ness listened to the voices outside. Politicians, all of them. “Your dad made up for your mother’s strengths,” he said dryly.
“One domineering sonofabitch. A confirmed capitalist and product of the American dream. He constantly kicked my ass, but always in the right direction.”
“Well, with all due respect, Mr. President. In this case the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. So let’s see if we can’t use those attributes to get our nation out of this mess.”
Ross leaned back. He rubbed his eyes. “Just how the hell did she get a press badge? The Israel Daily, no less. Can’t miss the irony there.”
“Somebody was clever. And prepared.”
“The first suicide bomber on American soil, and it happened on my watch. And I’m the big mouth who campaigned to solve the crisis in the Middle East – one way or another.”
“Mr. President, it’s not important what happens. It’s how you handle it that matters. Now let’s forget this self-serving ‘on my watch’ crap. It’s time to put some backbone into this country. And those dithering advisors waiting outside.”
“Check on Emily for me will you? She must be having a fit not being allowed in yet.”
Van Ness grinned, an additional score of wrinkles surfaced on his weathered face. “Shall I tell her it was your decision?” He reached for the door handle. “I’ll let the sniveling sheep waiting outside know you’re ready. Good luck, Mr. President.”
Ross Pierce winced as he swung his legs over the side of the hospital bed and groped with his feet for the slippers. The ones with the Presidential seal embroidered on them.
“The country is in chaos and someone still thinks of the image of the President.” He smiled, straightened the bed sheet and waited. A gentle knock came from the other side of the door.
“For Christ’s sake, come in. We’ve got work to do.”
Polished shoes shuffled on the floor. Eyes darted, checking the political landscape.
“Only two chairs. Anyone want to sit on the bed with me?”
CIA Director Terry Finch looked quickly at the floor. “I’ll stand, Mr. President.”
“That’s to your credit, Terry. I don’t want the CIA in bed with anyone.”
Tight smiles all around. “How are you feeling, Mr. President?”
Ross Pierce glanced quickly at the Secretary for Homeland Security. “Maybe better than you, Bill. You get attacked by a mad BIC razor?”
“We were in New York working all night. Just got to bed when the call came about the bombing.” William McLaughlin gently touched the blood caked cuts on his face.
“To answer your question, I’m fine. Physically at least. But my heart aches for those poor people who didn’t have a chance.”
President Roswell Clayton Pierce looked at the tense faces of his security advisors. Time to move things along. Carpe diem and all that shit. “Okay. I take it you’ve all seen the Angela Wu piece as well as the CNN video of the bomber?”
“We’re on to tracing the bomber, Mr. President; computer search of a facial grid might turn up…”
Ross Pierce raised his hand, oddly commanding as he sat in his pajamas. “Let it go for now, Howard. I know all your agencies are working flat out and I expect nothing less. But the real reason I wanted you all here together is to get something said, and something understood. Right here. Right now.” He held each in his gaze as he looked around the tiny room.
“Okay, we fucked up on this one. A bomber got through all our best security, and she did it on national TV. They showed a severed head in the gutter, for Christ’s sake.”
The warbling P/A system broke the brittle atmosphere as a doctor was paged to surgery.
“And we lost people. Lots of people. Good people. Some we knew, some we didn’t. No one’s going to want to cover a Presidential press event from now on. To hell with the President, they might get blown up.”
Ross looked down at the floor, then up to the ceiling as he shaped his words. “Let me tell you how this is going to go from now on. First, no more fiefdoms. It’s common knowledge among every terrorist organization, it’s in all the newspapers. Our security agencies don’t work together, don’t coordinate, don’t even communicate. That’s in the past gentlemen. It’s over. Finished. Ancient history. From now on I want one joint report on my desk, every morning and every evening, that each of you has contributed to and are willing to stand behind. We don’t have time for second guessing and withholding.”
Someone coughed nervously. All eyes turned to the CIA Director.
“Mr. President,” Terry Finch began quietly, “we’re always…”
