Balance of Power

    Now, in the wooded seclusion of the Catoctin Range, the two men toured Camp David. Hands in the pockets of his blue jeans, Callister stopped on the wooded trail to breathe in mountain air, cooler by degrees than in the flatlands of the capital. 'I grew up in Minnesota,' he told the President. 'My father and I spent weekends in the woods, fishing and hunting. The things his father taught him.'

    Kerry did not miss this implicit statement of their differences. 'I'm a city boy,' he answered. 'I grew up liking sun and ocean and beaches. Sometimes Camp David's so quiet at night that I imagine hearing the Manson family.'

    Callister looked at him wryly. 'But it's secure. And very private.'

    'It is that. We're in the middle of a national park, with absolute restrictions on overhead flights and unauthorized visitors, surrounded by a double cyclone fence, attack dogs, sensors, concrete barriers, the Secret Service and at least one hundred Marines. We're safe from Mah moud Al Anwar and the New York Times.' Kerry paused a moment, adding, 'Even the SSA.'

    Callister did not take the bait. 'Still, you don't like it.'

    Kerry looked about him. 'There's a lot I do like. There's so much history here— Roosevelt and Churchill planning the Normandy invasion, Carter brokering the peace agreement between Begin and Sadat.' Pausing at a rise above the trees, Kerry pointed at the valley below, a sequence of rolling hills which softened in the distance of a sun-streaked mist. 'It's hard not to appreciate views like that. The White House is a gilded cage—elegant, but hardly private. Here Lara and I can open the front door and walk out in the yard, or play a mediocre game of tennis completely unobserved.' As they began walking again, Kerry added, 'When I was a kid, I couldn't imagine having a vacation home of any kind. Even on loan from the government.'

    Callister gave him a sideways glance. 'Neither of us had money, Mr. President. Like you, I worked my way through school.'

    Kerry nodded. 'That's not all bad, of course. But law school was a little short on leisure time.'

    'Did you ever hunt?'

    'Shoot Bambi? No thanks. To me, hunting is the only sport where your competition doesn't know they're playing. I've never even fired a gun, though my father wanted to teach me.' Kerry stared at the trail wending toward his lodge. 'He was a cop, I guess you know. He used to carry a Lexington Peacekeeper.'

    Kerry left the rest unsaid—that he associated his father's gun with mindless brutality, the questionable killing of a black man who had 'resisted arrest.' But Callister paused once more to look at him. 'With respect, Mr. President, how can you understand a product you've never used?'

    Kerry turned to him. 'It's true,' he answered in level tones. 'I've never shot a gun. But I've been shot, and I've lost a member of my family. So have a lot of other Americans. We have reason, you and I, to try to narrow our differences.'

* * *

After breakfast, they sat beside a swimming pool near Kerry's cabin. Once more Kerry was struck by Callister's midwestern solidity and unflinching gaze. A man not given to artifice or flattery, or saying what he did not mean.

    Callister put down his mug of black coffee. 'My industry isn't a big moneymaker, Mr. President. Most of us are in it because we know and appreciate guns and respect the craft of making them.

    'I've been in this business twenty years. Of all the manufacturers, Lexington may have the proudest history —we've been arming our military and police going back to the Civil War. When I took this job six months ago, it wasn't to get rich but to help this company survive.'

    The President nodded. 'I've got no quarrel with that, George. But Lexington makes weapons no law-abiding civilian needs, like handguns good only for killing people quickly. Cop-killer bullets, too. I'm wondering why.'

    Callister shrugged. 'A gun, Mr. President, is only as good or bad as the man who uses it. But the weapons you're complaining about all preceded my arrival.' Pausing, he fixed Kerry with a steady, inquiring gaze. 'Just how much do you know about the business of selling guns?'

    'Not as much as you.'

    'Well, guns are like Singer sewing machines—treat them right, and they don't wear out. Some of our revolvers from the Civil War are still in circulation.' Callister allowed himself a brief, sardonic smile, as if amused by the President's need for this tutorial. 'In short, guns aren't consumable. There's no such thing as obsolescence. All we can offer is newer and better.

    'Our problem is 'to whom?' The times are running against us—there are still hunters out there, and sport shooters, but fewer of them. Maybe women are becoming a bigger slice of the consumer pie, but not for us . . .'

    'Unless you scare them to death.'

    Callister gave Kerry a keen look. 'Yes, we market self-defense to women—to everyone. It's their right to protect their homes and families.'

    'Is that all you're selling? Self-defense for Mom and Dad? Or do they have to worry about criminals armed with even deadlier Lexington guns?'

    Callister frowned again. 'We can't be held accountable for a buyer's motives. Would you say that gun fanciers have no right to buy a semiautomatic handgun, or that someone with a deep belief in the Second Amendment shouldn't buy whatever weapons he wants?'

    'The whole Second Amendment argument,' Kerry countered with some impatience, 'is senseless—this idea that the Constitution is a sui cide pact, with the Founding Fathers hell-bent on arming private citizens to overthrow the government they'd just created. They thought that's what voting was for.'

    At this, Callister briefly laughed. 'Please, Mr. President—say that in public. The four million members of the SSA will fill our coffers by arming themselves to the teeth. This may pain you, but the three weeks after your election were our most profitable in years. Every speech you give on gun control is worth hundreds of thousands in free advertising.'

    Kerry could not help but smile at the irony. 'You're saying that my great crusade is more like 'rope a dope,' when Muhammad Ali let George Foreman punch himself into exhaustion. And that I'm George Foreman.'

    'Much slimmer, Mr. President. And certainly no dope.' Callister's expression became serious again. 'But that's the problem with this whole debate. Gun controllers aren't so much stupid as flat ignorant— they don't know the guns they're trying to ban, or see the consequence of what they're asking for. They pass a law banning so-called assault weapons and cutting magazine capacity to ten rounds, and help create by inadvertence a whole new market for handguns which can fire ten rounds in seconds . . .'

    'Or in Lexington's case,' Kerry cut in with a caustic edge, 'take advantage of an SSA-created loophole allowing small, concealable handguns to accommodate the forty-round magazines Lexington made before the law was passed.'

    Callister frowned. 'You've done your homework, Mr. President. But a lot of manufacturers did that.'

    'Well that's the problem, isn't it.' Leaning forward, Kerry spoke with new intensity. 'Lexington could have made guns safer, looked for ways to ensure a gun could only be used by its owner—not by his kid, or against him by intruders. But instead you made them more concealable and more lethal. Then told Americans they needed more and deadlier guns to protect themselves from all those other Americans with even more and deadlier guns. You can't credit me for that.'

    Callister met his gaze. 'Guns aren't going away, Mr. President. As for safety, why not teach it to kids? We wouldn't have half the accidents we do. But the gun controllers are like the folks who want to stop teen sex through abstinence education—teaching safe sex means fornication, and gun safety means more gun owners. Which is exactly what they don't want.'

    Silent, Kerry gazed into his coffee cup, then beyond them at the sweep of mountains. 'We can debate this all