“We certainly can, Mr. President,” Secretary of Defense Gardner said. “I’ll brief you and General Sparks on my plan later on this morning.”
“Thank you.” The President turned to Patrick once again. “Sorry about your loss, Patrick. Briggs was with you almost from the beginning, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, sir, he was. He was a good friend and a real asset to everyone at Dreamland and Battle Mountain.”
“I’m sorry about the loss of the second spaceplane, too,” the President said. “But your losses take nothing away from the job your people did over Iran. I want you to pass along my congratulations and sincerest thanks to everyone out there in Nevada. They took on a hard job and did brilliantly.”
“I’ll do that, Mr. President, thank you,” Patrick said. “But I still want to address the future long-range strike mission. I still believe space is the answer, and I’d like to…”
“Hold on, Patrick, hold on,” the President said. “I need a little time to recover from the fight, and I want to get the thoughts and reports from everyone before I put the topic of the long-range strike fleet back on the front burner. Your spaceplanes did well, Patrick, but we still lost two-thirds of the fleet in battle. We have to be ready to explain why before Congress will authorize us to build more of them.”
“Frankly, General, I’d say your modified B-1 and B-52 bombers and those CID robots did exceptionally well out there,” Joint Chiefs of Staff chairman General William Glenbrook commented. “Maybe you should be looking at building up a force of those things instead.”
“The small satellite fleet and that resurrected space station did well too,” National Security Adviser Jonas Sparks added. “I liked sitting in my office and listening in and watching the battle take place on my computer screen. Your spaceplanes are good, General, but they’re too high-tech for my taste.”
“Maybe when us old farts are out of the way you can sell them, Patrick,” the President said, “but as long as our generation is in charge, I think we’ll have to find something else to fly. But I want everyone’s reports first and then we’ll reopen this discussion. Anything else?” He didn’t wait for a response, but got to his feet, prompting everyone else to rise. “Thank you all very much.”
As usual, the Vice President and Chief of Staff hung back as everyone else lined up to leave. The President shook hands with everyone as they departed; Patrick, being the youngest and lowest-ranking staffer, went last. After he shook hands with him, the President said, “I’m sending you back to Dreamland, Patrick. I spoke with the staff, and the bottom line is that you made too many folks look bad and stepped on too many toes, to put it mildly, for there to be a suitable work environment here, even with you in the basement. I don’t expect you to stay out of trouble out there, but until January twentieth, try to keep me informed of things before you proceed to set the world on fire, okay?”
“Of course, Mr. President. Thank you.”
“I hope your son and the ticker are doing okay. Take care of them both.”
“I will, sir.” The President turned to Carl Minden, indicating he was done with Patrick; he purposely also did not turn to the Vice President, leaving her free to depart as well, which she did.
The Vice President and Patrick walked together without speaking until they reached her office and closed the door. She walked over to her chair in the meeting area in the center of the office, but Patrick did not follow her there. “Patrick, I’m sorry about Hal,” she said. “I liked him. He was a good guy. I want to be there for his service.”
“Of course. Thank you. It’ll be held at HAWC.”
“With Elliott and all the other heroes from that place. Good. That’s appropriate.” There was an uncomfortable silence. “So you’ll be heading back to Dreamland. When will you be back?”
“I won’t be back, Maureen.”
She looked unhappy and a little embarrassed, but not surprised. She lowered her head. “How did you find out?”
“About you and Joe Gardner? Hal discovered it,” Patrick said. “He investigated all the possible leaks from the White House and Pentagon to Senator Barbeau’s office. I thought it was Minden, but Hal knew it was you. I think he told me, but I didn’t — couldn’t — believe him.” He turned toward the door. “Good-bye, Miss Vice President. Have a nice day.”
“You’re not going to even ask me why, are you?” Maureen Hershel exploded. “You’re going to leave and go back to the Nevada desert without even looking back, despite all the years we’ve been together. That pretty much sums up the bottom line of our relationship.”
“I think I know why, Maureen,” Patrick said, still without looking back at her. “I think I knew it ever since you realized I didn’t want to give up my career because of my heart condition. You wanted me to be with you. You didn’t care if leaving military or government service would make me unhappy.”
“You’re wrong, McLanahan,” Maureen shot back. “It was way before your heart thing, way before you rigged up your own self-monitoring thing that everyone bought off on. It was the flying in the spaceplane, hanging out at Dreamland, being with your boys and girls out there instead of wanting to be with me. I wanted something more than a part-time relationship.”
“So you picked Gardner? Gardner is your full-time partner…when he’s not screwing Barbeau or his wife or the dozens of other women he’s got on the side.”
“But he was there for me,” Hershel said, almost pleading. “That’s something you never could do — even when you were with me, you were always somewhere else. At least Joe paid attention to me and treated me like I needed to be treated…”
“And we both know what that is, now, don’t we?”
“Hey, buster, don’t give me advice on how to live a good and proper life!” Hershel spat. “We both know how close you’ve come to being in prison for the rest of your life! Not even the President of the United States can keep you under control — but that’s not the President’s problem, it’s yours. Even your son can’t keep you from unnecessarily risking your life or breaking the rules for your own selfish, nihilistic reasons.” That remark seemed to hit Patrick like a physical blow, and he opened the office door.
“I’m not finished with you, mister!” Hershel snapped behind him. “You’re pathetic! You’re a disgrace! The only one besides yourself who could possibly be proud of what you do was Brad Elliott, and look where he is now!” He could still hear her yelling something as he walked out of her office suite and headed for the exit.
“Dad!” he heard moments later. He hadn’t even noticed his ten-year-old son Bradley sitting in the reception area. He came running over to him and gave him a tight embrace, then attempted to pick him up as he always did when they hugged — not too much longer, Patrick knew, he would be able to do it too. “Miss Parks said you were in a meeting with the President and the Vice President. Can we see them? I want to say hi.”
“Not now, Brad. They’re all busy.” He looked a little dejected, but nodded. They started walking downstairs for the exit. “It’s pretty late for you to be up, big guy. Did you have dinner yet?”
“Yes. But I didn’t have dessert. Can we go to Andrews for dessert? They have the best ice cream there.”
“I think it’s too late for ice cream, Brad. But we’ll go out to Andrews tomorrow morning for breakfast. How about that?”
“Good. Are we going flying?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Back to Las Vegas.” He looked for any hint of excitement or disappointment, but didn’t really see either.
“What about school?”
“You get some time off until I sign you up for school in Las Vegas.”
Again, little reaction. Maybe he was getting accustomed to being displaced, having little time to say good-bye to friends and having to face the challenge of finding new friends, just like millions of other kids of military parents had to deal with for most of their youth.
They exited the West Wing and headed toward the parking garage without saying anything else except “good night” to the uniformed Secret Service officers. Patrick had no reason to fear walking the streets of the District of Columbia late at night: since the American Holocaust, there was plenty of federal and District police, and even some National Guard still on the streets, day and night. Patrick felt Brad lagging behind a bit. “Carry me, Dad?” a sleepy voice asked.
