Howe handed his entire wallet to the Secret Service agent, letting him examine his license even though his ID had been checked twice before and he already knew his name was on the list of visitors. He’d been to the West Wing of the White House only once before, and that time he had been accompanied by a high-ranking assistant to Blitz, Howard McIntyre, who’d smoothed him past all the security hoops and barriers. It was somewhat different this time around. To the men checking his ID he was just another name on the list. Howe thought he liked it that way.
The agent pointed at him and gestured to the side of the hallway. Howe stepped over to the wall, unsure of what was going on, but he wasn’t being singled out for a search and there was nothing wrong with his credentials. A moment later a phalanx of dark-suited men appeared, leading the way for President Jack D’Amici and his entourage. Dr. Blitz was at President D’Amici’s side, and the two men were engaged in a deep discussion. The secretaries of defense and state walked immediately behind, frowning deeply, while a handful of aides scurried behind, trying to keep up.
Deep furrows lined the President’s forehead. The tips of his close-cropped hair were stained gray, and though his body was trim, even on the thin side, the flesh at the corners of his chin had begun to sag. He was perhaps two decades older than Howe, young for a president, though the office weighed on him as it weighed on every man.
Howe had met him after the recovery of Cyclops One, the airborne laser plane that had been hijacked and then recovered by a team Howe had led. The pilot had come away from the meeting disappointed; spending a few minutes alone with the President had punctured the larger-than-life fantasy he’d unknowingly had of the man. But now that he saw him in the hall, absorbed in thought, Howe felt a sensation of awe take hold. This was the President of the United States, the commander in chief, and if he wasn’t larger than life — if he wasn’t a god or even a demigod — he was nonetheless a man of uncommon ability and even greater responsibility.
President D’Amici shook his head at something Blitz said. As he did he turned toward Howe, catching a glimpse of him.
“Colonel Howe, how are you?” said the President, as matter-of-factly as if he saw Howe every day. Before Howe could actually say anything in response, D’Amici added, “Good, good,” and walked on, not even breaking his stride. Blitz himself took no notice of Howe, not even pausing in his conversation.
“Hey, Colonel,” said a tall black man peeling off from the back of the formation to pump Howe’s hand.
“ Tyler?”
“How the hell are you?” Major Kenal Tyler had been an Army Special Forces captain when he and Howe had met a few months before. Tyler had led a team that helped recover the Cyclops airborne laser weapon.
“You’re in D.C. now?” asked Howe.
Tyler laughed. “Everybody’s got to be somewhere. I’m on a special task force. Brain work. I’m attached to the Joint Chiefs staff, but I’ve been doing tons of work for the NSC. What are you doing these days?”
“Supposed to meet Dr. Blitz.”
“Great. You going to work for him?”
Howe shrugged.
Tyler looked at him as if he expected an explanation. When Howe didn’t offer one, the major suggested they have a drink sometime. “Where you staying?”
Howe told him the hotel. Tyler nodded — it wasn’t clear to Howe whether he was truly interested in getting together or not — then ran off down the hall to catch up with the others.
If the Secret Service agent was impressed by the fact that Howe knew the President, it didn’t show in his manner. He checked the ID again before letting Howe pass.
“Would you like some coffee, Colonel?” asked Mozelle Clarke, Blitz’s administrative assistant, when he arrived in Blitz’s office a few minutes later.
“Not really, thanks. I’m kind of coffeed out this morning.”
“Mention that to Dr. Blitz,” she said.
“Mention what?” said Blitz.
“That some people drink too much coffee.”
“I give up coffee every few months,” said Blitz, meeting him at the door. Blitz looked every bit the academic he had been before coming to work with the administration: His shirt was rumpled and his tie loose at the neck, while his glasses leaned so far off the edge of his nose it seemed impossible that they didn’t fall. Books were stacked high around the office, and the titles that were visible included tomes on biblical studies, English literature, and French philosophy as well as world politics and military analysis.
“Against my better judgment,” Blitz said, as if commenting on something he had said before.
“The coffee?” asked Howe, sitting down.
“Coffee? No. The arrangements. Keeping the contract agencies on. Privatization — between you and me — it’s bullshit. Total, complete, utter bullshit. The military ought to be in control of its own fate. I don’t buy all this outsourcing crap, even if it can be expedient.”
Howe still wasn’t sure what Blitz was talking about.
“But rearranging everything, between Congress, the budget fight — God help us if we had to raise taxes,” said Blitz.
“Yes, sir,” said Howe, falling back on the old military habit: When in doubt, salute.
“So we’re stuck with it. But if someone gives you a lemon, my stepfather always said, make lemonade. And that’s what I’d like to do.”
“Excuse me, but I’m not really following,” admitted Howe.
Blitz smiled and nodded, as if finally getting some inside joke. “National Aeronautics Development and Testing. We’ve gotten rid of Bonham — for a long time, I’d say. He’s going to plead guilty. There won’t be a trial.”
Howe nodded. A retired Air Force general, Clayton Bonham had headed the National Aeronautics Development and Testing agency. Commonly abbreviated as NADT, the private company was responsible for developing and testing cutting-edge weapons for the military. Bonham had been in the middle of the conspiracy to hijack Cyclops, using it to cheat on the tests for an augmented ABM system.
Howe realized that he should feel some relief that there would be no trial, since he would undoubtedly have been a witness in the case. But he felt as if justice had been cheated. In his opinion, no jail sentence would sufficiently punish Bonham for what he had done: betraying his trust for money.
“But the company itself — its function developing and testing new weapons systems — it has too much potential in the present political and economic climate to just walk away from,” continued Blitz. “Outsourcing and private industry sharing the risks — it’s the way we’ll be doing things for the next decade at least.”
Howe detected a note of regret in Blitz’s voice. Howe, though he had worked with NADT, agreed that outside contractors were gaining too much control over military projects. Originally conceived as a way to rein them in, NADT had helped encourage the trend. Set up as a government-sponsored company like Freddie Mac — the comparison had often been made — NADT had quickly set its own course. It now controlled or had a hand in nearly a hundred projects, including large ones like Cyclops and the Velociraptor, an improved version of the F/A-22 Raptor jet aircraft. While it wouldn’t be fair to say that the agency controlled the Pentagon, it also wouldn’t be accurate to say that the Pentagon controlled NADT. The company had far more say over individual projects than traditional contractors like Boeing ever dreamed of.
“If the structure has to remain, if outsourcing is still the order of the day,” added Blitz, “then we have to make the best of it. It does present certain opportunities — advantages in terms of expediting things, making things work. Of course, there will be reforms. That’s why it’s important to get the right people — the absolutely right people — in place.”
“Right,” said Howe absently.
“Richard Nelson is set to be elected as the new chairman, probably by the beginning of next week. But we need a new president of the company, someone to take Bonham’s place.”
“Of course.”
“Will you?”
“Will I give you recommendations?” asked Howe.
“No, I don’t want recommendations.” Blitz plucked at his goatee. It was blond, a shade lighter than the hair
