A God in Ruins

by Leon Uris

  The cockpit door was closed.

  “You all right?” Greer asked.

  “I feel very tired,” Mal answered.

  “You told him while I was out of the room.”

  “Yeah,” Mal sighed, “I nailed him.”

  “That puts Quinn in a rotten position vis-a-vis the two of you.”

  “I’ll save him the pain of having to fire me. I’m resigning.”

  Greer patted his hand. “Maybe we see Quinn in too bright a light, Mal. Maybe he knew, in his heart of hearts, one of us intended to confront Jefferson about the Pucky affair. He’s that smart, you know.”

  Rae came back with messages and gave them to Greer.

  “Are you okay, Grandpa?” Rae asked.

  “Just tired, honey.”

  *

  Quinn read the short note of resignation from Mal.

  “This is terrible,” Quinn said.

  “I got you the debate I think you need. So, don’t let’s rehash it.”

  “I’m going to have to accept your resignation,” Quinn said, feeling a trembling wash over him.

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Mal. We are still family. We’re only humans. I wasn’t really all that surprised when you told me. Maybe I silently hung the bad deed on you. And you only did it to make the playing field level. I want to keep Rita and my personal rooms at your home. We are family, man!”

  “Thanks, Quinn.”

  NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY—FIFTH AVENUE OCTOBER 1 5, 2008

  On this day the grand repository of human existence and thought was the focus of the nation. On this day illicit lovers could no longer rendezvous at the statues of the lions, for the building was isolated by police barricades.

  Forty-second and Fortieth streets and Fifth Avenue held

  bumper-to-bumper privileged parking.

  In the rear of the great edifice, running to the Avenue of the Americas, stood Bryant Park, a pocket park. Twice a year the fashion establishment raised a tent and models slunk down the runway. Cheers for Karan and Klein.

  Beneath Bryant Park the greatest of treasures—an eight story bunker held a trove indicating human existence on the planet, from cuneiform to Stone Age arrowheads, from the Gobi Desert to Newfoundland. All of it was here, awaiting visitors from space.

  The tattered elegance of the kodak CELESTE BARTOS Forum had received a face-lift for the affair, her imposing glass dome shined to a glitter and four hundred temporary stadium seats installed.

  The overflow of media had to cover the event piped back to the fujifilmjohn Jacob Astor Ballroom.

  Carter Carpenter, a hallowed father figure of the American media, had been resurrected to moderate the affair.

  It was to be a wide-open debate, with the moderator stepping in only to preserve civility.

  A buzz of anticipation hummed upward as the clock moved for nine. Outside, last-minute tickets, drawn by lottery, were hustled for over five hundred dollars each.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats,” Carter Carpenter said authoritatively. Controlled applause greeted the governor and the president as they took to their rostrums.

  For that instant Thornton Tomtree was glad he had let Darnell talk him into the venue. His lead over O’Connell had slipped from double digits to a single digit of nine percent.

  Thornton, the stoic master of a great corporation, a gigantic figure, organized and in control, now showed an addition of tragedy—Lincolnesque. He had humanized himself, somewhat, since Four Corners, after slipping the mantle of blame and gaining sympathy for “taking responsibility, because it happened on my watch.”

  On this night he’d be facing the gun issue as never before. He was ready.

  Carter Carpenter explained the very liberal rules. “Mr. Tomtree will go first, as he won the flip of the coin.”

  Tomtree’s opening statement said, in effect, “We are in midstream in

  several ways, leaving an old century behind and healing from a

  catastrophic event. We don’t change horses in midstream. Having

  ascertained that Four Corners was a national tragedy which demanded of

  every politician and every American, to accept his share of the blame

  .. .

  “... what are we being offered in my place? A popular rodeo-style candidate who, in fact, is probably more at ease branding cattle.”

  Quinn’s smile burped up to a short laugh. Tomtree pretended not to hear. Quinn knew what kind of brawl was coming up. Keep the powder dry for the last half hour, he told himself.

  “The American people must not roll dice,” Thornton went on. “We must not mistake my opponent as a Western hero, the sheriff in High Noon. This is a reckless man whose claim to fame has come about through violence.

  “In the AMERIGUN fiasco Quinn O’Connell put lives in danger a dozen times with tactics illegal in our system of justice.

  “Do we want a shoot-‘em-up-first president? Do we want to trust the future of our nation to a man whose finger is always on the trigger?”

  Strong, strong stuff and only two minutes and thirty-two seconds had passed. “Mr. Tomtree, you have credit for twenty eight seconds.”

  Quinn slipped a high stool under him, found a comfortable position, and rested his arms on his podium, speaking without notes, as Carter Carpenter nodded that his time had begun.

  “Thornton Tomtree has done an admirable job in the past year of helping us heal our wounds, but he has done an even more admirable job of salvaging his own reputation.

  “The day on which Mr. Tomtree assumed office four years ago, the United States proliferated with a third of a billion guns, one for every man, woman, and child in America.

  “Bogus militias had spread like pack rats in our forests and canyons and cities. Today, the White American Christian Arrival claims nearly two hundred thousand followers, followers of Adolf Hitler and purveyors of hate.

  “From the time of his first inauguration until this day, Thornton Tomtree has never once raised the issue of gun control.

  “He, like many Republicans, and Democrats, went stone deaf, dumb, and

  blind during the intimidation waltz played by

  AMERIGUN.

  “Thirty thousand Americans are killed each year by guns. Match that against sixty thousand killed in Vietnam over a ten year period.

  “Each year more Americans die by gunfire than are killed in traffic accidents! More people die by gunfire than die from Alzheimer’s ... or by leukemia .. . more than are killed by cirrhosis.”

  Thornton tapped the bell on his podium.

  “Those are pretty heavy numbers,” Carter Carpenter said. “Would you like to answer them?”

  “Yes, I would,” Thornton said. “It is easy to bandy about superficial numbers.”

  “I hope so,” Quinn said, “we drew them off the Bulldog Information Net, which guarantees their accuracy.”

  “Raw data,” Thornton said, “can be manipulated to suit any argument. Private ownership of weapons has been an American tradition from the inception of the nation. They cleared the way as we moved west. Those so-called statistics all have ipso facto’s connected to them. The numbers are in the eyes of the beholder. We may have come to that point where there has to be new thinking on the subject. But we must wait until the investigations are done and all the information is in. We must not rush to judgment and in so doing endanger a basic American right.”

  “Hold on, sir,” Quinn interrupted. “What about the monumental investigation you promised? It has been a year, forty-four million dollars has been spent, and there is no report.

  “It is a matter of American justice that we get all the information in. When I received the Four Corners commission’s preliminary report last February, I had to go before the American people and tell them that Six Shooter Canyon had to become a permanent mass grave. I sensed, as president, that our people needed more time to heal. If we had released the thousands of pages of documents, it would have only served to intensify nation
al pain and make the American people relive the incident over and over.

  “No matter our history and traditions, the tragedy in the canyon was a three and a half billion to one shot. It cannot and will not ever happen again, no matter what resolution we come to on gun ownership.”

  “Both of you gentlemen have stated your basic positions. Should we hold this data in mind and move on to another subject?”

  “No, sir,” Quinn said quickly. “This is the issue that brought me here. Yesterday, today, and tomorrow, fourteen children daily will be killed by guns. In addition to the thirty thousand slain, another hundred thousand are wounded, filling our emergency rooms with blood. Each gun death costs us $395,000. We are the shame of the civilized world. One of the richest forty nations in the world, the United States alone is responsible for half of all gun deaths.”

  Thornton Tomtree felt his first blip of fear. He knew that Quinn had gotten a foot in the door of his Christian Right. He had known exactly what statistics Quinn would throw out. It was the pulsating manner in which Quinn delivered his message, without bullying. Thornton knew he could say the exact same words and never achieve the same effect. Thornton glanced at Darnell. He was a statue. The overall debate strategy now evolved in Thornton’s mind. To spring the trap? Yes? When to spring the trap?

  Thornton smoothly shifted gears into his achievements, as immortalized on the Bulldog Information Network. Trade deficit down, budget surplus; Social Security funded for the century; great medical achievements; full employment; and world commerce, commerce in which the United States was the power that was!

  Quinn’s list of achievements was paler stuff, but the kind of stuff which had held Colorado up as a light of the nation.

  Thornton jumped on Quinn’s opening fusillade of helter skelter statistics as another example of his recklessness.

  Now to hit Quinn with the “doom and gloom” speech Quinn had made during the primaries in Jackson, Mississippi. The two major elements of it were world population control and the finite resources of the planet.

  Tomtree was almost overwhelmingly tempted to bring up the birth-control issue. But birth control and pro choice was a chancy subject. Most Americans, by a wide margin, favored and practiced both.

  If somehow Thornton could drive a wedge between the issue and the fact that O’Connell was a Catholic. He caught a glimpse of Darnell, whose eyes told Thornton he might be setting a trap for himself.

  Okay, then, the second part of the Mississippi address.

  “Mr. O’Connell paints a brooding and grim assessment of the future of the earth’s resources. During my administration the United States has stood at the head of a consortium for the exploration of the seas. Using the great gift of computer science, we are in the process of mapping the bottom of every ocean, sea, bay, polar cap, and lake.

  “Treaties have been concluded with most maritime nations in which America will do the searching and the mapping. Treaty nations will receive a share of the eventual profits.

  “What have we found under our oceans? We have discovered hundreds of thousands of chimneys, maybe millions of them, spewing up a variety of basic metals and ores, from inner layers of the earth. If we keep exploration focused on our seas, I believe we will discover what we will need to sustain future life. So, let us drop our doom and our gloom. Our computer science is becoming so advanced, we know it will show us that the planet will continue to prosper.”

  Carter Carpenter cleared his throat, sincerely. “Would you care to respond, Mr. O’Connell?”

  “Yes, sir. I think that the intense underseas exploration may have some merit, but we cannot bank the future of the planet on it.”

  Thornton’s bell rang as he sensed Quinn hesitating. “Do you have a position on this, Mr. O’Connell?”

  “I sure do,” Quinn answered. “I’ve been briefed on this by Scripps

  Institute, Woods Hole, and Long Island University School of

  Oceanography. While we have gained enormous knowledge of the universe, we really don’t understand the lay of the land a few miles down. Space exploration feeds the human drive to explore, to learn, to have a romantic contact. Perhaps, in this century, we will make contact with intelligent life out there. But under any equation, we will never be able to replenish the earth’s shrinking resources. God does not run a trucking company from outer space. As for inner space, the chimneys on the ocean floors are truly God’s handiwork created over tens of millions of years. Heat from lower layers beneath the earth’s crust spouts from under the bottom of the sea, spewing minerals through the chimneys. Will we find infinite new sources of materials? If we tamper with these chimneys, which indicate fire below, then we are setting the table for underwater volcanos and the tidal waves they will create. We could be setting the table for a heating of our waters that would risk worldwide coastal flooding and a century-long El Nino.

  “Does not this underwater exploration indicate a sense of desperation to replace what has been lost? Have we not done enough damage to our waters?”

  Quinn went deeper into the perils of underwater mining. “Exploration is primitive. To take something from the bottom of the sea would cost a hundredfold more than surface mining.”

  Thornton felt a surge of raw fear. O’Connell was explaining something in Thornton’s realm with utter clarity. Thornton could fire back with esoteric computer data, but it could well fail.

  Thornton had believed himself incredible, close to godlike, the way he had fought his way back from the Four Corners. But more, the people believed their president had added a dimension to his character.

  Thornton had toyed around to come up with a probe for the debate, one that would catch O’Connell cold. In actual fact, Thornton had grown a little sour on much of the underseas probing. Yet it was a good, tricky subject to show up his opponent’s ignorance.

  Thornton glanced at the time-keeping apparatus. Quinn had built up a reserve of ten minutes while he, Thornton, was on borrowed time.

  T3 had not come into the Great Debate without a hidden ace. He could wait till the clock wound down to five minutes. Meanwhile, Quinn had skillfully maneuvered him into an unwanted question-and-answer game.

  “Mr. Carpenter,” Thornton said, turning to the moderator. “My position is that we need a study.”

  “Mr. Tomtree, there is no restriction or limitation on any subject.

  Mr. O’Connell can revisit anything he cares to.”

  Thornton grimaced inwardly. That son of a bitch, Carter Carpenter, was at this moment the most powerful man in the world.

  “What about child locks?” Quinn went on.

  “That’s reasonable,” Thornton answered.

  “How about a national gun registry, of which our police and other law

  enforcement agencies unanimously approver1”

  “We are floating into the potential of a massive bureaucracy.”

  “We have registration in Colorado. The bureau has forty people in it who also double as instructors for certification of a weapon. What about the limitation on the number of personal arms a citizen can buy?”

  “You can buy as many gallons of gas and chocolate bars as you want and need.”

  “Well, it’s all right if each citizen purchased fifty guns, as have many citizens?”

  “If we spell out numbers of guns, we may be endangering freedom of choice. Yes, there can be a ceiling, I suppose.”

  “I have two pairs of skis, two tennis rackets, and between myself and my ranch manager we have three weapons. Sir, are you aware there are a hundred thousand licensed gun dealers in the U.S.?”

  To let this run its course or not to let it run? Show dignity,

  Thornton told himself. The damned point of all this was that as president, he was protecting both Democrats and Republicans who received huge contributions from AMERIGUN and its allies. Dammit, they’d never support any national gun law with teeth.

  Quinn was going on about the Colorado gun law, saying that the provisions he was bringing
up were commonsense matters.

  “Tell me, Mr. Tomtree, do you believe the Second Amendment in the Bill of Rights of the Constitution should be repealed?”

  “I am going on record with our moderator to say that your line of questioning is more like a prosecutor in an inquisition. But I’ll answer you, Mr. O’Connell. We do not play politics with our Constitution. It is like toying around with the Ten Commandments. A repeal will never happen because too many Democrats hold our belief that that could cause a domino effect on the Bill of Rights. What then? Attack freedom of worship? Freedom of the press? Freedom of expression?”

  “Why so contentious about the Second Amendment?” Quinn asked. “Let us read the words: A well regulated Militia, militia being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.” Can you tell me, Mr. Tomtree, why is it that the gun advocates never quote the first part? The great banner on the wall of the AMERIGUN convention read, “The right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.” Well, where is the rest of it, and why is it missing from all your propaganda? Could it be you are hiding the first part because it is not a gun rights amendment but an amendment about forming militias?”

  Thornton checked the clocks. O’Connell had used up all but two minutes of his time and they were coming up on intermission. Now to pull one out of the hat! Now to blast O’Connell before intermission so people will be hit by his words and level the playing field.

  “Mr. O’Connell, I would like to get your input on the weekly newsletter published by the highly esteemed Longacre Institute.”

  “I haven’t read their most recent bulletins, but to inform the audience, the Longacre is a Washington think tank closely allied to the Christian Coalition, the Falwell, Robertson people.

  Thornton held up the newsletter. “And I quote. “The truth behind the Urbakkan raid,”” he said. “According to the Long acre Institute, sir, the Urbakkan raid, which occurred in 1977, was a myth. What actually happened? A rapid-response team, of which you were a member, was testing a prototype aircraft on a NATO training exercise in Turkey. You were testing various systems, and you went off course into Iranian air space. A tanker plane had been following you for an air-to-air refueling, and the cockpit spilled fuel and caught fire, killing five Marine officers, including a major general. They were burned to death. The Corps, desiring several hundred of these planes, made a coverup story. That cover-up story was the Urbakkan raid. The raid was a sham. The legends of bravery about yourself and others were likewise a sham.”