by Dale Brown
“I’m allowed to attend general meetings of the war council, but I’m not allowed to vote, and I’m discouraged from attending strategy meetings.”
Buzhazi shook his head in exasperation. “You’re probably the smartest person in that council meeting—why you’re not allowed to participate is a damned mystery to me. Well, it’s your problem, Highness. I’m telling you that your loyalists are part of the problem, not part of the solution. I don’t know if the person with the gun at the other end of the block is an Islamist or one of your loyalists, so I’m going to blow his head off regardless before he tries to do the same to me. That’s not the way I want it, but that’s the way I’ll play it if I have to.”
“I’m sorry I can’t be of more help, General.”
“You can, Highness, if you just drag yourself back into the twenty-first century like I know you can,” Buzhazi said, donning his helmet again and pulling the straps tight.
“What?”
“Come on now, Highness—you know exactly what I’m talking about,” Buzhazi said irritably. “You’re a smart woman as well as a natural-born leader. You’ve lived in America most of your life and you’ve obviously learned that the old ways won’t work anymore. You know as well as I that this court of yours and this so-called council of war is what’s hamstringing you. You’ve voluntarily imprisoned yourself in this six-hundred-year-old cage called your ‘court’ and you’ve committed to cede authority to a bunch of spineless cowards—half of which aren’t even in this country right now, am I correct?” He could tell by her expression that he was.
Buzhazi shook his head in disappointment quickly turning to disgust. “Pardon me for saying this, Highness, but get your royal head out of your pretty little ass and get with the program before we all die and our country becomes a mass graveyard,” he said angrily. “You’re the one out here on the streets, Azar. You can see the problems and are smart enough to formulate a response, but you won’t take charge. Why? Because you don’t want your parents to think you’re taking over their thrones? This is the twenty-first century, Azar, for God’s sake, not the fourteenth. Besides, your parents are either dead or cowards themselves if they haven’t shown themselves in almost two—”
“Shut up!” Azar screamed, and before Buzhazi could react, she had spun around and planted her right foot solidly in his solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. Buzhazi went down on one knee, more embarrassed at being taken by surprise than hurt. By the time he got back on his feet and was able to take at least a half of a normal breath, Mara Saidi was shielding Azar, an automatic machine pistol pointed at him.
“Good kick, Highness,” Buzhazi grunted, rubbing his abdomen. Obviously, he guessed, one of her accommodations for having defects of the hands was her ability to fight with her feet. “The rumors said you could take care of yourself—I see that’s true.”
“The meeting is over, General,” he heard a man say behind him. Buzhazi turned and nodded at Parviz Najar, who had run out of hiding in the blink of an eye and had another machine pistol pointed at him. “Go quickly.”
“After you both lower your weapons,” they heard another voice shout. They all turned to see Major Qolom Haddad hidden behind the rear end of the smoldering truck, an AK-74 rifle leveled at Najar. “I’m not going to repeat myself!”
“Everyone, lower your weapons,” Buzhazi said. “I think we’ve both said what we needed to say here.” No one moved. “Major, you and your men, stand down.”
“Sir—”
“Colonel, Captain, stand down as well,” Azar ordered. Slowly, reluctantly, Najar and Saida complied, and when their weapons were out of sight, Haddad lowered his. “There are no enemies here.”
Buzhazi took his first full deep breath, smiled, nodded again respectfully, then extended his hand. “Highness, it was good to speak with you. I hope we can work together, but I assure you, I’m going to keep fighting.”
Azar took his hand and bowed her head as well. “It was good to speak with you too, General. I have much to think about.”
“Don’t take too long, Highness. Salam aleikom.” Buzhazi turned and headed back to his men, with Haddad and two more soldiers who had been carefully hidden nearby covering his back.
“Peace be unto you as well, General,” Azar called after him.
Buzhazi turned halfway to her, smiled, and called out, “Unlikely, Highness. But thanks anyway.”
THE WHITE HOUSE RESIDENCE
THAT SAME TIME
Chief of Staff Walter Kordus knocked on the door of the President’s sitting room on the third-floor family residence of the White House. “Sir? She’s here.”
President Gardner looked up over his reading glasses and set down the papers he was reviewing. He had a large flat-screen TV on to a boxing match but with the sound muted. He wore a white shirt and business slacks, with his tie loosened—he rarely wore anything else but business attire until moments before bed. “Good. Where?”
“You said you didn’t want to meet in the West Wing, so I had her brought up to the Red Room—I thought that was appropriate.”
“Cute. But she asked to see the Treaty Room. Have her brought up.”
Kordus took a step into the sitting room. “Joe, are you sure you want to do this? She’s the chairwoman of the Senate Armed Services Committee, probably the most powerful woman in the country besides Angelina Jolie. It’s got to remain business…”
“This is business, Walt,” Gardner said. “I’ll be there in a few minutes. Got those notes I asked you for?”
“They’re on the way.”
“Good.” Gardner went back to studying his papers. The chief of staff shook his head and departed.
A few minutes later, Gardner made his way down the Center Hall, now wearing his suit jacket, straightening his tie as he walked. Kordus intercepted him and passed him a folder. “Hot off the press. Want me to—?”
“Nope. I think we’re done for the night. Thanks, Walt.” He breezed past the chief of staff and entered the Treaty Room. “Hello, Senator. Thanks for meeting me at this ungodly hour.”
She was standing beside the immense mahogany U. S. Grant Cabinet table, lovingly running her long fingers across the inlaid cherry features. The steward had placed a tray of tea on the coffee table on the other side of the room. Her eyes widened and that camera-magnetizing smile appeared when she saw Gardner enter the room. “Mr. President, it is certainly my honor and privilege to be with you tonight,” Senator Stacy Anne Barbeau said in her famous silky Louisiana accent. “Thank you so much for the invitation.” She stood, embraced the President, and exchanged polite kisses on the cheek. Barbeau wore a white low-cut business suit which subtly but effectively displayed her breasts and cleavage, accented for the evening by a shimmering platinum necklace and dangling diamond earrings. Her red hair bounced as if motorized in tune with her smile and batting eyelashes, and her green eyes flashed with energy. “You know that you may call upon me at any time, sir.”
“Thank you, Senator. Please.” He motioned to a Victorian couch and took her hand as he led her to it, then took an ornate chair to her right, facing the fireplace.
“I hope you give my best to the First Lady,” Barbeau said as she arranged herself just so on the couch. “She’s in Damascus, if I’m not mistaken, attending the international women’s rights conference?”
“Exactly, Senator,” the President said.
“I wish my duties in the Senate would have allowed me to attend,” Barbeau said. “I sent my senior staffer Colleen to attend, and she’s bringing a resolution of support from the full Senate for the First Lady to present to the delegates.”
“Very thoughtful of you, Senator.”
“Please, sir, will you not call me ‘Stacy,’ here in the privacy of the residence?” Barbeau asked, giving him one of her mind-blowing smiles. “I think we’ve both earned the right to a little downtime and relief from the formalities of our offices.”
“Of course, Stacy,” Gardner said. He did not offer to let her call him “Joe,”
and she knew enough not to ask. “But the pressure is never really off, is it? Not in our lines of work.”
“I’ve never considered what I do ‘work,’ Mr. President,” Barbeau said. She poured him a cup of tea, then sat back and crossed her legs as she sipped hers. “It’s not always pleasurable, to be sure, but doing the people’s business is never a chore. I suppose the stress is part of what makes one feel alive, don’t you agree?”
“It always seemed to me you thrive on the pressure, Senator,” Gardner commented. He suppressed a grimace after he sipped the tea. “In fact, if I may say so, it looks to me like you enjoy creating a bit of it.”
“My responsibilities many times dictate that I do things above and beyond what most folks might call ‘politic,’” Barbeau said. “We do whatever we need to do in the best interest of our constituents and our country, isn’t that right, Mr. President?”
“Call me Joe. Please.”
Barbeau’s green eyes flashed, and her head bowed without her eyes leaving his. “Why, thank you for the honor…Joe.”
“Not at all, Stacy,” Gardner said with a smile. “You’re right, of course. No one likes to admit it, but the end often justifies the means, as long as the end is a safer and more secure nation.” He picked up a telephone sitting on the Monroe desk. “Could you have the libation table brought to the Treaty Room, please?” He hung up the phone. “It’s after nine P.M., Stacy, and I’m not in the mood for tea. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all, Joe.” The smile was back, but it was more introspective, more reserved. “I may just join you.”
“I know what might convince you.” A steward brought a rolling table with several crystal decanters. Gardner poured himself a glass of Bacardi Dark on ice and fixed Barbeau a drink. “I thought I read in People magazine that you preferred a ‘Creole Mama,’ correct? I hope I got it right…bourbon, Madeira, and a splash of grenadine, topped with a cherry, right? Sorry, we only have red cherries, not green.”
“You are a real surprise sometimes, Joe,” she said. They touched glasses, their eyes locked together. She tasted hers, her eyes glistened again, and she took a deeper sip. “My my, Mr. President, a little intelligence work, even after hours, and a skilled hand at the bar. I’m again impressed.”
“Thank you.” Gardner took a deep sip of his drink as well. “Not as sophisticated as a Creole Mama, I’m sure, but when you’re a politician from Florida, you’d better know your rum. Cheers.” They touched glasses and sipped their drinks once more. “Do you know the origin of touching glasses, Stacy?”
“I’m sure I don’t,” Barbeau replied. “I didn’t even realize there was an origin to it. It’s not just a cute little noisemaker then?”
“In medieval times, when adversaries met to discuss terms of treaties or alliances, when they drank after negotiations were concluded they tipped a bit of the contents of their cups into the other’s to show neither was poisoned. The custom evolved into a sign of friendship and camaraderie.”
“Why, how fascinating,” Barbeau said, taking another sip, then letting her tongue run across her full lips. “But I certainly hope you don’t see me as an adversary, Joe. I’m anything but. I have been an admirer of yours for years, as was my father. Your political skills are exceeded only by your intelligence, charm, and true dedication to the service of the nation.”
“Thank you, Stacy.” He let his eyes drift across Barbeau’s body as she took another sip. Even as it appeared that she was concentrating on enjoying her drink, she noticed he was looking her over…again. “I knew your father when we were in the Senate together. He was one powerful man, very strong-willed and passionate in his pursuits.”
“He counted you among his most trusted friends, even though you and he were on opposite sides of the political and ideological aisle then,” Barbeau said. “After I was elected to the Senate, he often reminded me that if I wanted some straight talk from the other side, I shouldn’t hesitate to come to you.” She paused, adopting a rather wistful expression. “I wish he was still here now. I could use his strength and wisdom. I love him so much.”
“He was a fighter. A tough opponent. You knew where he stood and he wasn’t afraid to tell you. He was one hell of a man.”
Barbeau put her hand on Gardner’s and pressed it. “Thank you, Joe. You’re a sweet man.” She took an instant to look at him deeply, then let her lips part slightly. “You…look very much like I remember him in his younger, more fiery years, Joe. We had a dining room very much like this in Shreveport, and we used to spend endless hours together, just like this. I wanted to talk politics and he wanted to find out about who I was dating.”
“Daddies and daughters always stay close, eh?”
“He made me tell him my most intimate secrets,” she said, a mischievous smile spreading across her face. “I couldn’t deny him anything. He made me tell him everything—and I was a very naughty girl growing up. I dated all the politicians’ boys. I wanted to learn everything about politics: strategies, planning, fund-raising, candidates, issues, alliances. They wanted…” She paused, giving him another sly smile and a bat of her eyes. “…well, you know what they wanted.” Gardner swallowed hard as he imagined what they got from her. “It was a mutually beneficial relationship. Sometimes I think my daddy set me up on some of those dates just so I could be his spy—the Cajun political version of turning your daughter out, I suppose.”
Gardner chuckled, and unconsciously let his eyes roam her body again, and this time Barbeau allowed herself to show that she noticed, smiled, and blushed—she was one of those women who could blush anytime, anywhere, in any situation, at will. He sat back in his chair, wanting to get this meeting under way so they could concentrate on other things, if the opportunity presented itself. “So, Stacy, we both know the issue before us. Where does the White House stand with the Armed Services Committee? Are we going to have a fight over the military budget, or can we come to an agreement and form a united front?”
“Unfortunately we’re more confused than ever, I’m afraid, Joe,” Barbeau replied. She took her hand away, watching a sudden pang of loss cloud his face. “This is all confidential, Mr. President?”
“Of course.” He touched her hand, and her eyes fluttered. “On both sides. Strictly confidential.”
“My lips are sealed.” Barbeau smiled, then put her red lips together, made a locking motion with her long fingers, and tucked the invisible key in the ample cleavage between her breasts. Gardner took that as open permission to look at her chest this time, and he did so liberally. “The committee is in an uproar, Joe. They’re concerned about General McLanahan’s health and well-being, of course. Have you heard anything more about him?”
“Not much. The doctors originally told me not to expect him back to duty for several months. Some kind of heart thing.”
That jibed with what her sources at Walter Reed National Military Medical Center told her, she thought—so far, Gardner wasn’t lying to her. That was a good sign. “For such a strong young man to be suddenly rendered unconscious like that, the stresses of living on that space station and making repeated trips back and forth in the Black Stallion spaceplane must be enormous, far more than anyone could have possibly anticipated.”
“McLanahan’s a tough guy, but you’re right—although he is over fifty and has a family history of heart disease, he was incredibly fit. Shuttle astronauts usually get several days between liftoff and re-entry—McLanahan has taken five round-trips to the space station in the past four weeks. That’s unprecedented, but for the past few months it’s been the norm. We’re restricting travel to the space station and are in the process of doing extensive physicals on everyone involved. We need answers as to what’s happened.”
“But that’s exactly my point, Joe. McLanahan is tough and strong, especially for a middle-aged man, and he’s a combat veteran and national military figure—my God, he’s a hero!—who I’m sure gets regular fitness checkups. Yet he was still incapacitated and God knows what sort
of injury he has sustained. It calls into question the safety and utility of the proposed military space plan. For heaven’s sake, Joe, why are we risking good men on such a project? I grant you it’s modern and exotic and exciting, but it’s technology that just hasn’t been perfected and probably won’t be for another ten years—not to mention the fact that it’s four-fifths fewer aircraft and one-tenth the payload for the same money. If a strong guy like General McLanahan is knocked senseless by flying the thing, is it safe for other crewmembers?”
“What does the committee think, Stacy?”
“It’s simple and logical, Joe,” Barbeau said. “It’s not about impressing the folks with global Internet access or half-meter resolution photographs of everyone’s backyards—it’s about creating value and benefit for our country’s defense. As far as I can see, the spaceplanes benefit only the handful of contractors assigned to the project, namely Sky Masters and their subcompanies. We have a dozen different space booster systems with proven track records that can do a better job than the Black Stallion.” She rolled her eyes. “For God’s sake, Joe, who else is McLanahan in bed with?”
“Certainly not Maureen Hershel anymore,” Gardner chuckled.
Barbeau rolled her eyes in dramatized disbelief. “Oh, that dreadful woman—I’ll never understand why President Martindale chose her of all people to be his Vice President,” Barbeau retorted. She looked inquisitively, then playfully at Gardner over the rim of her glass, then asked, “Or was the cold-fish routine just for public consumption, Joe?”
“We became close friends because of the demands of the job, Stacy, just business. All the rumors floating around about us are completely bogus.”
Now he was lying, Barbeau thought, but she expected nothing less than a complete and outright denial. “I completely understand how the working conditions in Washington thrust two people together, especially ones who seem complete opposites,” Barbeau said. “Combine power politics with a brewing war in the Middle East and long nights attending briefings and planning sessions, and sparks can fly.”