by Stephen Moss
The text on the screen momentarily stopped scrolling, pausing after a ‘reflexive command’ was registered from her mind. A clever device, Quavoce thought. He had been able to get hold of some of Amadeu’s papers and schematics via his colleague John Hunt. John himself remained with the rest of the Research Group, but they updated each other on progress remotely, John stressing that Amadeu’s team was ever closer to fully codifying the essential spinal interface lexicon.
They had also discussed the stunning attack in Washington two days beforehand. Neal had considered fleeing the country, coming to join the efforts at SpacePort One or heading to join the Research Group. Both were well outside the United States, and both were protected by either John Hunt or Quavoce Mantil. But as riots began to spring up all over the United States, the situation was turning critical there and he needed to stay with the vice president and try to stem calls for the return of US components of the forces currently deployed around Sao Tome and the nearly operational SpacePort.
“How are you, Dr. Hauptman?” said Quavoce as she disconnected her interface. He used her native German, lilting his voice to the softer accent of her hometown of Munich. “Everything seems to be proceeding according to plan?”
She nodded, standing. “Indeed, Major, I am happy to say things seem to be going very smoothly here. Though I worry about some of my American colleagues,” she replied, also in German. John had told Quavoce that Birgit knew about he and Quavoce’s real identities, as did the young Amadeu. Knowing this, Quavoce had decided to talk with both of them in their native languages, ignoring their unease at how easily he slipped between them.
Quavoce did not ignore the woman’s comment, but limited his acknowledgement to a nod. There was enough tension in the group already, and it was best to focus on the task at hand. So he talked instead of the planned attachment of the rider, and the final preparations for the second cable’s long ascent.
But while they chatted, Quavoce did study the American members of their team. Though this was an international enterprise, there were numerous US scientists and military folks involved across the gambit of their efforts.
It was clear that no one could be unaffected by the tragedy in Washington. The authorities had shut down the area around the White House and the Washington Memorial since the terrible attack. But even late at night, when Lana had perpetrated her treason, there had been hundreds of people on the Mall, and photos of the horrific way the president had died had circulated the planet on youtube, facebook and a million forwarded e-mails and text messages.
There was no real way to identify what had been left of the man. He had been thrown, bodily, over a quarter of a mile. Though he had apparently been unconscious when he was sling-shotted into the night sky, his death had not actually come until his body, travelling at over forty miles per hour, impacted the Washington Monument itself. A bloody, red flower of gore marked the spot he had hit the hard stone, underlined by a long red stain running down the white marble obelisk to the ground where his shattered body had finally come to rest.
Riots raged around the country. People were demanding to know what could possibly have happened. The government was still denying all details of the event, including that the remains at the base of the monument were even human, let alone the pulped body of the president himself. But trying to deny that the president was indeed dead would have been next to impossible.
With all the uproar around the country, a president who was absent in office would have been even worse than a dead one. So the vice president had come forward and, in a closed statement that did not allow questions, he had told the world that the president of the United States had been assassinated, and that he, Frank Denchey, was assuming the office of president for the remainder of the term.
The gravity of the announcement had sparked a storm of conjecture. Media speculation was running ever further into paranoia. It was ironic for those working in Sao Tome, and the Research Group’s underground vaults, that some of the more outlandish pundits were now positing that this was all linked to some alien conspiracy. If there was room for laughter amidst the turmoil, Neal and his colleagues might have found this amusing.
But no one was laughing.
And so Neal had to stay in the US, for now. He was trying desperately to stop the vice president from recalling all of the US personnel from abroad, most notably pulling the battle group from around Sao Tome. Ayala was trying to rebuild the Secret Service to a new, hardened standard to protect the vice president and Neal from further attacks.
- - -
Neal stalked out of his office in a wing of the White House with fury boiling in his veins. Ayala had called him to yet another meeting with the acting president, this time due to an argument over uniforms.
Neal stomped down the hallway, powering through the sounds of workmen, drills, and hammers without thought. Forty-eight hours after the attack, the House and its grounds were now surrounded by a full battle group; Armored Personnel Carriers, anti-aircraft cannons, and a new breed of Secret Service agent being brought rapidly up to speed. The city was locked down for a mile in every direction, with nothing getting in or out without passing through the full array of firepower the combined might of the US Army and Air Force could lay down.
Inside this cordon, the gloves had been well and truly taken off. Ayala had been tasked with standing up a full-time security team, fully equipped with the latest armament coming off the Research Group’s lines. With the requirement that at least one team be permanently suited up at any time on the White House grounds, Ben Miller and the other team leads in Ayala’s crack squad took the time to drill over a hundred new recruits on their revolutionary equipment. The recruits had been pulled mostly from the Navy Seals and the British SAS, allowing for commonality of language, with some candidates coming from the French Foreign Legion and the brutally effective German shock troops known as the Kommando Spezialkräfte.
The troops had been leant to Ayala’s command in part because of the critical need to protect a fellow world leader in the face of such unprecedented assault, and in part because of the equally unprecedented opportunity to gain access and training on the new weaponry coming out of the Research Group.
Neal arrived at the West Wing and was faced with two men completely clad in black, their guns leveled at him. But they had been forewarned of his arrival by another team, in another part of the building, and they waved him passed.
“Mr. President,” said Neal as he entered the Oval Office. The president sat at his desk, Jim Hacker behind him, clearly cementing his relationship with the new leader. Chuck Crawley sat on one couch facing Ayala. Until two nights ago, Chuck had been a team lead on an advance team preparing Camp David for a visit from the now dead president. Now he was the most senior member of the Secret Service still alive, and therefore its proxy leader.
“Neal,” said Frank Denchey, somewhat surprised to see the advisor again so soon.
Ayala interposed, obviously frustrated, “I asked Neal to come and join us, Mr. President, as he is so close to this crisis.”
“Yes, well, maybe I should have the advisory group here as well, Ms. Sue-bye-duh.” He brutalized her name for the third time that day, and Neal saw shivers of anger run down her arms to her fingertips, as she harnessed it and steadied the ingratiating smile on her face.
Neal held out his hands palms up and smiled, “Mr. President, before we go widening the group that knows about our dilemma ever further, I think maybe we should try to resolve whatever question is at hand amongst ourselves.
“Whatever it is that Ms. Zubaideh [he emphasized the correct pronunciation, and noted the slightest hint of a wry smile on Ayala’s face] is doing, or wants to do, that does not meet with your approval, I can tell you most adamantly that Ayala does not offer opinions in areas that she is not qualified to speak on, and that her definition of ‘qualified’ is very, very high indeed.”
Ayala did not react to the compliment, but stayed neutral, allowing Neal to try to take
control of the situation. The president responded, “Yes, well, I am sure that you are right about Ms. Zubayderr’s qualifications,” he mumbled his closer but still unpleasant rendition of her name this time, clearly aware, at last, of his misstep. But it did not deter him from his point, “But on this topic I am afraid I just do not agree that she is qualified.”
Neal cocked his head in candid curiosity, ignoring Ayala’s barely contained sigh and the president went on, “You see, I am just not comfortable with the number of new members in the team she is training up. More to the point I am not comfortable with the number of them that are not Americans. Overlooking for the moment that the majority of the team leads are Israelis, as she is herself, more than half of the new recruits are from Europe.”
Neal drew a deep breath as the source of Ayala’s frustration became clear. “So you are uncomfortable with the number of people in your personal guard that come from the ranks of our allies?” As he clarified the point, Neal glanced at Mr. Crawley to see where he stood.
Chuck Crawley was a new factor in this. At this point, Jim Hacker was a known quantity, and Neal felt confident that he could rely on the ex-president’s chief of staff to at least remain neutral, and not argue against Neal. That meant that Mr. Crawley was probably adding to the issue. No doubt trying to gain a handle on his new responsibilities, and seeing Ayala and her ‘new recruits’ as some kind of competition for the role of Secret Service chief.
The president shrugged at Neal’s paraphrasing, “Not uncomfortable, per se. God knows I am grateful for the offer of help from our British, French, and German allies in our time of crisis. And the speed with which they responded is a real demonstration of how close our countries have become in these difficult times.”
The president seemed set to go on, but Neal stopped him. There were not many people who could interrupt a president. Even one that was new to the position was very aware of the precedent his opinion took in any room, especially an oval one. But as aware as Frank Denchey was of his new position’s authority, he was not fool enough to have missed the growing influence and power of the seemingly diminutive Neal Danielson, in this country and many others.
“Mr. President,” said Neal with a look of candor and directness that put the room slightly on edge, “we are all part of the inner circle here, trust me. There is no need to expound upon the virtue which our allies showed by coming to our aid. They did so because America’s troubles are Europe’s troubles, and vice versa. They also did so because in Ayala’s pursuit of the Agent Lana Wilson she has been given access to weaponry that they can only dream of, and this is an opportunity to access that technology.”
The president sat there, feeling a little schooled. He looked from Neal’s calm but firm expression to the Secret Service man on the sofa, and then his eyes flashed briefly to Ayala before returning to Neal. She had seemed somewhat controllable. But it was clear in Neal’s tone that he was no one’s to command.
But Neal went on, “But you should know that the reason they responded so quickly was because I called the prime minister, French president, and German chancellor personally, and asked them to. I also called Madeline, the head of my Research Group, and told her to expedite production of the next generation of battleskin in our production facilities, and get them to us.”
The president felt the emphasis of Neal’s words, as Neal had hoped he would. This was bigger than him. That was what was being rather unsubtly pointed out. Neal was trying to convey that he had plans and priorities that superseded the president’s wishes, and Frank’s intuition tried to tell him that he should probably not attempt to steam roll the erstwhile White House advisor.
But the new president’s ego also told him that he had stumbled into his dream just as the office was being emasculated. Like winning the lottery on the day of the collapse of the currency, he had inherited a moot throne, and something more primal than his intuition rose up in him. Ambition wrestled with instinct, and he felt an ugly emotion wire its way into his being.
Neal watched as the man digested what had been said, but the initial acquiescence that Neal had enjoyed in earlier meetings with the man seemed to be eroding. With a sense of the inevitable, Neal saw the president’s next comment brewing in the man’s throat, and braced himself.
“That is all very good, Mr. Danielson, and rather familiar. I heard the same from Ayala before you came, so maybe we should move past the showboating, and onto the meat of the issue.” Neal stiffened at the president’s tone, and noticed Jim Hacker was looking intently at him.
The president continued in a deliberately regal tone, and Neal allowed his expression to slip into a patrician’s patient smile. “Let’s remember that we are discussing my protective detail here, shall we? And that we are doing it in my office.” The display was rather nauseating for all present, especially given the way by which Mr. Denchey had come by said office. But Neal’s expression remained patient and open.
“Of course, Mr. President,” Neal said with layered deference, “and as such your wishes are, in the end, paramount.” Neal thought also of Jim Hacker, though he avoided his eyes. He knew his next statement would probably place the chief of staff’s loyalty firmly with the new president, and he was fine with that. If the wormy little bureaucrat was so easily swayed by petty national politics, then Mr. Denchey was welcome to him.
“If it is your wish to see the group be more unilateral, then we should move immediately to implement that directive.” The president and Mr. Hacker seemed somewhat surprised by the change of tone, the first pleased, the second pensive. “May I suggest that Ayala work with Mr. Crawley on bringing the remainder of his men and women up to speed, and equipping them with the latest tools to ensure your safety. Mr. Hacker, meanwhile, can use his considerable organizational skills to help rebuild the infrastructure and staff of the White House with appropriately American personnel, including aiding Mr. Crawley in the difficult task of replenishing his tragically diminished ranks.”
The president seemed very pleased with Neal’s proposal, and Ayala would have been angry at the way Neal had backpedalled away from the issue at hand, but she was too taken aback by the way her old friend was reacting to this seemingly pointless argument.
She watched as Neal bent to the will of the new president, a man who had clearly just been promoted past his level of competence, and she tried to reason why Neal was giving in. As she watched, he continued his platitudes. They discussed how to structure the new team they needed to build, Jim and the slightly dazed Chuck Crawley offering up points. All the while Neal seemed deferent. OK, here we go, Ayala thought as Neal threw in a little defiance as he stressed a point. But he had conceded so much that the president and his men all met him on that one, ever the humble victors.
She almost smiled at the show, and then had to withhold a frown as she puzzled at his motives. Because there was something else in his demeanor. Something under the subservience. Something in the way he backed away from the essential point of the discussion: ensuring the president’s safety.
Because that wasn’t the essential point anymore.
It was almost like resignation she saw in him. Almost like he had given something up. But Neal never, ever gave up on a fight that he believed in. It was this same stubbornness that had kept him in the scientific minors for the first thirty years of his life, and it was the trait that had driven him to the spearhead of the effort to save humanity in the last two.
Ayala watched. Every now and then she agreed to something and took a note. Focus on training up Mr. Crawley’s team. Select members of a new team that had come from US forces, divert the rest to building up her strike force for hunting Lana, switching out her US team members to Chuck’s detail in return.
This would help avoid international strain. There was no need to snub the loaned forces from our allies, suggested Neal, conciliatorily. They would be trained as part of Ayala’s force and put to good use.
Of course, of course, agreed all. No need to cause offence.
- - -
Ayala was quiet as she and Neal walked back to his office. They followed the corridors in silence. They passed one of the scars of the attack; freshly plastered bullet wounds in a wall near to the cracked sidings and stained carpet where some of Lana’s many victims had fallen. Getting to Neal’s office, he switched on a stereo, turned up the volume, and stepped up to Ayala, taking her by the shoulder and bringing his mouth to her ear.
She did not step away. She knew what he was doing. His hand over his mouth, his whisper was quiet but clear.
“What did you think of our little conversation back there?”
She cupped her own hand over her mouth and his ear, and replied, “Honestly, I was more than a little disappointed at how easily you acquiesced to his requests. He was being a schmuck, and if you had let me get a word in, I would have told you that it was really just that bewildered fool Crawley who wanted to establish some control over my team. Denchey was just along for the ride.”
She was not harsh in her tone, just honest, and she felt Neal’s smile against her cheek as he replied, “Ayala, that was all just a byline. I meant the president. Did you see him? He was posturing. He was trying to establish that he is in control.”
“So? Of course he was. He just took on one of the biggest jobs in the world. One we all know he was hoping to take at the next election anyway. He wants to put his stamp on things, that’s all. In the end, you could have gotten him to see reason, you know you could. Jim would have backed you. Well … he would have until you bent over and took it from the president.”
“I wouldn’t worry about Jim,” whispered Neal. “He was a fair-weather friend. We’re better off without him. But the real issue was the way Denchey flared when I tried to tell him that this was part of the greater issue at hand.” Neal felt Ayala’s head move ever so slightly, her attention focused by his comment. So this was the thing she had seen in Neal. This was the change she had sensed.
He went on, “I spent the last two days briefing him on the single biggest event in human history. I told him that we are engaged in the preparations for the fight for our lives. I told him that we are at the beginning of an effort to construct an intra-stellar navy hundreds of ships strong, anyone of which could outgun an aircraft carrier.”