by John Dalmas
"Lester, I've been getting briefed for the last several days. I'll tell you something. I'm going to be communicating with the public more than any president in history, and if I have to spend a lot of time getting ready, each time I decide to talk, I'll never get anything else done.
"Tell them ten o'clock then. That'll give me time to look at the daily intelligence summary. That'll have to be preparation enough." He grinned. "If they try to eat me alive, it may get pretty interesting."
Okada nodded, clearly worried. "Yes sir." It seemed as if he was going to say something further, then decided to let it go at that.
"Is that all, Lester?"
"Yes, Mr. President."
"Fine. Let 'em know. Now I've got things to do."
He reached to his phone as Okada left, and buzzed Martinelli. "Jeanne, call General Cromwell for me now."
He waited. After a few moments, Cromwell's face appeared on the screen. "Jumper," Haugen said, "I want a briefing on the Kremlin. I've already read a written brief provided by State, but I'd like an outside viewpoint. And I remember hearing about some deputy Soviet ambassador who defected about three years ago. You mentioned him when we were in Canada—said he was the most interesting source you ever heard. How do I get in touch with him? Without going through State?"
"Mr. President, if we're going to talk about that, let's run this conversation through a scrambler. Have you been shown how?"
"Hammaker showed me."
"Good. And it's probably best if you take it on your privacy receiver. Okay?"
"Be my guest."
The line and screen both cleared. Haugen rapped keys and picked up the old-style receiver from its cradle. After about ten seconds, Cromwell's voice spoke to him from it. "His name is Nikita Bulavin, sir. Naturally he's been sentenced to death by the Kremlin, for treason, and the KGB would love to assassinate him. So he's under careful security. Even the CIA doesn't know where he is; I can practically guarantee it. And not more than three people in the FBI. State doesn't have the foggiest where he is.
"But it so happens that I can get in touch with him personally. When would you like to see him?"
"Is this afternoon feasible?"
"I'm pretty sure it is. How about 1400 hours? If he can't make it then, I'll let you know."
"Good. Where?"
"How about your office?" Cromwell asked.
"That's fine with me. Give me a rundown on him."
"He's ex-GRU—Soviet Military Intelligence—a major general. But earlier he was what the Sovs call an illegal—that is, he ran a GRU spy ring in California, He's about as experienced and cool as anyone you'll ever meet. His English is excellent and we've had his face altered. Even his mannerisms are American. He'll walk in there as if he paid taxes. Which he does these days."
"At 1400 hours, you say?"
"If that's all right with you, Mr. President. He'll arrive there as military—a bird colonel. Colonel Schubert."
"Huh! I look forward to it."
"One thing more sir. Have you decided about the Saudi request yet? For fighter squadrons?"
The president frowned. "What's that about?" There was a lag in Cromwell's response, as if in reaction to the president's not having heard. "We got it by the grapevine that the Saudi ambassador got in touch with State last night. They've asked for a couple of USAF fighter squadrons; they're worried about the Soviets."
"What time did he call?"
"About 3 A.M. our time. About 10 A.M. there."
"I may have something about it on my desk. What problems would that make for the Air Force?"
"Trenary says none. He says we could have them there in thirty-six hours. Their support unit would take a little longer, but they could use Saudi support people to begin with."
"I'll let you know," Haugen said. "And thanks for bringing it up.
"I'm going to hang up now, Jumper. I've having a press conference across the street at 1000 hours, my first. I don't know when they'll telecast it. Maybe live. Watch if you have a chance. You can critique my performance."
***
As usual at a presidential press conference, the room was filled. Haugen stepped up and looked around.
"Ladies, gentlemen, I don't know the protocol here, but I'm going to set my own ground rules. When you've been picked to ask a question, give your name and affiliation before you ask it. I like to know who I'm talking to, and TV viewers may also want to know.
"All right, let's start." He pointed. "Yes."
"Betsy Mitchum, Omaha World Herald. What is the government's formal position on the Soviet invasion of Iran?"
"Our position is that it's a criminal invasion of a sovereign nation. The Kremlin's claim that it attacked to save Iraq from genocide is not believable. First, the Iranians were not carrying out genocide; genocide has become a buzz word. What Hitler carried out against European Jews and Gypsies was genocide. Secondly, in the past, the Kremlin didn't hesitate to kill large numbers of people, millions of them, within its own boundaries. And even given that Stalin is long dead, it's hard to credit the Kremlin with that much concern over human rights and lives. I think we can say they have other purposes that we haven't identified yet.
"Next." He pointed. "The slender man in the plaid jacket. Yes."
"Have you divested yourself of your financial holdings in Duluth Technologies, and if not, why not?" The words per se were not offensive, but the tone they were delivered in was accusatory, hostile.
The room became abruptly still, almost breathless. This president operated under extraordinary powers, and the country was under martial law.
"I'm sorry," said Haugen, "but you didn't identify yourself. Start over again."
"I don't see why I should identify myself!" The voice was defiant now. "You're just trying to intimidate us! If we announce our names, you can put anyone on your hit list if you don't like their question."
Haugen looked quizzically at the man. "You're right," he said, "I could. But I wouldn't." He scanned around. "Next?"
The reporters didn't react with their usual alacrity. Then one hand went up, another, and another.
"The tall man in the blue shirt. Yes."
"I'm Roger Brent. U.S.A. Today. I found the last question interesting. Have you divested yourself of your Duluth Technologies stocks? And if not, why not?"
"No, Roger, I haven't. For one thing, I don't consider them an investment; they constitute control, of a company I've spent most of my life developing. It's my creation—the child of my mind, you might say. And I don't know how long I'll hold the presidency, but presumably not long. Hopefully not more than two years and very possibly not even one. Duluth Technologies is where I'll return when I'm done in Washington.
"And beyond that, there's a technical reason. It's not an open corporation, it's a family corporation. I can't offer the stock on the market; in fact, I'm closely limited in who I can sell it to. But the main reason is the one I gave before.
"Next. The lady in the russet suit. Yes."
"Elaine Guttierez, L.A. Times. Mr. President, I realize you've only been in office for a few days, but when can we expect to see some further economic measures to improve the condition of the public?"
"Most of my time in office has been spent in briefings, finding out what goes on behind the scenes and how the machinery works. President Donnelly took the immediate, and most obvious, coping-type steps. The necessary first aid measures. The military has authorization to follow up with other measures of the same general kind, as needed. They're the people with organization, who are out there on a day after day basis, seeing what's happening. The next stage, the stage that's just getting started, is a diagnosis of what the root problems are. Treatments will follow that. Expect to hear some specifics in under three weeks." Once more he looked and pointed. "The man in the plaid jacket again."
This time he identified himself. "Robert Mantes, the American Daily Flag." The man's eyes were bright. "Are you not, in fact, a dictator instead of a president?"
Ha
ugen didn't blink. "First of all, president is a term applied to someone who presides. Right now I'm presiding over the government of the United States, so the title fits. As for dictator, in the sense of the authority I hold, I suppose that fits too. But for obvious reasons, the word carries a lot of heavy emotional luggage, dating from the days of Adolf Hitler and Joseph Stalin, to name familiar examples. Or Papa Doc Duvalier. So I would hope people will think of me as the president and not as a dictator.
"Meanwhile I understand your concern, which I'm sure that more than a few people share. But I haven't exactly been throwing my weight around. I will throw it around later, to a degree, as I decide on what changes need to be made. I'll have to, to make things move. But I don't expect to throw it around against the public. I'll be throwing it against parts of the system, as lightly as feasible, as heavily as necessary, in order to get the system moving. Like pushing a car stuck in the snow.
"This government will be installing some rather basic changes, in the direction of making the entire country more effective while protecting individual liberties. And things won't always run smoothly. But then, when have they? Read the history of the 1780s and 90s to get a picture of a nation adjusting, and at times flapping around. "First aid won't keep the patient alive for long, let alone get him healthy again. So we'll complete our diagnosis and apply some systemic prescriptions.
"Let me talk more about that for a minute. Some of the more basic problems of this country carry a lot of agitated emotion—resentment, bitterness, distrust, anger. You know about those, Robert. Emotion generated by old injustices, old disappointments, broken expectations, broken promises.
"Not all those broken expectations were reasonable or even possible, but that doesn't lessen the emotion.
"And a lot of those basic problems are held in place by vested interests.
"Those are the major reasons I'll be talking to the people as much as I will: to defuse emotions, and for public support against vested interests. Those are the reasons I'm here talking to you less than two hours after Mr. Okada brought up the matter of a press conference.
"Next. The man with the salt and pepper beard."
"Alfred Johnson with the Atlanta Constitution. Mr. President, are you or are you not under the control of the Pentagon?"
Haugen's eyebrows rose. "Why do you ask that?"
"It's been speculated that General Cromwell declined the presidency because he thought he could run things more effectively behind a civilian front man."
"Sorry to ruin such a juicy rumor, but it's not true. Feel free to be skeptical, but when you've gotten to know me better, I think you'll accept that I'm nobody's puppet.
"Next."
The president answered three more questioners, then ended the session.
***
The president's phone buzzed. He answered it.
"Mr. President, I've got Secretary Coulter for you now, on line one."
"Thank you, Jeanne." A thick forefinger jabbed. The handsome features and thick white hair of the Secretary of State appeared on the phone screen. "Good morning, Mr. Coulter." The president's words were cordial enough, but the tone was crisply neutral.
"Good morning, Mr. President. I'm sorry I was out of the office when your secretary tried to get me before. How can I help you?"
"What have you heard from the Saudis since the Soviets invaded Iran?"
"Well, their principal communication was a request to have American fighter squadrons posted in their country."
"I see. Did you suppose I wouldn't be interested in knowing about that?"
"Not at all, sir. I intended to bring it up before the National Security Council tomorrow morning. And frankly, Mr. President, I'm rather surprised you didn't call a council meeting for this morning."
The president looked intently at the face on the screen. Coulter didn't seem to notice. "I considered it," Haugen replied, "and decided to allow the military situation there to develop further before we met. I saw nothing in either the intelligence summary or the military briefing that called for an immediate meeting. Now about the Saudi request: What do you recommend and why?"
"Sir, we have provided the Saudi Air Force with three wings of F-16Ds, two of F-111Gs, and a squadron of F-21Bs. I considered their request for Air Force squadrons an unjustified, knee-jerk response to the Soviet action."
"Mr. Coulter, that sounds to me like a military evaluation. That bailiwick belongs to Campbell and the Pentagon. Do you have any diplomatic reasons to send or not to send American squadrons to Saudi Arabia?"
Coulter's reply was slow, measured. "President Donnelly's diplomatic policy has been to avoid any further military buildup in the Middle East. The Iranian military machine was already inferior in equipment to the Saudis; they have mostly older, export models of Soviet equipment, and American equipment dating back to the Shah. The Syrians have been too concerned with the Israelis to worry the Saudis, and they've been on good terms with the Iraqis, as of course the Jordanians have been, and also with the Saudis.
"As regards the Soviet invasion of Iran, it is doubtful that they will go farther than to capture Teheran."
Haugen didn't answer at once, merely looked at Coulter's image thoughtfully. Was the bastard trying to confuse him? "Thank you, Mr. Coulter. I'll let you know my decision when I've made it. Meanwhile, for your future reference, I like to know promptly about things like the Saudi request."
Another key was already flashing when he disconnected. He touched it, and Martinelli's voice spoke to him. "General Cromwell is holding on line two for you, Mr. President. Can you talk to him now?"
"Sure." He touched a key, and the general's face appeared on the screen. "Good morning, Jumper," Haugen said.
"You asked for my comments on your press conference, Mr. President. I'm pretty good at keeping my temper, but I could hardly believe how cool you stayed, handling that turkey from the Flag. I'd have blown my stack at the sonofabitch."
"Thanks." Haugen smiled. "He was pretty hostile, wasn't he? And apparently a little crazy. But he did me a favor; he made me look good."
The answer threw Cromwell for just a moment before he went on. "And the question about whether or not you were a front man for me—you defused that nicely too."
"Thanks. Listen, Jumper, while I've got you on the line, Emerson has asked to be replaced as National Security Advisor. Who would you suggest I name for the job?"
"May I think about that, Sir? Frankly, I'd like it myself, but as vice president I won't be eligible."
"Okay, I'll ask you again tomorrow. Jumper, my intercom's flashing; Martinelli's trying to tell me Ed Wachsman's here for our lunch meeting. He's head of the Bureau of Economic Analysis."
"Right. Good luck on understanding him."
The president smiled. "Wish him luck. I'm going to make him justify everything he says."
TWELVE
The president's phone buzzed, and as he reached for it, his eyes moved to the clock: 1402:21. Bulavin was reasonably prompt, if that's who it was.
"What is it, Jeanne?"
"Colonel Schubert is here for his appointment."
"Send him in."
The man who entered looked like a career army officer. Seeming about fifty, he appeared lean and fit. About five-feet ten, his weight might have been 160. His face was lined and hard-looking, but humor lurked in the eyes and around the mouth. His cropped hair was in the zone between blond and brown.
He stopped in front of the president's desk and saluted. "Mr. President, General Cromwell tells me you'd like a briefing on the Soviet government."
Haugen answered in Russian. "That's right. Best you give it in English though." He grinned. "My Russian vocabulary may not be up to the subject."
The Russian nodded.
"I'll be recording this briefing," Haugen went on. "So if you need to say anything that might compromise your cover, let me know. I'll turn off the recorder. The tape will be for my use only, but we might as well be careful."
Bulavin/Schubert's
smile was rueful. "I'm used to being careful. It's been necessary most of my life."
"I can believe it." Haugen reached to his computer console and touched a short sequence of keys. "All right, we're recording. This is a briefing by an intelligence specialist on the subject of the Soviet government." He looked up at the Russian. "Start."
Bulavin contemplated for a moment, then began. "What I'm going to do, Mr. President, is give you a brief sketch of the recent history of the Politburo, to give you an idea of how it functions, and of the men and the situation there. Mainly I'll deal with the period since Mikhail Sergeyvich Gorbachev became General Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. Party Chairman for short.
"But now and then I'll look back before that, for perspective. And I'll leave a much broader written review with you, with maps, statistical tables, and a glossary."
Nikita Bulavin sat back in his chair and stared unseeingly above and past Haugen's head.
"Comrade Gorbachev took over the chairmanship in much less then a position of full power. Symbolic of this, he was given neither the office of premier nor that of president, although Nikolai Tikhonov, who held the premiership, was unquestionably and notoriously senile, while the presidency was vacant! In the Soviet Union, the post of president is ornamental, of course, honorary, and the functional importance of the premiership is not great. But both had symbolic meaning: It had been the stamp of true power when a chairman attached the premiership to himself, and to also hold the presidency signified that power was complete."
Bulavin's eyes focused again, and for a moment met Haugen's. "Actually, when Gorbachev first became Party Chairman, the heart of power still lay with the KGB, as it had since the death of Yuri Andropov. And indeed since Andropov had become chairman. For Andropov had commanded the KGB prior to becoming chairman—had used the KGB to make himself chairman—and in a sense, when he ruled, the KGB ruled.
"You may recall that it was during Andropov's tenure as chairman that international terrorism so greatly expanded. That was no coincidence. Some western so-called experts talked about Andropov as, hopefully, a liberal. With experts like those..." Bulavin shrugged, smiling wryly.