The General's President

by John Dalmas

  The day before, Haugen had seen a vagrant spray bottle beside a potted plant, its user out of sight somewhere. Perhaps waiting in the nearest unoccupied room, dust cloth in hand, till the President was past.

  Presumably most Presidents were more or less thoroughly oriented on household operations by their predecessors, but Donnelly had been in no condition to, and Haugen hadn't wanted to impose on Mrs. Donnelly. So he'd gotten by with a mini-briefing from Jackson Lavender, the chief usher—equivalent to the steward in a British mansion.

  Haugen's eyes roved, probed. It wasn't as if the help weren't busy. Big as the place was, it was clean—dusted, mopped, the banisters polished... He'd have noticed if it weren't. Haugen paused on the first-floor landing to examine a rubber plant; even the leaves were dusted. The world economy was in collapse, the Russians had invaded Iran, there were religio-political guerrilla wars in Malaysia and on Mindanao, and the threat of final solution in southern Africa. Hell, according to the apocalyptic sects with their estimated eight million American members and growing, God was about to shut the world down! But there was no dust in the White House. Be grateful for things done well, he told himself. The corridor past the press area was quiet too; he was willing to bet that when the press was allowed back in, their level of courtesy and consideration would be a lot lower than that of the Secret Service or the household staff. But then, he reminded himself, their job was different, and different personalities gravitate to different activities.

  Martinelli was already busy at her desk when he arrived, typing his evening dictation into her computer. She was fast, fast; her keyboard sounded like a muffled popping of popcorn.

  "Good morning, Jeanne. Get hold of Lavender and ask him to come see me."

  Then he was past, her "yes Mr. President" almost cut off by the closing door. Jesus, he thought, speaking of courtesy! Maybe they do try to talk to you, and you just don't notice. He about-faced and opened the door again; she was in the process of keying her in-house phone.

  "And one thing more, Jeanne," he told her.

  She half turned, questioningly, and he grinned at her. "Sorry I hustled through so brusquely. Goes with the territory, I suppose. You do a helluva job, Martinelli, and I appreciate hell out of you. Just in case you were wondering."

  For an instant she looked uncertain, then abruptly smiled back at him. "Why, thank you, Mr. President." Another hesitation, then, "You do too, sir." She blushed. "Do a helluva job, I mean."

  Having said it, she looked away, and Haugen, laughing with pleasure, turned back into his office.

  Three minutes later, Lavender, the chief usher, arrived. He was the majordomo of the household staff, and looked the part, a tall man, straight, seeming naturally dignified, his complexion almost Caucasian light, his cap-like, tightly kinked hair graying. "Yes, Mr. President?" he said.

  The president gestured at a chair. "Sit down, Lavender, I've got some questions for you." He waited till the man was seated. "How does the staff know I'm coming? They seem to get out of my way."

  "There are bells, sir, on each floor. Three bells means the President is coming, two the First Lady. Everyone gets out of sight then."

  "Hmh! Has it always been like that?"

  "Mostly, sir. A few Presidents changed it when they were in, but mostly that's the way it's been. To give the First Family more privacy."

  "Hmm. I can see why that would be. What're the hours for the cleaning staff, the gardeners, people like those?"

  "Mostly six to three, sir."

  "Okay. Tell you what, Lavender. Let's dispense with all that ducking out of sight. It's got to be a nuisance to people, and for Mrs. Haugen and me it's not necessary."

  "Yes sir."

  For the life of him, the president couldn't tell, by looking at the man, how he was receiving this. "How does that seem to you, Lavender?"

  "Fine, Mr. President. It will make things a little easier."

  Haugen looked at him thoughtfully. "I want you to speak frankly with me. How is morale in the staff?"

  There was a very brief lag before Lavender answered. "Pretty good, sir. They've got jobs, and that's a big blessing in these times."

  " 'Pretty good.' " Haugen's eyes never left the man's face. "What's in the way of it being very good?"

  The lag was longer this time. "Mr. President," Lavender said at last, "they're worried. There are no tourists, no guests, no banquets or receptions, and the government's short on money. President Donnelly let some people go—fifteen or so that were young and pretty new, or eligible for early retirement. So people are worried that there'll be some more let go. And they've got nothing to fall back on, hardly any of them. What they had in the banks, they lost in the crash. So they're worried."

  The President looked thoughtful. "I see." Worried, he thought, like the rest of the country. He straightened. "Lavender, I want you to tell them something for me. This emergency isn't going to last forever, and when it's over, or maybe before, things'll get back more or less to normal around here. Then whoever's president will need a full staff, experienced and ready. The household budget's been cut all right. But with no costs for banquets or house guests, no more tour guides—things like that—we should be able to keep within the budget without discharging anyone. We may have to cut a few more corners here and there, but I intend to keep the household staff intact."

  "Yes sir."

  "And Lavender, tell them that Mrs. Haugen and I appreciate them and the good work they do." He rolled his chair belly-up to his desk, eyes still on the chief usher. "That's all for now; I've got to get to work. Thanks."

  "Thank you, Mr. President."

  Haugen watched the man's straight back out the door. It's remarkable how much quality you run into around here, he told himself. People are an education.

  ***

  The absence of tourists, and his policy of not having house guests, receptions and the like, not only allowed the president to work with minimal distractions and interruptions. It also allowed him more time with his wife than some presidents had had, especially with the arrival of John Zale on his office staff.

  Nonetheless, Haugen had stopped trying to reserve lunch as family time; only breakfast and usually supper were with Lois. The TV was kept off at breakfast, though supper was likely to be eaten to football, hockey, or basketball.

  He'd begun eating lunch with Steve Flynn, with the top-rated TV midday news as background. They'd talk, and sometimes watch something on the screen.

  They were discussing the Papal attitude toward birth control when a news item caught their attention. A considerable crowd of demonstrators was shown near the vast CIA building, waving signs and chanting. Brief interviews indicated they were demonstrating against CIA university scholarships, which, as the commentator pointed out, were largely in foreign languages, computer sciences, mathematics, and electronics.

  Some of the demonstrators were waving placards, while others were haranguing, reviling, and shoving cameras at the faces of CIA employees walking to the entrances. Still others roamed the executive and employee parking lots with small videocameras, photographing cars, people, and license plates. Cameras; a fear technique, the president decided, that they'd copied from some police forces. But there was no indication of serious trouble; employees were not being interfered with physically. Squads of gas-masked troops stood in quiet, separated rows, preventing the demonstrators from approaching the building closely. But not even the gas masks suggested impending trouble; they'd become familiar—standard military garb during the recent troubles.

  When the flow of employees had ended, the demonstrators began to move down access roads as if returning to their transportation. Apparently the show was over. That's when the tear gas grenades were fired, and in an instant the view was shattered with screaming people running, stumbling down the road. Then a truck-mounted water cannon appeared from somewhere, and with its powerful jet, sent demonstrators sprawling, washing them physically along the pavement.

  It was over inside a minu
te. When Father Flynn's eyes left the set to find the president, Haugen's face was dark with repressed anger.

  He got up from his chair. "Excuse me, Stephen," he muttered. He almost never said "Stephen"—"Steve" was nearly invariable. He went to his desk and keyed the intercom. "Jeanne, get me General Hammaker. At once. If he's not at his desk, have someone find him."

  He waited then; they both did, priest and president, Haugen's blunt fingers drumming. In the background the TV jabbered on, ignored. During eight months of friendship, Flynn had never seen Arne Haugen angry before, or even notably irritated. He wasn't sure how much of it was due to the abusive actions of the demonstrators and how much to the attack on them. To Flynn, the attack seemed unjustified. A more understandable time for the troops to have acted was when the demonstrators were harassing the employees.

  Three or four minutes passed; the general's face appeared on the small screen. "Yes Mr. President. What can I do for you?"

  "General Hammaker, are you aware of the fiasco outside the CIA building this morning?"

  General Hammaker, not "Ernie." From Hammaker's fecial response, it seemed clear to Father Flynn that the general had not heard what had happened. But he'd definitely picked up on the president's anger; he looked uncertain and concerned. "No sir, Mr. President. What happened?"

  Haugen described it, his words clipped, his consonants sharp and hard, and for the first time, Flynn discerned an accent, essentially Finnish, as the president spoke. But by the time he was done, the edge of anger was gone from his voice. "Do you see what this does?" he finished.

  "I believe I do, sir. It was gratuitous violence by a military unit. It will make a lot of people angry, and make the army look bad."

  The President nodded. "That's right, as far as it goes. Now that civil violence has stopped and civilian attitudes are constructive..." He paused, then enunciated—"Some goddamn nitwit in uniform decides to act like a commissar! This government can't afford to appear oppressive."

  He paused again, and when he continued talking, it was quietly. "Find out for me who was responsible, Ernie, who set this up. If it was a CIA request, I want to know who made it. And who in the army agreed to it. And if you have trouble getting the information, remind them of martial law. Tell them I won't hesitate to run someone's ass publicly up the flagpole if they try to cover on this.

  "Find out by evening—by 2000 hours—and let me know. The sooner the better. Because I'm calling a press conference for 2100. If I don't smooth this out, people and the Congress are going to wonder what kind of government this is. And it'll smooth a lot better if I've got someone by the short and curlies."

  Once more he paused, thoughtful now, lips pursed. "And Ernie, there was something peculiar about the whole event. As hard as it is to get gas these days, and considering that the CIA Building is out of town, that was a lot of demonstrators. Especially considering what they were demonstrating about. If they drove, did someone provide gas? And if they rode buses, who provided the buses? I'm going to get the FBI onto that as soon as I've finished talking with you."

  He grinned then, surprising both Hammaker and Flynn. "Actually I've already finished, but you've hardly had a chance. Anything you want to tell me while we're on the line?"

  Hammaker shook his head, his expression still serious. "No, Mr. President. I'll get on that right away and get back to you as soon as I learn anything. It shouldn't take long to find out who in the army gave the orders. What the CIA involvement was, if any, might take a little longer."

  "Thanks, Ernie. I apologize for being testy, but I was really pissed off. You'd have to see the thing on TV to appreciate how it looked to viewers.

  "So I look forward to hearing what you find out."

  He disconnected, turned to Flynn, and smiled sheepishly. "And so much for my Christian charity." He laughed again. "But then, I'm not a Christian."

  He didn't realize how much that troubled the priest.

  ***

  Hammaker sat back in his chair. He'd ordered his own aide, Captain Robertson, to find out who'd been the officer in charge out there. Fast. Hammaker himself would question whoever that might be about any CIA instigation.

  Then he'd called the CIA Director's office. Blackburn had been out, supposedly, but his deputy bad promised to find out who in their shop, "if anyone," had been involved. The promise didn't mean much, Hammaker told himself: They'd do whatever they wanted that they thought they could get away with. If Blackburn's office seemed to be covering up, he'd get in touch with Cromwell; Cromwell had told him to call anytime the president was having trouble with the military. And Cromwell had people everywhere, or so the rumor went: army intelligence or simply friends.

  It would be interesting to see how the president handled this, he told himself.

  ***

  The press had been notified in advance: President Haugen wasn't taking questions tonight. He walked out in front of the cameras, looked around, nodded and began, his voice mild, his words measured.

  "Good evening. I called this conference to talk about the CIA. And the violence outside the CIA Building this morning and what I'm doing about it.

  "First of all, Captain Edwin Rantelle was the officer in charge of the army guard unit there. Captain Rantelle ordered the gas grenades fired—in fact he fired the first of them himself—and had also given the order that the water cannon was to go into action as soon as the gas grenades exploded.

  "He has admitted that there was nothing in the behavior of the demonstrators which called for such drastic action at that time. Indeed, the demonstration was over and the demonstrators were in the process of leaving.

  "Captain Rantelle has heretofore had a good service record. I have reprimanded him in writing, and the reprimand, of course, goes on his service record. Any of you who are or have been military officers know that a formal reprimand in one's record is a significant hurdle to overcome when being evaluated for promotions and assignment."

  The president's voice continued patient. "The responsibility was not Captain Rantelle's alone, however. Mr. Carl Anderson, the CIA's officer in charge of building and grounds security, had requested that Captain Rantelle do this. Mr. Anderson has stated that he was tired of the verbal abuse which CIA employees, most of them secretaries, computer technicians, maintenance people and so forth, have to put up with periodically when people decide to demonstrate there.

  "He's not the only one who's tired of that.

  "Mr. Anderson has also been reprimanded. And it has been made clear to both the army and the CIA that any repetition of needless violence there will result in a court martial in the case of the responsible army officer, and in suspension or firing of the responsible CIA official."

  He paused, looking over the attending journalists, letting his audience wait for five long seconds.

  "Now," he said, "I have something to say about demonstrations like that one. There are people watching now who feel indignant that these two men were only reprimanded. But Mr. Anderson had a valid point, though it did not justify the action taken. If you watched the TV coverage of the demonstration, you heard the insulting language shouted at the CIA employees as they walked from the parking lots to their work. No one should have to put up with people running alongside them shouting insults and obscenities at them.

  "So I have ordered the guard detail to prevent that in the future. Demonstrators will be kept well away from employees, and any who break the law while demonstrating will be arrested.

  "Of course, that's part of what such demonstrators want—to be arrested. Because until very recently, arrests at demonstrations for trespassing or disorderly conduct usually meant little. The arrested were booked, paid a modest bail, and were released. Our overcrowded prisons usually lacked room to hold them longer.

  "Now, as you know, we have prisons of tents and barbed wire, with ample space, and quite comparable in livability to the army camps of early World War Two. So such an arrest will lead to a more extended and impactful experience, and if you demons
trate, you might want to consider doing it in a lawful way."

  Again the long pause while the president's calm eyes scanned the room.

  "I also appreciate that the CIA tends to be poorly regarded in this country. To some extent this has resulted from actions of its own, and to some extent from a planned program of disinformation by agents of foreign powers: lies, exaggerations, distortions, and truths told out of context, that have been passed along by our own media and accepted as true by many Americans.

  "But easily the CIA's biggest image problem has grown out of an ill-advised organizational situation dating way back to 1948. The same cause which, for nearly fifty years, has significantly impaired our gathering of needed information about our enemies.

  "And believe me, regardless of what some may tell you, we have enemies.

  "In 1947, the Congress established the CIA, the Central Intelligence Agency, to help keep the executive branch of our government informed on foreign activities, especially Communist Bloc activities. It spies in the traditional sense, but even more, it collects and winnows through masses of information, including huge amounts of publications from both sides of the iron curtain. It monitors radio broadcasts; it examines in minute detail, satellite and aerial overflight photography. And it has other kinds of spy devices. Then it evaluates and organizes the relevant material from all this daily, and gets it to those who need to know. And does all this with remarkable skill.

  "Just as Congress intended it should.

  "As set up by Congress, the CIA was to be purely an intelligence operation. That was the intention. So-called 'covert operations'—dirty tricks, the covert support of foreign military and paramilitary activities, that sort of thing—were not a part of its charter.

  "Now, looking back a few years earlier, to World War Two, our government had set up what was called the OSS—the Office of Strategic Services—which was responsible for covert operations behind German and Japanese lines. And as the Cold War developed, it was decided that a covert operations organization was needed again. So without going through Congress, in 1948 the old OSS was reinstituted as the Directorate of Operations and put into the Central Intelligence Agency. It is not the main part of the CIA; it is relatively the lesser part. But it's the part that gets the publicity."