by Glen Carter
He paused. “The world has become a scary place, full of hatred and resentment of what we stand for. I could be more specific, though I’m certain my opponent would accuse me of fear-mongering, as he has done in the past. The United States has a duty to face these challenges, with resolve and military resources, which have been sadly declining on his watch.”
President Dixon looked down at his notes and was about to say something.
“This is not the time for cutting the Defense budget,” Rutter continued. “If I become president, my intention is to not only restore Defense spending to its former levels, but to increase it in the range of double digits.”
The audience broke into applause.
The panel of journalists began scribbling furiously.
In a room not far from where the candidates were standing, David Stoffer sat smiling. A hand went up to quiet the people gathered with him.
“This is my sacred pledge,” Rutter said in a steady voice. “My promise to the men and women who put their lives on the line every day, in the service of this great nation. Thank you for asking the question.”
“You have thirty seconds, Mister President.”
President Dixon smiled uncomfortably. “We appreciate the service of all our men and women in uniform,” he said. “Including my opponent.” Dixon allowed the statement to linger. “My commitment to the military speaks for itself. Under my leadership, military spending has stabilized to a level that ensures sustainability over the long term, without bankrupting the nation and with understanding that responsible stewardship of our nation’s finances is critical, not only now, but for generations yet to come. There are many enemies at our gates, and make no mistake, the deficit and debt are two of them. I stand behind my policies, Senator Rutter. The American people stand behind my policies. Unfortunately, you do not, and in this respect, you do not speak for the American people.”
A smattering of applause punctuated the moment. The journalists sat with hands folded.
A look of indignation swept across Rutter’s face. His voice gathered strength.
In the room where Stoffer was watching, the television’s volume was increased.
“Hit him,” Stoffer hissed.
“Mister President,” said Rutter. “I speak for the American people when I say that never before have the rogues and despots of the world felt so emboldened by our ambivalence and inaction. Terrorists are running amok, and make no mistake, it won’t be long before they bring their savagery to our shores with greater evil than we’ve ever seen before. Your failure to deal with the menace in Syria and North Korea may have already sealed our fate. Russia is laughing. Iran is putting a coat of polish on its first nuclear weapons. Do the American people stand behind a White House that has abandoned its duties to protect and to preserve our way of life, the safety we should be feeling in our own beds? I say no, they don’t.”
President Dixon stared sternly at his opponent. “Your fear-mongering does not add anything to this debate.”
“You may call it fear-mongering,” Rutter cut in. “I call it American surrender.”
Dixon grimaced. A bead of sweat glistened at his forehead. “Our men and women in uniform understand the reasons for cuts to military spending. Their commitment to our flag is not determined by dollar signs. They’re prepared to make those sacrifices.”
“President Dixon,” said Rutter, smiling inwardly. “Please don’t talk to me about commitment and sacrifice. During the Gulf War, I was taken prisoner by Iraqi forces. I was subjected to torture, as were four of my comrades-in-arms. They didn’t make it back. They were brutally executed by the maniacal murderer who held us captive. I watched them die. I was to be next, except for a band of brave Combat Rescue Rangers who saved my life. Those men who served with me. I will name them now. Corporal Scott Morgan, Corporal Louie Chongo, Corporal George Oakley, and my dear friend, First Lieutenant Kallum Doody. They understood commitment and sacrifice. And sir, with all due respect. You have no right to toss those words around when you have never put your life on the line for this great country.” Rutter dipped his head as if in prayer and then looked directly into the camera. “As so many of us have.”
The room exploded with applause.
* * * * *
Rutter was smug. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass and brought it to his lips. Still grinning, he leaned his head back and swallowed. “What are the hair and teeth saying?”
Stoffer tapped the screen on his cellphone. “The watchers are still putting it all together, but Fox and CNN are calling it a knockout.”
They were alone in a thousand-dollar suite on the top floor of the hotel. Trays of food were left untouched on the coffee table between them.
Stoffer tapped his phone again. “Here’s a gem. ‘Dead man walking.’”
“I like that,” Rutter said. “Dixon’s bleeding out.”
“We’ll have hard numbers in the morning,” said Stoffer. “But I think we know what they’ll show.”
It was the third and final debate between the two candidates. Rutter had been declared winner of all three. The pundits were poking forks in Dixon over his lacklustre performance. With his lack of military service, he had fallen easily tonight into Rutter’s trap. Though there were several bungles, making him appear like a lamb on sacrificial stone. The economy was in shambles, Dixon was being blamed. Crime was rising, Dixon was the reason. His foreign policy had painted the nation as weak and indecisive. Allies were shaking their heads, and the despots were thumbing their noses. The hawks were salivating over Dixon’s corpse.
Rutter was sure the next day’s polls would be crushing. He hoisted his glass. “Here’s to old soldiers, dead and alive,” he said, smiling.
Stoffer went suddenly quiet.
Fucking sourpuss. Leave it to him to spoil the moment.
“We need to discuss something.”
Rutter laid his glass on the coffee table and flopped back.
Stoffer opened his briefcase, pulled out a manila folder, and opened it on his lap. “Our man snapped these.”
A handful of photographs were passed over the coffee table. Rutter took one of them warily. The telephoto lens had caught the subject’s face bathed in light. Standing on the stern of some scow. He studied it, quietly.
“Samuel Bolt,” Stoffer said.
“Get to the point.”
“That boat is owned by a man you once knew.” Stoffer dug through the folder. “Abraham Power.”
“A drunk,” Rutter snapped.
“History?”
Rutter’s thoughts boomeranged back in time. Beach fires, beers, and meaningless acquaintances. “None that matters.”
“I think Bolt matters,” said Stoffer.
Rutter wasn’t ready to think so, despite the business about impossible fingerprints. He had been shaken by the man’s uncanny resemblance to Kallum Doody, though it was easily explained. The doppelgänger of a dead man, or a bastard come to connect with family. Rutter had had enough. “Move on,” he said testily. “People are waiting to shake my hand.”
Stoffer wasn’t finished. He pulled another photo and passed it to Rutter. “You should see this.”
Rutter went quiet. A moment passed with the photo in his hands. “When?” he asked.
“During Sarah’s interview with that reporter. Apparently, Bolt was part of her crew.”
Rutter looked up, slowly. “The man was in my fucking house?”
“I’ll contact the network to complain.”
“Too damn late now. What’s he after?”
“We don’t know.”
Rutter stared at the photo. He breathed deeply. “Should I be worried?”
“Given the circumstances, I believe so.”
Rutter wouldn’t say more.
A few moments later, after he�
�d told Stoffer to leave, Rutter sat with the photographs. The vagabond Bolt had been in his house, in the company of his wife. The same asshole from the homeless shelter in Las Vegas. Rutter took up one of the photos. Sarah and the reporter were walking in the garden while the camera was capturing the moment. Rutter studied the face of his wife. She wasn’t even looking at the journalist; in fact, her head was turned in the opposite direction. Toward the man standing on the margins of the shot. Samuel Bolt and Sarah were staring into each other’s eyes, communicating some wordless message.
Fuming, Rutter tossed the photo to the floor.
31
Mahmoud Al-Saadi tipped his teacup to drain the remnants of his favourite brew. He licked his lips and grimaced at the American TV anchor. Her painted face and moist red lips. A brazen slut, he decided.
“Senator Rutter, the clear winner in this debate. Hitting President Dixon where he is most vulnerable. His administration’s perceived weaknesses on foreign policy and Defense.”
“I agree,” said the mouthpiece with her. “Dixon was wide open. Rutter using his own military service to underscore the president’s disconnect from our men and women in uniform. And these are dangerous times.”
Al-Saadi nodded his agreement. He understood what it was to confront an enemy. He had paid the price that war demanded. His father had served in his own way. He had escaped the noose, but not the cancer. The man running for president had called his father a maniacal murderer. That son of a dog.
The anchors continued, while video played of the two candidates at their podiums. At the end, they strode to the centre of the stage to shake hands, two commanders coming face to face on a bloody battlefield. Al-Saadi was thrilled with what he was about to set in motion. Earlier that morning, after a few hours on the Internet, Allah had rewarded him greatly, and with his father safely in the arms of the Prophet, Al-Saadi would set foot on that same battleground. Although no one would know of him, he would wield a mighty sword.
And yes. Blood would be spilled.
32
“Tell me about your son.”
“There’s so much I could say. Where should I begin?”
He didn’t care. Diana beamed at the mention of Kallum’s name. She wanted to talk. Bolt was sure she’d find the right place to start.
“I hemorrhaged during labour,” she said, frowning. “The doctors performed an emergency hysterectomy. Kallum was a gift. There would be no other children.”
Bolt held her gaze. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she said. “Kallum brimmed with life. He was large, physically and in spirit, but more sensitive than anyone knew. He kept things bottled up. Do you?”
“The curse of men.” Bolt smiled. “Stuffing everything away. Women are better at draining it off.”
“Crying it out.”
“Which Kallum never did, I’m betting.”
“Of course, not,” Diana laughed. “Kallum would never have shown that side to anyone. I don’t know if he ever showed it to Sarah, which is a wife’s loss. I see it in you, Samuel. Is that silly?”
“Not silly. But I do have my moments. Back in Vegas there’s a little girl.”
“Tell me about her.”
Bolt smiled. “She’s a sweetheart.”
Diana simply nodded.
They were in the dining room, where they’d eaten a light lunch, topped off with fine coffee. Diana had dug out more photos. In one, Kallum was with his dad. Both in their weather gear next to a fishing boat. Kallum was giving the camera a big smile. His father, not so smiley. But there was pride on his face. Standing there, alongside the trophy of a fine boy.
“That was the last picture taken of the two of them,” Diana said. “I’ll bet his dad is smiling now. Next to his son again.”
“But preferring not to be.”
“No,” Diana said. “He would have liked you.”
“Kallum?”
“Yes.”
“I think I would have liked him.”
“He was a good friend to have,” said Diana, through glassy pools. “He always wanted a brother.”
Bolt had never had the luxury of want. Yearning, yes. He wondered whether Diana’s soft eyes would ever dry. “Do you need some time alone?”
“God, no. You can’t understand what it’s like having you here.”
Bolt nodded. Took up the cup that she had placed on the table in front of him.
“You were there,” Diana said out of the blue. “At Kallum’s grave.”
“I’m sorry,” Bolt said, sheepishly.
“Don’t be.”
“I don’t even know if I can explain.”
“You don’t have to.”
“How did you know?”
Diana touched his hand. “Sully called me. I went in after you. I found you and brought you home.”
“I don’t remember.”
“You weren’t in the best of shape.”
Puzzling. He hadn’t been that drunk.
“Curled up like that,” Diana added. “Muttering into the grass.”
His cheeks flushed.
Diana squeezed his hand. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. But I do wonder, Samuel.” Her eyes narrowed, head inclined. “At the grave. You said something. It was the strangest thing.” Her voice a whisper. “‘Fuck you, Billy Boy.’ You kept saying it.”
* * * * *
The trunk was big enough for a man. It was tucked away in a storage room off the kitchen. It was constructed of dark wood and had a flat top with brass corners. A single chair was set before it, where a mother could sit for a long time, caressing its treasures.
Diana pulled up a second chair. “Sit here,” she said.
Bolt did as he was told.
Diana opened the trunk. Her face would reveal the emotion attached to whatever she was about to pull out. A worn ball glove. Baby shoes. The inky print of an infant’s foot on some hospital document. These were her priceless mementoes and her burdens.
Diana reached in. Carefully, she brought out a bundle of neatly folded clothing and handed it to him. A name was sewn into the breast pocket of a khaki shirt. doody. Bolt touched the lettering, swept his fingers back and forth like on braille.
Diana watched him carefully. The look in her face broke his heart.
“You didn’t want him to go,” he said.
Diana shook her head. “What mother would?”
“He felt a duty a mother wouldn’t understand.”
Diana squeezed his arm. “How . . .”
“Don’t ask,” Bolt replied, handing back the clothing. “There’s a lot I don’t understand.”
She smiled on the remark. “Like coming home.”
“Home?”
“I think you know.”
Bolt thought about it.
“You said your parents are a mystery.”
“I know nothing about them.”
“Well?”
The question lingered. He took a breath. “How much do you know about what happened in Iraq?” It was a minefield of a question. Hopefully he wouldn’t regret it.
To her credit, Diana was stoic. “I was told what any mother would be told, I suppose. National security this, national security that.”
“You were fed the basics.”
“Yes. Kallum and four other soldiers were on patrol.”
“With Rutter.”
“Yes, Billy too.”
Bolt waited.
“They’d gotten out of sorts,” she continued. “Some malfunction with their navigation equipment. Somewhere along the Iraq border. It’s difficult . . .”
“I understand.”
“What else do you need to know?”
“The official version.”
Diana
straightened. “I don’t care much for the official version.”
“Why?”
“Because in that version, Kallum didn’t do his job very well. In fact, in Billy Rutter’s version, Kallum was guilty of dereliction of duty. But I’m just a mother who would never believe her son was a coward.”
* * * * *
Diana liked her Harvey Wallbangers. Usually not that early in the day. But those pinheads in Washington could drive you to drink, which they did to the mother of a dead, dishonoured Marine.
“I like it with fresh squeezed orange juice,” she said, sipping. Her little tumbler was wrapped snugly in a white paper napkin. Ice tinkled, which made her giggle.
Bolt swallowed. “Tastes like those ice cream things I liked when I was a kid.”
“Creamsicles,” Diana offered.
“Yeah, that’s them.” Bolt waited for her to continue.
“Billy Rutter went on record with what happened,” she said.
“There was no one else.”
“That’s correct.”
“And?”
“Kallum was manning the big gun on top of the Humvee. It was his job to defend the vehicle.” Diana stared into her drink. Brought it to her lips and swallowed. “They came under attack, and according to Rutter, Kallum failed to engage. Rutter claimed he returned fire, but there was some kind of rocket, and the Humvee was hit.”
“Sounds like Rutter was the hero.”
Diana frowned. “Billy was no hero. And Kallum was certainly no coward.”
Bolt’s silence allowed her the moment. And her motherly judgment.
“And he certainly didn’t abandon his duty like Rutter claimed. Leaving them exposed to enemy fire. My Kallum would have stuck with the fight, not run from it.” Diana drained her glass. “Refill?”
A minute later, Diana returned with two fresh drinks. “Cowardice, my ass,” she spat. “They were all awarded Purple Hearts, Rutter, too. But Kallum . . . they were talking an Article 99.”