by Mike Maden
Despite his personal misgivings about the man, Pearce knew that Chandler was the right person to help shepherd him through the process. Not only had Chandler served on the Senate Appropriations Committee, one of the most powerful positions in the legislative branch, he had been both chair and ranking minority leader on the Appropriations subcommittee on Defense—the largest component of discretionary federal spending. Defense appropriations would be one of the primary oversight committees for Drone Command, and Chandler knew all the players. Pearce would just have to grin and bear it. He doubted this would be the last unpleasant relationship he would have to endure in the next few years.
Chandler gestured toward the woman on his left. She was a stunning redhead with shoulder-length hair. Her slim figure was perfectly complimented by a form-fitting pale yellow designer dress. Pearce guessed she was in her mid-thirties.
“This is my chief of staff, Ms. Vicki Grafton.”
Pearce extended his hand. Grafton took it. Her dark green eyes sparkled with an intense curiosity and intelligence.
“A pleasure, Mr. Pearce. I’ve heard so much about you from the president. He’s your biggest fan around here. I look forward to working with you.”
“Same.”
Lane gestured to the couch and chairs. “Something to drink, Troy?”
“No, thanks.”
Lane checked his watch. “Then let’s get to it. Troy, first of all, I want to thank you again for accepting my offer. I know it probably sounds like a real step down to head up a new, small federal agency, but Drone Command is going to have a profound impact on the future of all things drone-related.”
“I’m still not quite sure why you picked me, Mr. President, but I’ll do my best.”
“I picked you because you’re the perfect person for the job and you have my utmost confidence, which is why you’ll run it with complete autonomy.”
Chandler shifted in his seat. “Well, sir, that’s something we’re still negotiating with the Senate.”
“It’s nonnegotiable,” Lane said. “I expect you and Vicki to make that happen.”
“Mr. Pearce’s hearing tomorrow will go a long way to bolster the committee’s confidence in that regard,” Grafton said. “After that, we lobby like it’s 1999. But I’m sure we can make it happen.”
“Good.” Lane turned to Pearce. “I know you’re a man who knows how to take orders, but I also know you prefer to give them. Your independence is as important to me as it is to you if Drone Command is going to do what we hope it will do.”
“No arguments here.”
“And as I promised, if at any point in this confirmation process you don’t feel comfortable or you think this thing is going the wrong way, you can bail out with my blessing.”
“I appreciate that,” Pearce said. He glanced at Grafton and Chandler, both smiling. “But I’m not big on quitting something I’ve started.”
“Excellent.” Lane stood, ending the meeting. The others rose as well. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a meeting with the DNI in two minutes.” Lane extended his hand to Pearce again. “If there’s any problem, you know how to reach me. Otherwise, Clay will be the point man on this.”
“Understood,” Pearce said.
The vice president ushered Pearce toward the door. “Let’s go to my office. You’ll meet with Vicki a little later. In the meantime, I’d like to catch you up on a few things.”
Pearce nodded and stepped into the hallway. He could already feel the noose tightening around his neck.
8
Chandler steered Pearce out of the Oval Office and into the corridor, past the Roosevelt Room and to the far end of the West Wing and into his own office.
“Take a seat,” Chandler offered, pointing at one of the two chairs opposite his own desk. The rectangular room had the same formality and furnishings as the Oval Office, but it wasn’t quite as large and the walls had been painted light blue.
Chandler pulled off his coat and hung it on a hanger as Pearce dropped into one of the ornately carved period chairs.
“Can I get you anything?” Chandler asked as he took his seat behind his desk.
“I’m fine, thanks.”
Chandler leaned back in his chair. “So, tell me, what do you make of the drone attack this morning?”
Like everyone else, Pearce had heard all about it on the news. Details were still sketchy, but a couple of shaky cell phone videos had gone viral on YouTube, posted by the anarchists who had launched the attack.
“It was a helluva publicity stunt. Surprised no one got killed in the stampede out of there.”
Chandler nodded. “Thank God for that. DHS says it was only aerosolized ipecac and tear gas.”
“Plan on more of the same from other groups. From what I hear, the attack was pretty low-tech.”
“What can we do about these drones? How can we stop this kind of thing from happening again?”
“You can’t. Not unless you get rid of them all.”
“Why can’t we?”
“Why should we? Whoever did this probably used cell phones, too. Maybe even drove cars or rode bikes to the scene. Do you want to get rid of all of those? The drones aren’t the problem.”
“Then we need to register every one of them.”
“We already register cars and guns. At least, law-abiding citizens do. And they aren’t your problem.”
“People need cars. Some of them might even need guns. They don’t need drones.”
“Drones are the future. I don’t think we should stand in the way of technology. You never know where it will lead.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“The economic and political superpowers of the future will be the countries that best develop and deploy drone technology. We can’t hide from the future, so we might as well embrace it.”
An uncomfortable silence fell between them. “I want some coffee. Sure you won’t join me?” Chandler finally said.
“No, thanks.”
Chandler buzzed his intercom. “Lucy, could you bring me a pot of fresh coffee, please? Thank you.” He signed off without waiting for a response. He turned his attention back to Pearce. “The reason why I wanted to meet with you is to put our heads together. This confirmation process is a long, grinding business. We’re going to have to pull together as a team.”
Pearce nodded.
Chandler leaned forward, putting his elbows on the desk and tenting his fingers. “But as I recall, you weren’t much of a team player back in Iraq.”
“Maybe you and I just weren’t on the same team.”
“I see you haven’t changed.”
Chandler forced a smile. “No, I guess not.”
Chandler nodded. “Well, we can set that unpleasantness aside. It’s all water under the bridge as far as I’m concerned. Right now we have more pressing problems. We’ve got to convince some very stubborn senators on both sides of the aisle that you’re the man for the job.”
“What do you think about my nomination?”
“Me? I serve the president.”
“But clearly you don’t think I’m the man to do it.”
“Doesn’t matter what I think. This administration owes you a great deal. My understanding is that if it weren’t for you, we might be at war with China right now instead of preparing for the Asia Security Summit.” Chandler’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know all the details, of course. I was in Europe on a fact-finding mission at the time. But President Lane thinks highly of you, and that’s good enough for me.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“In case you didn’t know, most senators don’t give a fig for what this president, or any president, thinks about anything. They think they’re one hundred little presidents, or presidents-in-waiting. Convincing them to do anything is a Sisyphean task unless they think it directl
y benefits them.”
There was a soft knock at the door, and then it swung open. The vice president’s middle-aged secretary wheeled in a small cart with a pot of coffee, cups, and amenities.
“Thank you, Lucy.”
“Not at all, Mr. Vice President,” she said as she parked it near his desk and left.
As she was leaving, Chandler poured himself some coffee into a piece of fine bone china marked with the vice president’s seal.
“You sure you don’t want some?” Chandler asked. He poured a generous splash of heavy cream into the cup.
“Positive.”
“That just means more for me, then,” Chandler said half-aloud, scooping heaping teaspoons of sugar into the cup. The silver spoon tinked on the ceramic as he stirred up the sweet, creamy slurry. “So if you don’t mind my asking you a personal question.”
“Shoot.”
“Do you really want this job?”
Pearce hesitated. “Do I want to be a bureaucrat behind a desk wearing a monkey suit? No. Do I want to have to deal with self-serving political hacks all day long? No. Play all of the stupid games you people play around here? No. Do I want to serve my country and this president?” Pearce paused, still trying to convince himself. “Yes.”
“We might want to work on that answer a little bit before we go into the closed-door meeting tomorrow. Maybe just go with the ‘I want to serve my country’ and leave it at that.”
“You asked.”
“You’re right, I did. We self-serving political hacks tend to ask those kinds of questions in Senate hearings.”
Pearce knew he’d crossed a line. Didn’t really give a shit.
“Look, Mr. Pearce, I was never in the military, but I’m a good soldier. Whatever the president wants, he gets, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Why? What’s in it for you?”
“It’s my duty and my responsibility to serve the president. That’s what I was elected to do.”
“But what’s the payoff for you?”
“What was the payoff for you when you were in government service?”
“Duty, honor, country. Quaint notions like that.”
“And why do you think I’m any different just because I never put on a uniform or picked up a gun?”
“You and I are cut from a different cloth. I have a hard time believing we hold the same views on the subject of service.”
“Then you’d be wrong. I love my country as much as any man, including you. But I will grant you this: I loyally serve and obey the president because when it’s my turn to sit in that office, I expect those below me to serve and obey me. I expect duty, honor, and loyalty to me in the same measure with which I have given it—and God help the man or woman who doesn’t render it.”
“So you plan on being president?”
“Why else would I be sitting here? The vice presidency is little more than a game show greenroom. A one-term senator has more authority and respect than I do.”
Myers had informed Pearce that Chandler was a last-minute compromise that Lane had to make in order to keep the Democratic party establishment from dumping him at the convention despite his clear win in the primary over the disgraced senator Barbara Fiero.
“You’re honest, I’ll give you that,” Pearce said.
“I’ll do my best to get you confirmed. I’m not without a few friends on the Hill, and Vicki is a real go-getter. I’d sooner lose my right arm than her. But I just want you to be aware of what’s in store for you. The closed-door hearing is just the first step. You’ve already had your preliminary FBI background check and you passed, though there are a few glaring holes in your record. I presume that’s because of your previously classified status.”
“Presumably.”
“But you need to understand that anything goes in a closed-door session and you’ll be under oath. It’s going to be a group anal exam. They have long fingers and big flashlights and they don’t miss a thing.”
“You really know how to paint a picture.”
“Is there anything you want to tell me about now? Anything I might need to fix or massage before you’re sitting under the gavel?”
Pearce wondered just how much Chandler really knew about his time in Asia earlier that year. Was he alluding to his role in the sinking of the Chinese aircraft carrier? Or was Chandler referring to his failed mission in northern Iraq a few weeks earlier?
Or was he just fishing?
Pearce shook his head. “There’s nothing else. But if there was, anything I’d say right now would implicate you and the president. So I’m not really sure why you’re asking.”
“Just trying to be helpful. But if you’d rather play it your way, fine. Just know this: We’re looking at a hat trick. If you screw up this hearing tomorrow, it will not only cost you the job but it will likely kill the whole program and, worse, you’ll hand the president a humiliating defeat.”
“I get it.”
“I hope you do. Because the other thing at stake is the president’s upcoming Asia Security Summit. He’s hyper-focused on it, and rightly so—it’s the biggest change in American security policy in Asia since the Vietnam War. If we drop the ball on our end, we endanger whatever treaty might come out of it. Are you following me?”
Pearce clenched his jaw, clamping his mouth shut. He earned a master’s degree in security studies from Stanford before he joined the CIA as an analyst and, later, worked in the field as a SOG operative. He had a far deeper grasp of what was at stake than Chandler could possibly imagine. Chandler had no idea—or so he hoped—of his role in bringing about the Asia summit. The sinking of the Liaoning was what had allowed China’s President Sun to overcome his militant opposition in the Party and begin the new march toward peaceful relations with China’s Asian neighbors and the United States.
“Yeah, I think I’m following you.”
“Fine. Then it’s time for you to go see Vicki. She’ll prep you.” Chandler took another sip of coffee. The Victorian pendulum wall clock ticked heavily.
“Anything else?” Pearce asked.
“No, you can go. She’s in the EEOB. Do you need me to have someone show you the way?”
Pearce stood. “I can find it on my own. But thanks.”
Pearce turned and headed for the door.
“Pearce, one more thing.”
Pearce turned around, his hand still on the doorknob.
“I know we’ve had our differences in the past, and I’d like to put those behind us.”
“Okay.”
“But I need to remind you. This isn’t Iraq. It’s about kid gloves around here, not kicks in the groin.”
“Yeah, I get it.”
Chandler leaned forward, his face narrowing like a knife’s edge. “More important, whatever you do, don’t fuck me on this.”
9
EISENHOWER EXECUTIVE OFFICE BUILDING
WASHINGTON, D.C.
The specially marked VIP security badge on Pearce’s lanyard raised a few eyebrows, but he passed easily through a series of security checkpoints. It was the slow ride up the windowless elevator to the fourth floor that nearly got him in trouble. His claustrophobia was getting worse lately. A flashing memory of a man cut to ribbons in the blood-soaked elevator car didn’t help. His breathing shortened and quickened, but the doors slid open to a wide corridor before the panic struck.
The stone floors were a diagonal black-and-white checkerboard with cast-iron baseboards and stately pilaster columns lining the walls. He’d been in the enormous building only a few times but had always been impressed with its French Second Empire architecture. The building was a perfect fit for the broad avenues of Paris and the decadent colonial French empire of the nineteenth century, which is when it was built. Now it served as a vast complex of government offices for many of the senior administrative executives, including t
he vice president, who enjoyed an extraordinarily large and ornately decorated ceremonial office here. Was he the only one who caught the decadent empire metaphor? Probably not. He pushed the thought aside.
Pearce was ushered into Vicki Grafton’s interior office by her secretary. He was surprised how utilitarian it was. He assumed that a woman with Grafton’s personal style would want to be surrounded by something equally ornate. But then again, the eye would be naturally drawn to her in the rather spartan office. Only the grand view of the interior courtyard below and the dozens of framed photos of Grafton posing with power elites in politics and business on the walls competed for attention.
Grafton was on the phone. She winked and nodded at Pearce and motioned for him to sit while she finished up.
“Sorry about that. Senators are like babies. When they cry, you’ve got to whip out the boob or else.”
“How many kids do you have?” Pearce asked.
“None, thank God. Can I get you anything?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“All ready to get started?”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“Yes, of course. Did you get a chance to read the brief I e-mailed you?”
“Cover to cover.”
“Any questions?”
“Nope.”
“Really? The brief covered quite a bit of ground. I would think—”
“You did a great job laying everything out. Besides, you’re going to be there tomorrow anyway, aren’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Then if I get stuck, I do that thing”—Pearce mimicked covering a microphone with one hand and leaning sideways to whisper to an aide—“and you can bail me out.”