by Peter David
“I doubt it,” retorted Cordoba. “That guy you knew would have knocked you flat long before this.”
Obviously satisfied with having gotten Cordoba to drop—even for a few moments—his carefully nurtured mask of infinitely patient civility, Stockwell eased into the chair in front of the wide-screen television. The TV was already focused on the outside of the Capitol building. Stockwell glanced at his watch.
Cordoba, in clear anticipation of what was going through Stockwell’s mind, said, “They’re scheduled to arrive in two minutes.”
“Is the area secure?” Stockwell asked.
“Yes, it’s secure.”
“Because something doesn’t smell right.”
Cordoba walked across the room to the liquor cabinet, from which he withdrew a bottle of very old, very fine Scotch. Carefully, as if he was unwrapping a fine porcelain statue, he unstoppered the bottle and poured himself a shot into a shot glass that bore the emblem of an American eagle on it. “Ben Franklin wanted the national bird to be a turkey, you know,” he said conversationally.
“Yes, Ronald, I am aware of that, as is just about every schoolchild in the country,” retorted Stockwell, shaking his head when Cordoba silently offered him a shot of his own. “I notice you’re ignoring my concerns.”
“It’s the same concerns as always, sir. You always say it smells bad.”
“It always does. Have you ever considered,” he said in all seriousness to Cordoba, “that the other times I was worried something might happen, it might have been that I was right? That the terrorists were in place, everything ready to go, and there was just some sort of last-minute happenstance.”
“When it comes to the protection of the President of the United States,” Cordoba said firmly, “there’s no such thing as happenstance. Everything is planned too carefully, thought out too far in advance.”
“Yeah. I’m sure that’s what they told Kennedy right before his brains decorated the inside of his car. And I’m warning you”—he stabbed a finger at Cordoba—“if you point out that Lincoln died at the Ford, while Kennedy died in a Lincoln, I will have to hurt you.”
“I appreciate the warning.” He took another shot of the Scotch, turned, and refilled himself.
The President’s motorcade pulled up on screen. Secret Service men were already spread out, keeping crowds securely behind police barriers and making sure that no one would get too close. So it was on that basis that Stockwell groaned as he watched President Penn—instead of heading in to speak to Congress—work the crowd. He went right up to them, reaching around his agents or over their shoulders, shaking hands, signing autographs. “My God, you’d think he was running for reelection,” he said.
“You’ve said it yourself, sir, any number of times: a president is running for reelection from the moment he swears the oath of office. Besides,” and he sat on the edge of the couch facing Stockwell, “you were just busy talking about how there’s been this distance growing between the White House and the electorate thanks to fear. So there’s the President walking right up to people, any of whom might have weapons on them, and shaking their hands. He’s not being the least bit afraid . . . and you’re complaining. I thought you guys were supposed to be on the same side.”
“We are on the same side, and don’t patronize me, Ronald.”
“I’ll try not to, sir, but you make it very easy.”
Stockwell smiled mirthlessly at that, and then focused his attention back onto the TV. He saw Gwen, dressed rather elegantly . . . a bit too much so, he would have thought. She was wearing an evening dress rather than something sensible, like a woman’s business suit. It was a dark blue dress with a scooped neck, a provocative—but not too provocative—slit along the right side, and a wrap that he knew beyond question was fake fur. That made sense: Gwendolyn Penn was the fake fur spokeswoman. In that outfit, he thought, she was making it look more like some sort of awards ceremony or banquet than a serious, constitutionally mandated speech to the citizens of the United States of America.
As if reading his thoughts again, Cordoba said, “The First Lady looking a bit too glamorous for you, sir?”
Stockwell shrugged. “She’s not my wife.”
“You don’t have one, sir.”
That was certainly true. Stockwell was divorced, and it had been a very acrimonious and vicious parting of the ways . . . so much so that it had left him permanently burned in regard to the state of matrimony. He didn’t have any intrinsic problem with it as far as others were concerned; he just had no care to dabble in it himself. Still . . . Gwendolyn was a damned fine attractive woman, he had to admit that. She seemed a touch flighty to him on a personal level, but there was no denying that she was quite, quite fetching. And there was something in her attitude, her voice, her every mannerism, that just made you want to like her. To hold her tight, to . . .
He cleared his throat and said softly, “Ronald . . . I think I’ll have that drink now, if it’s still available.”
Without a word, Cordoba poured him a shot. Stockwell downed it in a heartbeat and extended the shot glass for more. Cordoba obliged him.
As the evening progressed, various aides came in and out, asking Stockwell questions, making inquiries about his schedule for the next day, asking if he needed anything. Stockwell answered all of them in terse, no-nonsense terms. Every time the door opened and closed, he could see the ever-present, ever-vigilant Secret Service men in the hallway. He knew it should make him feel safe, give him some degree of security. He wondered why it never did.
The President’s entrance was announced, and Congress rose to its collective feet as Arthur made his way down the main aisle. He stopped to shake hands, speak a few words here and there to congressmen who would invariably smile or laugh or nod their heads in apparent approval. And half of them would be perfectly happy to stab you in the back, Stockwell thought grimly. Arthur was, after all, an Independent, which earned him exactly no party loyalty from either side of the GOP or the Democrats. The only thing he had going for him—and it was an impressive advantage, Stockwell had to admit—was his remarkable personal popularity. The cynic in Stockwell had always made him wonder whether Arthur’s decision to step up the war on terrorism was motivated by genuine belief in the importance of the project, or hopes of political gain since personal safety from terrorism had become a major concern for most Americans.
“You’re embarking on a slippery slope, Mr. President,” Stockwell had warned him privately during one summit meeting. “Americans have a short attention span and are notoriously impatient. They want results. Fighting terrorists underground doesn’t get any media attention because it can’t, so you lose that advantage. And since Sandoval is effectively public enemy number one, if you don’t get him, you run the risk of looking impotent and losing your support base.”
Arthur had just stared at him and said quietly, “I am less interested in my support base than in doing what is right.” It had almost convinced Stockwell. Almost. But he was too much the politician—and therefore too much the cynic—to believe in anything or anyone one hundred percent.
On the TV screen, Arthur said, “Distinguished members of Congress . . . Mister Speaker of the House . . .” Then he looked right into the camera and, with a half smile, said, “Mr. Vice President . . .”
Cordoba chuckled softly behind him, and even Stockwell had to suppress a smile at that. In the long run it meant nothing, but he appreciated the acknowledgment nevertheless.
“As I stand before you,” Arthur continued, “I ask you now the same question that I asked of you the previous year: Are you happier than you were this time last year? For as Benjamin Franklin said, despite the fine words of the Declaration of Independence . . . we are not actually entitled to happiness, but rather instead merely to the right to pursue it. And we have been going at it full tilt, have we not.”
Stockwell suddenly turned to Cordoba and said, “Does he really believe he’s King Arthur?”
The question caught C
ordoba off guard, as Stockwell knew it would. He choked slightly on the Scotch, which he’d been in mid-swallow on. “Uhm . . . shouldn’t we be watching the speech, sir?”
“As if I haven’t read it already,” sniffed Stockwell. “I’m just curious. All that business during the mayoral race years back. The ‘King Arthur’ theme that emerged . . . even the jousting and swordplay. Humiliating, trite foolishness. But he went along with it and became a man of the people, so I suppose I’ve no right to be snide about it. Still . . . does he truly believe it? Is it some psychosis that he’s simply learned to turn to productive means? Or was it an act?”
Arthur was speaking about the economy. Cordoba cleared his throat. “Sir, I’m not sure why you’re asking me this . . .”
“I’m asking because you were with him since his mayoral campaign.” He leaned forward in his chair, staring intently at Ron. “I’m asking if he genuinely has a delusion that he is King Arthur. And don’t lie to me, Ronald. I’m very, very good at telling when people are lying to me, so don’t even try it. Just tell me. I have a right to know, not only as the Vice President, but as an American citizen.”
Cordoba took a long, deep, steadying breath and then looked Stockwell in the eyes and said, with utter calm, “I’ve known Arthur for quite some time, and I can personally assure you: He is not suffering from a delusion about being King Arthur.”
The congressmen were on their feet, applauding something Arthur had said about job opportunities. Stockwell ignored it, focusing instead on Cordoba, searching for some hint of duplicity. He got nothing off him in that regard, which meant either Cordoba was being honest, or he was so brilliant in concealing the truth that Stockwell never wanted to play poker with him. “So it’s image making, then, is what you’re saying,” he said guardedly.
“You’re saying that, sir. Me, I’m just agreeing with you.”
Then the mention of Trans-Sabal caught both of their attention and brought their focus back to the TV screen.
“Our concentration on foreign affairs—particularly the revolution in Trans-Sabal—has been wearying, I know,” Arthur said. “No one is more painfully aware of the difficulties we still face at home than I. The road to eliminating terrorism in our lifetime has been a long and rocky one.” His hands rested firmly on the podium, his gaze fixed upon the people before him. Stockwell shook his head, still not believing that Arthur had once again disdained the use of a TelePrompTer or notes. “The problem,” continued Arthur, “is that because America is a great country, filled with such wonder, such opportunity . . . we have always had the inclination to put America first. That is a laudable goal, an understandable one . . . as far as it goes. But in our formation of an international coalition with the intent of making the world a safer place, we have had to look beyond our borders and think about putting the world first. We look upon our own difficulties and think, ‘Why should we be so concerned with what’s happening in other countries?’ But the lesson we have learned over these trying months has been that we must think from the greater to the smaller. To consider the greater problem—in this case, a world at the mercy of terrorist activities—and solve that so that smaller difficulties can be attended to. By bringing to the world a sense of global community, so that instead of matters being viewed simply as that we are helping everyone else . . . it is seen that we are all helping one another. Terrorists are cowards, no more, no less. We have taken the measure of these terrorists . . . and found them wanting.
“And that point of view has paid off. I am pleased to announce that our peace treaty with Trans-Sabal, the last country that gave willing haven to Arnim Sandoval, has been finalized. All assets of his operation have been frozen. Furthermore, as an act of good faith, Trans-Sabal intelligence agencies have turned over to us massive records that have given us a broader picture of Sandoval’s organization than we have ever had before. We know who his agents are, his lieutenants, his field operatives. We know where they are. And, I am pleased to announce . . . we believe we know where he is, as well.” There was an audible gasp, and Arthur, with a fierce smile, said, “According to latest intelligence, he is—apparently—in several hundred pieces.”
There was an uproar on the floor of the Congress, but for all the deafening and thunderous ovation that Arthur received with that utterly unexpected announcement, it was as nothing compared to the infuriated bellow from Stockwell. He was on his feet as was everyone else, but it was not in appreciation.
“That’s not confirmed!” he fairly howled. “That is not confirmed! We do not have confirmation on that!” He leaned forward to the TV as if Arthur could hear him and shouted once more, “We do not have confirmation!” Then he whirled toward Cordoba, his face alight with barely controlled fury. Picking up the remote, he punched the Mute button and the sound went off, to be replaced by captioning. But his attention was entirely upon Cordoba. “Did you know about this? Did you know he was going to say this?”
Cordoba shook his head, looking ashen. “No . . . no, I didn’t ...”
“Son of a bitch,” and louder, “Son of a bitch! That was a preliminary intelligence report!” He paced furiously around the room, at one point in such a rage that he punched the wall, scraping his knuckles fiercely. “That information is barely two hours old! Delta Force is still picking up the pieces! We know we hit Sandoval’s main bunker, but we don’t know for sure he was in it! The President was told it was only seventy percent certain! He was told this! I know because I was told this, and I’m reasonably sure I was told the same thing he was! Wasn’t I? I’ll kill him! I swear to God, I’ll kill Penn for this! And if it was her idea, I’ll kill her, too!”
Cordoba had pulled out his cell phone and he was talking urgently to one of his aides, trying to find out what had happened. But he paused a moment to comment, “Sir, may I point out that threatening the life of the President of the United States and the First Lady, within hearing distance of the Secret Service standing just outside the door, may not be the brightest of maneuvers, even if you’re the Vice President.”
Stockwell growled in annoyance, and as Cordoba went back to his conversation, the Vice President paced past the screen, staring at it with cold and growing anger. “You smug son of a bitch,” he snarled at Arthur’s image. “Had to go for the big show, didn’t you? Had to go for something that would knock them flat.”
“I just spoke to Nellie Porter,” Cordoba said, flipping shut his phone.
“Porter? She’s the First Lady’s woman! What does she—?”
Trying to steady the incensed Vice President, Cordoba put his hands up in a placating manner, which only irritated Stockwell even more. “She’s who I was able to get on the phone and she was in the limo with the President. She said Mrs. Penn was concerned that CNN was going to air the story first. Break it before any of us said anything, and we’d be playing catch-up. Mrs. Penn suggested that he say something during the State of the Union, emphasizing that it wasn’t definite. You heard him. He put in qualifiers.”
“Qualifiers?” He pointed at the TV screen. The congressmen were still on their feet, applauding. He had a feeling it was going to be a record for length of an ovation. “You mean just because he said ‘apparently.’ You think ‘apparently’ is going to mean a damned thing to that? That stupid—”
“All right, that’s enough!” Cordoba said so sharply that it brought Stockwell up short. “He made a judgment call! And since he’s the goddamn President, he gets to goddamn do that! You want to vent? You want to call him an asshole for making a decision that you don’t agree with? Fine. Then you do it here, or you do it in private with him, but the moment we walk out there, or you find cameras stuck in your face, you smile and you suck it up and you keep your feelings to yourself, you got it?”
“How dare you . . .”
“Yeah, how dare I. I’m the chief of staff,” said Ron sarcastically. “That’s what I do. I dare. And that ass kicking is still available.”
Stockwell glared at him, then turned his back, but di
dn’t want to look at the screen, either. He moved through the room, shaking his head, saying, “Damn fool thing” over and over again. Cordoba simply stood there, apparently deciding that the best thing to do was let Stockwell vent and get it out of his system.
The State of the Union went on for another forty-three minutes, and eventually Stockwell’s anger lapsed into frustrated muttering. When he finally sat on the couch, he simply crossed his arms tightly, looking for all the world like an oversized five-year-old who was incensed because he wasn’t getting candy.
“It was damned stupid,” he finally said. “And I just hope to hell we don’t wind up with more damage control than we can handle if it turns out Sandoval is still sucking oxygen.”
“So do I,” Cordoba said neutrally.
Having concluded the State of the Union, Arthur was drinking in the ovation that greeted him as he slowly made his way back up the way he’d come in. Gwen was waiting for him on the aisle, and he put out an arm to her. She wrapped her arm around his, and Stockwell, for all his annoyance at the situation, had to admit reluctantly that they were a handsome couple.
“He doesn’t understand, Ronald,” Stockwell said finally, as the coverage switched to outside the Capitol building. All things considered, he thought he was sounding rather calm. It might have been that the shots he’d been consuming were helping to take the edge off as well. “After all this time, he still goes in for spectacle. Still goes in for the big gesture, the big moment. He doesn’t fully understand what governing is. The small compromises, the little moments. He still orders people around as if he was . . .”
“King?” suggested Ron.
“Yes, that’s exactly right. And it just makes you wonder about the long-term health of his presidency—”
That was when they heard the shrieks.
On the screen, Arthur and Gwen were heading for the limo, ringed as always by their protectors, and suddenly there was screaming on the TV screen. Arthur seemed to be looking around, and Gwen fell against him, and everyone was shouting at once and the Secret Service men had drawn in, obscuring them from view, hustling them toward the limo. Cordoba was on his feet, eyes wide, his cell phone ringing, and there was a faint buzz in Stockwell’s head because he hadn’t fully processed what he’d seen yet . . .