Freedom's Sons

by H. A. Covington

  This wasn’t unusual, in the White House or elsewhere. Georgia knew perfectly well from the age of fifteen that she was a stunner. She was accustomed to virtually all men reacting to her in a certain way that without a single politically incorrect or even impolite word made it quite clear what they were envisioning about her in their minds—except for Bob Campbell, who appeared to be well and truly Married with a capital M, which she admired and envied in him. She had discovered at a young age that she could use her beauty to get what she wanted from men, anything from drugs to a passing grade in algebra. Tonight she just had to use it to get close enough to two men to plant something on them while they were sufficiently distracted not to notice.

  During her stay at the White House Georgia had picked up on the fact that as in all hierarchies, there were rules, there were pigeonholes, and she had her own pigeonhole. She had been there three months and she was now a known quantity. She might as well have worn a sign on her back marked “Private Stock,” but that meant her role was known to both the Jewish and the Christian gun thug. They knew who she was, they were used to seeing her around, and they would not suspect her after a single apparently accidental encounter, unlike SAIC Lee Lyons and the huge negro gunman Hadding, who seemed to suspect everyone. It was the only plan she could think of, and it would have to do.

  But where to find them? They would be somewhere nearby in the West Wing, since they would be expected to escort their primaries home after the meeting. There was a kind of bullpen in the security control room in the basement, with a break room, where Secret Servicemen on lunch breaks who didn’t feel like working out in the White House gym hung out. It included a small in-house bar with a prized indoor smoking permit, although only liquor and marijuana cigarettes were allowed and only then when an agent was officially off the clock. No tobacco. At least that much lip service was paid to the law in the seat of government. The president and his senior staff were, of course, allowed to have a nice relaxing and flavorful Cohiba in the Oval Office, or anywhere else, but the lower ranks had to make do with the White House’s unofficial smoking area in the Rose Garden.

  That’s it! thought Georgia. The Rose Garden! She had seen both Agent Pettis and Mordecai Kravitsky in the Rose Garden puffing away, although Kravitsky flaunted his Judaic privilege by smoking pretty much anywhere in the White House he chose. Georgia knew this because the man smoked god-awful Russian latakia cigarettes called papirosy, and you could always tell when he’d just passed by in the corridor because it smelled as if the carpet was on fire. Maybe she could find both of the gunmen smoking in the Rose Garden. With any luck, she could misdirect them long enough to plant the GPS trackers on them. If she saw Kravitsky she even knew what approach she’d use with him. She would ask him to recommend a good Israeli restaurant to which she could take her stepfather and stepsister Talia for Marvin’s birthday. Her mother too, if Amber weren’t too drunk or doped.

  Georgia got up from her desk and turned off the computer, put down her headphones, and drew her own cigarette pack from her purse. With careful thought, she considered putting one of the small chips inside the paper wrapping and trying the “keep the pack” trick when one of her targeted individuals asked her for a cigarette, which would have worked fine on TV, but how was she to get one of them to ask her for a cigarette, especially since the Israeli smoked those hideous Russian things? Plus she had no idea what brand Pettis smoked. No, she would have to place the trackers into both men’s pockets, or some other secure location.

  Georgia now had at least a semi-legitimate if illegal reason for being in the West Wing; if challenged she could claim she just wanted an evening stroll in the lovely Rose Garden, and count on the Secret Serviceman or staff member to take in the smoldering cigarette butt in her hand. If she’d light up a joint it would be legal and would make more sense; the Rose Garden was a beautiful place to get high even on a muggy Washington summer night. But Georgia feared that even one toke would set her back down on the spiral she had leaped off at Bobby Campbell’s request three months before, and so she elected to inhale a carcinogen that would destroy her lungs instead of a narcotic that would fry her brain. She strolled down the corridor past the Secret Serviceman at the desk, knocked perfunctorily on the door of the Oval Office, and when she got no answer she ran her pass card through the lock. Georgia had recently obtained Oval Office access on her card, although she did not know that President Wallace had granted it as a slap at Lee Lyons and his suspicions of her. She opened the door and walked right through, then out the French doors into the dark steam bath of the Rose Garden, pausing to flick her Bic and light her cigarette with a flourish right in front of the security camera.

  Even at this time of night, she was not the only smoker in the garden. There were half a dozen other White House employees, from cleaning staff to policy wonks, strolling up and down the graveled walks or sitting on the stone benches by the discreet ash cans, in the easy confraternity of the American smoke hole. Georgia quietly did a circuit of the garden, nodding to people of her acquaintance. At first she thought she was out of luck, and she began feverishly to turn over in her mind any other possible place she might run into either Agent Pettis or Mordecai Krivitsky. But then she saw Pettis sitting on one of the stone benches, a forbidden Tiparillo in his teeth. She sat down beside him. “Hi,” she said. “Agent Pettis, isn’t it?”

  “Yes ma’am, and you’re Ms. Halberstam,” said Pettis almost bashfully, ashamed of the sinful and impure thoughts he had entertained in his mind regarding this young woman, doubtless temptations sent by the devil. He was a trim and well-built man with a short reddish crew cut, wearing the usual impeccable Secret Service suit and tie that marked his calling as much as any bemedalled general’s uniform.

  “You like cigars?” she asked, nodding at the Tiparillo.

  “When I can get them,” he said. “I can’t get them often, though.”

  “Lee Lyons a hard-nose about the Demon Weed?” said Georgia with a merry laugh. “Well, you are an officer of the law and all that, you know.”

  “Lee knows I smoke. Half the agents on the detail do. The smoking itself he looks the other way about. He says we need to keep alert at all times and jonesing for a cigarette interferes with our job performance. But he doesn’t approve of any of his people dealing with buttleggers to buy tobacco, since after all they’re criminals, and so we kind of have to scrounge. Most of us have a deal going with somebody at the TEA to slip us confiscated contraband out of the evidence lockup for cash under the table, but good cigars are hard to come by, at least at the prices they charge.”

  “You mean you don’t get a law enforcement discount?” asked Georgia with a giggle, slipping the blue-striped GPS chip into her palm in case she got a chance to plant it.

  “Not from those hustlers at TEA, we don’t,” said Pettis, shaking his head mournfully.

  “Uh, look, Agent Pettis, I’m not a cop, and I got a solid connection for the plant life, so I can get you whatever you want. Cohibas, Macanudos, Havanas, you name it, and I’ll let you have them for what I pay for them,” offered Georgia. “How’s that for a law enforcement discount?”

  “Well, I might just take you up on that, ma’am,” said Pettis interested.

  “Uh, you’re on the Chief of Staff’s detail, right?” asked Georgia.

  “Yes. Why?” he replied.

  “Isn’t that Mr. Schiff in the Oval Office?” asked Georgia innocently, pointing to the French doors, where she had in fact detected some movement inside. Pettis turned to look. Georgia deliberately blanked out her mind so she wouldn’t think about what she was doing or hesitate, and she deftly slipped the blue bug into Pettis’s jacket pocket. Her hand did not tremble. Pettis got up and stubbed out the remains of his Tiparillo in the ash can.

  “The meeting might have broken up. I didn’t get the call, but I’d better go check and see if the boss is clocking out for the night,” he said. “Can you get your guy to price some of those Havanas you mentioned? I haven’t s
moked a rolled Havana in years.”

  “I’ll ask next time I see him,” she promised. He walked off toward the Oval Office. Georgia took out her phone and quickly texted Blue on COS main goon and driver, called up a photo of an androgynous rock star who performed wearing nothing but a huge strap-on dildo and painted over the WPB message, then texted to Talia He’ll be at the JFK Center reception, make sure Marvin brings you, then sent the message. Then she finished her cigarette and watched for Pettis to re-appear. He didn’t.

  Pettis actually interrupted a heated discussion in the Oval Office between President Hunter Wallace, Ronald Schiff, and Angela Herrin. Ronald looked up as Pettis came in and said, “Oh, good, I was about to call you, Elmore. I’m outta here.” Schiff got up. “Mr. President, you have a choice. You can make history during your Fourth of July address tomorrow by announcing that the missiles have been launched and the war is over except for the mopping up, that you have kept your lifelong promise to the American people and reunified the nation, and that a ghastly mistake which was made twelve years ago has been corrected. You can then rest assured of a third term, a fourth, who knows? The sky is the limit for the man who serves the Chosen of God, as you used to understand. Or else you can come across as a mumbling schmuck and announce that we fucked up, that the United States of America is going to crawl on our bellies to devils in human form, and from now humanity has to live with a nation-state based on a moral inversion that will poison the rest of history with an antediluvian hatred that should have perished from the earth forever in 1945, but which you are too spineless to end.” He turned to Angela Herrin. “Maybe you can talk some sense into him. Mr. President, tomorrow afternoon I am going to sit down with Senator Nivens and talk about his future. It’s up to you what I tell him.” Schiff stalked out of the room.

  Angela sighed in exasperation. “Hunter, why won’t you do this for us? You’ve always been so reasonable about everything else we’ve asked of you? Why balk at this one last favor?”

  Wallace’s face was that of a small, stubborn little boy. “Number one, because I don’t appreciate being bullied, Angela. I know that the world owes a historic debt to the Jewish people and I have always been willing for this country to pay it, especially after what that bird-brained bimbo Chelsea did. But you might remember who is in fact the actual President of the United States, and you might at least show a little respect instead of treating me like a six-year-old who won’t eat his vegetables! The second thing is that you and Ronnie are being as brave as lions with my ass, and don’t you think I don’t know it! I’m the one who’s going to get the blame for the Canadians probably having to permanently evacuate the city of Vancouver, I’m the one who’s going to have to carry the can for all the fallout and somehow find the money to pay compensation and to repair the damage all over the country, and that means I’m the one who is going to go down in history as the trigger-happy president who couldn’t find any other way to win the great game besides kicking over the table! You realize there are going to be survivors, at least a few, and that at least some of them are going to be kids? What kind of optics will that make on CNN?”

  “We won’t let them get on TV, and anyway they’re racist kids,” said Angela. “Kids who were going to be raised as racists and Jew-haters if you hadn’t stepped in.”

  “Do you think the bulk of the American people have sense enough to grasp that, Angela?” demanded Wallace. “Christ, you of all people should know what dumb-asses they are! You’ve helped me pull the wool over their eyes often enough. That’s all I need, heart-rending pictures on the six o’clock news of cute little white kiddies with radiation burns! What do you think that will do to my approval ratings?”

  “Hunter, you know damned well we can give you any ratings you want!” said Angela impatiently. “We can give you a ninety-nine point nine percent approval rating if you like, although I wouldn’t recommend it since we do need to retain a little credibility. We can shit-can any media coverage of radiation-burned kiddies. We can assure you the biggest re-election landslide in American history—we count the votes, remember? I always thought you got it—we can do anything we want, morally because we are God’s Chosen people, and practically because we’re smarter than everybody else. But you have to work with us on this.”

  The phone on Wallace’s desk rang and he hit the intercom. “Yes?” he said irritably.

  “Admiral Brava for you,” said a voice. Wallace picked up the receiver. “Yes, Admiral.” He listened for a minute. “Dear Christ in Heaven!” he moaned. “I’ll be right down.” He stood up.

  “What is it?” asked Angela.

  “The racists have launched a major assault on Anaconda,” said Wallace. “They’re attacking from the west with the setting sun behind them. Planes, rockets, and they’ve brought in their crack SS units and Panzers. It looks like they’re trying to wipe out a whole American army in some kind of Custer’s Last Stand, and from what little communication is getting through to the Centcom in the Pentagon, they may succeed. Also, the Anaconda relief column has been enveloped by the enemy army from Wyoming and they seem to be falling apart.”

  “In God’s name, you shlumpf, what will it take to make you do what has to be done?” shouted Angela angrily. “Patterson has the football in his safe, just down the hall! He can be here in twenty minutes, along with General Fein and Colonel Rabinowitz!” The briefcase containing the nuclear attack codes for the U.S. Strategic Defense Command was called the “football.” For years it had been carried everywhere with the President of the United States by an aide, but in the year 1998, Bill Clinton had become distracted by the Monica Lewinsky scandal and lost the briefcase somewhere, after which it was kept either in the Pentagon, or in the office safe of the White House military attaché, who in this administration was Lieutenant Colonel Pat Patterson. After an incident in which Hillary Clinton attempted to stave off impeachment proceedings by attacking China, but was talked down by her lesbian lover of the time, only the attaché had the combination to the safe. In order to get the briefcase with the codes, the President had to convince the attaché and two other field grade officers that he or she was neither insane nor under the influence of drugs or liquor. Wallace started at the names of the other officers, two of the highest-ranking Jews in the military. Fein was Quartermaster General, a position he apparently parlayed into an eight-figure income that was the target of intermittent media reports and Congressional investigations, while Rabinowitz was a public relations specialist. “Got your own crew standing by, eh, Angela?” demanded Wallace. “Don’t you trust Scheisskopf and Brava to sign off that I’ve got all my marbles?”

  “They’re interested parties,” said Angela. “Too interested. They might make problems. Best to present them with a fait accompli.”

  Wallace shook his finger at her. “You see! That’s—that’s what the fuck I’m talking about, making all these plans without consulting me, like I was just a glove and you’re the hand!” He stormed out.

  In the meantime Georgia had strolled calmly up to the French doors of the Oval Office, figuring she’d try the White House mess to see if she could locate Mordecai Kravitsky there, but when she looked through the glass panes she was astounded to see none other than Angela Herrin herself standing on the famous carpet with the Presidential seal, staring after the departing president, mad as a wet hen. Alone. Bob once told me that when the white man began to fight back, somehow, his luck changed and things started to fall into place, Georgia thought. Jesus, I guess he was right! How lucky is this?

  Georgia had no idea how she’d pull this off, and there were of course cameras inside the Oval Office as well as audio recorders, but she palmed the red-striped chip in her left hand, opened the French doors and stepped inside. Angela turned and saw her. “You lost, blondie?” the Jewess snarled.

  “No, Ms. Herrin, there was nothing on TV so I decided I’d go have a smoke in the Rose Garden,” said Georgia calmly.

  “Well, you need to get your ass back up to the reside
nce bedroom. That’s your work station, I believe?” said Angela icily. This was clearly not an invitation for a cozy chat. Georgia didn’t see how she could prolong the encounter much less slip the GPS on the woman, and so in her mind she switched back to Plan B and figured she’d go find Kravitsky. Georgia started to move around her without a word to leave the room, but suddenly Angela took her arm, and on her face was a careful, rueful smile.

  “Wait! I’m sorry, Ms. Halberstam, that was inexcusably rude of me, and I apologize,” she said. Georgia was astounded at how quickly the Jewish woman did a complete 180 in attitude. “I’ve been having a very bad day, a terrible day, in fact, and I took it out on you. Please forgive me. I know we don’t know one another, but do you mind if we sit down and have a little talk? I’m going to have a drink. God knows I need one. How about you?” She moved to the presidential sideboard.

  “I’ll just take a ginger ale or a club soda or something,” said Georgia, sliding carefully down into an armchair in one corner if the office, facing another chair. It was the first time since she had been at the White House that anybody had ever invited her to sit down in the Oval Office itself.

  “Suit yourself,” said Angela, going to the sideboard and pouring out a ginger ale and then hefting a liquor bottle over a glass. “I’m having a large V&T myself.” She came over and handed Georgia the ginger ale, then sat down and took a heavy slug of her vodka and tonic. “Ms. Halberstam, I’m hoping you can help me. I’m hoping you want to help me, and help the country as well. I understand that you’re from Montana originally, and that you and your mother had to flee from your home state when the Nazis took over twelve years ago?”