They Eat Puppies, Don't They?

by Christopher Buckley

  “Walter?” she said, suddenly in a very different tone.

  “Yes, darling?”

  “If you’re going to AA meetings, why are you drinking an old-fashioned?”

  Aaaa-oooo-gah! Aaaaa-oooo-gah! Dive! Dive!

  “Oh, this?”

  “Yes, Walter. That.”

  “They said it was all right to have one or two. On the weekend. But absolutely no driving. And no references to Equus. Ha ha.”

  “They told you that, at AA?”

  “Um-hm.”

  “That it’s all right to drink on weekends?”

  “In moderation. But no operating heavy machinery.”

  “I’ve never heard of AA advocating anything like that.”

  “Well,” Bird said, “maybe I was reading between the lines. Want me to do the chicken?”

  “Walter, talk to me. You’re going to AA and you’re drinking bourbon. This is not processing for me.”

  “Speaking of processing, where’s the Cuisinart?”

  “Walter!”

  “Aw, baby, come on, it’s not like I’m a falling-down drunk.”

  “You were that night at the club.”

  “Okay, aside from that one night at the club. One of the things I learned at AA is that I’m what they call a high-functioning alcoholic. And high-earning!” He grinned. “This project I’ve been working on? I think we’re going to have a very nice Christmas this year. How about we go away? St. Barts? Virgin Islands? Someplace where you could wear one of those thongy things?”

  “I just don’t know about you, Walter. Sometimes I think I do, and then you go and do something and I feel I’m back to square one.”

  Bird wondered if this, too, was something for which he should apologize. Why not?

  “I take ownership of that,” he said manfully. “Yes. I will try to be more figure-outable from here on. Where are you going?”

  “Upstairs.”

  “What about dinner?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  Should he apologize for this, too?

  No. Enough with the prostration. But should he take this opportunity to fix himself another old-fashioned? Yes!

  An hour later he was in the den watching footage of angry crowds burning effigies outside various Chinese embassies around the world when Myndi entered the room.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “I didn’t mean to be a bitch. Sorry.”

  “Oh, no big deal. Come sit.”

  She sat on the arm of his chair. She looked at the drink in Bird’s hand. “Is that your first drink, Walter?”

  “Myn. Cease-fire.”

  She shook her head in the manner of a wife inured to disappointment. “Can we at least watch something other than that?”

  “Absolutely.” Bird channel-surfed. Several clicks later, Angel’s face came on the screen, a most unwelcome development. He pressed the Channel Up button quickly, but Myndi said, “No, go back.”

  “I thought you didn’t like her.”

  “I hate her. But she’s funny, in an awful sort of way.”

  Bird channeled back down. The remote felt like a hand grenade with the pin pulled.

  “Actually, Chris,” Angel was saying, “there’s a whole range of things the U.S. government can do to put pressure on Beijing over this.”

  “Like what?”

  “Student visas. There’s an area where we can exert great pressure on Beijing. You do know that the Chinese are complete snobs when it comes to American education. Just the other day, the chairman of the China Development Bank announced—he actually announced it—that from now on they were only going to give internships to Chinese with degrees from Harvard or MIT.” Angel snorted majestically. “There’s Chinese Communism for you.” She laughed. “Hear that sound? That’s Chairman Mao rotating in his grave. Another area where we can put pressure on them? Sports.”

  Myndi said, “I so hate her.”

  CHAPTER 30

  HOW MANY HELLS HAVE WE BEEN THROUGH TOGETHER?

  Caught you on Hardball Friday,” Bird said.

  “Mm.”

  It was late Monday night. They were snuggled in bed. Angel was having her very first sleepover at the Military-Industrial Duplex. Her son, Barry, was off at his first sleepaway camp, where, Bird mused, the counselors probably read to the kids at bedtime from the works of Ayn Rand.

  It was going on midnight, after many pleasant hours of what the late President Nixon used to call “fornicating.” The bedroom air had been serially rent with cries and moans of “Oh, Randolph!” Bird’s curiosity over the provenance of this bizarre sobriquet was fast approaching the point of need-to-know. But for the moment there was a more pressing matter. He waited until Angel’s system was awash in endorphins.

  “Ange,” he said, “I was wondering . . .”

  “Mm?”

  “Would you do me a favor?”

  “Mm.” Angel brushed a tangle of blond hair from her face so she could see him.

  “Could you lay off the bit about how the U.S. ought to cancel sports events?”

  “Why?” Her voice was dreamy with aftersex.

  “No special reason. Just for me?”

  Angel did the fingernail thing across his lips. “But, darling, you always get so cross with me when I advocate nuclear war. What’s the big deal with scrubbing a few soccer matches?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Just seems kind of unfair to take it out on the athletes. Not their fault. And all that training they do.”

  “War is hell, darling,” Angel purred. “Is there more champagne for Momma?”

  Bird toddled off naked and returned with two glasses full of expensive French bubbles. He slipped back under the duvet. He sat for a moment, paralyzed by the trigonometry requisite for simultaneous mendacity with wife and lover. This was a higher—or lower—math than he had heretofore attempted.

  “Okay,” he said, flummoxed. “Truth time.”

  “Um,” Angel said, “not sure I like the sound of that.”

  “Remember I told you about Myndi making the U.S. team?”

  “Um. Yes. And how proud of her you were.”

  “Ange. Come on. Remember the Tang Cup? The horse thing, in Xi’an? Xi’an, China?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “It’s in six weeks.”

  “How time flies.”

  “Myndi’s completely freaking out that it’s going to get canceled, because of all this.”

  “Um. That would be a tragedy.”

  “Ange.”

  “Yes, darling?”

  “If it gets canceled . . . if my name comes out in connection with all this . . . to say nothing of coming out in connection with you . . .”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Hello? She’s my wife.”

  Angel was doodling on his chest with a fingernail. “It must be wonderful”—she smiled—“being so happily married.”

  “All I’m asking is just not to screw up my marriage.”

  Angel began to laugh.

  “What?” Bird said.

  “ ‘Please don’t screw up my marriage’? Did you really just say that to me? In your bed? After three hours of epic sex?”

  “Fair enough. Let me rephrase . . .”

  “No.” Angel put a finger to his lips. “It’s perfect. Leave it.”

  Bird lay there cursing himself. As his lips parted to improvise some apology, hers closed in on them. His relief was as acute as the pleasure. Apparently he was forgiven. Soon the air was rent with cries of “Randolph!” No, this was not the time to ask. Let it go. Sometime after one o’clock, Eros did the handoff to Morpheus.

  Bird woke, thirsty. Looked at the clock—4:33 a.m. How precise, our digital age. No longer can we say, It must have been sometime after four, anyway.

  He reached over for Angel, but her side of the bed was empty. There was a faint light coming from the kitchen. He rose and padded in.

  She was at the counter, laptop open before her, bathing her in weird bluish li
ght. She had on one of his shirts, unbuttoned. She looked so lovely. Was that his laptop?

  “Whatcha doing?” He yawned.

  “Reading.”

  “It’s late. Come back to bed. Randolph is lonely.”

  No answer.

  “Any news?” he said.

  He went over and stood behind her. Peered at the screen. It didn’t look like a website. He blinked, wiped sleep gunk from his eyes.

  With a grunt of stifled pain, Turk tightened the tourniquet around his thigh. Through gritted teeth, he said to Gomez, “The timer’s set for 0130 hours. When those muons start activating, everything within five miles of here is going to be Sayonara City. Take the men and get out of here.”

  “Major!” Gomez shouted above the bom-bom-bom of the Kalashnikovs, bullets zipping past their heads. “We can carry you!”

  “That’s an order, soldier!” Turk looked into Gomez’s dark Latino irises. “Ramon—how many hells have we been through together, you and me?”

  “Too many, Major,” returned the dolorous reply.

  Turk winked. “Then what’s one more?”

  Gomez felt the lump rise in his throat like a mole burrowing toward the surface. His eyes flooded with lava-hot tears.

  “Get out of here,” Turk commanded. “Go on.”

  Gomez nodded. He began to crawl toward the edge of the bomb crater, where Mac and Dex and Slug huddled, lobbing grenades at their attackers.

  “Ramon!” Turk called out.

  “Yes, Major?”

  “Tell Betty that I . . . tell her . . . tell that bitch she’s a sorry-ass excuse for a warrant officer.” He grinned. “You tell her that.”

  A smile crept across Gomez’s blood-splattered face. His right hand slowly rose to his forehead as he saluted the man he called “Major,” perhaps for the last time.

  “Bird,” Angel said, “what is this?”

  Bird reached over and folded the lid of the laptop shut. “Reading other people’s laptops? Ange, really.”

  “I wasn’t prying. I woke up. It was lying here on the counter. I was going to check and see if there were any developments. This was on the screen. I didn’t go rummaging through your hard drive. Is this your . . . novel?”

  “No. It’s a memo to my accountant about my taxes. Yes it’s my novel.”

  “This muon thing, that’s set to go off at 0130 hours?”

  Oops. “What about it?”

  “Did you get that from Project Taurus?”

  “Well, sort of.”

  “But it’s top secret.”

  “Extremely top secret.”

  “And you’re putting it in a novel? Is Chick Devlin going to be happy about this? Never mind Chick. Is the U.S. government going to be happy about this?”

  “I’m not going to publish it until . . . after.”

  “After what?”

  “The Times story. By your Mr. Tierney. The one you sicced on me.”

  Angel frowned. “What does he know about Taurus?”

  “He was going to expose Pan-Pacific Solutions. Which wouldn’t have done me any good. Or you. Or your institute for perpetual war. So I tossed him a red herring. Taurus. He was more interested in that than another sleazy Washington lobbyist story.”

  “Red herring? Bird. You fed him a two-thousand-pound tuna.”

  “I called Chick. To give him a heads-up.”

  “And was he thrilled when you told him that you’d blown his top-secret project—to a newspaper reporter?”

  “Initially? No, I wouldn’t describe him as the happiest camper in Missile Gap, Alabama. But when great minds get together, great things result. With a little luck, everyone’ll come out a winner.”

  Angel shook her head. “You’re riding the tiger. No, you’re holding onto its tail. Better not let go.”

  Bird yearned to tell Angel that the muons were his invention; that any day now, the Times would be informing the world that the United States was working on a spectacular new weapon that he—novelist Walter Bird McIntyre—had himself devised. But a cautionary voice whispered, Um, no.

  “So,” he said, “what did you think?”

  “Think about what?” Angel seemed a little dazed. Well, it was late. Indeed, there was the dawn’s first light rising blue and orange behind the Capitol Building.

  “Of the novel.”

  “Oh. Action-packed.”

  “You liked it?”

  “Um-hm.”

  “You can see that I’m going for a more literary style than your typical techno-thriller.”

  Angel stared at Bird. “Yes,” she said, “I got that.” Her eyes were darting about like guppies in a fish tank.

  “Curious how it’s going to turn out?”

  Angel nodded. “Uh-huh.”

  “What I’m thinking is that Turk should—”

  “Darling, why don’t you not tell me? So’s not to spoil the surprise.”

  “Okay. Truth is, I don’t know yet how it’s going to end myself. But being as how I’m taking it in a literary direction, I’m tempted to go tragic.”

  “Right.”

  “Remember the ending in For Whom the Bells Toll? Robert Jordan and Maria at the bridge? Robert telling her to go on ahead, he’ll be right along? And of course he’s mortally wounded. He’s not going anywhere. Good stuff.”

  “Um,” Angel said.

  “The only thing is, it’s kind of a downer.”

  “Yes, tragedy tends to be down.”

  “When you spend all this time creating characters, you get close to them. It’s like they’re real. It’s not easy just to blow them all up.”

  “Yes, I imagine that must be hard.”

  Bird grinned. “I’m thinking of changing his name.”

  “Whose?”

  “Turk. To Randolph.”

  A look of alarm came over Angel. “Oh. No. No. Please don’t do that.”

  “I thought you liked the name?”

  “I do. Darling, it’s sweet of you. But Tork is a much better name for him.”

  “Turk.”

  “Turk.” She smiled. “I love the way he just keeps going, with all those wounds.” Angel yawned. “I hope he makes it home, but if you decide he needs to die, I’m sure it will be very moving. And the woman, Brenda—”

  “Betty.”

  “She’s great. Can’t wait to see how it ends.” Angel looked out at the lightening sky and groaned. “Tell me that’s not the sunrise. I always feel like such a vampire.”

  “Oh? Are you often awake at this hour?”

  Angel got up, gave him a businesslike peck on the cheek. “Bit early for trick questions, darling.” She padded off to the bedroom. “Momma must skedaddle. Back to her coffin.”

  CHAPTER 31

  NOT ONE WORD OF TRUTH IN THE ENTIRE THING

  Rogers P. Fancock glowered at the headline. On top of everything—this?

  U.S. SAID TO BE DEVELOPING SUPERWEAPON;

  “MUON DEVICE” USES SUBATOMIC PARTICLES,

  CAUSING STEEL AND ARMOR “TO EVAPORATE”

  Project Taurus Called a “Preemption Platform”

  to Counter “Alarming” Chinese Military Buildup

  Fancock read, lips pursing, his mood darkening with each paragraph. Bletchin stood by nervously as his chief read.

  “Bletchin. Get me Admiral Doggett on the secure line. No, on second thought, why bother with the secure line anymore? What secrets do we have left at this point? Get me a megaphone. I’ll bellow at him across the goddamned Potomac River.”

  “Sir?”

  “Just get him, Bletchin. Any line will do.”

  A few minutes later, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff came on the secure line.

  “Yes, Dave,” Fancock said, “I am calling about the Times story. Rather thought you might have called me first. Well, yes, I imagine you are busy. It’s a busy time for all of us, isn’t it? Just have one quick question for you: What the hell? I was under the impression, which is to say, I’d been told, straight out, that Taur
us was highly, highly classified. It is? Then why am I reading about muons melting Chinese naval vessels, in the New York Times? . . . Uh-huh . . . Uh-huh. And whose brainstorm was—. . . Devlin? I understand it’s Groepping’s project, Dave. But inasmuch as we’re footing the goddamned bill, where does Chick Devlin get off concocting his own damned cover story? Things are tense enough right now without the Chinese thinking we’re cooking up some kind of death ray to melt their ships. You’re darn tooting right I’m upset.” Fancock sighed. “I’ll try to figure something out this end. The president’s not at all pleased about this . . . No, Dave, I’m not suggesting that we scrap Taurus. If anything, we probably ought to get the goddamn thing launched and online, asap. At this point we may need to knock out their goddamn grid sooner rather than later. Keep me posted.”

  Fancock was rereading the odious article for the third time and lining up his ducks when Bletchin’s voice piped up over the intercom.

  “Sir, it’s Ambassador Ding.”

  “Oh, God,” Fancock groaned.

  “It’s him personally, sir, on the line. He’s insisting that he speak with you. I tried to put him off, but—”

  “Thank you, Bletchin. Now my happiness is complete.”

  Fancock took a deep breath and stabbed the blinking button.

  “Ding, old friend,” he said, “how very good to hear your voice . . . Aha . . . Uh-huh . . . Indeed I did see it. I was just about to give you a call . . . Well, that makes two of us. Three, including the president . . . Of course I deny it. Not one word of truth in the entire article . . . Uh-huh . . . Ding . . . Ding . . . Ding. Please. Hear me out. Hear me out . . . Well, I’m sorry that’s how they’re reacting in Beijing, but—. . . I appreciate that President Fa is doing his best to keep a lid on things. I’m doing a bit of tamping down myself here, you know . . . Ding. Steady hand on the tiller . . .”

  A few minutes later, Fancock was in the Oval Office. The president looked tired. Everyone did. Even Ajax and Achilles, the presidential dachshunds, appeared exhausted, asleep, as usual, on the couch.

  The president glanced up and went back to his paperwork. “Yes, Rog?”

  Deep breath. “I thought you’d like to know that our little deception plan to protect Taurus appears to have succeeded.” Fancock explained about the Times story and the muons, leaving out only the essential details.