The General's President (5 page)

There'd also been a siege, of "La Raza" paras who'd captured and fortified a country jail in rural New Mexico. There was no footage of the firefight, but a silent camera, after the fact, showed the heavily pockmarked building, and inside, rooms shattered by rockets and grenades, large bloodstains on the floor. Most of the seventeen paras there had died. The military force had been a national guard company whose troops were also from northern New Mexico.

Interesting, Haugen thought. It was as if people were reacting against the destructive violence of the few, even when the few were their own. Perhaps most of them were ready to try keeping the machinery going, trying to survive.

Coverage had shifted to central L.A. when the phone buzzed. Haugen touched a key to cut the sound volume from the TV, then answered the phone. His secretary's voice issued from the speaker.

"Mr. Haugen, there's a General Cromwell for you on line one."

A puzzled frown touched Haugen's face. "Thanks, John, I'll take it." He hadn't seen Jumper Cromwell for—it had been three years in September. He touched the blinking key, and the general's face appeared on the phone screen. "Good morning, Jumper. What can I do for you?"

At his end, Cromwell was renewing his image of Haugen's face: broad, with high strong cheekbones, a wide mouth with the thin lips of age. The nose was somewhat flattened and slightly crooked, probably a souvenir of some long-ago brawl.

"It is a pretty good morning here at that," Cromwell answered, "compared to the last couple. Arne, can you fly to Washington today? If I send a plane for you."

"Fly to Washington? What for, Jumper?"

"It's confidential. I can't tell you over the phone."

"Umh! How long would I be there?" Haugen's mind was reviewing his plans for the week as he asked.

"Maybe a day, maybe longer. Depends on what you decide to do after we've talked."

He wouldn't be asking me if it wasn't damned important—to him anyway.
Haugen told himself.
And for a day or two...

"Sure. I can do that. I suppose that'll be from Duluth International?"

"Right. I'll have you picked up at the Air National Guard Office. Just make yourself known to whoever's in charge. Or if there's any problem about getting there, I can have you picked up at home or your office."

"No. I'll have someone take me."

"Good. It's—what? Eight twenty-five there now?"

Haugen glanced at the clock. "Right."

"It's about a two-and-a-half-hour flight for the plane I'm sending, and it'll leave here in about an hour. Then say a half-hour layover at your end for refueling and whatever else the pilot has to do. You'll take off in about four or five hours from now."

Haugen's expression turned quizzical. "Five hours? Make it 5 p.m. instead." He was testing: The general seemed to be pushing for time; how urgent was this, really?

Cromwell's expression didn't change, but his mind raced. He wanted Haugen there while Donnelly was still rational. But if he pushed too hard, Haugen was likely to insist on knowing what it was about, and if he told him over the phone, five would get you ten he'd shy off.

"Okay, 5 p.m. will be fine," Cromwell said. "I'll see you tonight."

"I'll bring clothes for two days."

"Make it three days?"

"Three then." It made no difference. Arne Haugen always kept a bag packed and ready.

***

When they'd disconnected, the general realized his forehead was dewed with sweat.
What're the odds he'll tell you to go to hell, Cromwell?
he asked himself. He really really didn't want to accept the presidency himself. Because if he did, and couldn't make it work... He veered away from the thought.

***

Haugen sat back in his chair and watched a few more minutes of news—up till the weather forecast. The president was rumored to be ill. The latest unemployment figure was forty percent, but that was the week before the blowup; it might easily be fifty or sixty by now. The final games of the baseball season, plus the league playoffs and world series had all been cancelled, and Baltimore declared champion on the basis of the best record—101 wins. And the Iranian army had finally taken Baghdad; at least the Ayatollah Jalal had something to cheer about.

Then, after turning off the set, Arne Haugen reached and dialed his home. His wife answered. They hadn't had a maid recently; Lois had decided to try a twice-a-week cleaning service for the privacy it gave.

"Hey, Babe," he said, "I've got to fly out of town about four-thirty or five this afternoon. How about I take the rest of the day off? We can drive up the North Shore and enjoy the color, stop at Bjerke's for a late lunch, and come back."

"Oh?" Her brows had risen. "Well, I like the driving and eating part. Where are you flying to?"

"D.C."

"Hmh! Okay. Shall we drive the Elf? It doesn't ride like the Caddy, but I've hoarded enough gas coupons for a tank and a half."

"The Elf it is then. I'll be there in ten minutes."

They disconnected. He took his jacket and safety helmet off their hooks and started for the lot where his little Yamaha 250 was parked. He wasn't speculating on what the trip was about; he'd find out when he got there.

FIVE

As his wife drove him to the airport, Arne Haugen couldn't help wondering again what this was all about. Could Cromwell want him to take on some electronic project? He had no experience in weapons development, had never done anything for the Pentagon except pay taxes.

Maybe they'd gotten wind of the GPC.

When the DOD's executive jet arrived to pick him up—a beautiful little Rockwell T-39 without military markings—he found it was being flown by a bird colonel, and that really piqued Haugen's curiosity. A bird colonel detailed to shuttle a private businessman!

A brain-picking session maybe? Or did they want him as a technical advisor? But surely he didn't have that kind of reputation; he didn't even have a master's degree. And besides, this would be a strange time for Washington to have much attention on anything other than the domestic emergency. Except maybe Iran.

Maybe they
had
learned about the GPC. He'd just have to wait and see.

And why the secrecy?

After they'd taken off, he turned on his seat light and took Spider Robinson's latest novel from his small bag. He was a rapid reader; it would just about last him to Washington.

***

In Duluth, the October evening had been clear, with the promise of a hard freeze. Washington, by contrast, was under a miles-thick blanket of soggy cloud, and when they broke through the ceiling at Washington National Airport, it was raining hard.

The plane didn't taxi to the terminal; it stopped at the edge of a taxi strip. The copilot, a captain, came aft, picked up Haugen's larger suitcase, and carried it to the door, which he opened. Damnedest redcap he'd ever seen, Haugen decided. On the streaming concrete outside, a young man in civvies was waiting with a large umbrella. He took the suitcase from the captain, then promptly held the umbrella over the disembarking Haugen, in the process exposing himself to the rain.

They walked rapidly to a service entrance of the terminal. Inside the building, there were remarkably few people except for employees mostly standing around looking worried, as if they thought they might all be laid off. Haugen supposed they knew plenty who had been. The young man took him to a plain gray government sedan parked in a no-standing zone, and drove him through the downpour to the Airport Hilton. There he led him past registration without registering him.

Curiouser and curiouser, Haugen thought. They got off the elevator on the fifth floor and went to a room. By that time, Haugen wouldn't have been surprised at anything. The young man brought forth a key and opened the door.

Actually it was a suite. Jumper Cromwell, wearing civvies, was standing inside, waiting.

"Good evening, Arne. Using the expression loosely. Have a chair, it's your room."

"Don't mind if I do. Jumper, what the hell is this all about?"

The general looked at the young man who'd just put down Haugen's large suitcase. "Thanks, Steinhorn," Cromwell said. "Wait in the lobby. I may be here awhile."

Steinhorn saluted, about faced, and left.

"Arne," Cromwell said when the door had closed, "how's your health these days? I should have asked you when I had you on the phone earlier, but I was just assuming you were as healthy as when I'd last seen you."

"My health? Fine. Jumper, you didn't answer my question. What is this?"

Cromwell took a deep breath. "I guess the best way to tell you is to start at the beginning."

***

He took a few minutes to get to the big question,
 

describing and explaining his way there and rationalizing his evaluation of the kind of person needed, under the circumstances. All he left out was that he, Cromwell, would probably end up with the job if Haugen refused it. He didn't want to indicate any options at all. When he finally asked the question, he did so in an indirect way, hopeful of forestalling a quick negative. "You're the one I decided on, Arne. To be appointed vice president. I'll need your answer no later than tomorrow afternoon."

Haugen simply stared at him, unable at the moment to deal with it.

"Here's a copy of the enabling legislation," Cromwell added, handing him an envelope. "It's surprisingly short and concise. It'll give you an idea of the powers and potential you'd have in the job."

Haugen looked at the envelope in Cromwell's hand as if it might hold scorpions, then took it anyway, drew the two sheets of paper from it and began to read. Jumper Cromwell realized he'd been holding his breath, and exhaled covertly.
He may do it
, Cromwell thought.
He's considering it. Otherwise he wouldn't be reading the Emergency Powers Act.

Haugen skimmed it once, then read it more carefully. The powers were granted until Congress repealed them, but for no longer than one year unless extended by the Congress.

When he'd finished, Haugen put the sheets back in the envelope and looked at the general.

"This is for real, isn't it?" He shook his head slowly, not in the negative, but in amazement. "My god, Jumper, it's hard to believe this is happening to me. Or to anyone!"

"You don't need to answer now," Cromwell said. "Sleep on it if you'd like. And keep the envelope, in case you want to look at it again."

Haugen nodded slowly. "I will. Sleep on it. But one thing more: Why me?"

Cromwell smiled slightly. "First of all, Arne, there's the matter of time. I was only given two days; that's not time enough to do a big search. And beyond that, it seems to me you're as good a choice as any."

Haugen frowned. "Jumper, supposing I say no. You've sure as hell got an alternative in mind. Who is it?"

Cromwell exhaled gustily. "The option is... The option is
me
. Donnelly named me as vice president. I asked him for two days to find someone else. I don't think the people would go for me as president; not with this kind of power. People would be remembering every damn military dictator they'd ever heard of, most of them bad.

"Besides, the idea of it scares me silly. I wasn't that scared jumping behind Communist lines in Laos, twenty-five years ago."

SubliminaJly, Haugen's mind was sorting factors; he could feel it working. "And you actually think I can handle it?"

The general nodded soberly. "I really think you can."

"I've got no experience in government. Or politics."

"You're going to find government a lot less complicated to work with, with these emergency powers. And I'll get Donnelly's staff and cabinet to stay on long enough to brief you and teach you the ropes. Then you can bring in your own people if you want. Besides, like I said earlier, not having been involved in politics should be an advantage with the public. You can make it one, anyway.

"But you don't have to decide tonight. Sleep on it. I'll get your answer in the morning."

Cromwell had remained standing. Now he turned and disappeared into a dressing room. Haugen heard a refrigerator door close, and the general reappeared with a pint of Cutty Sark on a tray, along with two glasses and ice. "I remember you liked Scotch," he said, then put the tray down and poured two short drinks.

Silently they sipped. Then Cromwell got up again and gestured toward a closed door. "That's your bedroom in there." He stepped over to it, opened it, and spoke. "Sergeant Kearney, come out here."

Haugen stared, puzzled. A man emerged, of rather ordinary size and wearing civilian clothes, but Haugen knew at once this was no one to pick a fight with. Even in his youth, he told himself, he'd hardly have had a prayer, fighting Kearney.

"Yes sir, general," Kearney said.

"Meet an old friend of mine, sergeant. Arne Haugen. Arne, this is Sergeant First Class James Kearney."

Haugen took the proferred hand and shook it. "Glad to meet you, Jim," he said.

"Glad to meet you, sir." Haugen doubted the man's words meant anything beyond military courtesy.

"Sergeant Kearney will be your bodyguard tonight," Cromwell went on. "I'll come by at 0700. If it's a yes, we'll go to the Pentagon for breakfast; it's only about a mile from here. After we've eaten, we can go see the president from there."

Cromwell shook Haugen's hand and left, Haugen staring at the door as it closed behind him. Then, saying nothing more, he picked up the tray and went into the bedroom, coming back a minute later for his suitcases.

"Have a good night, sergeant," he said, and disappeared into the bedroom again.

***

Arne Haugen didn't go straight to bed however. Or have another drink right away. Instead he dialed long distance. Lois answered.

"Babe," he said, "they've offered me a job here.... That's right, in Washington. A house goes with it, and it won't last longer than a year, maybe less.... I can't tell you on the phone, honey; it's top secret. But it's important, and I have to say yes or no in the morning, so I need to know if you'd be willing to live here for a while....

"Well, I'm not sure. I think I might. It sounds really interesting.... Good. Thanks, Babe. I'll call you sometime tomorrow and tell you what I've decided.