Alternities (34 page)

He stopped in midstride and turned to face O’Neill. “Is that it, Gregory? Is that what I’m supposed to see?” he demanded, gesturing angrily.

“Am I supposed to believe every doom-and-gloom general who comes calling with a ten billion dollar end-all-and-be-all weapon-system blueprint in his pocket? Christ almighty, the best work you’ve done for me has been turning that kind away at the door. Now you want me to start believing that self—serving whining and cringing.”

“I want you to come to grips with the fact that Mongoose is going to start a war we’re not ready to fight.”

“Now, I don’t know what you mean by that,” Robinson said, settling back in his chair.

“I mean there’s no follow-up. What happens after the Q-plane repaves Red Square? Four hundred million people are not going to just throw their hands in the air and say, ‘Oh, well, you win, good game.’ You’ve got no plan—”

“Nonsense,” Robinson said. “Half the Pentagon does nothing but plan, and the other half wargames the plans. Thunderbolt. ABC 123. Charioteer. Omega. Are they just paper, or are they real?”

“They weren’t drawn up for this. Not for fighting a knife-in-the-back sneak attack.”

Robinson rested his elbows on the armrests and folded his hands at his waist. “There’s a copy of Thunderbolt in the comcom trailer. Would you like to reread it? It’s remarkably neutral on the subject of how and why war starts. But I will concede one omission. None of the planning teams had the advantage of assuming the war would start with Moscow destroyed and the Soviet civilian and military leadership eliminated.”

“Peter—I don’t think you understand. If even one Russian missile wing or one Red SSBN smokes its birds, there’s going to be a lot of dying. You can’t shrug that off. These are our people we’re talking about.”

“The war will already be over,” Robinson said quietly.

“Oh, that’ll be splendid comfort to the millions who’re going to do the dying. Go on television while the birds are in the air and tell them to be proud while they’re frying, that we won.”

Robinson’s face wore a solemn frown. “The tree of liberty must be refreshed.”

“What?”

“Jefferson. ‘The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots.’ Funny how much wisdom we’ve forgotten, isn’t it?” Robinson said. “Something I don’t understand happened along the way to here, something that made us too reluctant to spill our own blood, made us willing to surrender anything to avoid it.”

“The ‘something’ that happened was called Hiroshima.”

“It’s just another weapon, Gregory. It’s not the devil’s spawn.”

“It’s a hell of an incentive to keep the peace.”

“Peace,” Robinson repeated. His head lolled back against the chair until he was looking up into the cabin’s rafters. “There’s been more fighting about that than almost anything you can name. Do you know, Gregory, there’s a very simple reason why peace on earth is a pipe dream. Peace has the disadvantage of freezing the status quo, and there’ll always be individuals, groups, nations who find the status quo unacceptable. This time, it’s us.”

O’Neill had never expected to hear it said so plainly, confessed to so proudly. “Our own survivors will come for you,” O’Neill said quietly. “They’ll hold you to account for starting the war that killed their sons and mothers.”

“They’ll never know,” Robinson said with calm certainty. “We’ll pull together, and we’ll build together, and we’ll go on.”

“I wanted to believe that you just didn’t see where this could lead,” O’Neill said slowly. “But you do. And you’re willing to do it anyway.”

“Did you think this was a casual decision, a whim you could turn me from with a few words and a dramatic entrance? I know, Gregory. I’ve never deceived myself about what could happen.”

“Or questioned your right to decide this for all of us.”

“There’s no reason to question it. What are governments and Presidents for, Gregory? Should farmers and steelworkers vote on defense policy? Should we conduct foreign policy by plebiscite, commission the FNS to take a poll on every crisis?”

“You can at least poll your own advisors. You haven’t even convened the NSC on this.”

“I have polled my advisors, as many as considerations of security will allow. You’re alone in objecting. I’ve listened to your objections, Gregory. You have to grant me that. You’ve been able to speak freely, and I have listened. But I’m not obliged to agree.”

“What about the Tank? Axe you saying the Joint Chiefs are with you on this?”

“The Joint Chiefs gave the only assent they needed to when they signed off on Thunderbolt,” Robinson said with a shrug. “Every one of those war plans says, ‘If you need us, this is what we can do.’ It’s not the Chiefs’ place to judge the need.”

Grim-faced, O’Neill shook his head. “I can tell you that they do think about things like that. They don’t stop being citizens when they become soldiers.”

“I’m only interested in what they have to say as soldiers,” Robinson said.

O’Neill leaped to his feet. “For the love of God. You’re not the fucking king of America,” he shouted. “You can’t do this. You just can’t do this.”

But Robinson did not so much as flinch. “There’s something I want you to think about before you mount your high horse and ride away: Mongoose will go on with you or without you,” he said evenly. “So you can resign to salve your conscience, if you have to. You can also stay in good conscience, knowing that your leaving would make no difference. The only positive option you have is to stay and help make it work, and by that minimize the price of change.”

When had it gotten away from him? Or had it never been his at all? O’Neill had never felt more powerless. Reason was his weapon, his tool. Robinson had taken it from him and shattered it on a stone of conflicting convictions. “I don’t think I can stay,” he said.

Robinson nodded, unsurprised. “It’s just as well, I suppose. Alpha List is very long. Albert will be glad to hear he can pare a few names from it. You had your kids on it, too, didn’t you, Gregory?”

Staring, mouth agape. “You bastard.”

“Did you expect to keep the privileges of office after you abandoned the responsibilities?” Robinson asked. “If I were you, I’d sell the house. Washington might not be a good place to be.”

His legs weak, O’Neill collapsed back into the cushions. His mouth opened, but no words came.

“You see, Gregory, I never wanted to be king. I can do everything that needs doing as President,” Robinson said, his soft words a hammer. “The world is going to change, Gregory. And I’m the catalyst.”

O’Neill’s voice was a croak. “How can you be so sure? How can you take such a chance?”

“Wars are conducted between governments, not peoples. And I’m stronger than they are. They’ve lost the fire. Look at how quickly they caved in. There hasn’t been a Red sub inside the line for ten days. I tell you, Mongoose
will
break them.”

“It was just one incident. They had nothing to gain in forcing the issue—”

“If they still had the fire, they would have fought us for pride, for principle.”

Eyes downcast, O’Neill said nothing, locked in silent struggle with himself. I could make the choice for myself. And Ellen would stand with me, I know she would. But David, and Sara, and Mark, their families—they’re the only ones I can save. The only ones. And the only way I can save them is to stay. Oh, God—why do you test me like this?

“Gregory, I have no intention of being rash,” Robinson said as though to soothe him. “We’ll take their measure again, I promise you. But I can tell you now what will happen. They’ll back down. They’ll blink. And when they do, we’ll know they’re ours.” He paused waiting for a response that didn’t come. “You’re going to stay on.”

O’Neill slowly raised his head to meet Robinson’s eyes. “Yes.”

With a satisfied nod Robinson came to his feet. “I’ll call your taxi.”

Rodman joined Robinson at the door of the cabin to watch as the helicopter collected the Secretary of Defense from the end of the pier and roared skyward.

“Well?” Robinson asked.

“The chain is five links long. From a couple of two-stripers at the weapons depot on up through the base commander to General Matson.”

“Blaze Matson? The SAC commander?”

“He’s the one who tipped O’Neill.”

“Damn,” Robinson said, and spat into the snow. “All right. Here’s how it has to be: court-martial for the two-stripers and lock ’em up till this is over. Transfer the base commander to Thule or some other godforsaken hole. Matson—it’s about time for Matson to retire. Suggest it to him.”

“They were just doing their jobs.”

“And somebody wasn’t. Who fucked this up. Bill? Who handled the procurement?”

Rodman swallowed. “Ken Andrews, from CIA. He was the man on the scene.”

Black light flared in Robinson’s eyes. “Kendrew again? Goddammit, I thought we told Madison to lose him.”

“He was dropped off the tactical team.” Rodman said. “He’s been a golden boy for them. Madison must have thought that was enough.”

“It isn’t.”

“Peter, I don’t think Andrews is at fault here.”

“No? Who is?”

“You are.”

“Oh?”

“If we’d done this from the top down, we could have done it cleanly. But you wanted to work around O’Neill.” He paused and looked skyward. The helicopter was a black speck in the distance. “At least we won’t have that problem anymore.”

“O’Neill’s staying,” Robinson said.

Rodman stared. “Whose idea was that?”

“Mine.”

“He’s the one you ought to be locking away.”

“I found his soft spot. He’s under control.”

“I want a piece of him.”

Robinson looked at Rodman’s swollen face and grinned crookedly. “He did catch you a good one.”

“The ice did most of this,” Rodman scowled.

“And you ten years younger than him. I’m disappointed. Bill.”

“I just don’t see why you want to take him with us. Why you think you can trust him.”

“I didn’t say I trusted the son of a bitch,” Robinson said, shaking his head. “We’re going to isolate him. Complete freeze-out.”

“He won’t take it.”

“He will,” Robinson said. “As for taking him with us—we won’t. You said you wanted a piece of him?”

“I do.”

“Then I’ll let you tell Tackett. I want O’Neill’s counterpart in Blue killed. Some way that’ll put his face in every newspaper. So there’ll be no place for him on the other side.”

Rodman nodded. “That’s better,” he said. “Consider it done.”

As the helicopter carried him away from Black Duck Lake, shame like he had never known before seeped through O’Neill like slow poison, a spreading stain. How cheaply we can sell ourselves, he thought bitterly. A few lives close at hand for a million faceless strangers.

He stared out the window and for the first time in his life thought of suicide, of evading the accounting. But death would bring its own accounting, one which he now had reason to fear. And Robinson would keep no bargain with a dead man.

He would live, though life promised to be joyless. He would live, the waiting consuming him, the guilt tormenting him, until Robinson’s wave of change had swept across the world. With luck, or a merciful God, the wave would drag them both under.

“Oh, look at the line,” Shan said breathlessly, clinging to Wallace’s elbow as they rounded the corner into a flurry of snow.

Wallace looked. The theater ticket office looked like a bank teller under siege on Black Tuesday. “If we run, I think we can beat that couple across the street.”

“Let’s,” she said.

Gloved hand in gloved hand, they splashed through the slush to the opposite sidewalk and the end of the line.

“I want to pay for mine,” she said.

“Not necessary.”

“I have a job, you know.”

“That’s just my own money coming back at me.”

“I don’t mean the shop. Flower arranging. Three days a week.”

He shook his head. “Florist, the shop, classes—do you ever sleep?”

“You left out the Songsisters.”

“I didn’t know about them.”

“It’s a community choral club. Tuesday and Thursday nights.”

“Anything else?”

“Mmm—not right now. You changed the subject.”

“Did I?”

“The shop actually made a profit last month. That’s mad money. And the concert would have been free.”

“Forget it.”

She was persistent. “Then I’ll pay for the calories after.”

“If it’s important to you.”

“It is,” she said. “Have you ever been to the Princess before?”

“No,” Wallace said, looking up. From the outside, the New Princess Theater looked like any vaudeville-era small-town movie palace Wallace had ever seen. Its carved-stone facade rose high enough to promise a balcony inside, and the huge thrust marquee shielded several dozen ticket-buyers from the fat, wet flakes of snow cascading down through the yellow halos of the streetlamps.