Arc Light (42 page)

Razov sat back and watched Filipov, as did everyone else in the room, as he leaned out over the polished wood of the conference table that he only rarely had approached before.

“I've studied America for most of my life, I lived there for years, and I have never witnessed anything like what I am seeing reported in their press. The nuclear exchange was a cathartic experience for both our nations, but for the Americans . . . ! Nothing like this has happened to them since their Civil War ended in 1865! They have forgotten what war is like, and instead of concluding what most of the world has the misfortune of recalling from all too recent experience—that war, any war, is a human disaster of unparalleled magnitude—the Americans are choosing instead to attribute their civilian dead to villainies, to atrocities, to
us!
To
you,
to
me,
to
Russians,
as if we somehow broke the rules of war and the norms of behavior. They are
demonizing
us, haven't you
seen?
That man, that professor you just had in here, he doesn't represent what's happening. He doesn't see what's coming. But I do. And it
is
coming, like a tidal wave it's coming.” The room fell silent, all eyes on Filipov.

“This time, they believe the cause is just. This time, that silent majority of Americans believes it is right.”

The soft ground felt good, delicious. David Chandler's field manual dropped several times before he finally laid it down. Pictures of tank battles—cartoonlike drawings from the manual—ran through his head. Tanks in column, rolling out to line formation as if in some video game. Re-forming into a column to squeeze between two obstacles. Formation after formation. Terrain rolling by on the map. Always moving forward, just as they wanted. Leaping over each other like frogs, each tank landing in front of the next. Hopping, dancing to the music.

The music woke him, and he opened his eyes. He had fallen asleep while reading. A heavy, rhythmic beat broke the silence from just over the hill. It was odd to him how quickly he had grown used to the sounds of the outdoors, to the rushing wind, the sounds of soldiers talking or shouting near and far with no walls to break the passage of the noise. But the sounds of music had grown odd. He got up and grabbed his rifle. With ammunition so abundant, and the Russians, by latest rumor, somewhere out in the Atlantic, standing orders required all soldiers to carry their personal weapons everywhere and at all times. He cradled his now familiar M-16 rifle in the crook of his arm and walked out toward the center of his company area, closer to the music.

The clustering of the men and women into their respective squads had cleared small open areas through which one could navigate. The clusters reminded Chandler of living cells, each soldier a part of the organism. When he was near the middle of the company area, it was as if he were inside a living beast, multicellular and alive with activity.

He found the psychological dynamic that had taken place, the bonding of virtually randomly selected men and women into cohesive squads and platoons, very interesting, and he enjoyed walking through the troops. He stopped to talk occasionally but mainly enjoyed
the anonymity that his frequent walk-throughs bred.

Rising to the crest of the low hill he saw that a commotion centered around a “boom box.”
Someone on that air force transport that landed earlier,
Chandler thought,
must have brought batteries.
The particularly boisterous troops were active and vocal, feeling good that afternoon, Chandler guessed, after taking their first shower since their arrival in Newfoundland, in the new portable showers the plane had unloaded.
Or excited,
he thought with a rush of nervousness himself, that the phone system would be put back on line and they would each be allowed a call. Chandler wandered down to where one of the soldiers loaded a new CD. Rap music with a thudding bass. “Can't touch this . . . ”

The scene reminded him of old documentaries. Music. Soldiers on their feet, dancing by themselves, everyone getting into it. The feeling was infectious, intoxicating. Neighboring groups joined in as the music was turned up. It was a good sound.

“Hammer time!”
High fives. Soul handshakes. The pictures. The pictures from Vietnam had been different. These men were about half and half, black and white, and the high fives were for the guy next to you, white or black. Unlike the society from which the men came, there were no racial lines here. They were not integrated as much as fused.
“Hammer time!”
They all knew which lyrics to sing out—black and white, men and women. They were comfortable with their little social rituals, with the society of the cell.

The song ended, and the self-appointed DJ hit a button, delaying the start of the music until he had found the song he wanted and then holding the CD player high in the air. When the next song burst forth, the men and women all jumped to their feet, singing, rapping along, shouting the lyrics at the top of their lungs. The music's beat was felt as much as heard. Rhythmic.
“Yo-sweet-ness, is-for-weakness! Yo-sweet-ness, is-for-weak-me-e-en!”

The energy levels were up. Very soon now, their hands will be filled. Maybe a heavy machine gun ready to rattle out rounds from the cupola of a vehicle or a minigun swiveling in the door of a helicopter.
Would there be a beat in their minds then? In the sounds of their weapons?
If there was, Chandler knew, it would be this beat. This would be the music of their war. They were getting ready, and he pitied the poor bastards who would stare down the open ends of these men's gun barrels, for even though the soldiers were solidly middle class, products of suburbia, their music was born in the mean streets of a violent country. It brooked no compromise, no mercy. The men in their gunsights would die in great numbers.

Lambert walked up to the long desk that sat atop the slightly elevated platform to stand in front of the nine robed Justices, and turned to wait for the White House counsel, Solicitor General, and Special Counsel to the Judiciary Committee to leave the chamber, closing the door behind them.

“Mr. Lambert,” Chief Justice Rehnquist said, “this courtroom has now been cleared of everyone but this Court and you. We have taken this unusual step in consideration of the fact that you are, yourself, a licensed attorney and have agreed for purposes of giving this testimony that you will represent yourself pro se. Are we correct in this understanding?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Congratulations. You are now certified to practice law before the highest court in the land. We'll worry about the commemorative certificate later.”

A couple of the Associate Justices chuckled, and Lambert forced a smile as he shifted from one foot to the other.

“Would the witness be more comfortable sitting?” Justice Scalia asked.

“Uh, no, sir,” Lambert said. “I'm fine.”

“Very well,” Justice Rehnquist said, looking down at his notes. “You understand, of course, that you are still under oath?”

“Yes, sir, Your Honor.”

“Now, Mr. Lambert, each of the members of this Court has reviewed the brief filed by your counsel, the White House counsel, and the amicus curiae brief filed by the Solicitor General on behalf of the United States, on the one hand, and the brief of the Special Counsel to the Judiciary Committee and the amicus curiae briefs filed by several other persons and groups including a most thorough job by the People for the American Way.” He held up a stack of paper that had to be at least four inches thick and looked at the other Justices, who seemed amused. The Chief Justice then looked down at Lambert, removing his eyeglasses and dangling them in the air with one hand. “We are, as of our conference immediately preceding this hearing, of differing opinions as to the state of the law on the privilege you have claimed. It was decided, however, that one fact that was material to the decision of a majority of the Justices and therefore potentially dispositive of the issue raised was not contained in the record passed up to us from the circuit court, and due to the expedited nature of the proceedings which we have undertaken, we have decided not to remand the matter to the district court,
which is, as you know, the primary finder of fact in our legal system. I am now going to ask you to supply that fact, in camera,” he said, holding his hands up to indicate the empty chamber, “and I expect you to comply with my request.”

The Chief Justice looked down at his notes, and then back up at Lambert. “Did President Livingston tell Secretary Moore during his evacuation from the White House to inform representatives of the government of the People's Republic of China of the impending Russian nuclear attack?”

“Yes, sir,” Lambert said without hesitation. “Yes, sir, he did.”

“And do you have any reason to believe that Secretary Moore did not in fact notify the Chinese as directed by the President?”

“No, sir, I do not.”

Justice Rehnquist looked to either side, and when none of the other Justices spoke up, the Chief Justice surprised Lambert with, “Thank you, Mr. Lambert. We have no further questions at this time.”

Lambert entered the small office outside the Supreme Court's chamber. President Livingston sat on the cheap vinyl couch, his closest advisers crowded around him. All eyes turned to Lambert.

He tried to decide what to say. He felt like Brutus as he slowly walked up to face the President through the suddenly quiet group. Staring at Walter Livingston, a decent man on whom had been heaped every imaginable burden of office and on whom was hung the responsibility for the millions who had perished, Lambert tried to think of a way to soften the latest blow.

He opened his mouth to explain how the proceeding had progressed after they had cleared the chamber. He said simply, “I told them about your instructions to Secretary Moore.”

Livingston nodded as if in acknowledgment of a minor point and reached out to briefly squeeze Lambert's forearm. The man had already shouldered so heavy a burden these past weeks, Lambert realized, that his news was of little consequence.

“Is the testimony really that critical?” the President's press secretary asked.

“Our people at Greenbriar say we're hovering right there on the edge,” Irv Waller said, unusually circumspect. “They finally identified Senator Albritton's body. His plane had an electrical fire when the pulse from one of the Russians' warheads fried its circuits, and it went down over Missouri. With Senator Shavers dead in the Colorado Springs attack, that reduces the Senate membership to ninety-eight. Two thirds of the ninety-eight is sixty-six to convict. But Barney Clark was in Bethesda Naval Hospital in ICU for a
heart-lung. They couldn't move him until yesterday, and Bethesda got a heavy dusting of fallout from the Raven Rock blast. The navy shuttled volunteers through the hospital every few hours for the people like Barney whom they couldn't move. Can you imagine?” Waller shook his head, truly lost in his own story, and Lambert wondered at this side of the man, who had always struck him as an unrelenting jerk.

“Jesus, we're that close?” the press secretary asked, and the President hung his head.

Lambert, standing in front of his boss and staring, said, “Mr. President—”

The door burst open. “They're back,” one of the junior staffers reported from the doorway.

The President stood, straightened his jacket and tie, and clapped Lambert lightly on the arm. He nodded and winked, a half-grin turning up one corner of his mouth but passing without registering in his eyes. He led the small procession out. Like Judas, Greg had received Livingston's forgiveness.

“Mr. Lambert, would you please stand?” Chief Justice Rehnquist said, and Lambert and White House counsel rose. “Mr. Lambert, the Court has reached a decision. I will let Justice Ginsburg render it for the majority.”

Justice Ginsburg sat forward and said, “Mr. Lambert, all members of this Court, both in the majority and dissenting, have found that a privilege exists for matters highly sensitive to the national security of this country during a time of national emergency. By a majority of seven to two, however, this Court has found neither precedents in prior case law nor reasoning as expressed in the briefing of the matters before this Court persuasive of the position that such privilege is absolute. In reaching its decision, therefore, a majority of seven of the Justices found that the interests of the executive branch in preserving the security of our nation's secrets by invoking a privilege against testimony on grounds of national security must be weighed against the interests of the Senate in conducting a trial of the President of the United States following impeachment by the House of Representatives. In weighing such competing interests, a majority of seven is of the opinion that, under the facts as presented to this Court in the instant matter, the interests of the orderly and fair conduct of the Senate's trial of the President prevail. Accordingly, this Court instructs Gregory Philip Lambert, Special Assistant to the President for National Security, to answer all questions put to him by the United States Senate in open hearing on the subject of whether President Livingston instructed
the late Secretary Moore to contact the government of the People's Republic of China on the night of June eleventh of this year.”

“The dissent will issue no opinion,” the Chief Justice announced. “This Court is adjourned.” The gavel came down, and everyone rose as the Justices filed out.

Melissa Chandler lay baby Matthew in his crib. Carefully lowering his head to the mattress so as not to jar him awake as she had done twice before, her mouth hung open and her face contorted with the effort of concentration.