Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 09 (72 page)

 
          
But
like any exercise, the human mind can grow weary if left to roam too long, and
through years of training and discipline, Thom called his mind back to the
conscious world and let the doorway to his subconscious mind close. It was not
a sad or reluctant event at all. He knew the doorway was always there, to
summon when needed, and he knew that the potential energy available to him
there was limitless.

 
          
But
the subconscious realm was an alternate reality he had created to explore the
universe that was himself—the person, the being, the energy that was all of his
pasts and all of his futures right there, in one instant, available for him to
see and study and experience. He had created other realities—this one, of him
as president of the
United States
, in the beginning of the twenty-first century,
on the planet called Earth. It was time to play that role, immerse himself in
that universe, and act out his part in that performance. But he could do so
armed with the know ledge and experience that he had gained from his other
realities, because to him they were all his realities, all pertinent, all
interconnected.

           
He picked up his phone and punched a
button. “Yes, Mr. President?” his vice president, Les Busick, responded.

 
          
“Your
friend, the one you mentioned the other day? Is he in town?”

 
          
“Yes.”

 
          
“I’d
like to talk with him. Today. Right now.”

 
          
Busick
hesitated for a moment. Ever since he had learned his “friend” was coming to
town with a radical, dangerous proposal, he knew the President should meet with
him. Every time he had brought it up, the President had turned him down. He
might have been tempted to give him an “I told you so,” but Busick knew that
things had to be pretty serious for the President to want to talk with him now.
“Where?”

 
          
“In
the residence.” Every place in the entire building—in the entire District, for
that matter—was open to dozens of prying eyes, except for the residence itself;
and as many presidents soon learned, there were many very discreet ways of
getting inside the President’s private residence without half of Washington
finding out. “As soon as possible.”

 
          
“Would
you like me there, too?”

 
          
“It
might be better if you weren't.”

 
          
“I
see.” English translation: I might be doing something you might have to deny.
Finally, Busick thought, Thomas Thom is doing something like a real president.
“I’ll buzz you when they arrive.”

 
          
“This
place is so neat and organized,” the visitor said, with a smile. “Was I that
big of a slob?”

           
President Thomas Thom watched his
visitor with a mixture of apprehension and irritation. They were seated in the
President’s study in the private residence in the White House, far from the
prying eyes of the media, Congress—and, he hated to admit, some members of his
own Cabinet. But now he had this gentleman to contend with. Somehow he had the
feeling he was in the process of making a deal with the devil, and he hated the
prospect of doing so. “Let’s get down to business, shall we?” President Thom
prompted.

 
          
“Whatever
you say, Tom,” former president Kevin Martindale responded, casually concluding
his distracted little tour of the residence and returning to the seat offered
him. Since losing the White House to Thomas Thom in the last election. Marti
ndale seemed much thinner and had let his hair grow longer. It was just as wavy
as before, with the “photographer's dream"—the two long curly silver locks
that seemed to drop down across his forehead whenever he got mad or excited—
still present, but now the rest of his mane was very nearly the same shade of
silver. He wore a short, thin, partially gray beard, too.

 
          
“This
is a different look for you, isn't it?" Thom asked.

 
          
“I'm
not in front of the public every day," Martindale replied. He regarded the
President with a half-amused, half-accusing expression. “But then, neither are
you."

 
          
“Maybe
that’s how you always wanted to look," Thom offered.

 
          
“We’re
both kids of the sixties, Tom," Martindale said. “We learned it was okay
to be different, to follow whatever our hearts told us instead of what others
were telling us."

 
          
“True."
It was still a damned unusual look for Kevin Martindale, Thom thought, and it
didn't fit his image at all. Martindale was a career politician, and ever since
he’d burst on the national political stage almost twenty years before, he’d
always looked and acted the part of a savvy, smooth, well- spoken, intelligent
insider. “Especially an ex-Marine—four years in the Corps, including two tours
in
Vietnam
. State attorney-general,
U.S.
senator, secretary of defense briefly, then
vice president, private citizen, then president."

 
          
“Then
private citizen again," Martindale added. It didn’t impress him at all
that Thom knew details about his background—he had been in Washington a long
time, and the things he'd done had definitely set a place for him in the
history books. “But I guess after all those years of being straightlaced and
buttoned-down, it was time for a change.” Thom didn’t say anything right away,
so Martindale went on: “Talk about your big-time changes— Rambo to Mr. Rogers,
warrior to wallflower? Will the real Thomas Nathaniel Thom please stand up?”
His eyes narrowed, and his casual smile vanished. “Why'd you call me here,
Thom?”

           
“I heard you’ve been doing some
recruiting.”

 
          
“Oh?”

 
          
“Present,
former, and retired military guys, especially special ops and aviators.”

 
          
“That’s
interesting,” Martindale commented. His sources would have advised him if any
U.S.
or foreign intelligence agencies were
checking up on him, and none were. Thom might be guessing—and then again, he
might not be. “What else have you heard?”

 
          
“That
guys are joining up.” Martindale shrugged and said nothing. “I just wanted to
touch base, find out what you’re up to.”

 
          
“Since
when, Thom?” Martindale retorted. “Since when did you care about me? Since when
did you care about anything or anyone?”

 
          
“Excuse
me?” Was he trying to goad him into reacting? Thom thought. How childish can a
grown man be?

 
          
“Tradition,
respect, legacy, honor—none of that stuff means anything to you,” Martindale
went on, “or else you would have attended the inauguration, and you would have
stepped up in front of Congress and the American people and talked about your
vision of the future of our nation in your first State of the
Union
.” Thom looked like he was going to say
something, but Martindale interrupted him with an upraised hand. “Hey, I’ve heard
your reasons before. ‘It’s not in the Constitution.’ Well, the
United States
and the American people are much more than
the Constitution.”

 
          
“I
know exactly what our country is, Mr. President,” Thom said. “I know the
United States
is embodied in the Constitution and our
laws. I was elected because I believe that, and the American people believe it,
too.”

 
          
“You
got elected because me and the Democrats were too busy hammering away at each
other to notice you slipping up behind us.”

 
          
“That’s
one good reason,” Thom said. “The military questions, especially the attacks on
Taiwan
,
Guam
, and
the
Independence
, killed it for you.” Martindale scowled.
“Tell me, Mr. President—why didn’t you retaliate?”

 
          
“Against
whom?” Martindale asked, perhaps a bit more sharply than he wanted. “
China
? Everyone said
China
was the ‘obvious’ attacker. But we
still
don’t know exactly who planted the nuke on the
Indy
to this day, only
that there were no nuclear weapons on the ship. I had no authority to attack
China
in retaliation for attacking
Taiwan
. As far as the attack on
Guam
— well, I had other players waiting to go to
work. They did the job, and I didn’t have to be the first American president
since Truman to use nuclear weapons in anger.”

 
          
“
‘Other players?” Thom repeated. “You mean HAWC and Madcap Magician.”

 
          
“I
see you’re familiar with them,” Martindale said. “They’re good troops—at least,
they were until you sold them out. Now they’re useless. What was the purpose of
telling Sen’kov who they were?”

 
          
“It
put Sen’kov off guard, it bought us time, and it allowed our troops to get out
safely,” Thom replied.

 
          
“And
it shot to hell almost twenty years of weapons development and all future
covert-action capability from Dreamland,” Martindale pointed out. “Why? So you
can soothe your conscience? So you didn’t have to get into a fight with the
Russians? I think you’ve heard this before, Thom, but let me tell you again in
case you’ve forgotten: the Russians
like
to fight. They like to argue,
they like to deceive, they like to confront and challenge. And they don’t
respect anyone who doesn’t argue, fight, deceive, confront, or challenge in
return. I’m sure your national security advisor briefed you on basic historical
tactics for dealing with the Russians.” But before Thom could answer,
Martindale snapped his fingers and added, “Oh yeah, that’s right
—you don't
have a national security advisor!
What in hell is up with that? You’re
surrendering a valuable advisor and critical White House staff organization
just to save a few bucks?”

 
          
“Robert
Goff is a good man.”

 
          
“He’s
the best,” Martindale said. “But his job is to run the Department of Defense,
to keep the American military, such as it is, running smoothly. His job is not
to help you formulate policy—his job is to carry out your orders. He’s
overworked and understaffed, and it’ll hurt your military effectiveness.”

           
“My military force structure and my
staff of advisors is exactly what I’m supposed to have—no more, no less.”

 
          
“That's
true—if you were living in the eighteenth century,” Martindale said. “But
you’re actually in the twenty-first century—maybe not mentally, but physically.
You understaff the White House and force the Pentagon to do more work, which
understaffs them, and all the shit rolls downhill—it screws everybody up. Just
because Thomas Jefferson didn't have a national security advisor. Well, I’m
sure if he had thought of it, he would've gotten one. Wise up, Thom.”

 
          
“Fortunately,
I don't have to justify or explain my budget or staffing strategies to you.”

 
          
“I’m
a citizen of the
United States
, a taxpayer, and a voter, not just your
predecessor,” Martindale reminded him sternly. “You sure as hell do have to
explain that stuff to me.”

 
          
“Maybe
later, then,” Thom said irritably. “Right now, what I want to know is: why?”

 
          
“Why
what?”

 
          
“Why
were you so afraid of using the military?”

 
          
“I
wasn’t afraid of jackshit, Thom.”