Empire (15 page)

“It's treason,” said Cole.

“Absolutely,” said Alton. “The Left has committed slow treason. The country is being strangled by treason. But yes, we're committing treason, too. We're bringing the force of the military to bear. Like in Turkey, where the army keeps the wackos from turning the country into another Iran. We're stepping in to save the country, no matter what it costs us.”

“It's the wrong way, sir. We need to find out the real conspirators and expose them.”

“And put them on trial? Like O.J. was put on trial? Like the courts allowed the Clintons to steal FBI files and withhold subpoenaed documents from Congress and commit perjury and accept bribes and nobody was ever put on trial? Like that? The courts in America are the heart of the leftist conspiracy. Only regular Americans get convicted in those courts. Americans like you.”

“I won't help you, sir,” said Cole.

“Well, there you go,” said Alton.

“I'll work against you, sir.”

“Do your damnedest,” said Alton. “But just like yesterday, you're already too late.”

“Am I?” said Cole. “Didn't it occur to you that my debriefers probably planted bugs on me? On my uniform?”

“Of course they did,” said Alton. “But all your interrogators are with me on this, Coleman. You still don't see it. What I'm doing—what
we're
doing—is an Army operation.”

“No way, sir,” said Cole. “There's no way the whole Army is behind you.”

“They will be,” said Alton. “I wanted you with us because you and Malich would be great on camera. War heroes. The guys who tried to save the President and are now getting framed for killing him. But we can still use your story—we just won't put you on camera.”

“I'll go on camera against you,” said Cole.

“And what?” said Alton. “Tell the world that you
did
conspire to kill the President? Since the story we'll be telling happens to be true, I don't know what you'd say.”

“I'd say that you don't save the Constitution by tearing it up,” said Cole.

“Say what you want,” said Alton. “Nothing you say will be broadcast. No one will hear it. No one will read it.”

And for the first time it dawned on Cole that much as he hated the media, he and Malich
had
been able to get some version of their story out there. Leighton Fuller believed them, or at least thought they might be telling the truth, and he gave them their public hearing, and his editors went along with it. It wasn't some Pentagon committee deciding what could be published. Cole knew something about military culture, and he didn't want the Army controlling the American news media.

He didn't even want the Army controlling the Army.

“Sir,” said Cole. “This is an all-volunteer military. We're all citizens of a free country. We took an oath to support the Constitution, not destroy it. To obey elected civilians, not dictate to them. Most of
us get pissed off by a lot of things going on in this country, but our weapons are meant to point at foreign enemies, not at American news editors and reporters. If you think the Army is going to follow along blindly, you're crazy, sir.”

“Well, you know what they say,” said Alton. “ ‘Soldiers want to get paid and not die. Civilians want to be left alone.' We'll pay the soldiers and we won't ask them to die. We'll leave the civilians alone.”

“Except the reporters and the judges.”

“They ain't civilians, son,” said Alton. “They're the tyrants and traitors.” Alton stood up. “We're done here,” he said. “You've been brainwashed, but that's fine, no harm.” He put two twenties down on the table and led the way out to his car. “As for the Army,” Alton said, “we've succeeded in retiring most of the top officers who would oppose us. All the stateside forces of any size are already under our control. And our public statements will not be as plain as what I've said to you. We've got our own media experts, Coleman. We know how to spin this story.”

They got in the car and Alton's driver started back toward the Pentagon. “It's the nice thing about how the Left has emasculated America. Most people really will just sit back and let it happen. There just aren't that many real men left in this country. You watch—inside of a week, we'll have all the editors asking us when to jump and how high. America has been pre-adapted to live under a dictatorship, because we already do. All we're doing is trading in politically correct judges for dedicated soldiers.”

All the way back to the Pentagon, as Alton went on talking, all Cole could think about was: He can pretend he's not going to kill me, but this is going to lead to bloodshed almost immediately. He can pretend that he doesn't care what I do, but I just went on an enemies list.

They pulled into General Alton's reserved parking space. Cole did not open his door. “Sir,” he said. “This is all working out so well for you. You were so ready. So what I want to know is this. Was it you? The Army, I mean. Your group inside the Army. Was it you that gave those plans of Major Malich's to Al Qaeda?”

Alton's brisk, cheery attitude disappeared at once, replaced by true rage. “By God I swear to you we did not,” he said. “We were preparing, yes—for the day when a leftist President was elected, determined to destroy the military. We weren't going to stand for it. But that was still many months away. This President was an idiot. But he kept the military strong. We didn't want him dead.”

“I believe you, sir,” said Cole. “But can you vouch for everybody else in your . . . group?”

“I can, son,” said Alton. “I can indeed. We had nothing to do with this. It took us by surprise. But we do contingency planning in the Pentagon, Coleman. When shit happens, we're ready to deal with it.”

“I've got another contingency for you, sir,” said Cole.

“What's that?”

“The guys who really did get the President killed—doesn't it occur to you that they know about your group and your contingency plans and they pulled this off specifically to get you to do exactly what you're doing? So they'd have an excuse to go to war to save the country from
you?
”

“Maybe,” said Alton, “but so what? We've got all the guns.”

It is possible to be too much smarter than your opponent. If you give him credit for more subtlety than he has, he can achieve tactical surprise by doing the obvious.

They might as well have stayed home, for all the difference it made in the children's activities. Mark was the kind of boy who remembered the friends he made in Aunt Margaret's neighborhood the last time they came to New Jersey, so he was already out doing something with them. Nick was holed up in some corner of the back yard, reading; he read outdoors so Cecily wouldn't keep telling him to go out and play. Lettie and Annie were whooping around with some old clothes Aunt Margaret let them play with; Cecily only worried when she couldn't hear them. And John Paul was her shadow; he had apparently decided that she was better than TV, because he didn't have to figure out the channels to get entertainment from her.

Not a single reporter had got wind of the fact that they were there, so it had been worth the drive. She had discussed it with Mark and he knew not to tell anybody that it was his dad who tried to save the President—and also came up with the plan that the terrorists used. The other kids didn't see anybody outside the house. With luck, they could keep something like a normal life for a few days more.

Until Reuben started testifying. Because the hue and cry was already beginning in Congress. They loved to strut in front of the cameras, didn't they, and spout off about things they knew nothing about. “Why was a United States soldier ordered to think of ways to kill the President?” demanded a Senator who should have known
better, because he was in on all the contingency plans as part of his duties on the Armed Services Committee. Didn't he know that the essence of defense was to anticipate the enemy's attacks and prepare to meet them? Of course he knew it. But the people back home wouldn't know it.

Besides, the nominating conventions were coming up soon. In the Republican Party the nomination was still up in the air—no clear candidate had emerged. LaMonte Nielson wasn't even in the running, but there would soon be a groundswell to nominate him so they could have the advantage of incumbency.

Whereas the Democratic candidate had it nearly locked up, barring a massive swing of the few uncommitted delegates away from her.

The Senator who was grandstanding was one of those who had a handful of delegates. Maybe he thought everything would break his way at the convention if he made enough noise at Reuben's expense. What did
he
care that he was trashing the reputation of one of the best soldiers in the Army? If it got him a single vote, it was worth it to him.

“Oh, we're angry today,” said Aunt Margaret, who was sitting at her computer desk in the kitchen, scanning pictures out of food magazines.

“They killed the President, Aunt Margaret.”

“And they're hinting that it's all your husband's fault.”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“Good. Then you can listen. Do you think I haven't been watching the news? How they make such a big deal about the fact that Reuben is the son of immigrants from Serbia? Then they always show a map of Serbia with Kosovo and Bosnia in big letters, as if his family had something to do with the war crimes of Milosevic and his stooges. As if Reuben were some troublemaking Bosnian Muslim. And how they've all picked up on the fact that he speaks Farsi. They just can't let that go. He takes notes in Farsi. He thinks in Farsi. One time, just once, they explain that it was part of his military assignment to learn Farsi. Then they keep reminding people
about his fluency in speaking the language of Iran. Never mind that it's also the language of half of Afghanistan. But you're only angry because they killed the President.”

“Aunt Margaret, when I was little I thought you were the coolest, smartest grownup in the whole world,” said Cecily.

“That would be right,” said Margaret.

“But I'm trying not to think about it.”

“I know. That's why I'm trying to dig your head out of the sand.”

“I'm just staying sane. That may not seem such a high priority to you because you've never bothered trying.”

Margaret burst out laughing. “Oh, you are so ticked off today!”

“How do the wives of politicians stand it? All the terrible things people say.”

“They're in the game. Besides, their husbands' people are usually doing the same thing to the other guy.”

“Well, what can Reuben do? Nothing.”

Margaret let that one pass in silence. For a long minute.

“Nothing?” she said. “Is that what that article in
The Post
was? Nothing?”

“A lot of good it will do.”

“It spun pretty well. His story is out there. All the innuendoes from the news media, but his story is available and people don't have to believe what they get pounded with on CNN.”

“So maybe it will do some good.”

“So
he's
doing something,” said Margaret. “And you're . . . hiding.”

“Oh, for Pete's sake.”

“Your uncle Peter is dead, dear. And he never cared about politics.”

“He cared about it all the time.”

“Yugoslavian politics, yes. American politics, no. The body count was so much lower in America, it was hard for him to stay interested.”

“Come on. Under Tito there
was
no politics.”

“No national politics. Local got very intense. Anyway, we're not talking about my late husband the Serbian atheist, God bless him. Remember, you weren't the first in the family to marry a Serb.”

“We were talking about how you think I'm supposed to do something instead of sitting here nursing an ulcer.”

“That's not a nice thing to call your little boy John Paul.”

“I don't work in government anymore, Auntie M.”

“And all the people that you used to know, they died? They emigrated to Ireland or Morocco?”

“Nobody that I knew could possibly have had anything to do with this.”

“But they could have something to do with helping you find out things that will help your husband. For instance, there was a Congressman you once worked for who just got a sudden job promotion.”

“And if I call him right now—assuming I could even get through—he'd assume I'm asking for a job.”

“So you tell him that you're not, you just want some help, you know your husband did nothing wrong.”

“He knows my husband did nothing wrong.”

“Does he? I didn't remember you were even married when you worked for him.”

Aunt Margaret was right. In fact, the idea of trying to get Congressman Nielson—no, President Nielson—to help protect Reuben had already occurred to her, in a vague sort of way, but she always pushed the thought out of her mind because she didn't want to be the kind of person who suddenly calls somebody the minute he becomes President. Office seekers. Hire me, make me important, put me in the White House.

Besides, there was that White House switchboard to deal with. She'd be routed . . . somewhere.

Not that LaMonte was in the White House yet. He had officially said that the First Lady could take all the time she needed to vacate the White House. In fact, the rumored quote was, “I like the house I live in, and I can commute.” But everyone knew that was a ludicrous idea—it put too much of a burden on the Secret Service, which was already humiliated by having failed to protect the last President.

So where was he? What happened to his staff? No way would he go anywhere without Sandy, the battleaxe who ran his office—and his staff, especially the young wet-behind-the-ears aides like she had been—as if they were prisoners who had just been brought back from an escape attempt. And Sandy might even remember her.