Power Curve (16 page)

He grudgingly gave the reporter high marks for getting the story absolutely right. But it wasn’t the way he wanted to make the news.

“Sir, may I come in?” Brian Turner asked. He was standing in the doorway, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, the F-16 manual under his arm.

“Sure,” Bender said, waving the boy inside.

Brian struggled with his emotions and searched for the right words. The man in front of him did not meet the stereotypes demanded by television, the movies, and his friends. “I saw the article in the newspaper. It says you killed a man.”

Bender studied the fourteen-year-old before answering. “He was trying to shoot the people I was with, Brian. I didn’t have a choice.”

“I, ah, I,” Brian stammered. Bender waited patiently, not rushing the boy. “What did you think about? I mean—” Brian’s voice trailed off. He didn’t know what he meant, only that he needed to talk about it.

“I didn’t have time to think about it,” Bender said.

“What if you had made a mistake or if his gun hadn’t jammed?”

Bender gave a little shrug. “I don’t know. We live with a lot of uncertainties in life. We just have to do the best we can at the time.”

“I wish I had been there.”

“Why?”

“Nothing ever happens around here,” he mumbled. “People only talk all the time.” He dropped the F-16 manual on the desk. “Is a MiG-29 better than an F-15?”

He’s seen the videotape
, Bender thought. He shook his head. “It’s a serious threat for an F-15, but no, it’s not better.” He pointed at the manual. “You can keep that.”

“Mom told me to return it. Thanks anyway.” He spun around and darted out the door. Bender leaned back in his chair. Had he overstepped his bounds with Brian?

The phone rang, demanding his attention. It was Alice
Fay, Shaw’s secretary. “The kitchen cabinet is meeting in twenty minutes,” she told him. “Oh, General, we are very proud of you.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Raskin. But I just happened to be there.” He hung up.
I should have said that to Brian
, he thought.

Madeline O’Keith Turner looked up from her spot on the couch when Bender came through the door of her private study. She was glad he was the first one to arrive and smiled. “Coffee?” She watched him as he moved over to the tea cart.
A fascinating man
, she thought. She had never met anyone like him. He was intelligent and civilized and did not match her image of the military robot. Yet he was part of a system that she hated and feared as a mother. He could kill another human being without a second thought and order other men, maybe even her son, to sacrifice their lives in battle.

Can I ever understand men like you?
she wondered.

The vice president and Noreen Coker came in. “Sam,” the congresswoman said, “sooner or later you’re going to realize big is beautiful.”

“In your case,” Kennett replied, “I’ve known it for years.” Richard Parrish, the secretary of the treasury, and Maura O’Keith were right behind them, completing Turner’s kitchen cabinet.

“Before we talk taxes,” Turner said, “I’ve been wondering about the military.” The group listened while they poured coffee and settled down. “What exactly do they mean when they say, ‘mean and lean?’”

The question was for Bender, and they all waited for him to answer. “Basically, it means having a better tooth-to-tail ratio where combat power, the teeth, grows in relation to the support base, the tail.”

“A man of few words,” Coker murmured. “What determines the size of the teeth?”

“The threat,” Bender replied.

“Which has definitely decreased,” Parrish added.

“It has changed,” Bender admitted.

“I want to make the military more lean and mean,” Turner said. “How do I get their attention and shake them up?”

“Well, Madam President,” Parrish said, “you certainly shook them up with your defense budget cuts.”

“Was thirty percent in two years enough?” Turner asked.

“Becoming lean and mean doesn’t necessarily equate to cutting costs,” Bender replied. “Talk to General Overmeyer about it.”

“Overmeyer,” Turner said, shaking her head. “You’ve got to get his attention first. Otherwise, he won’t listen to a damn thing.”

Before Bender could protest, Maura intervened. “Maddy, we need to talk about taxes. That’s much more important.”

Turner nodded. “You’re right. So where are we?”

“Madam President,” Kennett said, “it might be a good idea if we heard about the downside of tax reform.”

“Mrs. President,” Coker said, “I agree. I’ve been working with Patrick about our legislative strategy, and you should hear what he has to say before we go on.” Turner nodded and Kennett made the telephone call, summoning Shaw to the study. Four minutes later, Patrick Shaw was standing in the doorway, out of breath and his face flushed from the quick walk from the West Wing.

“I know you have some reservations about reforming the tax system,” Turner said.

“‘Some reservations’ hardly describes it,” Coker said.

The look on Shaw’s face reminded Bender of a repentant schoolboy who was caught smoking in the boy’s restroom. Or in Shaw’s case, the girl’s restroom. “Sorry, Mizz President,” Shaw muttered. “But I keep asking, Who does it buy for you?”

“I don’t intend to
buy
anyone with it,” the president replied.

“Then don’t do it.”

“Mr. Shaw,” Maura said softly, “have you ever tried to raise a family on the minimum wage? You can’t do it.”

Bender saw Turner’s head nod at her mother’s gentle words and realized why she was part of the small group. Maura was Turner’s lodestone, her moral compass. Maura tied her to the millions of people who survived from paycheck to paycheck, hoping for the break that never came,
believing in the politicians who promised them a better life.

“Patrick,” Turner said, exasperated, “we’ve been over this before. It’s the right thing to do.”

“Mizz President, when I shoot craps, I don’t want any loaded dice in the game.”

“Only when you’re doing the rollin’, honey,” Coker scoffed, her black, inner-city accent heavy and staccatosharp.

Shaw shook his head. “I only gamble when I think—when I know—the percentages are in my favor. Ask yourself, What are the percentages?”

“We’re talking politics, Patrick, not gambling,” Turner reminded him.

“It works the same. Roll the dice on tax reform and who does it bring to your side? So it’s the right thing to do for the average working American. You ever met one? What does one look like? You start using words like
fair
and
average
and you’ve already lost.”

“Most people think
fair
and
average
are important,” Maura said.

Again, Shaw shook his big head. “Everyone else is average. Me and mine are special, better than the schmuck next door. And fair? I want what’s due me and screw fair.”

Turner came to her feet and paced back and forth, wearing a path in the carpet. “It’s still the right thing to do. By restructuring the tax system, we can give working men and women the jobs they need.”

Shaw warmed to the subject. He was on his home turf, sure and competent. “OK, let’s roll the dice and see what it takes to play the game. Now, you got a lot of people who buy themselves a piece of the action with healthy campaign contributions whenever an election comes around. Every one of them will be putting the hard squeeze on to get a special break. OK, Mizz President, first we got to handle the gaspers and wheezers.”

“Gaspers and wheezers?” Bender asked.

“The gray and green crowd,” Parrish answered. “Gray hair and green money. We know a lot about them over at Treasury.”

“The trouble with the gaspers,” Shaw continued, “is that they’re organized, and Lord, do they vote. Get ’em angry enough, and they’ll vote our ass out of office. These are also the same voters who lived through Watergate and are running as hard as hell to stay ahead of the grim reaper. So, if they really get pissed, why wait for the next election? Words like
impeachment
start to get whispered in the hallowed halls of Congress. So they get a category all their own with a lower rate—or maybe no rate at all.

“OK, now the unions want a piece of the action. After all, they vote, too, not to mention all the stuff they give you under the table that lets you stay within finance laws at election time. So they get their little tickle. Now the doors to the stable are wide open and the stampede is on. Who from the Fortune 500 is going to be next in line? In my bravest moment—”

“Which occurred August 3, 1969,” Noreen Coker muttered.

“—I can’t even think about what the petroleum companies will do. It won’t be pleasant when some of their more public-spirited baby-boomer executives send you a message. I can see it now, miles of honking cars lined up for gas. What about small businesses? The suppository of the American dream.”

“I think he meant
repository
,” Parrish said in a stage whisper.

“He meant
suppository
,” Coker replied. “A small business campaign contribution is a contradiction in terms. He can’t get any money out of them.”

Shaw was in full gallop, the bit between his teeth. “Or what about the blacks? The Hispanics? Or the angry white male? How about the guy who plants 1,000 acres of corn and can only survive if he gets a break on taxes? I haven’t even got to the bankers. And what about all those pesky foreign investors who invest their money in the good old U. S. of A. because of the current tax structure? They may not vote, but they know how to buy congressmen. And congressmen come cheap these days.”

Patrick Flannery Shaw stood in front of his president, his head tilted to one side, his clothes a disheveled wreck. He made his last appeal. “Madam President, you help
everyone and you help no one. But worst of all, you don’t help yourself. Everybody is willing to talk tax reform, but no one wants it to happen. Least of all, with respect, you.”

“You’re wrong, Patrick,” Turner replied. “I do want it to happen.”

Shaw nodded, a rueful look on his face. He had had his day in court and lost. Was it time to cut his losses? “Anything else I can do?”

Turner shook her head and Shaw left, thinking about his next phone call. “Well,” Turner said, “we have our work cut out for us. Sam, I want you to take the lead on this. Use my staff and give it your highest priority. It’s time to find out who our friends and enemies really are.”

The meeting was over, and Bender was the first out the door while Noreen Coker held back. “I think you’re on the right track with Defense,” she said. “But the generals I know won’t listen to any woman who talks about a lean and mean military. At least, not until you get their attention. And Shaw was right about running into stiff resistance on tax reform. We need to bug the opposition.”

“Any suggestions how I can do all that?” Turner asked.

Coker nodded and sat down.

Washington, D.C.

B
ender came through the west gate the Wednesday morning after the snowstorm at exactly seven o’clock. Many of the temporary workers who seemed to be permanently assigned to the White House were returning after a two-day break with pay thanks to the storm. They all recognized him, and a gardener waved. “Saw you in the newspaper, General. No way I’d go into that part of town.”

“You got more guts than me,” another worker said.

“Hell of a way to make page 3,” an electrician called.

Bender grinned. He had come to like the rough comradery they shared every morning. “I just happened to be there,” he replied. That set off a chorus of rude comments about the fickle finger of fate.

The gate guard stopped him. “Alice Fay called. You’re wanted in Mr. Shaw’s office—like soonest.” Bender thanked him and walked as quickly as he could over the well-sanded walk that led to the West Wing.

Before Alice Fay could take his overcoat, Shaw’s voice boomed from inside his office. “Say, boy, glad you hustled your body in so right smart.” Bender’s spine prickled at Shaw’s use of the word
boy
, but he said nothing and went in. Alice Fay gave him an encouraging look and closed the door behind him. “I just got a call from Overmeyer,” Shaw said, fingering a message. “It seems the
DIA issued a WATCHCON III effective 12:00 Greenwich mean time.”

Bender glanced at his watch: 7:12 local time. The WATCHCON had been in effect for twelve minutes.
Why are you sitting on this?
he thought.
I’m not the guy you should be talking to
.

“Then this shows up in the message center,” Shaw muttered, handing him the message. “What the hell is a WATCHCON III anyway?”

“A WATCHCON,” Bender explained, “is a notice issued by the Defense Intelligence Agency’s National Military Intelligence Center in the Pentagon. It goes out to all our forces. Think of it as a war warning to prevent another Pearl Harbor. The III is the lowest level.”

“Which means?” Shaw asked. Bender didn’t answer and read the message.

“It means,” Bender finally replied, “that you notify the president and activate the Situation Room. It’s time to call in your heavy hitters, the DCI, the secretary of defense, the new secretary of state, General Overmeyer, the national security advisor—”

“We ain’t got a national security advisor,” Shaw interrupted. “Remember?”

“His staff is still in place. I’d suggest you call in whoever is running the show over here.”

Shaw fingered the message as he reread it. “If the situation was serious, the NIO would be over here breaking the gawddamn door down.” The NIO was the CIA’s national intelligence officer for warning. The NIO had a small staff
whose job was to guard against a sneak attack on the United States. Since the collapse of the Soviet Union in December of 1991, there wasn’t much to guard against. “He’d be waving a warning of attack message with some percentage he pulled out of thin air or more likely his ass.” Shaw decided it was payback time.
Don’t make end runs around old Patrick
, he thought. Nothing in his voice or look betrayed what he was really thinking. “Who you kiddin’? You know, I know, the whole gawddamn Pentagon knows, this WATCHCON message has nothin’ to do with China.”

A cold fear gripped Bender. For some reason, Shaw refused to take the warning seriously. The alerting system, with its built-in redundancy, that had been so carefully created during the Cold War to prevent another Pearl Harbor was falling apart. He leaned across Shaw’s desk, his hands gripping the edge, knuckles white. He had to get Shaw’s attention. “The DIA may be overreacting to what they are seeing, they may even be dead wrong, but they are not diddling with the system. We don’t play games with war warnings.”

“Sure,” Shaw answered. Unconsciously, he reacted to Bender and scooted his chair back, trying to put some distance between him and the general. For a moment, he seriously considered hitting the duress button under his desk with his right knee. The alarm would bring five or six Secret Service agents with guns drawn to his rescue.
What the hell!
he thought.
Why am I afraid of this guy? He can’t do anything to me
.

Shaw’s ego demanded he crush this nobody general. “You haven’t seen the directive President Turner sent over to your bosses yesterday afternoon. I expected some dirtdumb reaction and told her so. But this one really takes the prize. Tell your bosses to get their act together.” He threw the latest presidential directive at Bender, hoping it would be enough to get him to back off.

Bender picked up the directive and read. “Damn,” he muttered. Then he leaned back across the desk and pulled out all the stops. “Notify the president and activate the Situation Room.” His voice carried an authority that even Shaw couldn’t ignore. “Now.”

Shaw picked up his telephone and punched at a number. “Activate the Sit Room,” he grumbled into the phone, still not convinced. He rattled off a list of the individuals he wanted to respond. Bender felt the knot in his stomach loosen when Shaw named Secretary of Defense Elkins and Overmeyer. “I’ll tell the president, myself,” Shaw muttered. He stood up to leave.

“Tell me something, Shaw. What would you have done if I had
not
been here?” Bender’s words whipped at the chief of staff, and he didn’t expect an answer. He had to make a point that Shaw would never forget. “A WATCHCON III can go on for days, even weeks. But if it goes to a II, you can damn well bet a I is not far behind. And you had better be ready by then because someone, somewhere, is about to give a war in the very near future. And I guarantee you, if they give a war, they will come.”

Shaw started salvage operations on his battered ego. No one had spoken like that to him in years. “Gen’ral”—his southern drawl was back in place, heavy and threatening—“obviously you put a hole lot’a faith in the DIA’s alerting system. You had better be right about this or your ass is dog meat.”

“It doesn’t matter if I’m right or wrong,” Bender shot back. “You honor the threat in this business.”

What the hell does that mean?
Shaw wondered as he headed for the president’s quarters.

The basement corridors under the West Wing were filled with uniforms and suits as aides and key staff members milled around, ready to be of instant service to their bosses in the Situation Room. Bender’s extra chair had disappeared out of his office hours ago, and twice, an admiral had asked to use his phone in private. When the admiral appeared the third time with an aide carrying a secure telephone, Bender turned his office over without a word and closed the door as he left.

He pushed his way through the crowded, but strangely quiet corridor. Every man and woman was waiting with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. Being near the decision makers in a crisis was thrilling, but it also carried
the unspoken burden of responsibility. “Bob,” General Charles called, “hold on.”

“I didn’t know you were here, sir. You could have used my office. I turned it over to the webfoots.”

“The Navy is jumping through it’s ass on this one,” Charles replied. “Give ’em all the help you can.” He looked around. “We need to talk. Let’s try the White House mess. We can find a corner.” Bender led the way to the dining room were the staff ate and found a table off to the side. “I just came out of the Situation Room,” Charles told him. “I was called in because there was some discussion on replacing Martini. What do you think?”

Bender considered his answer. By rights, he should have been outside the decision loop on that question. So why was Charles asking him? Was he being given an inside track because he was in the White House? “I’ve never met Martini,” Bender said, “so I assume you’re referring to the accident report.” Charles nodded an answer. “Other than the accident, has he screwed up?” This time a shake of the head from Charles. A waiter stopped by their table and they ordered an early lunch.

Bender made his decision. “This is no time to start firing wing commanders.”

Charles allowed a tight smile. “That’s what I told them.” He leaned back in his chair. “I talked briefly to the chairman during a break. He didn’t say much, but he finally has a dialogue going with the president. He credits you with it.” Charles leaned forward and dropped his voice. “You’re in her kitchen cabinet. Where is she coming from?”

There it was. Bender had the answer to his question as to why Charles had taken him into his confidence about Martini. Suddenly, he wasn’t hungry and he wanted out of this conversation. “Sorry, chief. I’m only valuable to the president if she trusts me to keep my mouth shut.”

Charles gave him a blank stare. “Perhaps,” he said, “she wants you to leak information to us. Maybe that’s the reason you’re there.”

I’ll have to ask her
, Bender thought. But Charles was
waiting for a reply. “Sir, she is my commander in chief and I am bound by presidential privilege. But I’m not going to—” He cut his words off in midstream, ashamed for justifying what was right.

“Not going to do what?” Charles asked. Surprisingly, he was not angry.

What’s going on here?
Bender asked himself. “I’m not going to short-circuit the chairman.”

That seemed to satisfy Charles, and they ate in silence. “How was the WATCHCON III handled when it came into the White House?” Charles asked when they finished the meal. They were on safe ground, and Bender quickly related how he had spurred Shaw into action. “I suspected you had a hand in it,” Charles said, “when I heard Shaw use your favorite phrase.”

“What favorite phrase?” Bender asked. He didn’t know he had one. He made a mental note to check with Nancy.

“Honor the threat,” Charles replied. “But the CIA’s national intelligence officer for warning has a different take on this and is downplaying China’s intentions. He won’t even issue a minimal warning of attack. He claims that the Chinese are posturing to shake Japan’s economic tree and this is all show and no go, like everything else since they took over Hong Kong.”

An uncomfortable suspicion demanded Bender’s attention. Had Shaw been right after all? Had Overmeyer deliberately used the WATCHCON message to force a dialogue with the president? “Who determined the activate time for the WATCHCON III?” he asked.

“The chairman,” Charles answered.

“Which was about the time Shaw and I arrive at the White House every morning.”

Charles gave him a thoughtful look. “Well, the chairman did have a certain dynamic in mind.”

“You can tell him he got it right, but Shaw is pissed.”

“Why should he be upset?” Charles asked.

“Because I had to beat him up to get any action. He thinks Overmeyer issued the WATCHCON to retaliate for the directive Turner laid on us yesterday.”

“Shaw is dumber than a can of rocks,” Charles muttered. “Of course, the chairman is upset about the direc
tive. Hell, we’re all upset. But we can live with it—until the next president is elected. We’ve survived other hostile administrations, we’ll outlast this one.” He stood up to leave. “Look, I know how you feel about the Thunder-birds. They mean a lot to all of us.”

The basement and the Situation Room were deserted when Bender descended the stairs. The crisis was over for now or had been relegated to another level. He sat in his office and stared at the photo on the wall. His commander in chief, by presidential directive, had disbanded all military aerial demonstration teams and most of the honor guards in the name of lean and mean. Only the Third U.S. Infantry Unit, the Old Guard, which guarded the Tomb of the Unknowns, and the United States Marine Band had been spared.

Why are you doing this to us?
he raged to himself.

Okinawa, Japan

About the time most of the bureaucrats in Washington, D.C., were leaving work that same Wednesday afternoon, newly promoted Major Robert Ryan, Jr., M.D., was waking up. He checked his watch: 5:30 in the morning. Good. He had six hours to spend on his project before reporting for duty at the clinic.
Working the late shift will work out fine
, he thought,
and give me plenty of time to work on the Personnel Reliability Program
. “What a waste of time,” he muttered aloud. Ryan got out of bed and studied the photo of Laurie by his bedside. He missed her more than he could ever have imagined.

His desk was laid out for work, the outline completed, his research notes arranged, and the reference books annotated. It was time. He switched on his computer and called up a new file on his word processing program. He stared at the screen, willing the words to appear. But it was painful.
What would Laurie have done?
he asked himself. Her voice was there, still with him. “Quit being a prima donna and sweat!” Slowly, he typed:

The Degradation of Rationality:
A Case Study of the Dysfunctional
Military Commander Under Stress

Satisfied with this opening, Ryan leaned back in his chair and reread his outline. All of the professional buzzwords were covered: low self-esteem (an absolute in the current world of psychology), childhood abuse, and, best of all, multiple-personality disorder.

The more Ryan read, the more he convinced himself that his diagnosis of Martini was accurate. But he had to get inside Martini’s decision-making process to gather the anecdotal evidence necessary to sustain his theory.
The answer is so obvious
, he thought. The commander of the Medical Group always sent a representative to the battle staff when the command post was activated for exercises. Without exception, the officer always complained of nothing to do except listen to Martini and the other colonels talk. So why not him?