Power Curve (8 page)

“Mizz President,” he said, flopping into the couch opposite her. He handed her the day’s schedule as Jackie settled into her usual niche. The PDB followed in short order.

She scanned the thin document. “China seems very quiet.”

“I agree with the analysis that it’s a lull while Beijing feels out your administration. But we do want to stay on top of it. Harry S. was one of the best men to sit in the Oval Office. He warned that domestic policy can hurt you but foreign policy will kill you.” They continued with the routine, and he handed her the day’s action list. “Mizz President, you can’t put off selecting your V.P. much longer. If you want, I’ll get a list together and have the FBI and Treasury check ’em out.”

“Jackie, please wait for me downstairs.” Her personal assistant quickly left, leaving them alone. “I’ve already made my decision,” Turner said. “Gwen Anderson.”

“Mrs. Integrity?” The look on Shaw’s face resembled that of a maiden aunt who has just discovered a sexually transmitted disease has been named after her favorite niece. Gwen Anderson, the current secretary of health and human services, was considered the most ardent feminist
in the administration and reported to be incorruptible. For Shaw, the first was an inconvenience, the second, a fatal liability. “Ma’am, you really need to think about this. You need balance to your administration.”

“I’m concerned with ability, not balance,” Turner continued. “I’ve spoken with her, and she’ll be here this afternoon for further discussions. She has been very forthcoming and assures me there are no skeletons in her closet.”

“Mizz President,” Shaw protested, “surely you’re not going to take her word on that?”

“You’re right. Have the FBI check her out. Do it quick. But there are no dents in her armor.”

“All we have to do is find the key to her chastity belt,” Shaw muttered.

“Do I sense a hesitation, Patrick?”

“Yes, ma’am. You certainly do. You should be thinking ahead to the next election and choosing your running mate now. To be viable, you need a veep from an anchor state who can breeze through the confirmation hearings. Don’t go revving your engine when you haven’t got gas in the tank.”

“Is this your lecture on spending political capital?” Turner asked.

“Yes, ma’am, it is, and we’re running on about a quarter tank. It was touch and go getting the Senate to confirm Anderson for Health and we’re going to run the tank dry getting her confirmed as vice president. That’s gas we can’t afford to burn at this point.”

“I trust her,” Turner replied, “and need her to head a new program.” Shaw braced himself for the words
tax reform
. He didn’t hear them. “We’re going to give this government a face.” She came alive. “For example, when someone calls a government office, they won’t hear a recorded menu with a list of options. They will be talking to a real person—a person who cares about their problems.”

Shaw paced the floor while she talked. When he sensed the timing was right, he stood by the mantle and touched the bell that Turner had rung while in the California senate. She smiled when he picked it up. “Patrick, I really want to make this happen.” He tilted the bell, and it gave
off a single ring, little more than a tinkle. She stopped talking, and he knew she was listening.

“This will be a good job for your new vice president,” he told her, “whoever she or he is. But, Mizz President, choose someone near the middle. And about Government with a Face, it’s window dressing, so don’t micromanage. They tell the story about President Carter who insisted on even approving the schedule for the tennis courts. Use your time wisely. It’s my job to handle the details.”

Turner smiled at him. “You’re my daily dose of reality,” she said. “Work General Bender into the schedule. I want him to meet Gwen and discuss another problem.”

“The subject?” Shaw asked.

“The glass ceiling in the military. We need more women in command.”

He’s going to love that one
, Shaw thought. “Anything else?”

“No. Let’s get started.” She walked to the door. “Oh. I want to see action on tax reform. Today.”

“What did you have in mind, Mizz President?”

“Your job is to handle the details,” she reminded him.

I got to get out of Dodge
, Shaw moaned to himself.

“Go right in,” the secretary said. “Mr. Shaw is waiting for you.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Raskin,” Bender replied. The woman smiled at him. Everyone else called her Alice Fay, and she suspected that Bender was one of the few people who knew her last name. Like every staff member in the White House, there was no name plate on her desk. You were supposed to know who she was or you had no business being in her office.

Shaw was tilted back in his chair with a telephone stuck to his left ear. He waved Bender to a seat. “Senator, we’ll do what we can, but we’re going to need some help.” He listened for a moment. “Don’t think of it that way. Right, I’ll be back in touch.” He dropped the receiver into its cradle. “Senators are like dogs,” he said. “Some learn quicker than others.” He stood up and deliberately loosened his tie and rumpled his shirt. “We’re going into the
Oval Office in a few moments, and you are going to meet one Gwen Anderson. Be careful.”

“I’ve heard about Mrs. Anderson,” Bender replied.

“She’ll try to bait you. Just the way she is.”

“Thanks for the heads up,” Bender said.

He followed Shaw into the Oval Office. The two women were sitting on the couches opposite each other, and Turner patted a spot next to her for Shaw. Bender took the remaining seat on the couch next to Anderson. She was a handsome, heavy-set woman in her midfifties with attractively streaked salt and pepper hair. A strong scent of musk perfume assaulted him. Turner made the introductions before turning to business. “Robert, we’re concerned about the small number of women in the military.”

Bender wished he had been warned about the topic and stifled his standard protest that she was talking to the wrong man. They were all looking at him expectantly. “The percentages have been constantly improving,” he began. “Overall, we are up to approximately sixteen percent—”

Anderson interrupted. “Approximately?”

“The current figure is 16.2 percent. As you know—”

Again, she interrupted him. “What percentage are officers?”

“Overall, the percentage is a little higher.”

“Be specific, General.”

Why the attack dog tactics?
Bender wondered. “It varies from service to service,” he answered. “Seventeen percent of all officers in the Air Force are women. I’ll get the exact numbers to you, by service and by rank, right after this meeting.”

“Please do that.” Anderson looked away from Bender. “Maddy, the real problem is the glass ceiling. Although these figures are somewhat encouraging, they mask the fact that the number of women serving as colonels is abysmally low and almost nonexistent at flag rank. We need more women generals.”

Only politicians hire generals off the streets
, Bender thought. “Increasing numbers of women are moving up the rank structure,” he told them.

Anderson ignored him. “The key to promotion in the
military,” she said, “is command of combat units, which are effectively closed to women. Maddy, you can’t penetrate the military mind-set on issues like this. We learned that over gay rights. You can’t discuss it with a bunch of homophobic—”

“I never did understand that word,” Bender said, interrupting her.

“Pardon me for speaking while you were interrupting,” Anderson snapped. “But for your information, it means fear of homosexuals.”

What’s good for the gander is definitely
not
good for the goose
, he thought.
Shaw did warn me about taking the bait
. Bender dismissed any chance of Anderson listening to a rational explanation of the dynamics of combat and what it took to lead men and, for that matter, women into the crucible of battle. Nothing in her experience would allow her to accept the brutal reality of what happens to human beings when they are near real bullets, real danger, and real death.

“Maddy,” Anderson concluded, “don’t even bother to discuss this with them. You are their commander in chief, so tell them.” On this last point. Bender agreed with her. The president should indeed tell the generals what she wanted. But there would be discussion.

Madeline Turner looked at Bender. “Why are you against women in combat?”

He hedged his answer. “For the most part, it’s not a question of women being able to do the job—”

“But you are against women in combat,” Turner interrupted.

He didn’t want to answer because it was the truth. But she was his president and he would not lie to her. “Pregnancy.”

“I expected that,” Anderson scoffed. “What would a man know about that?”

“I know what it does to combat effectiveness,” Bender said.

“Thank you, Robert,” Turner said, dismissing him.

Shaw settled behind his desk and reevaluated Robert Bender. He had deliberately hung the general out to dry
by not telling him the subject of the meeting. Yet, he had handled it well and had not strangled Anderson, for which no jury of his peers would ever convict him if he had. “What’s your take on Mizz Anderson?”

“I didn’t like the way she kept calling President Turner Maddy,” Bender answered.

“Get used to it,” Shaw said. “You’re looking at the next vice president.” Shaw guffawed at the look on Bender’s face. “Do words escape you?”

“Well,” Bender stammered, “they say she can’t be bought.”

Shaw shook his head. “Everyone can be bought in this town. It would, ah, be premature to tell your generals about Mizz Anderson.”

“They are in my chain of command.”

“You seem to forget who’s at the top,” Shaw said. He waited until Bender left before calling one of his assistants. “It’s slash and burn time—Gwen Anderson. Get the children digging. Oh, and get the FBI started on a formal investigation.”

It was late the following Saturday when Shaw shuffled down the corridor outside the press secretary’s office, hoping for the right chance encounter with one of the seventy-three reporters currently assigned to the White House pressroom. Unlike most politicians, Shaw not only understood reporters, he liked many of them. Although he had little respect for their profession, he tantalized them with gossip, tidbits, and insights to keep the doors open. Now he was searching for the right door so he could use one of them in a very shameless manner. For their part, the reporters willingly joined in the game and let him use them. It was a marriage that could only have been made in Washington, D.C.

A woman’s voice called, “This is hostile territory, Patrick. Aren’t you afraid of being mugged this late at night?”

Unbidden, Shaw’s lopsided grin spread across his face when he recognized the speaker, Elizabeth Gordon. “Liz, it has been a while,” he said. He watched her walk toward him. She was in her early forties, tall, trim, and confident.
He admired her legs, which she displayed to the limits of journalistic propriety. “How’s Jeff? I haven’t seen him in some time.” Jeff Bissell was her longtime, live-in lover.

Liz cocked her head and gave him an odd look. “You haven’t heard? He moved out.”

“A shame,” Shaw replied. “I liked him.”

“So did I,” she said. “But he’s just like you and can’t make a commitment.”

He looked contrite. “Liz, in those days I was young and dumb.”

She laughed. “Well, you’re not young now.”

“A pity,” he said. The door was open.

He watched her as she sat on the side of the bed and slipped on her high-heeled slippers. She stood and walked across the room, her body shimmering in the soft light. She knelt and opened a drawer, finding what she was looking for. Then she walked back to the bed, waving a long feather.

“No way, Liz,” Shaw protested. “My heart can’t take that.”

“You used to love it,” she said, rolling back into bed and laying a breast against him. He took a deep breath as she drew the feather over his stomach. “Try to ignore me,” she whispered. He closed his eyes and concentrated. He felt a warm tongue in his ear as the feather moved between his legs. His erection that had been building withered away. He was winning the game. “You’re not paying attention,” she murmured.

“If I remember right,” he replied, a slight catch in his voice, “that is the idea. By the way, what are the stakes?”

“I want an inside. What do you want?” He described the penalty she would have to pay if he won. “Oh, I can do that!” Her enthusiasm ruined what was left of his self-control, and he felt her hand massaging him into a full erection. “But I won’t have to, will I? Pay up.”

“Maddy wants Gwen Anderson for her veep—a bad choice. Anderson will self-destruct during the confirmation hearings.”

She mounted him. “Why?” Her thighs clamped him. Hard.

“She takes lithium to control manic-depressive mood swings. She’s buried it so deep that no one suspects. Gawd only knows how that will go down on the Hill when it surfaces. She’s OK at Health but—” he caught his breath. “Can this wait to later?”

“Of course,” Liz whispered. She had her inside.

Shaw was in his office the following Monday when Liz broke the story. He watched the TV and put on his stubborn Winston Churchill face at the unanimous response of the senators who were on the confirmation committee. Their reaction to Liz’s revelation about Gwen Anderson was even better than he had expected.

His intercom buzzed. “Mr. Shaw,” Alice Fay said, “the president is with her advisors and wants to see you.”

“I imagine she does,” Shaw replied. He picked up a folder with detailed backgrounds on potential vice presidential candidates and headed for the Oval Office.

Okinawa, Japan

B
rigadier General David Martini rolled into the Eighteenth Wing’s Intelligence section like Typhoon Towa that had just blown over Okinawa and Kadena Air Base. He fixed the NCO with a hard look. “This had better be good,” he barked. The NCO gulped and escorted him to the big walk-in vault where the lieutenant colonel who headed Intel was waiting. Martini stormed through the steel door and raised his bellow another ten decibels. “Peter, Intel comes to me, I don’t go to Intel. What the hell is going on?”

Lieutenant Colonel Peter Townly motioned for the NCO to close and lock the vault door from the inside as he left. “General, I’ve been yelled at by pros.”

Martini laughed. He liked officers who stood their ground. “Where I come from, a pro is a hooker.”

“Intel has been called worse,” Townly replied. “I received a message from DIA”—Defense Intelligence Agency—“that I had to decode myself. First time I ever had to do that, and there’s only two people on this base with a clearance to read it: you and me.” He handed Martini the message. “Under the circumstances, I thought it would be best if you came here.”

Martini read the message slowly. “Son of a bitch!” he roared. “The cocksuckers sold Taiwan out to the Chinese!” He immediately regretted the outburst. A general
was allowed a little profanity, but he had crossed the line. He made a mental promise to tone down his language. “This gets worse. The Chinese and South Koreans are getting in bed together. The South Koreans! What the hell is going on?”

“The South Koreans and Japan,” Townly said, “have been at odds over the Tok Do Islands since the end of World War II. Economic competition has only made the dispute worse. I’d say the Koreans are getting ready to switch sides, politically and economically.”

Martini reread the last sentence. “‘Take no overt actions! This is for your information only!’ What the hell is this supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Townly said, “that the political situation is going critical, and our commanders don’t want to leave you in the dark. But they are also saying they don’t know what’s going to happen next.”

“You’re an Intel officer,” Martini growled. “So be intelligent.”

Townly took a deep breath. “My best guess is that China is going to consolidate the western rim of the Pacific into one economic empire under their control.”

Martini humphed. “Japan won’t stand for that. Neither will we.”

“We gave them Taiwan,” Townly reminded him. “Now they’re challenging Japan.” Townly warmed to the subject. It wasn’t often he got to play at geopolitics. “Think of this in terms of pure power politics like 100 years ago.”

Martini stifled an obscenity. “Pete, this is the twenty-first century.” He headed for the door. “Burn the message and the decode. Now.” Townly had the match ready and set the two pieces of paper on fire. He dropped them into a wastebasket. Unfortunately, the smoke set off the alarms. Martini stared at him. “Except for that, you did good.”

Martini had been blowing some smoke on his own; he knew exactly why the Defense Intelligence Agency had sent out the message. The Joint Chiefs of Staff were telling him to get ready to fight but, for some political reason, couldn’t use the normal alerting system. Like the six other commanders at the Air Force bases facing China who had
gotten the same message, he was going to take training to the edge. Although that would increase the risk level for accidents, he wouldn’t let up until every man and woman under his command was razor sharp. He hoped his Army, Navy, and Marine counterparts were doing the same because he couldn’t tell them.

The Eighteenth Wing’s Operations Group commander, the colonel responsible for the three F-15 squadrons that formed Kadena’s cutting edge, soon found himself the subject of Martini’s undivided attention. The general was primarily concerned with the Forty-Fourth Fighter Squadron, which, until six months ago, had been an air superiority squadron. Now it was in the process of transitioning to the F-15E Strike Eagle, which could drop bombs as well as engage other aircraft. In quick order, Martini, the Ops Group commander, and the commander of the Forty-Fourth toured the maintenance side of the squadron and then examined the training folder of every pilot and weapon system officer.

“Tell me about Chris Leland,” Martini said.

“Captain Christopher Leland,” the Ops Group commander grumbled, “should be flying multimotors and looking for a job with the airlines.”

“He also has an uncle who is a U.S. senator,” Martini replied.

“That’s what got him this far,” the squadron commander said. “General, he’s a nice kid but inconsistent as all hell. He does great one day and is a basket case the next. Overall, he’s well below average. But he does meet the minimum, and given enough time, he’ll be OK. Right now, he’s still flying with an IP”—an instructor pilot—“and we haven’t matched him up with a wizzo yet.” Without a weapon system officer in the backseat, the Strike Eagle could not perform its primary mission of dropping bombs.

Martini fixed the Ops Group commander with a hard look. The colonel should have canceled Leland’s fighter pilot ticket months ago and shipped him off to fly transports. Now Martini needed every pilot he had. “If he meets the minimum standard,” Martini grumbled, his dis
pleasure obvious, “he flies. Team him up with a wizzo—one who’s got a clue.”

“I’ve got one of those,” the Forty-Fourth squadron commander said.

The civilian contractor sitting at the control console waved Ryan into the simulator for the Strike Eagle. “Go right on in, Cap’n. She’s practicing approach and landings.”

Ryan waved back and walked into the sim room and climbed the steps to the cockpit. Laurie was alone and sitting in the backseat, her crew position. He climbed into the front seat to watch the instruments and projection screens. As a flight surgeon, he had flown over a hundred hours in the backseat of F-15s and conducted stress studies in the simulator. Although he wasn’t a pilot, he recognized a good approach and landing when he saw one. The audio gave a reassuring clunk when she touched down. Then she firewalled the throttles and turned the landing into a touch and go. Her hands flew around the cockpit as she retracted the gear and flaps. She reefed the sim into a sixty-degree climb and did aileron rolls. Ryan watched the video displays and felt the onset of motion sickness. “Whoa!” he shouted.

“Wuss,” she replied. She leveled the sim and spoke into her microphone. “Time to spin, crash, and burn,” she told the civilian at the console. She raked the throttles aft and slowed to stall speed. Then she pulled back on the stick and gave it full right rudder. The sim did as she commanded and went into a spin. She held the spin until it was fully developed. The videos showed the sim going straight down as the altimeter unwound at a dizzying rate. Then she recovered, flying straight and level, the altimeter rooted on fifty feet. “Made it this time,” she said.

“You do this for fun?” Ryan asked.

“I enjoy it and it’s good practice.” They climbed out of the cockpit and headed for the door.

“Practice? Are you still applying for pilot training?”

Laurie shook her head. “They just teamed me with Chris Leland.”

“The rumors say he’s pretty bad,” Ryan said, masking the worry he felt.

“He’s not good. But like the man says, if the minimums weren’t good enough, they wouldn’t be the minimums.” The “man” in this case was her squadron commander. “Anyone else would be looking for a job with the airlines.”

“Does Martini know how weak he is?”

Laurie’s lips pulled into a wry twist. “Yeah. This was his idea. For some reason, we’re going balls-to-the-wall on training. I guess this is part of it.”

“You’re not alone,” Ryan said. “He was over at the Med Center and really unloaded on us. I got tapped to set up a Personnel Reliability Program. Talk about a waste of time. There’s absolutely no reason for it. None at all.”

A frown crossed Laurie’s face. “PRP? Isn’t that the program where you have to certify the physical condition and mental stability of people working around nuclear weapons?”

“You got it,” Ryan replied. “It doesn’t make sense since we haven’t had nukes on the island since 1972. Martini’s such a raving asshole. He wants to look good to the brass and is using our bodies as stepping stones to promotion.”

She nudged him with her hip. “Say, if you’re not using your body, I got a use for it.”

“When are you going to marry me?” he asked.

“Marriage is dull, hard work,” she replied, “and not for prima donnas.”

“Hey,” he protested. “Who’s a prima donna?”

She smiled at him. “Oh, someone I know.”

Washington, D.C.

Bender stifled a mental sigh and tried to estimate how much longer he would be buried under the reams of proposed Defense Department budget cuts he was reviewing for the Office of Management and the Budget. He was angry and frustrated; angry because he was being asked his opinion where he did not have expertise and frustrated
because OMB wasn’t talking to the experts he kept recommending.

“Hi. Can we come in?”

He looked up at the sound of Sarah Turner’s voice. She was standing in his doorway with her brother. He smiled. “Sure. But I only got one chair.” Sarah flopped into the chair and started to swing her legs back and forth.

A man’s voice answered from the hallway. “I’ll get another one.” Chuck Sanford, the Secret Service agent who had been in charge of the Secret Service detail when Turner was vice president stepped into view. “Good to see you again, General.”

“Welcome back,” Bender said. “And Agent Adams?” Sanford nodded and moved out of sight, searching for a chair.

“Do you remember everybody’s name?” Brian Turner asked, still standing in the doorway.

“I try to,” Bender answered. He studied the president’s son. He was a tall and awkward fourteen-year-old discovering who he was and what he could do. Physically, he was totally different from the small and feminine Sarah. He was itchy to move and discover new places, new adventures. But there was no doubt that he was his mother’s son, and some day, he would be a very handsome man. “People are important.”

“That’s what Grams says,” Sarah said, wanting to be part of the conversation.

“Grams!” Brian snorted.

Bender laughed, understanding the boy. “I was trapped in a house full of women for a long time,” he said. Brian looked at him hopefully. “Strange, but I miss it now.”

Brian shot a sideways glance at his sister. “I won’t.”

Sanford was back with a chair. He sat it on the opposite side of the doorway from Sarah’s and disappeared. Brian stepped into the small office and looked around. His mouth fell open when he saw the picture on the wall. It was a photograph of the Thunderbirds against a magnificent skyscape. Although the six F-16s were very small, the red, white, and blue of the Thunderbird motif was clearly visible against a vast sky. Yet the aircraft and sky were one, in perfect harmony with each other.

“What a great photo,” Brian said. “Can I get one?”

Bender shook his head. “There were only eight prints made before the negative was ruined. That’s me on the extreme left.”

“You really flew with the Thunderbirds? And that was your airplane?”

“Yeah, I did. But that was a long time ago. But it wasn’t
my
airplane. It belonged to the crew chiefs. They just let me borrow it from time to time to go play.”

“The crew chiefs, are they sergeants?” Brian asked. Bender nodded an answer. “Oh. Just like servants.”

Bender chuckled. “You’ve never met a sergeant. Believe me, they are not servants. They do the work and they keep the aircraft flying. Without them, a pilot never turns a wheel.”

“Turns a wheel?” Brian asked.

“That’s just a way of saying taxiing.”

“Mom says she couldn’t be president without people like sergeants doing their jobs,” Sarah added. “They know that and are proud of what they do.”

“Your mom knows what she’s talking about,” Bender said.

“Is that why you try to remember everyone’s name?” Brian asked.

“Yeah. I guess that’s why.”

“What’s it like to fly a fighter?” Brian asked.

He shot a quick smile at Sarah. “Oh, boy”—she returned his smile—“it’s hard to describe. Without a doubt it is the most fun thing I have ever done in my life. But it is also the hardest thing. You have to stay in shape, study all the time, and memorize stuff.”

“What do you have to memorize?” Brian asked.

“Emergency procedures.”

“I won’t have any emergencies when I fly.”

Rather than laugh, Bender grew very serious. “The business of a fighter is combat. In combat, the bad guys shoot at you, and sooner or later, they will hit your aircraft. We call that
taking battle damage
and that causes emergencies, probably three or four at the same time. If you’re good at handling emergency procedures, you’ll live to tell
about it. Otherwise—” He shrugged, not ending the thought. “It’s all part of the challenge.”

Brian turned to the photograph. “I’m going to the Air Force Academy and fly fighters.”

“So I’ve heard. But it’s a challenge just to get into the Academy and—”

“My mom can get me in,” Brian said, interrupting him.

“Don’t interrupt,” Sarah scolded. “It’s impolite.”

“I’m sorry, sir.” Like all teenagers, he had to explain himself. “Sometimes I get excited and forget.” He studied the photograph on the wall. “But I really want to go to the Air Force Academy.”

Bender nodded, understanding. He could remember when he had said the same words. These were good kids, well mannered and respectful. And they definitely had minds of their own. “Your mother can get you an appointment to a service academy,” he explained, “if you’ve got the grades. Once there, you’re on your own, and if you can’t cut it, you’re out. But remember, not every cadet qualifies for pilot training. Then once you make it to pilot training, the selection process starts all over again and only the top students get an assignment to fighters. It’s a tough program from beginning to end and nobody gives you a thing.”

Brian turned to the photograph and touched it, wanting to be part of it. “I can do it.”