“What does that have to do with me?”
“Plenty. Promethean targeted the neighborhoods of racial minorities with these.” She reached into a desk drawer. “Here’s a discount coupon from Promethean for their opioid medication.” She let the coupon flutter to the desk. “They found a batch of these in the rooming house where my granddaddy passed from an overdose.”
“That’s unfortunate.” He rose from the chair. “However, his bad judgment and lack of willpower are not my fault.”
“Get out . . . now.”
A few days later, Sebastian Senex clapped at the conclusion of a TV advertisement prepared by Habercrum and Hitch Advertising Agency at its Manhattan office. The wunderkind ad executive in a red blazer specializing in political attack ads murmured a thank-you under his wild thatch of jet-black hair as the room lights snapped back on.
“That’ll teach her.” Senex pushed back in the swivel chair. There was the wet-behind-the-ears congresswoman in all her glory appearing to shake hands with Malik Shakur, leader of the anti-Israeli and anti-white Black Power Movement known as BPM.
“We enhanced the image . . . as you suggested, Mr. Senex.” Biting his lower lip, the ad executive young enough to be his son asked, “Think we overdid it?”
“Not at all. You’ve done a great job with deepfake AI technology.” He had the smarts to pressure the executive to change the image of Dallas Taylor shaking her finger at Shakur in disapproval into a handshake and her frown into a smile. The photo had to be adjusted to get at the larger truth. She pretended to disagree with Shakur, but he knew underneath she was on board with his plan for social revolution.
For the next few hours, the inner circle of the creative team at Habercrum and Hitch Advertising Agency wined and dined him at Jean-Georges restaurant. They brainstormed the presentation and marketing of the political attack ad against Dallas Taylor. A somber Habercrum joined the table. The creatives rose in respect. He motioned them down. They sat back down on cue. Habercrum looked at Senex. “This is risky business, Sebastian, risky indeed.”
“How so, Harold?” He preened his ego by comparing in his mind the decrepitude of Habercrum, a man of similar age, with his own rejuvenation. “At the snap of my fingers I have photograph experts ready to counterpunch anyone who might dispute the photo. We’ll label any objection fake news.”
Habercrum asked the creatives to leave. After they left, he continued, “What if Malik Shakur backs Taylor up. Sebastian?”
“I paid Shakur off.” Senex wiped his lips with the napkin. “Besides, he hates her guts. He thinks she sold out the brothers and sisters. Shakur likes the payback of Dallas Taylor appearing to support him.” Senex shook his head. “Would you believe it? That woman not radical enough for Shakur?”
“What about other witnesses?”
“Stop worrying, Harold. They were alone.” He threw the napkin on the table. “We go back a long way but if you keep this negativity up, you’re going to hurt creative innovation. I wouldn’t want to take Promethean Pharma ads somewhere else.”
“Aren’t you forgetting the photographer?” With credit card waving in hand, Habercrum called over the waiter. “Or did you pay him off too?”
“Better than that,” Senex said. “As luck would have it, he died last year in a car crash.” He drew his thumb and forefinger across his lips. “Zipped silent forever.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
“Not now. I’ll see him later.” Dallas Taylor waved her personal secretary out of the Oval Office. “I need to see what’s going on in Chicago.” To her left she looked over at the three television sets newly installed alongside one another under the bookshelves, just as her fellow Texan, LBJ, had placed his TV sets. Like him, she could watch all three newscasts simultaneously.
On the TV screens, fires smoldered and flared up through the debris of ruined buildings. It reminded her of the riots after the death of Martin Luther King, Jr. or George Floyd. Cartel gangs and the remnants of the Outfit fought hit-and-run battles on the streets. A growing phalanx of military veterans under the American Patriots banner executed vigilante justice against lone-wolf criminals spawned by the general mayhem.
Snipers shot at human targets from the upper stories of buildings. Increasingly outgunned and stretched thin, the Chicago police husbanded their resources to defend upper-income homes and businesses with periodic offensive actions into the worst of the urban war zones. “They’ve all gone loco in Chicago,” Taylor muttered to herself.
“I must see you now.” Like an unwelcome apparition, the secretary of defense, General Horatio A. Harrison, known as “Hard-Ass Harrison” in his active-duty days, stood at the doorway hand on hip and the other holding a stack of papers.
“Retired four-star army general or not, you can’t just waltz in here.” Taylor shooed him with a wave of her hand. “Vamoose to the waiting area. I have to call the Russian president.”
“Your cell phone is not secure.”
“I know that.” She put away her cell. Truth was she had forgotten President Trump had caused himself problems by giving out his cell phone number to foreign leaders. “I just want to congratulate the Russian president on his birthday.” She picked the secure telephone line from the console.
“You should consult the National Security Council. Calls to foreign leaders have national security implications.”
Who was he trying to fool? They both knew official eavesdroppers standing by in another room would monitor the call. They’d take notes on the conversation and compare their notes to an electronic recording.
“Wait outside, General, until I call you in.”
After the telephone conversation, she kept the secretary of defense cooling his heels and sipped from a glass of bourbon and branch water to gather her thoughts. The former president had loved military men around him and took pride in retired general Horatio A. Harrison. She swirled her drink of bourbon and branch water. A gut check revealed the source of unease.
Generals as secretaries of defense made her nervous. Almost eighty years ago under President Truman, General George Marshall received a Senate congressional waiver of the rule requiring military personnel to wait ten years after retirement before becoming defense secretary. Congress then whittled down the cooling-off period to seven years.
Not long ago, Congress granted a waiver of even that reduced period so that General James Mattis could serve as defense secretary under President Trump and a further waiver to General Lloyd Austin, who had served in the same post under President Biden. Recently, Congress had eroded the waiting period yet again by reducing the interval to only three years. Having been out of active duty only two years, General Harrison could not even meet that low hurdle. So Congress created an exception for this fair-haired boy with ties to the military-industrial complex that President Eisenhower had warned about.
The wall of separation between the military and civilian spheres was turning into a stepping-stone, and Taylor didn’t like it. Neither would the framers of the Constitution. It was dangerous for the future of civilian rule. To be fair, Congress only reflected public opinion polls showing Americans far and away trusted the military more than any other social institution. She had to deal with the law and public opinion as it was, not as she would have liked it.
Old Hard-Ass looked like he was going to prove a troublesome cabinet member. She kept him on because he came highly recommended as a Beltway whiz kid. The other reason was that the outgoing administration had delayed her ability to conduct background checks and security clearances for potentially new cabinet members. She overlooked this political pettiness for the big picture: it appeared statesmanlike and bipartisan for her to keep the cabinet holdovers for the time being. That’s what John Adams had done in keeping George Washington’s cabinet. The country longed for a unifier who would not demonize the opposition in a time of crisis.
At the end of a half hour, she allowed the
secretary of defense into the Oval Office. If he proved half as good as his admirers claimed, she’d put up with him even if he turned out to be a yellow jacket in an outhouse.
“Have a seat.”
“I prefer to stand.”
“What do you want?”
“You had no right to lower the DEFCON level to four from three without consulting us.”
“Say what?” She took out a copy of the Constitution from her desk. “My copy says I am the commander in chief.”
“You should have taken the advice of the secretary of defense and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.”
“But then it would have been an order and not advice.” She stood up and looked at him straight on. “I’d like us to get along, so remember I don’t take orders. I give them . . . understand?”
He gave a curt nod.
“And, by the way, I did get advice . . . just not from you, because I already knew your opinion and that of the Joint Chiefs.”
“Madam Acting President, we are in a constitutional crisis.”
“Get this straight. I have the full powers of any president.”
“I won’t argue the point. I have more pressing news.” He hovered over the Resolute desk, riffling the papers in his hands. “The latest reports show our enemies taking advantage of our governmental transition. The North Koreans have lobbed another missile over Japan, the closest yet to the Japanese shoreline. The Russians are probing our infrastructure with their computer networks . . . not to mention Chinese warships doing military exercises off Hawaii.”
“The combatant commander for the navy supports my decision.”
“The others . . . the army, the air force . . . they disagree and want to go back to DEFCON 3.” He put his hands on his knees and leaned forward. “You probably don’t know it, but DEFCON 3 gets our warplanes into the air within fifteen minutes. We don’t have that level of security under DEFCON 4.”
“I know what the DEFCON levels mean. Probably, you don’t know I was on the Senate Homeland Security Committee.” She backed away from more tit for his tat. “The way I see it, General, this whole thing’s like a Texas Hold’em poker game. Every escalation of the DEFCON level we’ve made, the Russians have matched with increased mobilization. This last time they called and raised the stakes as a warning. I got the message.”
“They’re bluffing.”
“You want to take the chance of nuclear annihilation?” She took a deep breath and stopped counting to ten when she reached two. “You know damn well they’ve reduced their level of preparedness to match the lowered DEFCON level. My decision de-escalated the tensions.”
“You have your opinion.” He folded her arms. “And I have mine.”
“And mine’s the only one that counts.” She got tired of him standing over her. “Now sit down. I’ll tell you something more important on my mind.”
He sat down.
“Look at that, General.” She swept her hand in an arc toward the row of TV sets. “Chicago is in flames. No DEFCON level will help us if this country starts falling apart.”
He looked back at her from his inspection of the ceiling while she was talking. “The Joint Chiefs have asked you before. I ask you again.” He swallowed. “For God’s sake, call out the National Guard to put down the violence.”
“The Constitution only allows me to call out militia . . . now called National Guard . . . to execute the laws of the United States, suppress insurrections, and repel invasions. We have none of the three here. Only an acute breakdown of law and order.”
“That’s not what the US attorney general thinks.” The retired general handed over a legal memo from his stack of papers. “Drug cartels are involved in the breakdown of law and order. That could implicate the laws of the United States.”
“Lookie here, General.” Taylor grabbed her reading glasses hanging from the lanyard around her neck and placed them on her nose. She skimmed through two sheets of paper on her desk. “These letters are from the governor of Illinois and the mayor of Chicago. It says here,” she said, tapping a letter with her forefinger, “that they don’t want the National Guard to come in and lay down martial law. They say they’re capable of enforcing state law on murder, robbery, arson . . . all the normal crimes occurring there . . . without the guard. They just want financial aid and body armor, as well as FBI backup.”
“Screw ’em.” Hard-Ass stuck out his chin and chest. “Congress amended the Insurrection Act. You now have authority to override local officials in calling out the National Guard if you determine they can’t handle a public emergency.”
“It’s never been tested in the courts.” She let her eyeglasses dangle from the lanyard and sighed. “But you have a point. The amendment is my backstop if all else fails. But for now, let’s wait a bit until the optics are better. If the situation gets worse, they’ll beg me to bring in the National Guard. I’ll then ride in on my white horse to save the day without stepping on anyone’s toes.”
“Nero waited while Rome burned. Are you planning to do the same with Chicago?”
“Bless your heart.” She toyed with her lanyard around her neck for a few seconds, considering what to say. “Ever since I took over this office you’ve been as busy . . . and as successful . . . in intimidating me as a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest.” She folded her arms and looked at him. “Just tell me what’s sticking in your craw . . . if we’re to get on together?”
“What’s sticking in my craw is this.” He leaned forward in his chair. “You’re only sitting in that chair by the skin of your teeth because the country’s in crisis. You’re only an acting president . . . not a real one. I think you should act like an acting president and not like an elected one.”
“I sure don’t share that opinion!” She rose up, her head bobbing and eyes diamond hard. “Nine vice presidents have taken over as president when a president died, or in the case of Nixon, resigned. I am the president for now with all the powers of this office, which I need precisely because we are in a national crisis.” She put her palms on the table. “You don’t have to like me and I don’t have to like you . . . but when push comes to shove, I’m the one doing the shoving. Understand?”
“Oh, I understand more than you think.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
Inside the ladies’ restroom at the sports arena, Katie Murphy opened up to Nicole Garvey about her brother. Jim hadn’t been himself ever since he learned the commander was his real father. The commander’s suicide rattled him even more. Katie had held him while he cried. His sister had never seen him cry, and he wouldn’t like her mentioning it. Katie trusted Nicole—she was good for her brother. Touched by Katie’s expression of trust and approval, she assured Jim’s sister she could keep a confidence.
Nicole knew something was wrong with Katie during the battle-of-the-badges basketball game between the Chicago Police Department and the Cook County Sheriff’s Office at the arena. Jim’s sister shook her head at all the shots her brother didn’t make. Her brother was a star basketball player, she insisted, even though he had missed shooting the game-tying basket in the closing seconds.
After they parted outside with hugs, Nicole Garvey walked on alone over the street slush of the Near West Side to Dugan’s Irish pub to meet Jim. She had a lot on her mind, trying to absorb the news that Cronin was Jim’s real father. That news provided needed context for Jim’s callousness when he learned of the commander’s death. His attitude and refusal to discuss it had turned her off.
He didn’t tell her about the commander’s claim of paternity, but then again she couldn’t expect that so early in their relationship. He had only recently found out himself. His moodiness had nothing to do with her. For that she was thankful.
Although they had just started dating, she had interpreted his suddenly sullen irritability as dissatisfaction with her. She took it as an early warning that he might
be about to dump her. Before she got hurt, she was steeling herself to the possibility of dumping him first. Jim was slumped in a chair at a table next to the wall. Where’s Daisy? Did her colleague stand them up?
She sat down across from Jim.
Two empty Guinness bottles stood next to the third he was working on. His eyes were bloodshot and his cheeks unshaven.
“What happened to Two-Drink Murph?”
“I don’t like being nagged.”
Because of Katie’s revelations, she cut him some slack. “Is everything OK?”
“Should it be?”
“Things should be more than OK. Katie said the superintendent of police put you in acting command of the Thirteenth District. You can now do things the right way. It’s your dream come true.”
“Where’s Daisy?”
“Must be running late.”
“Or wasting my time.” He huffed and folded his arms. “An airhead.”
“That’s not fair.” He wasn’t himself. Back off. “Please hear her out, Jim. I think she has something important to tell you.”
“Why didn’t she tell you if it’s so important?”
“Daisy knew I didn’t like Vince Palomba.” She twisted a napkin on the table. “When he died, she lost it and blamed me for not liking him. We’re not on talking terms . . . at least for now. All I know is that in her emotional outburst, she let slip something about secret experiments to stop her father from aging.”
“She’s got nothing.” He got up. “If preventing old age is a crime, I’d have to lock up most of this city.”
“Look, Jim. She thinks something’s illegal. Otherwise she wouldn’t want to talk to you.” She put her hand on his arm. “Daisy was furious when I last saw her . . . not just at me. Something else raged inside her. It frightened me. I’m sure she’s got much to say . . . just not to me.”
American Conspiracy Page 19
