by John Bromley
Jim, standing in his command tent, could hear none of this, of course. All he knew was that, seconds after agreeing to comment on his situation, he was no longer on camera, and about two minutes after that, Miguel Johnson reacted to a voice in his earpiece. His director was telling him to prepare to go live, and that the President wanted to talk directly with Colonel Parker.
Right on cue, Jim smiled inwardly.
Men in all parts of the country watched as the network switched from “Rocko” back to Canada. The camera focused on Parker, even though he was not ready to be TV. He looked to his left as the microphone captured the loudest explosion anyone in the camp had yet heard, even louder than the one which had happened about a minute earlier. Johnson dived to the floor, thinking the tent itself had finally been hit. To Jim, it sounded like two practically-simultaneous blasts, but fortunately at some distance. When the noise died away, he could tell that gunfire was continuing, but at a greatly reduced level. He spoke to the TV reporter at his feet, and Johnson got back up and resumed clipping a microphone to his shirt, while Jim was trying to place the news team’s spare earpiece into his own ear. He was either having a hard time finding a comfortable spot or deliberately stalling. Either way, the nation was treated to the President's side of the conversation, as the network fed it to Johnson and Parker and broadcast it simultaneously.
“Colonel Parker, this is the President,” Thompson began. “As your Commander-in-Chief, I am ordering you to cease fire and end… to discontinue this illegal engagement which you have undertaken…”
At this point, Parker finally got the earpiece situated, and listened placidly as the President continued.
“…are undertaking against units of the Secret Service. Furthermore, I am ordering you to surrender… immediately surrender yourself to the Commander of that unit for summary execution…”
Fat chance, Jim thought, almost cracking a smile.
At the word “execution,” men and boys everywhere looked at each other in shock and disbelief. They turned their attention back to their TV screens, where Jim Parker continued to express no apparent surprise as Thompson’s tirade went on.
“You have been found guilty of violations… national security violations, and of committing treason against this nation. You were… are a disgrace to the uniform, and are hereby dishonestly… dishonorably discharged from the Army.”
Again, Jim couldn’t help thinking.
He tried as hard as he could to project an air of disinterest as Thompson ranted on, but he couldn’t help feeling conflicted. His emotional side felt nervous, for he had rarely been on television, and had never spoken to any President one-on-one.
And, he had never been sentenced to death on national TV before.
But, as the President berated him publicly, Jim’s rational mind deconstructed the phone call. He found certain incongruities, and this calmed him down.
First and foremost was the voice. William’s father Henry, who had originally taken Sam into the Ghetto—he had had a voice that was deep and loud, and he had usually sounded bombastic, pompous and arrogant, like all of his predecessors. William himself was a different story. It dawned on Jim that he had a very small auditory reservoir to draw from. What he did know was that this President’s voice was not as deep as his father’s, quite a bit less menacing and, overall, not very pleasant to listen to. Maybe that was the reason that this Thompson seemed to shun the spotlight. His father’s untimely death five years ago had elevated “William the Third” to the Presidency, but in that time the man had seldom spoken in public, and had never once had a news conference. Granted, not much had happened in the last five years, but still, that was odd. Also, Jim remembered, on the few occasions when he had spoken publicly, either happy or somber ones, the camera had been placed unusually far away from him so that, while he was visible and clearly audible, he almost always looked down at his notes, so that his facial expressions could not be made out.
With that in mind, the voice Jim was hearing now just didn’t sound “right.” There were several possible reasons for this, of course; might be a bad phone line, or a low quality speaker in the earpiece. Maybe the man simply had a cold.
Now he sounded angry, Jim decided, but he didn’t sound angry enough. The timing of the phone call suggested that Thompson had acted impulsively, but the choice of words and the speech pattern made it sound like he was reading a prepared statement, rather than ranting off-the-cuff, as would have been more likely. In fact, the halting, mistake-filled delivery suggested that someone else had written the statement in anger, and was now trying to have Thompson express his rage for him. Oddly, Thompson didn’t seem to feel it as strongly as his speechwriter did; consequently, it didn’t carry the necessary emotional force.
Who could possibly think he had enough influence with the President that he could attempt to control the man’s very emotions? From what he knew of the Thompsons, past and present, no one ever told them how, what, or when to do anything. Had that changed with the incumbent William Thompson? Was there now an unseen power “behind the throne,” as it were?
Jim decided to explore that possibility. After all, as a condemned man, what did he have to lose?
“Good afternoon to you also, Mr. President,” he replied when it was his turn to speak, using as neutral a tone as he could manage.
As he expected, Thompson was unprepared for that type of reaction. A moment of relative silence followed, punctuated only by the occasional sound of gunfire outside Jim’s tent. Some members of the TV audience were quite amused by Parker’s decidedly cavalier attitude toward his impending discharge and death. Most of the viewers watched with interest, while Jim appeared to wait patiently.
Finally the President spoke again. “Did you hear what I said, Parker?”
Ah, Jim thought, detecting a change of pitch. That sounds more like William. They must have gotten the phone line cleared up.
“Every word, sir,” Jim exaggerated slightly.
“And… what is your response?”
“I didn’t think you expected an answer from a man in my position…”
Jim could almost see the satisfied expression on Thompson’s face at his apparent admission of guilt and acceptance of his fate. He just wished he could have been in the room to see how the President, or his “puppet-master,” reacted to what came next.
“…but since you asked, sir, I think the TV audience deserves to know what I’m supposedly guilty of.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Parker.”
That response came too fast, Jim thought. That was probably pure Thompson, so it proves nothing.
“There’s nothing ridiculous about it,” Jim countered. “I always expect my men to tell me the truth; I see no reason why the American people should expect any less from their President. For instance, I did not begin an ‘illegal engagement’—it was your Secret Service who fired the first shot.”
“It doesn’t matter who fired the first—”
“It does matter,” Jim actually dared to interrupt his Commander-in-Chief, “when the first shot was fired days ago by a Secret Service hit squad, and that I’ve been the target of assassins since. The first shot today was again fired by your troops—the Fourth Battalion is just protecting itself.
“So now, the people—and I—want to know: Who has sentenced me to death, and for what, exactly? How have I breached ‘national security’? What exactly is this ‘treasonous’ act that I’ve supposedly committed? What precisely have I done to ‘disgrace my uniform’?”
He didn’t give Thompson a chance to respond.
“And when, Mr. President, do you plan to tell the nation the truth about ‘the Wall’?”
This brought a silent interlude from the White House, during which Jim was fairly sure he could hear two men talking to each other, quietly but urgently.
Finally a response: “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Parker. What could I possibly tell anyone about the Wall that they don’t already know? You know a
s well as I do that, by its very nature, the Wall is symbolic of our national defense, and matters dealing with it fall under the heading of ‘national security’.”
The lie was bald-faced; the argument was feeble; the logic was forced. He was grasping at straws, Jim knew.
Time to go for the gold.
“You want to tell them something they don’t know? How about telling them about the ten million people imprisoned behind the Wall? How do you possibly construe that as a matter of ‘national security’?”
Parker could imagine the audible gasp being expelled in every home, restaurant and tavern in the country. During the expected presidential silence, he unconsciously took a step closer to the camera, as he would to any man with whom he was arguing face-to-face.
“Let me put it to you this way, Mr. President,” he said, speaking directly to the camera, “either you tell everyone about these prisoners—all about them… or I will.”
Several seconds later (no doubt following another debate, Jim thought), Thompson spoke, sounding surprisingly smug.
“You know you can’t do that, Parker.”
Jim hated it when someone affected a superior tone of voice with him, but this time, he knew, the President was right. Jim understood television well enough to be aware that even a “live” broadcast contained a delay between the moment when a word was spoken and the time it hit the airwaves. During those seven seconds, “Treatment” functioned, and would filter out any word he uttered that made any reference at all to women. Only silence and a still picture would remain.
That ancient comic was wrong, he thought ruefully. There are many more than seven words you can’t say on television.
“You are right, sir,” Jim grudgingly acknowledged.
“Yes, I am.” Another smug reply.
“Now, why don’t you tell the people why you’re right?” Jim asked.
“That’s none of their business,” Thompson answered loftily.
He lost some points with the people there, for sure, Jim surmised. Not too many people like being “talked down to” any more than I do.
“I’m sure you’re right, sir. After all, how could anything like ‘Treatment’, which affects every person all day, every day, be any concern of theirs?”
No reply from the White House; either Thompson wasn’t taking the bait, or he didn’t recognize sarcasm when he heard it.
“Anyway, you’re right… for now.” Jim forced himself to sound glib. “I have an idea. How about, we talk about this again, day after tomorrow?”
“Even if you’re still alive, which is doubtful”—there’s that menacing tone I’ve been expecting, Jim thought—“nothing will be different then.”
“I think it will, sir. And now it’s my turn to present my conditions.”
This actually made Thompson laugh. “What is this nonsense? You, a condemned man, have ‘conditions’?”
“I do, sir.” Jim stepped backwards and the camera followed, focusing on him and the man behind him. “Do you recognize that person tied to the chair, pretending to be a Secret Service commander? That’s your son Jared, Mr. President.”
The camera was recording every fear-filled expression the boy made.
“Here are my terms,” Jim continued. “You and I have another televised discussion on Wednesday evening, two days from now.”
“And… what else?”
“Nothing else.” Jim was now the confident-sounding one. “You let me live for two days until that interview is over… and I’ll release your son. Fail to do so, and he will suffer the same fate that I do, as a prisoner of war.”
Thompson made no response.
Jim spoke again. “You will signal your acceptance of these terms by ordering your Secret Service troops to cease fire immediately.”
Throughout the broadcast, the muted sound of various kinds of weapons fire had occasionally intruded on the conversation. It could still be heard in the stillness that now prevailed. Jim waited calmly, while the nation nervously held its collective breath.
Fifteen seconds later, there was complete silence for the first time all day. Gunfire on both sides had stopped.
He faced the camera with a satisfied expression on his face. “Very good, sir.”
He received no answer as he, the TV people and the nation realized that Thompson had hung up the phone.
“It’s too bad he left so soon,” Jim commented for the audience. “I was going to say something about a Secret Service jet that attacked our camp, and how its unfortunate crash so near the Wall may have damaged that great ‘symbol of our national defense’, not to mention the President’s ‘playthings’ behind it.”
I know Johnson has no idea what I’m talking about, Jim thought, but I’m sure that if Thompson is still listening, he does—and that’s all that matters.
Jim was just about to submit to a final follow-up question from the reporter when both men paused and listened. A mortar round exploded nearby. Gunfire could be heard from a distance, followed by more of the same from close at hand.
There would be no cease-fire.
Jim now wore a more somber expression as he faced the TV camera. “Apparently my offer has been rejected,” he told the audience. The young Thompson looked up at Parker from his chair, now clearly frightened.
“Does your offer of a second discussion on Wednesday night still stand?” Johnson asked.
“Yes, definitely,” Jim replied. He addressed his last comment to the nation at large. “We’ll talk again at that time about the people behind the Wall, whether the President shows up or not. I guarantee you’ll find it revealing. Now, if all of you will excuse me, I have a battle to win.”
He pulled the earpiece out of his ear and made a cutting motion across his neck, as a signal that the camera should be turned off, which it was. He assumed that the network would now return to its anchorman, “Rocko” Stanton, who would have the unenviable task of trying to make sense of all this, but he wasn’t interested. He had other matters at hand.
“Looks like ‘Dear Old Dad’ has abandoned you, son,” he said to Jared. “He must want me dead more than he wants you alive.”
“That can’t be!” Jared shouted, struggling in his bonds. “Get him on the phone! Let me talk to him. He must not have understood you right.”
“Yeah, that must be it,” Jim said, picking up the cell phone that Jared had had in his pocket. “I did make those conditions awfully complicated.”
“Untie my hands and let me call him!” Jared said desperately.
“Not a chance,” Jim responded firmly.
“Then you dial the number and hold the phone to my ear. I must talk to my father.”
Jim thought this was a reasonable request, and agreed. He flipped the phone open and punched in the numbers as Jared recited them. He then held the phone so that Jared could check the numbers on the screen for accuracy. When the boy nodded, Jim pressed the “Send” button and held the phone against his prisoner’s ear.
“Father, you have to do something! Parker’s not kidding, he’s going to…”
Jared had been shouting up to this point, but now spoke softer, his voice having an edge of confusion.
“Well, where is my father? This is his private line, Mr. Billings. Get him on the phone now!” A moment of silent listening, then, “What do you mean, he had ‘more pressing matters’? What can be ‘more pressing’ to him than my life?” Another pause, then Jared spoke again. “That’s ridiculous, Mr. Billings! I want to talk… to my…”
Jared pulled his head away from the phone, his expression a mixture of anger and despair. Jim listened for a moment and realized that the call had been terminated at the other end. He closed the phone and put it down.
“Tough luck, kid,” he said, not unkindly. “So, who is this ‘Mr. Billings’?”
“He’s the top commander of the Secret Service,” the boy answered, still looking dejectedly at the floor.
“I thought that guy’s name was Wellington, or something like that.�
��
“No, he was just the ‘Section Fifteen’ head,” Jared answered, “until he was killed. Mr. Billings runs the whole show and has… well, for ever.”
“I’ve noticed that you don’t have much use for manners,” Jim observed dryly, getting the boy to actually look up at him, “so I have to wonder: why do you always call this guy ‘Mister Billings’?”
“Because my father always does, and so I do too.”
This got Jim thinking. Someone the President had so much respect for that he always referred to him as something of an equal. But was it respect, Jim wondered… or fear? Was this “Billings” the unseen “power behind the throne?” What hold did he have over Thompson?
Jim had no more time to wonder about any of this, for Jared looked up at him, his face now full of hatred, and Parker realized that this time, none of that anger was directed at him.
“But not anymore,” the boy snarled. “He said my father was ‘too busy’ to deal with this. Then he told me, they had talked it over and they both agreed that I was… ‘expendable’. Can you believe it?”
Jim couldn’t.
“Well, I’ll show them how ‘expendable’ I am.” He looked at Parker, his expression now one of determination. “What do you want to know about my father?”
Jim was caught by surprise, but wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. He sat down at the table with paper and pencil.
“Everything there is to know, about him and this Mr. Billings.”
While Jared spoke and Parker wrote, in Washington the President was attending to the matters ‘more pressing’ than saving his son’s life. It was finally time to deal with the “Ask the President” forms for the day, and that meant placing all the letters face down on his desk. And now… a form here and a form there… two forms here, two forms there… three forms here, three forms there…
CHAPTER 37
More than an hour after he ended his TV appearance, Jim Parker took a short break from his debriefing of Jared Thompson to step out of his command tent. The sight which greeted him was vastly different than it had been before he went on TV. At that time, tank turrets were spinning, jets were crashing and gunfire could be heard on both sides of the field. Now, with twilight coming on, silence reigned.
