by John Boyd
“You’re not through with the Justice Department, yet, Mr. President. May I yield to Mr. Powers?”
Standing for the second time, Mr. Powers was obviously prepared for a longer speech. He had a notebook open before him, and he shoved his right hand under his coat. “Mr. President, in my status report I spoke of the virgin-hunters—those boys with private initiative and enterprise are keeping the houses open. Now, I’ve gone on record as opposing this wheat deal—the Reds are going to furnish our boys with girls whose aim will be subversion, pure and simple. [Hansen was aghast at the implication in that remark.] Mr. President, what I propose is a countermeasure to substitute for the wheat-for-women exchange. I suggest I make a few phone calls. If we gave those houses protection, we could peg prices to put them in reach of the family man. In addition, the boys in State would be less prone to peddle our secrets to the girls in the Red consulates.”
As he sat down, Dalton Lamar shouted, “Mr. President, I recommend that convents be declared national reservations under the jurisdiction of the Department of Interior.”
“Sir,” Mr. Powers was ruffled, “I consider that suggestion sacrilegious.”
“Mr. Powers,” the President interposed, “the feasibility, not religiosity, of ideas is our concern here, but I will undertake no alliance with the underworld, overt or sub rosa. Insofar as the trade arrangement with the Soviets is concerned, the émigré females will be here under work visas, and their presence will be constitutional. As for the nunneries, Mr. Lamar, your proposal violates the Separation of Church and State clauses of the Bill of Rights… Now, gentlemen, I wish to clear the table for a heavyweight solution. Put your guard up.”
Suddenly, his listeners seemed to lean toward the President.
“We have all pondered this problem,” he said. “I have thumbed Gladstone until the pages curled, probed the Code Napoleon, the Koran, and the Talmud seeking a precedent to guide me, but wherever I sailed over the seas of law, my bottom eventually dragged on the shoals of the American Constitution. Since I have taken a solemn oath to protect that Constitution, I have decided not to run for reelection in November.”
Amazed groans of “No! No!” came from his cabinet appointees, but the President continued unperturbed. “Whatever happens, gentlemen, we must not lose our power base, the Presidency. Yet, with me as President, we are hampered by a strict observance of constitutional law. What we need, gentlemen, is a dynamic young candidate unfettered by tradition who will boldly carve new guidelines around the Constitution.
“The new plan proposes a single male candidate, endorsed by both the Republican and Democratic parties at one joint convention, to run against any possible combination of female candidates supported by the FEM Party. To explain the core of our new plan, I give you one of its chief engineers and architects. Admiral Meriweather Primrose.”
When the admiral rose to applause, Hansen felt a glow of pride in this five-foot six-inch man who cast a six-foot five-inch shadow. Primrose spoke tersely. “Gentlemen, in order to determine a suitable candidate for the new plan, I turned the President’s suggestions over to my Naval Plans and Operations under the code name Operation Chicken Pluck. The Secretary of Defense and I are so confident of success with Operation Chicken Pluck that we have set aside, at least temporarily. Operation Queen Swap.”
“What is Operation Queen Swap?” Mr. Powers asked.
“A military operation and closed to discussion… Operation Chicken Pluck, gentlemen, resolved itself into two phases: The first phase involved finding a candidate before the scheduled date of the joint convention. Finding a candidate demanded an analysis of the components of that capability designated ‘male sex appeal,’ a strategic objective hampered by a scarcity of intelligence in the area. From analysis of the written records of known great lovers, we arrived at Lothario X, a psychological profile of the Great Lover. Once we had found the living Lothario X, we knew we would have a candidate who could draw the votes of all uncommitted and uncontaminated females. With this man, we could win an election. With the election won, we could declare Vita-Lerp illegal and move out with our odorometers to jail everything but koala bears that smelled of eucalyptus. For the record, gentlemen, we have found Lothario X, and he has demonstrated his prowess by playing the cock to one of Mother Carey’s chickens.” Astonishment showed on the faces of his listeners as the admiral continued. “Gentlemen, that man is Chief Water Tender McCormick of the USS Chattahoochee.”
There was applause for the chief who reddened at the outburst.
“So, gentlemen.” the admiral continued, “the militant has successfully completed the first phase of Operation Chicken Pluck. Winning the election, the second phase, is now a matter for our statesmen.” The admiral sat down.
“Gentlemen,” the President said, “the admiral is commended. He has given us the man, and by ‘us’ I mean Senator Dubois and me. Senator, as a representative of the people and as Republican majority leader, are you willing to support us in November?”
Senator Dubois did not stand. He merely straightened in his seat, but the aura of wisdom and age around him claimed Hansen’s full attention. “Mr. President, gentlemen,” he said. “I have misgivings about any plan which attempts to overcome hostilities accumulated against us since the first arboreal creature swung down from the trees, lifted his knuckles from the ground, proclaimed himself man, turned, and cuffed his mate. I fear we are boarding a dreamboat to purgatory, and the next voice you hear will be the voice of God, saying, ‘Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin.’ Of all who have prophesied the way the world will end, there was the poet T. S. Eliot. Gentlemen, he called the shot!”
A titter, which Hansen did not understand, rustled through the room. He made a note on his pad. “Check with Helga. World’s end. T. S. Eliot.”
When the laughter died, the Senator resumed. “We have rolled our point, and snake eyes stare us in the face. The merry-go-round’s run down, little children. Plan? Let us plan for this Armageddon when we are already its veterans and its victims, for the tactics to defeat our tactics were extant before the struggle started, and all that we have left, gentlemen, are the cold stars and the priesthood. Support you? Indeed! Against their panzer divisions I’ll hurl the cavalry of Hannibal. There’s no use saving the elephants, boys, for Carthage shall not rise again.”
Suddenly he dropped the oratory and swept the assembly with eyes which seemed to pierce each man, individually, and his tone grew low and harsh. “In the parlance of our Navy friends, I’ll never give up the ship—until that moment comes when I can arise and address you all as ‘Brother Rats.’ Then, I warn you, gentlemen, I am the pluperfectest swimmer in the rodent kingdom, and the last sound your drowning ears shall hear will be squeals of delight from Honeysuckle Dubois, the last manchild on the merry-go-round.”
Hansen thrilled to the senator’s speech, although he had only a vague idea what the senator meant. To President Habersham, however, accustomed to political discourse, the senator’s words brought umbrage into his voice as he said, “Mr. Majority Leader, you can rest assured the Democrats will keep their promises, but remember you have a Republican majority on the nominating committee.”
“What do you think the female tactics would be?” the admiral asked the senator.
“Political counterattack with our weapons.”
“But, Senator,” the Defense Secretary interjected, “their only logical Presidential candidate is Dr. Carey herself, and she’s flat-chested.”
“She’ll have a Vice Presidential running mate,” the senator said.
“That’s a possibility,” the President interposed, speaking to the senator, “but with you running for Vice President, what we lose to the breast vote among men should be offset by the little old ladies with tennis shoes.”
Suddenly, the senator threw back his head and half snorted, “Why, Dem, if you had an ounce of br… excuse me. Mr. President, may I recommend that you rise above your constitutional principles, suspend habeas corpus, and outlaw Vita-Ler
p.”
“I’ve got the historians to think of,” the President said.
“For us, there’ll be no historians,” the senator said.
“Nevertheless, I have my own integrity,” the President said, “and I have Alternate Plan B.”
“Mr. President,” the voice of Primrose cracked through the room, “may I remind you that we have not discussed Alternate Plan B!”
“What is Alternate Plan B?” Mr. Powers asked.
“Military! Closed!” the admiral snapped.
Surprisingly, the President turned to Mr. Powers with an almost gentle look. “Alternate Plan B, Mr. Powers, will be invoked only by me. I would not ask my advisers to share that responsibility.” The President fell back into his chair, as if recoiling from the thought of Alternate Plan B, but the chief drew his attention.
“Mr. President, y’all wanting me to run for President?”
“That’s the idea. Chief.”
“How long would I be electioneering?”
“Less than two months, after the convention which is roughly three weeks from now.”
“But, Mr. President, I’ll have to resign from the Navy, and, sir, I’d lose my pension.”
“Your pension as a former President will be more.”
“I never done no politicking. I could lose that election.”
“We assume your opponent will be an amateur, also. We’ll use the three weeks to train you in public speaking and to teach you formal English. Once you’ve won. Senator Dubois will handle administrative chores.”
“Chief,” the admiral interjected, “I’ve weighed this matter from your point of view. You’ll be granted a leave of absence from the Navy which will permit you to return if you should lose the election, and you’ll receive, as of today, an appointment to rank of commander, USN.”
“As of right now,” the President added. “Make a note, Mr. Culpepper, that Commander McCormick’s new pay base commenced at four forty-five p.m., Washington time.”
“Welcome aboard, Commander,” the admiral said.
Surprisingly, the new commander still bridled. “But, sir, I got three weeks shore leave coming and I figured on heading for the hills to shag me a bride.”
“Commander,” the President said, “it’ll be extremely difficult to find a virgin in three weeks. Vita-Lerp has spread like wildfire and we old married hands can tell you that your marriage won’t last.”
“Then, sir, I’d better get mine while the getting’s good.”
Oglethorpe Pickens spoke up. “Mr. President, I should think that the resources of the federal government, abetted by the FBI, should be able to provide one nubile hill girl to permit the commander to woo while he works.”
“I agree,” the attorney general said. “Mr. Powers, perhaps your bureau’s Knoxville chief might…”
“Are you suggesting that we kidnap some young lady, Axminister?” the President asked.
“Mr. President,” Mr. Powers interrupted, “I won’t need the Knoxville chief. The young lady will come of her own free will. I’ve got John Pope.”
“Who is John Pope?” the President asked.
“John Pope is one of my operatives who has never failed a mission. He comes from those hills, and he’s got a gentle way of looking that can persuade a woman to do anything or a hoodlum to sing.” He turned to Commander McCormick. “You want a woman. Commander? OK! I’ll send you a Bertillon chart and you check off her measurements. John Pope will fill the order promptly and in detail.”
“I’m not particular, sir. I just want me some pretty little mountain doozy, not over eighteen, with a good shape, who can cook crackling bread.”
“With or without the hymen?” Mr. Powers barked.
“Well, if I was going to take the job, what with this John Pope being so powerfully persuasive, I reckon you’d better throw in the hymen.”
“I’ll have the hymen certified by a bureau doctor and present the certificate to you.”
McCormick still looked dubious. Hansen felt the time had come for him to intervene in the matter. Speaking in a low but authoritative voice, he said, “McCormick, quit shilly-shallying. Stand up and volunteer!”
McCormick stood up. “Gentlemen, I just had a conference with Captain Hansen and I got the word. If this John Pope brings me a doozy with a maidenhead, you boys have done got yourself a President.”
CHAPTER 6
After the medal-awarding ceremony, the Navy men emerged to find darkness had fallen. As Hansen and the admiral waited for the commander to bring up the station wagon, Hansen, from long habit, checked the skies. Between a rift in the clouds he could see the stars, and he could feel their remoteness in the voids of space. The cold stars and the priesthood, the colored senator had said.
Sensing his junior officer’s unease. Primrose said, “Captain, I know you’re a man who looks at facts, but these are hard to look at. It helps if you practice what the literary boys call a willing suspension of disbelief.”
“I’m learning that tactic. Admiral, but one fact I can’t accept, no matter how hard I try, is that Senator Dubois will be the last manchild on the merry-go-round.”
“Don’t ever,” the admiral said. “As old and as disinterested as I am, if there were one available woman left in the world with Honeysuckle Dubois and me, Meriweather Primrose would walk off with the prize.”
“I was thinking more of my wife,” Hansen chuckled, “who is true-blue Navy. However, it seems to me that the government is making a mountain out of a molehill, and Secretary Lamar seems to agree with me.”
“Lamar has a hidden ace… The whole situation sounds irrational,” the admiral agreed, “but, after all, it’s only our own rationality which gives order to the irrational… Hmm, that sounds like Ogie.”
“Ogie?”
“Oglethorpe Pickens, the Defense Secretary. Now, Captain, when we return to the BOQ, you’ll probably have a message to call your wife. Do so. Tell her you were brought here to receive a Presidential citation. Tell her you’ve been appointed to my staff, which you have been, effective since you tossed that idea on the table. You’ll be in Washington over the weekend. Express a longing to see her, but don’t discuss the subject of today’s meeting with her, other than your DSM. Never let her suspect that you know that she’s gone over to the other side.”
“Helga hasn’t. Admiral.”
“Good! Continue to believe that and you’ll find it easier to pretend.”
In the station wagon, the admiral huddled in a corner of the back seat, lost in speculation and his huge raincoat. Hansen respected his silence until Primrose aroused himself to say, “Remember, gentlemen, no word around the Pentagon, tomorrow, about Operation Chicken Pluck.”
“Yes, sir.”
All three were silent as the commander steered the vehicle into the dinner-hour traffic, overpaying honors to the speed limit. Hansen could understand his preoccupation. Finally, the admiral asked, “Captain, what’s your estimate of the situation?”
“A Navy man puts his trust in God and the High Command, but he has to believe in his family, too. My family is two girls, and women make up half the country. I’m still one hundred percent American.”
“Yes, Captain. I’m a widower, but it must be shattering to realize your wife, daughter, or sweetheart, is an enemy.”
In matters of policy, the admiral was supreme. In matters relating to Helga and Joan Paula, Hansen was the authority. His girls would never defect, he knew, but holding his disbelief in suspension, he went along with Primrose. “You’d think, Admiral, they’d have more gratitude after all the groceries and shoes we buy them.”
“Gratitude is a two-edged sword. Remember Polonius.”
Hansen was grateful that he was not being asked a question. The admiral had said “Remember Polonius” as he might have said “Remember Pearl Harbor.” Primrose continued, “One must learn to think with nonhuman concepts. Are you listening. Commander?”
“Yes, Admiral.”
“Perhaps you ar
e both using what the literary boys call personification: Because a man feeds a dog and the dog greets him with tail wagging, the man assumes the dog feels love. Actually, as Pavlov infers, the tail-wagging is a conditioned reflex that gets a bone tossed to the dog.”
Hansen followed the admiral’s reasoning up to that point, but he balked when Primrose continued: “Perhaps we err by reading into women the qualities of human beings. Some authorities hold that a woman never experiences an orgasm during intercourse. Her pretended enjoyment is tail-wagging for the bone tossed to her; she is protecting her biological supply line.”
“Admiral,” the captain said, “I might concede your point except it contradicts my experience. Once, as a young ensign on liberty in Bangkok—aptly named city—during summer, in a period of the full moon, I was seated in a park at twilight, with the perfumes of the tropics around me and temple bells tinkling over the old city. As I sat, a girl, half French and half Siamese, came walking by…”
For reasons of traffic safety, Hansen had to edit his tale of young love in old Bangkok. McCormick had a tendency to swerve out of his lane at the high points, but the story convinced the admiral. “That was incredible. Captain.”
After a moment of awed silence, the admiral huddled deeper into his coat, and the voice that came from its folds seemed disembodied. “That was twenty years ago. They don’t need us anymore. Logically, we should be permitted to wither away, but they won’t let us. The Cajun-bourbon erred when he said they would leave us the stars. They won’t. They’ll cancel the Venus landing. Yet, I can understand them. Vita-Lerp is their Declaration of Independence from us.”
“But, sir,” the captain asked, “if a man can’t believe in American womanhood, what can he believe in?”
“No longer in God and the High Command,” Admiral Primrose said. “Only the High Command. God’s on their side. He’s joined the opposition.” Now the voice that issued from the coat was an oracle sounding from the depths of a grotto. “He’s correcting His error. I could never understand why He let Himself get involved with the inefficiencies of bisexuality. Monosexuality was His only way to go. Still, we have the Navy, we three. For me, the Navy fills my needs.”
