The Capitol Game

by Brian Haig

  “You think so?” Bellweather asked, eagerly grabbing a bourbon on the rocks from Haggar. He took a long cool sip and relaxed back into the plush seat.

  “They were totally unreceptive, Dan. You pitched a great case. Both of you did, all the reasons for jumping right into this thing. It’s a no-brainer. They didn’t care.”

  Bellweather and Haggar both enjoyed a good laugh, at Jack’s expense. Could he really be that naïve? After a moment Haggar said, “They were giving us the green light.”

  “How do you get that?”

  “We knew, and they knew, they couldn’t just give us everything we asked for.”

  “And how is that favorable?”

  “Well, Jack,” Bellweather said in a condescending tone, “they just described the roadblocks. They were begging us, virtually screaming for help.”

  “Really?”

  “Learn to listen better.”

  “I’m all ears now.”

  “A noncompetitive, no-bid deal is a certain invitation to scandal. We knew that going in. It draws reporters and muckrakers like flies. Drives them berserk.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Robinson and Windal were giving us a road map to make this happen. Clear a few hurdles in Congress. Muzzle our competitors, make sure they don’t have a chance to raise a big squawk.”

  “And how do you do that?”

  “That’s why we make the big money, Jack.”

  Jack stared out the window. They were passing by monuments to Washington’s greats, Lincoln to their left, and off in the distance, Jefferson. Eventually he asked, “Where are we going?”

  “To pay a visit on an old friend,” Bellweather answered, sipping from his bourbon and staring off into the distance.

  Representative Earl Belzer, the Georgia Swamp Fox to his colleagues, had spent twenty-five long years on the Hill. For the past decade he had served as the feisty, rather autocratic chairman of the House Armed Services Committee, a roost from which he ruled the Defense Department.

  He had avoided military service himself, for reasons that shifted uncomfortably over the years. During the wild and woolly seventies, it was ascribed to an admirable act of youthful conscience against the perfidious Vietnam War; in the more conservative eighties it morphed to a disabling heart murmur before a competitor discovered his childhood medical records. And there was his most recent excuse—screw off, none of your business.

  He was now beyond needing an excuse.

  He represented a backwater district in Georgia that hosted two large military bases. Twelve years before—a few brief years before he rose to the omnipotent job of committee chairman—the Defense Department had tried to shutter both of them. They were extraneous, ill-located, contributed nothing to national defense, two sagging leftovers from the First World War that had long since become senseless money sumps. The Army was begging to have them closed. They were hot and muggy, and the training areas were brackish swamps. Aside from a few ubiquitous fast-food joints and one overworked whorehouse, there was nothing for the soldiers to do. Virtually no soldier reenlisted after a tour at either base.

  But they also employed twenty percent of Earl’s constituents. The federal money that funneled through the bases supported another thirty percent.

  If the bases went away, his district and his political career would both become pathetic wastelands. Before he was elected, Earl had been a struggling small-time lawyer, filing deeds and scrawling wills, banging around hospitals and morgues, advertising himself on park benches and in the Yellow Pages, scraping by on $30K a year. And that was a good year. In truth, he admitted to himself, he really didn’t have much talent for the law. It was a miracle he’d done that well. If he had to return home in disgrace he couldn’t pay clients to give him their cases.

  His appeals to his congressional colleagues elicited little sympathy and no support—the base closure list was nationwide, large, and expansive; almost two hundred bases were targeted, after all. It was every man for himself. In desperation, Earl eventually took a wild gamble; he marched over to the Pentagon and appealed directly to Secretary of Defense Daniel Bellweather.

  The secretary seemed understanding. Both bases could easily be saved, Earl was informed. For the price of a small favor or two, Bellweather would take another close look at the closure list and make the alarming discovery that two posts of staggering importance in the middle of Georgia, a strategically vital state barely a stone’s throw from Cuba, had sloppily slipped onto the list. America would be defenseless against Castro’s hordes, he said with a wink.

  What kind of favors? Earl nervously asked. Well, for instance, another House member badly wanted a new Army truck built in his district; one more vote, just one compliant lapdog to say yea, and his worthy dream would be fulfilled. Can we count on you, Earl? Bellweather asked with an ingratiating smile.

  Earl thought about it a moment. The truck made even less sense than keeping his bases open—the Army had more trucks than it could drive, a whole new plant would have to be built, workers hired and trained, the cost would be mountainous, perhaps exceeding thirty billion dollars. And anyway, the Army despised the truck, a curiously idiotic vehicle, designed by a drug-addled moron, with twelve gears and twenty U-joints that was destined to become a maintenance nightmare. Earl had already come out loudly and quite forcefully against it. He had gotten a little worked up at a recent press conference where he termed it a disgraceful rip-off, an incomprehensible scandal, a mechanical insult to the taxpayers. Earl had run for office as a reformer, dedicated to root out waste and abuse. His campaign slogan was “Send a washing machine to Washington.” The truck was the ideal target, and he had pounced on it with a wordy vengeance.

  If he reversed himself now, his reputation would be ruined. He would never be able to look himself in the mirror. He would be a laughingstock in the House, another pathetically corrupt pol to the press, a spineless hypocrite to the public.

  “Sure, no problem,” he squealed after about two seconds of indecision. The important thing was, he would be a hero to his voters.

  It had been the fatal “I do” that forever changed Earl’s political career. From that moment on, like a fallen woman, he had no reputation to protect, no grand cause to espouse, no principle that couldn’t be fudged or bought. He threw himself into an endless succession of deals and bargains and compromises, and made the swift ascent to the chairmanship of one of the House’s most powerful committees.

  And he owed it all to Daniel Bellweather.

  * * *

  They met in a tiny, run-down Chinese restaurant three miles from the Capitol building, in a decrepit neighborhood better known for crack wars and corner hookers than meetings between the rich and powerful. Representative Earl Belzer was seated at the table and waiting when they arrived.

  He was alone. No handlers. No harried-looking aides hovering over cell phones, carrying his bags, worrying about his schedule.

  Said otherwise, no witnesses.

  Belzer, a formerly skinny man, had packed on a world of weight, all of which seemed to have settled in his gut, which hung over his belt like a giant melon. His florid face, greased-back silver hair, and almost ludicrously elephantine ears gave him an odd resemblance to LBJ in his later years.

  Together, the four of them looked sorely out of place in their expensive suits. Fortunately, few customers were around to notice—two, to be exact. One was a smelly, homeless wino enjoying a warm sanctuary from the chill, and the second a young Asian kid scribbling in a coloring book, probably the owner’s daughter.

  Earl leaped from his chair and immediately began a vigorous round of handpumps. He greeted Bellweather and Haggar like old chums. “Pleasure to meet you,” he said to Jack, a little more coolly.

  Bellweather quickly cleared the air. “He’s with us, Earl, you can trust him.”

  “And the pleasure’s all mine, sir,” Jack said, smiling nicely.

  “Call me Earl, boy.”

  “Okay. Earl.”

>   “Long as we’re gettin’ in each other’s pockets let’s not be formal.”

  An ancient waiter appeared, they tried to order coffee, and after being told it wasn’t on the menu, all switched to tea. Earl had already studied the menu and ordered four helpings of dim sum and General Tso’s chicken. Nobody objected: they weren’t here for the refreshments anyway.

  “So, Earl, did you get the packet I sent over last week?” Bellweather dove in the instant he settled into his chair.

  “Yep, sure did.”

  “And what did you think about our polymer?”

  “That stuff really work as good as the packet says?”

  “We fixed up a batch last week and tested it. Shot everything at it, rockets and bombs and missiles, then threw in the kitchen sink.”

  “Yeah?”

  “The results were amazing. Stunning. Like wrapping yourself inside Superman’s cape.”

  “You don’t say.” Earl was shoveling spoonful after spoonful of sugar in his tea. He was either double-tasking or had attention deficit issues.

  “Look, this shouldn’t take long,” Bellweather assured him, sensing Earl’s lack of engagement. “Know why we’re here?”

  Earl took the first sip of tea and nearly spit it out. After a moment he said, “Considerin’ that you picked this out-of-the-way craphole-in-the-wall, it ain’t hard to figure out.” He dumped in three more spoonfuls of sugar.

  “Let me spell it out for you, Earl. We’ve got the hottest defense product of the decade. In no time, we can paint all the Army and Marine vehicles in Iraq and Afghanistan and voilà!—they’re all bombproof.”

  “That’s certainly a good thing,” Earl mumbled, still more interested in his tea than the polymer.

  “No, it’s a great thing, Earl, an incredible breakthrough.” He smiled, then it flipped into a deep frown. “There are, however, a few issues. Start with the competitors. We’d like to know which one has the—”

  “I know all about ’em,” Earl burst in, making it clear he’d already done his homework. He might not be overly fascinated by the qualities of the polymer, but he’d come well armed and wanted Bellweather to know it. He took another careful sip of tea, and appeared mildly satisfied. Then he put the cup down and faced Bellweather. “GT, General Techtonics, leads the pack. They got this weird armored vehicle with a triangular underside. Carries a squad of twelve men. A real nifty idea. Deflects all the blasts away from the troop compartment.”

  “And what’s two?”

  “That would be Orion Solutions.” Earl smiled. You’ve come to the right place, the smile said; ol’ Earl’s open for business and he’s got all the answers. Another sip of tea and he explained, “They build this wild-ass robot. Sensors on the front sniff out the bomb, it approaches, then blows itself up. Like mutual suicide. Know what they call it?” Bellweather shook his head, and the congressman chortled, “Jimmy Durante’s special.”

  It wasn’t very funny, but they all laughed hilariously. “And those are the only two?” Bellweather asked.

  A confident wink. “Only two that matter,” he answered.

  “You’re sure? I need hard data. This is important, Earl.”

  “A lot of other ideas are out there, none with any traction, though. These two are well into the appropriations stage. They’ve been tried and tested. The generals are thrilled with ’em.”

  After a thoughtful pause, Bellweather asked, “Anything in the area of black programs we should worry about?”

  “Nope, none that far along.”

  “All right, good. Now how deep are these two into appropriations?”

  “Well, GT is furthest along. Comes up for a vote next month.”

  “Who’s pushing it?” Bellweather asked, much like a pro golfer asking his caddie about the lay of the green before he took his best putt.

  Jack sat and watched them. He was obviously out of his depth, out of his milieu, out of his comfort zone, and doing nothing to mask his amazement at how the game was played. This was the chairman of the Armed Services Committee, after all. Here they all were in this filthy little wreck of a restaurant, huddled around a small, chipped linoleum table with Earl telling them everything they needed to know.

  “That would be Drew Teller, from Michigan,” Earl explained, scratching an itch underneath a cuff. “Acts like he’s got a pocketful of GT stock, which might be he does.”

  “That his motive?”

  “Oh, hell, Teller’s got lots of incentive. Eighty percent of the vehicle will be built in his district. I’d guess about four thousand jobs at stake. He eases this through, he’s a shoo-in for reelection, for life.”

  “I don’t know him. How powerful is he?”

  “Straight answer? He’s not, at least not very. A big blowhard pretty boy.”

  “But… ?”

  “But he spent the past year dolin’ out favors by the boatload, pandering to ever’body in reach. If you had a bill, he’d vote for it. Actually supported that nutty Rothman bill to ban Easter bunnies and Santa Clauses in department stores. Drove the Christian groups nuts. He’s runnin’ around now, callin’ in the chips.”

  “Will it go through?”

  A fast nod. “Appears so.”

  “What about Orion?”

  The old waiter reappeared, hobbling and creaking, bearing a large tray loaded with five orders of food. They stopped talking while he was in earshot. Given the situation, it paid to be cautious.

  Earl snatched a beef roll off a plate before the old man could set it down. His thick fingers stuffed it between his lips and he chewed loudly and enthusiastically while the old man laid out the bowls and dishes, then waddled off.

  After noisily sucking the grease off his fingers, Earl picked up where they’d left off. “Hell, you know them fellas.”

  “Pretend I don’t.”

  “Been stuffin’ lots a pockets lately. Bankrolled a few key elections, and they’re lending their corporate jets out like it’s the congressional air force.”

  “Have they got the guns behind them?”

  “Oh, probably about six or seven former senators and congressmen in their employ. The place is like a retirement home for former Hill staffers, so they know all the tricks. Hosted three big junkets this year. London, the Riviera, Bermuda.” Earl paused and awarded them a big wink. “Did Bermuda myself. Plenty of pretty women, enough champagne and caviar to sink a barge.” He shook his head, apparently reminiscing about the experience.

  “How far along are they?”

  “ ’Bout six months out, probably.”

  “Six months,” Bellweather echoed, almost in disbelief. Six months! The boys from Orion would never know what hit them; two years spent perfecting this goofy little robot, and it was about to become an anachronism.

  “Yeah,” Earl rattled on, filling in the now unnecessary details. “Seems their robot’s got a few awkward habits. They did this big test a few months back and invited ever’body. That crazy little robot apparently sniffed gunpowder, and began chasing one of the guards around, threatening to blow him up.”

  Bellweather laughed. “And did the test have a happy ending?”

  “Oh, he ran all over the place, screamin’ and hollerin’, for ’bout five minutes. It was real entertaining. After a while he got smart and dropped his piece, then, boom—the robot blew it to smithereens.”

  After a few obligatory chuckles, the table grew quiet for a moment. Jack stared into his tea. Haggar was smiling. Bellweather was thinking, calculating the odds against him.

  Earl looked expectant—with one hand he was snatching and gobbling more rolled-up delicacies from the dim sum plate, while with the other he was drumming his chubby fingers on the table, impatient to hear the deal.

  “Focus on GT first,” Bellweather suggested. He popped something loud and crunchy in his mouth.

  “Yeah, good call,” Earl seconded as though he’d thought of it himself.

  “We’ll lay the groundwork for you.”

  “That’s importa
nt,” Earl noted. “How?”

  “This vehicle… what’s it called?”

  “The GT 400.”

  “Right. It’s… well… a great idea with fatal flaws,” Bellweather said, mentally forming the idea as he spoke. “Rushed through design and development, hurried through testing. The usual sad story. Haste makes waste.”

  “That’s the ticket,” Earl said. “What flaws?”

  “Well… uh, it’s top-heavy, for one thing.”

  “It is?”

  “Sure. A major design snafu, an all too common misstep by combat vehicle designers. They piled on so much armor it’s subject to rolling. Can’t keep its balance on curves. You know, unsafe at any speed.”

  Getting on top of the idea, Earl said, “A rolling death trap.”

  “Yeah, I like that. It’s catchy,” Bellweather said, beaming at his student. “To achieve a safe distance from underground explosions, they kept raising the chassis off the ground. Now the center of gravity is too high.”

  Earl had his fist stuck deep in a bowl of fried shrimp, or something that resembled shrimp. He was fishing around, hunting for the perfect mouthful. “Like that Ford SUV,” he mumbled, his eyes glued to one particular shrimp. “Tippin’ over all the time.”

  “I’ll hire a couple of experts to build the case, maybe expound on it a bit to the press.”

  Stuffing the piece in his mouth, Earl mumbled, “There’s gonna have to be some hearings, naturally.”

  A pat on the arm and a grave nod from Bellweather. “Only responsible thing to do, Earl.”

  Earl scratched his head and said, “ ’Course, I’d need ample justification. Y’know, a spark to get it rollin’.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m sure one will come along.”

  “How you figure to handle that?”

  Bellweather thought about it for a moment. “I have a strong premonition that somebody in Defense’s procurement department is about to send you an anonymous letter. An insider, terribly bothered by the shoddiness of the testing. The vehicle was dangerously tipsy but nobody wanted to hear about it. He was brushed aside, and isn’t happy about it.”