The real fly in anyone’s ointment was the message Vice President Cardoza had sent to himself before leaving the chalet. The Vice President’s message and the attached list of names traveled at light speed from the mountain chalet to a relay in Bryson. There they joined other data routed to a fiber-optic relay station in Missoula, Montana. The storm system had knocked out a power station in Missoula, so amid a burst of other data the e-message streaked to a com satellite rolling 38,000 miles above the earth. The solar powered moonlet mirrored the data down to a transponder in Gander, Newfoundland. Cruising along a fiber-optic stream through New York City, and Roanoke, the memo flashed into the nation’s capital and joined other traffic heading into the computer network linking the Vice President’s (Admiral’s) House to the Government info net. Just as the Vice President stepped out of the chalet and hugged his children, the e-message joined a queue in the local data stream. Somewhere in the capital, a squirrel gnawed on a cable, killing itself and forcing a switch to close. For two seconds, parts of the net browned down, running on minimum power in backup mode. The system did a self-check at a million terraflops per second and made a backup copy of every file, including the Vice President’s message, to store in a temporary database. By the time the Vice President stepped into the van outside the chalet, the browndown was over, hardly noticed, little more than a brief flicker of lights. The Washington, D.C. net resumed full operation. The original message streaked into the Vice President’s computer in Washington, which would be accidentally, perhaps not, cleared of all files the next morning when Federal police began to shut down the building as part of the investigation. In an underground bunker near the Library of Congress was the city’s temporary backup database. There, 125,000 ceramic super-chips, each the size and shape of a piece of writing paper and with its own read/write interfaces, hung stacked pagoda-style amid power and relay buses in mid-air. The atmosphere in the bunker was chilled to near zero degrees to prevent overheating the circuits; it was heavy in nitrogen to prevent condensation. Technicians walking the catwalks wore silvery atmosphere suits with oxygen tanks on their backs. Articulated tubes carried their exhaled breath to a plastic bag worn on the belt; here and there steam leaked from the breathing apparatus. The walls were lined with ceramic composites to block outside electro-magnetic fields. In this eerie and inhuman environment lived the backup copy of the Vice President’s memo, amid bank records, personnel files, department store transactions, military purchase receipts, payroll ledgers, every recordable transaction in modern life. The backup of the Vice President’s memo sat in a storage chip whose virtual address was Carousel 49, Directory Z.
ALLISON: We have this breaking story from Washington State. The Secret Service confirms Vice President Louis Cardoza has been killed in a savage assault by an unknown private militia, who ambushed a convoy carrying the Vice President from a vacation home to a nearby airfield. Rescuers at the scene say there are at least a dozen bodies--nobody is alive. Hundreds of Federal investigators are heading to the area. U.S. Forest Service rangers at a nearby winter camp said they heard explosions but thought it was part of an avalanche control program by state authorities. The Vice President’s widow and three small children are reportedly devastated but composed, and will be flown out of Seattle on Air Force Two bound for Washington. President Cliff Bradley has canceled his appearance at a Middle Class Party fundraiser to meet Mrs. Cardoza. MCP backer Robert Lee Hamilton is preparing a statement of grief and outrage. General Billy Norcross, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, has offered assistance by U.S. Armed Forces, but so far the Governor of Washington has only called up a National Guard battalion of helicopter infantry trained for mountain rescues. We will keep you updated on this breaking story.
Chapter 5
Nearly a year passed--winter, spring, and summer.
Late on a lazy Sunday afternoon on the cusp between summer and fall, Captain David Gordon, 30, crossed a tree-lined street in Alexandria, Virginia. The Little River subdivision had in recent months blossomed with short-term leases for military officers, paid for by the Government as the Second Constitutional Convention got underway. David’s condo was a few blocks from where he now walked. He carried a bottle of wine, a handful of long-stemmed red roses, and a crisp new white plastic throw-disk. He wore a crisply ironed white shirt with rolled up sleeves; light blue jeans; and mahogany loafers. As he walked in that evening sunlight, time seemed to stand still and it seemed to take forever to cross the street. The humid heat of Washington summer had finally collapsed in a brisk, windy autumn. Though a distant plume of smoke rose from some street fight in Virginia, the massive presence of tens of thousands of troops was keeping the nation’s capital quiet as if no depression, no poverty, no violence, no calls for revolution were sweeping the land. The trees were turning cathedral colors, and rustling as if filled with important messages. David smiled at those chatterboxes. What could a bunch of leaves have to say to each other? Then again, they were old leaves, wise leaves, dying leaves, and perhaps he’d better listen to their gossip.
Parked cars lined the sidewalks, and not a vehicle seemed to be moving anywhere. The air was smoky with barbecue. The street, still warm and smelling of tar, seemed to point straight into the huge sun that quivered yolk-like in a reddish haze on the city horizon.
Hard to believe that CON2 had already been underway for two weeks, and there were serious signs of chaos as the 1,000 delegates disagreed more and more on the simplest points. Congress, which had called the convention after receiving the mandate from two thirds of the state legislatures, now sat helplessly by while its creation threatened to go amok. Neither the Judicial or Executive Branches had any more power than the Legislative to intervene. And the delegates had full immunity from prosecution for their actions.
Hard to believe all that turmoil, David thought, on a sweetly pensive day like this. He passed a group of young officers playing football, barefoot and shirtless, on a lawn. He walked through a long shady hallway (“The Palms,” a sign read, “Condos 2-3-4 BR/Good Rates”) and rang a doorbell.
“Why hello there,” said the smallish blonde who opened the door--Maxie! Her condo contained shoulder to shoulder people laughing, talking, holding drinks, yet she seemed to have waited only for him. But it was an illusion, a shared gesture, the remembrance of a special relationship. She’d been his nurse nearly two years earlier after he'd had a parachute accident. It had been the low point in his life. Recently divorced from moody and artistic Kristy, with whom he'd had little in common, he seemed to run a streak of bad luck. The accident had cost him his career as a combat arms officer, but as a West Point graduate he'd been offered this mysterious temporary duty with the electrically charged political circus in Washington, the Second Constitutional Convention. He'd had a brief crush on Maxie, but she was looking for a wealthy man to suit her parents' dreams for her. She kept saving herself for some wealthy guy who’d please her family but neglect or even abuse her. Lovable, but unreachable, she was now just a dear old friend. Times were getting better in David's life. He fondly remembered her kindness and support. He wouldn’t stay at her party long--just enough to renew his acquaintance. She was so spunky, though, that he couldn’t really feel sorry for her. She'd always come out on top, at least in matters other than love. He was glad to see her. “I told you I’d bring that throw-disk.”
“Come in, I’m glad you came, the throw-disk is great, oh look at the wine, the roses are so-o-o lovely, thank you.” She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. Briefly he held her slight, firm frame. She wore a white summer dress, and he smelled a subtle citrus perfume on her bare back. She was not sweating at all despite the population problem between there and the refrigerator. “You did promise,” she said cradling the wine and the roses, “and you are a man true to your word.”
“And the throw-disk.”
“Close the door. Yes, and the throw-disk. We’ll all throw it later. Are you hungry?” She situated him in a comfortable corner chair between two Air Force pi
lots arguing about landing F-23A’s. The pilots held their beer bottles like joysticks and made repeated landings.
Maxie came back minutes later carrying a tray with hors d’oeuvres, southern style chicken pieces, and plastic cups of rosé spritzer. She chased the pilots away and sat on a folding chair beside him. “How are your legs?”
“I run five miles a day.”
She frowned as she served. “There’s no table surface free. Napkins and laps will have to do.”
“That smells great and I could eat a horse. Napkins and laps are fine.”
“If you have that kind of appetite you must be feeling okay.” She smiled, which was a sunny crinkle in a wonderful face. She had small, white, perfect teeth. Her face had a clean almost boyish squareness, with ash-blond hair flying as she moved.
“I’m feeling just fine. And I want to thank you for being a friend when I really needed one.”
“It’s my job.” But she glowed, searching with small, square hands and greasy fingers for just the right chicken breast. “Aw hell, David, I enjoyed your company too. I missed you after you left.”
“I’ve missed you too. So what’s this about you being a combat flight nurse? You promised to tell me all the details.”
She sat bolt upright, a little leap from the tush sort of, and folded her hands in her lap as if sitting for a portrait. Her face lit up in a proud, excited smile. She made fists. “I decided I couldn’t be an old maid anymore, so I broke off with the man I was seeing. I applied for this combat flight nurse school, and I got in--on my own, with no help from any uncles--and I just graduated a few weeks ago with honors! Can you believe it? So now I’m stationed here at Walter Reed. We spend most of our time up on the flight deck--on the roof--or flying around town.”
“What unit are you with?”
“55th Aviation Battalion (MAES).”
“Which means?”
“Medical Air Evacuation Service.” She added with a hint of pride: “I’m in Flight 1. We have three flights, each with four completely equipped and staffed helicopters.”
“Sounds exciting, Maxie. I’m thrilled for you.”
“It is exciting. One chopper can act as a complete field dispensary, or carry six stretchers.”
David frowned a little. “So the military has extra MAES units in town. They’re ready for a war, sounds like.”
She shrugged. “We’re training to evacuate sick people from the roof of the hotel, or if someone is in an accident. I doubt there will be anything more than that.”
David changed the subject. “The papers came in a few months ago. I’m a single man again.” He chomped down, enjoying a mouthful of fried chicken followed by a wash of rosé. The divorce was final. Kristy had sent him a little hand-lettered note of apology and goodbye, with a heart in one corner, and a not very happy Happy Face with a tear coming out of one eye. He’d written her a thank-you note. He didn’t expect to ever hear from her again. Which was what he preferred, because he still felt the loss of her passion that had been like an addiction. Often, he thought, there could never be another woman like her in his life. He still felt like a bomb crater inside. It was best to just move on.
Maxie studied him. “Should I say sorry?”
“That’s behind me, along with the broken legs, the airborne infantry, and the wars in the Middle East.”
“But you want to stay in the Army?”
“Yup. I’m taking it a day at a time. I’ve seen all the combat I want to. I’m just not ready for a desk job quite yet. This little assignment here with CON2 can’t last more than three months. Just enough time to build up time in grade so I can apply for a waiver and move back to Infantry. I want to be a company commander for at least a year or two. Got to have that experience under my belt.”
“I see you are still the same never-give-up hard charger, David.”
“I’m afraid so. Maybe a little more selective about where I’m charging.”
Maxie laughed, apparently reading his thoughts. “Army people shouldn’t marry civilians, huh?”
“Not if they’re nutty civilians. Oh God, this chicken is good. Did you make this?”
“You always made me laugh, David.”
“No, I’m serious. I’ll bet these were all first-born chickens with references.”
She gave a demure smile that seemed to light up a few freckles on each cheek. She’d confessed once that she felt very self-conscious about the freckles, and spent a fortune on all sorts of creams and salves from around the world. A hint of Southern Lady crept into her voice. “Actually, I had it catered in from a little specialty house in Georgetown, sorry. My little fingers just ache from all that telephoning and debit carding.”
He wiped his mouth and fingers with a warm, wet terrycloth towel scented with lemon. “Maxie, you’re first class. How do you do it? Have you met Mr. Right yet?”
She sighed deeply, and her slight bosom hove. “I’m afraid not. Those are the first roses I’ve received in about two weeks.”
“Two weeks, huh? So there is a guy.” So she’d finally dumped Mr. Wrong in North Carolina, and it sounded as if she’d found another Mr. Wrong in Washington.
“Yes,” she said looking down and folding her hands in her lap. The sun was going down outside and some of the sun was going down in Maxie’s eyes.
“A doctor,” David prodded. She must be getting the run-around again.
“Yes.”
“A brain surgeon.”
“No, a proctologist.”
“Oh.” David held up a chicken leg, making poking gestures with its thin end.
She laughed. “Stop it, David.”
“I haven’t teased a woman since I irritated my two sisters when I was home on leave. That was last Christmas.”
“Well you’re quite good at it. I’m very irritated.” She rose, running her fingers along his cheek. “I have to speak with my roomie. You stay put and rest your legs.”
“I jog five miles a day,” he said but she ignored him. He watched her walk away--small rear; narrow hips; perfect calves under knee-length skirt.
The Air Force guys floated in again This time they were trying to impress two nervously smiling women, who nodded a lot and made fluttery, wide eyes. The pilots waved Little Smokie Weenies and foreign beers as they made takeoffs and landings, and it was clear they wanted the women to come fly with them.
David ignored them as his gaze roved. He made his way to the front door, plotting his escape, and then back to his seat in the corner. Another half hour, he thought. Time to move on.
He noticed a tall, dark-haired young woman speaking with Maxie as they walked in his direction. The roomie wore a black dress and was bare-shouldered. David’s interest perked up, and he forgot about the half hour thing. The roomie was attractive in a sultry, mysterious way. Somehow, in his first impression, he got a sense of something not happy about her somehow, but he brushed it off. She walked in long, languid steps and, when she smiled, her features lit up with mischief and self-assurance. And yet--ah, but how white her eyes and her teeth gleamed, ivory-perfect, against the smooth texture of her skin. She carried a black purse that looked small against her long frame. Maybe because she was tall, she let her shoulders stoop a little and move with the rhythms of her walking.
By the time they were halfway to him, he realized that Maxie’s roomie was gorgeous. Of course she would be. Everything Maxie did had class. Take the plastic cups. Anywhere else that would be kitsch. Better glass, or even crystal. But in Maxie’s matter of fact world, that would be overdoing it. Plastic was just right, the simple, elegant solution. Less was more. It wasn’t that Maxie was affected or snobbish; things just always went that way. And of course Maxie’s genes dictated that she act as social glue, rescuing people from being loose ends or third wheels. Maxie was to wallflowers as fresh water was to droopy house plants. David rose.
“David, I’d like you to meet Lieutenant Victoria Breen. Tory, this is Captain David Gordon.” David and the roomie shook hands. She had a
dry, warm grip; long arms; honey-tan skin with butterscotch freckles on her shoulders.
“David promised me roses, and look over there.”
“That’s nice, Maxie.” Her gaze avoided David’s but he sensed she might be interested. Maxie kept chattering, and then she was gone and David was alone with this Breen woman who sat quietly, comfortably leaning her chin on her fist, watching the pilots and their quarry. She seemed to have a playful inward smile, as if she had a secret. And she didn’t appear to be in a hurry to go anywhere. She carried herself almost regally, in an unassuming manner, he thought. She had cute eyebrows, too, that seemed knit up in some undefined discomfort which he immediately longed to understand and soothe.
Ah Maxie, you planned this all along.
“Have you lived here long?” David asked.
Breen turned to look at him for the first time. She had rich dark hair piled neatly around her head. On each bare shoulder was a small galaxy of brown-sugar freckles. Her skin was lightly peeling, and the circles of new skin were pinker, but still not entirely fair-complected. Her answer was direct and soft and aimed right at his heart without intending to be, and he didn’t even hear the answer--she could have lived here a month, a year, a thousand years--because they looked in one another’s eyes--hers teasing and dusky like a forest--and he totally forgot his half hour was up.
They talked about nothing and everything for a while. “Would you like another spritzer?” she asked, looking away, breaking the spell. Her tone had a hint of teasing: “Your legs--”
“No thanks.” He added in protest: “I jog five miles a day. Six. Sometimes ten.”
The Generals of October Page 3
