The President

by Parker Hudson

  “Hi. How’s the mid-watch going?” he asked.

  Her smile was reflected in the dim red light from inside the bridge. “Hi. Fine, I guess, but it’s only twelve-thirty. I’m glad to see you, but why are you up so late?”

  Hugh, who was senior enough as the weapons officer not to stand a rotating watch, replied, “I couldn’t sleep. I thought some fresh air would do me good. I checked the radar back in CIC, and it looks like you don’t have too many surface contacts to worry about.”

  “Nope. I was just keeping an eye on that tanker over there. It shouldn’t be a problem for us, though. Why do you think you couldn’t sleep?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the natural excitement of getting home to Jenny and the kids tomorrow. And maybe a relief that this underway period is almost over. It’s been difficult, to say the least.”

  Teri frowned. “Well it’s my first time underway on a warship, so I have nothing to compare it to. But it seems fine to me.”

  “Oh, you and your division have done great. Of course the real test will come down at Guantanamo Bay when we actually fire some missiles. But I think your people certainly know what they’re doing.”

  “Thanks.”

  He paused for a minute. “Frankly I’m finding it difficult to deal with all the new undercurrents on board, with a crew as diverse as we now have. I mean we used to have some flare-ups now and then between members of different ethnic groups or races. When it happened, which wasn’t often, we dealt with it quickly. But with women, lesbians, and homosexuals added to the equation, these situations may not be as easy to deal with—or as infrequent—as the social engineers in Washington thought they would be.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, take the Captain’s Mast for Wolf Higgins. I had to attend because I was the first officer on the scene at the problem. The captain was in an impossible situation. I mean, this young guy, Tyson, had definitely done something wrong. But Higgins came on to him too strongly and then called him a ‘queer.’ There’s not really anything in the Uniform Code for that infraction, since until just recently it was actually against the Code itself for a homosexual to be on a ship! But Captain Robertson had to do something, particularly since Thomas Dobbs insisted on being involved, even though none of the people in the altercation were in his divisions.”

  “How did he get into it?” Teri asked, turning slightly to check again with her binoculars on the tanker, which was maintaining its course and speed, now directly on their beam.

  “He apparently told the captain he had special status as the highest ranking homosexual on board to protect the rights of all the homosexuals, no matter their divisions.”

  “Does he really have that status?”

  “I don’t know, and I doubt the captain does either. But just to be sure no one got bent out of shape, he let Dobbs attend the hearing.”

  “And what happened?”

  “Well, the only thing that really happened on the mess decks was that Higgins yelled at Tyson and talked down to him. But Dobbs—and Davis, the lesbian petty officer who slowed Higgins down—told the captain that Tyson’s rights and standing on the ship were gravely affected by Higgins’s verbal attack. I really felt for the captain. He was in a no-win situation. Anyway, he gave Higgins a written reprimand in his personnel record and a three hundred dollar fine. The reprimand will hurt his future, but eventually he’ll work through it. What I’m more worried about is the tension I’ve felt ever since that confrontation on the mess decks, which the Captain’s Mast didn’t help.

  “The chiefs are telling me they hear the men muttering in their berthing compartments about the ‘prima donnas’ in the homosexual and lesbian divisions. Four guys in First Division supposedly took Polaroids of themselves in the shower and were offering to sell them to the homosexuals in the Admin Division as a joke. But it wasn’t taken as such, and Tom Dobbs again complained to the captain. I just don’t know where all this is going.”

  Both of them paused before Teri looked up at him in the dark and asked, “So what’s the answer, Hugh? Should women and homosexuals serve on warships?”

  Now it was his turn to smile. “I don’t know, Teri. That’s for others more senior than me to decide. I guess that’s one of the purposes for this experiment. Maybe it’ll all work out. But I already have serious doubts.”

  She straightened up and turned directly toward him. “Do you think we just aren’t capable?”

  Again he paused. “Is this for the record? Are we on tape?”

  She relaxed a bit. “No, of course not. I’m just interested in your opinion.”

  She was standing very close to him. The breeze brought the light, floral scent of her perfume to him. He felt an unexpected tightness in his chest and experienced a slight rush to his head. “Well, as far as I’m concerned, the issue has never been capability. Obviously, for example, you are very capable. You’re a good officer. But this experiment has made me think about things I hadn’t much considered before. The question to me comes down to whether it makes sense to try to override what appear to have been eons of God’s laws—or nature’s laws—or someone’s laws—to put men and women—and even now homosexual—into such a tight working, living, and fighting situation. We all have many natural beliefs, feelings, and reactions that are hardwired into us as human beings and that are difficult or impossible to cancel simply because some professor with a new theory says we ought to. You may be perfectly capable, but even so, do the overall results make sense? Is the price we pay in other ways too high?”

  Teri looked out to sea. She didn’t say anything for a few moments. “It’s funny. Ever since I was a teenager I’ve wanted to be in the navy to do exactly what I’m doing right now. I really enjoy it, and I think I’m reasonably good at it. I look forward to learning more. This underway period has been wonderful.... But I have to admit that I can also see your point. For example, there’s no denying that strong attractions”—she turned her head and looked directly into his eyes, then paused for another moment—“do exist. I don’t know exactly where it all might lead. I guess I don’t have the answers, either.”

  There was a long period of silence between them as they stood close together and listened to the bow of the ship cut through the dark water. Each of them could feel the unspoken tension passing between them, even in the incongruous location of the bridge wing, as they stood close together on the warm night. Finally Hugh said, “Well, closer to home: how have your women survived their first sea duty on a warship?”

  Teri smiled. “Real well, I think. They’ve been very busy, and though I’ve asked every morning, there haven’t been any real complaints, except, perhaps, that the food is too good and they’re all worried about gaining weight!”

  “Good,” her department head replied. “What about relationships?”

  “I’ve noticed a few of what I’d say are budding, good-natured, seemingly friendly relationships between several of my women and some of the guys. But so far I don’t think it’s anything too serious.”

  “Well, good. We’ll all have to keep an eye on that.” He paused again, as they looked directly at each other. I do like looking at her, he caught himself thinking. “Anyway, now that we’ve answered most of the world’s major geo-political questions, maybe I can get some sleep. And I’ll sleep better knowing that you’re up here until 4:00 A.M. protecting me against all harm.”

  Teri laughed. “No question about that,” she said as Hugh turned to leave. “Henry and I have it under control. I hope you get some sleep so you can greet your wife with a smile.”

  WASHINGTON—While his younger brother discussed the immediate results of one of his administration’s earliest policies, William Harrison lay awake in bed. Carrie slept soundly beside him. It now seemed that several nights every week he lay awake, unable to sleep. He was beginning to run on adrenaline during the day, and two days earlier Carrie had mentioned as gently as she could that his eyes looked terrible. He knew that if Carrie mentioned it, he
must really look bad. And that realization did not help him fell asleep.

  At one o’clock he rose quietly from their bed and walked out onto the Truman balcony. The lights of Washington shone brightly in the dark night. He grasped the railing of the balcony and tried to imagine what he would actually do when the telephone rang and a nuclear bomb was about to be detonated in an American city. What will they want? he thought. And what will I do? I wish I could watch someone else handle this, but I’m the one in this office.

  The afternoon’s meeting with Vince Harley and the agency heads of the special team tasked with finding the weapon added to William’s insomnia. Two week ago they thought they had it identified in the Columbian mountains. Today the general has to admit, after the deaths of eight agents and fifty Columbians, that the information must have been incorrect. Came from a satellite, with only limited corroberation on the ground! Now I’m told there is strong evidence that the bomb is either in Bosnia, Iran, a former Soviet republic, or Wyoming. I could have told them that from reading the newspapers.

  And then almost as a relief his mind turned to all the budget figures and the arguments that he and his advisors had reviewed so many times. What are the answers? he asked himself once more. Anywhere we try to cut, someone immediately screams. But then we can’t spend more money on our programs because the Senate won’t pass them. What are we going to do? How can we break through this gridlock?

  William knew the press was already starting to hint that his leadership was ineffectual. In honor of the last two administrations, they were now starting to call his administration “Gridlock III.” He hated it. He had been a reasonably effective governor in his state. He had instituted many progressive and permanent changes there. His political philosophy, which he recognized had its roots in his mother’s activism, should work. He knew there was an element of experimentation behind his plan for employment and housing, but all of his advisors’ figures said it would work, if the Senate would just give it a chance. But so far it appeared that those policies would never be implemented. And so, even though he had been in office less than six months, he was already being labeled as a weak and ineffective president, and he hated it.

  The one consolation over the past weeks had been his readings about the problems that had beset Washington, Franklin, Madison, Lincoln, and virtually all of the early American leaders. They had apparently also had to cope with constant bickering, different political philosophies, and different proposed solutions to complex questions.

  Frustrated and still unable to sleep, William decided to continue reading the early writings of the founders that his team of interns had assembled, following the outline in Gary Thornton’s book. Quietly taking the briefing papers from his bedside table, he moved over to his comfortable chair by the fireplace and switched on a reading lamp. These guys obviously had problems, too. I wonder if any of them lay awake, trying to figure out how to move the country forward, or how to save it. He flipped open the notebook to several of the pages he had marked earlier and started to reread them.

  When Carrie awoke in the morning, she found her husband asleep in his chair, the briefing book open on his lap.

  7

  No people can be bound to acknowledge and adore the Invisible Hand which conducts the affairs of men more than those of the United States. Every step by which they have advanced to the character of an independent nation seems to have been distinguished by some token of providential agency....We ought to be no less persuaded that the propitious smiles of Heaven can never be expected on a nation that disregards the eternal rules of order and right which Heaven itself has ordained.

  GEORGE WASHINGTON

  INAUGURAL SPEECH TO CONGRESS, APRIL 30, 1789

  Thursday, May 31

  Two Weeks Later

  ATLANTA—As Rebecca pulled out from the hospital driveway at the end of the day and headed north on Peachtree Street she saw a familiar face standing at the bus stop. She pulled over and pushed the button to roll down the passenger side window. “Can I give you a ride, Eunice?” she asked.

  Eunice bent down and recognized the nurse. She hesitated for an instant, looked up at the time on the clock tower, and said “Yes, thank you.” She opened the door and took her seat as the car moved away from the curb.

  “How are your children?” Rebecca asked, as she drove along Peachtree Street.

  “Oh, they’re fine. I called my sister, and they’re home from daycare. I hate not being there—they’re so young, and it’s gotten so there’s a shooting almost every week—but I had to come here and then get to work.”

  “Where do you work?”

  “At a restaurant up Peachtree—I’m a waitress, and I’d be late if you hadn’t stopped. Thanks.”

  “I’ll drop you off. I live just up the street here, but I’m heading for the post office to mail a letter to my brother.”

  “The president?”

  “Yes. There’s something I need to ask him.” Rebecca nodded toward Eunice’s lap. “How’s your next one?”

  The mother-to-be hesitated, and the smile left her face. “Oh, it’s okay, I guess.”

  “You don’t seem too excited.”

  Another pause. “I guess I’m not. How can I be, really? What a mess. Too many kids. Anyway, I’m going to take care of this one.”

  “Really? Abortion? Isn’t it getting a little late for that, as far along as you are, even if it’s now legal right up to the end? Or do you mean adoption?”

  “No, I...I guess I don’t know what I mean. A friend is looking into something for me. It’s kind of like adoption, I guess. I mean you help people with children. I don’t know. Anyway, it’ll be okay. Please tell me more about your brother and the White House. Is it beautiful?”

  What’s this all about? Rebecca thought for an instant. Then she began telling her passenger about her brother’s new home.

  RALEIGH—The small group of twenty or so parents was still standing at the bottom of the front steps of the high school in the fading light of the late May evening. It was fifteen minutes after the school year’s final PTA meeting had adjourned.

  “In my case, I know it’s because I didn’t think it was possible, so I never really prayed or sought God’s guidance,” Tom Williams said. “I relied on my own strength and never called on his.”

  “Me, too,” said Graham Prescott, his hands in his pockets, his head down. “We never seriously imagined it was possible. Now what?”

  “Prayer, lots of prayer,” said Mary, standing next to him in the circle of concerned and devastated parents.

  Their PTA had just voted by an eighty percent majority to recommend that the school board accept the gift from the BioTeam Company, including the new sex education curriculum. The vote had come after a bitter, acrimonious debate. Then, by a narrower majority of just over half, the parents approved Claudia Farris’s motion that the class be mandatory, with no substitute curriculum available. The only alternative for a student, if he or she declined to participate, would be a failing grade.

  “I guess, despite what the Bible says,” Tom added, “I still wasn’t ready for the hatred. You would have thought we were planning bodily harm for the kids, the way some of the parents yelled at us.”

  His wife, Cynthia, said, “We just forgot that it’s not our fight alone, and we forgot to call on God’s help. We’ve lost a round, but we can still appeal to the school board.”

  “A lot of help they’ll be,” another parent said. “Judging from their previous actions, they’ll probably want to clone the machine and put it in all the schools. When do they come up for reelection, anyway?” he added as an afterthought.

  “Eighteen months from now. Next November.”

  “Anyway,” Mary said, “lets pray now, and then meet next week— Monday or Tuesday at our home would be good—to discuss what we can do in our churches and with the school board.”

  “And maybe you ought to write your brother in Washington and tell him what a mess this is,” Tom suggested.


  “Unfortunately—or fortunately, I guess—the school board is not his responsibility. But maybe you’re right, Tom. Perhaps I’ll write him again. Maybe he can say or do something. But for now let’s do what we should have been doing all along.”

  The group of parents moved closer, joined hands, bowed their heads, and prayed for their children.

  WASHINGTON—“Come in, John,” William motioned with his coffee mug, as the senior senator from his party stuck his head through the door of the president’s suite on Air Force One that Friday morning. “Great weather to fly out to Ohio this morning. Here, have a seat. Would you like some coffee?”

  “Yes, thanks,” said the older man, taking a mug from the steward and sitting in one of the spacious built-in chairs in the flying White House. “I’m glad you could make it today, Mr. President. Every six years the race gets tighter, and in eighteen months I’m up again. It’ll be good to have you at the opening of this new job training facility.”

  “Glad to do it. And you know it’s what our domestic program is all about. I hope we can get the legislative package passed and then open hundreds more just like it. But, here, we’re about to take off. We’ll talk more about it over breakfast once we’re up.”

  For the next twenty minutes the two men sat alone in the cabin and caught up on Washington small talk until the large Boeing flattened its climb and the steward began serving the two men a breakfast of scrambled eggs and sausage. “I can eat like this up here,” the president said, grinning, “but don’t tell Carrie. I figure the high altitude dilutes the fat and the calories.”

  “Your secret is safe with me, Mr. President.” John Dempsey returned his look knowingly.

  “Thanks. Now eat your eggs while they’re hot.”