(1964) The Man

by Irving Wallace

  “Yes, sir,” said Jaskawich.

  Jaskawich had Ambassador Wamba by the arm, and hastily the two of them, in whispered consultation, left the office.

  President Dilman was about to sit down to his eighteen-button telephone console, when he became aware of Edna Foster still standing at his desk.

  He considered her curiously. “What’s the matter, Miss Foster?”

  “Don’t—don’t do this!” she blurted.

  He appeared confused. “Don’t do what?”

  “It’s not my business, except I don’t want you convicted for impeachment. Mr. President, I hate General Fortney, I abhor him, but what he said to you before, about sending an all-white military force into Africa to die for those underdeveloped people, it’ll ruin you in the Senate, it’ll create a storm against you. Can’t you see? It’ll be used to prove what Zeke Miller’s been insinuating all along, that the New Succession Bill had to be made law so you wouldn’t show favoritism to Negroes, even if they’re African Negroes, and that here you are, ready to sacrifice the best of our white troops to do that very thing. I’m not saying don’t defend Baraza. You must—I agree, you must—but can’t you send mixed white-and-Negro battalions to fight there? Can’t you—?”

  “No, Miss Foster, I cannot. There is only one counter-guerrilla force that can act effectively, that is equipped to do so with a minimal loss of life, and that, as Steinbrenner said, is the Dragon Flies.”

  Edna Foster persisted. “Don’t, Mr. President. Please don’t. This will ruin you—this’ll be the end of you—”

  Dilman did not disagree. “It may be,” he said. “But whatever happens to me right now does not matter. It’s what happens to a good neighbor, black or white, one that’s put its entire faith in our decency, its trust in our way of life, that does matter. I can’t make deals with Fortney, or anyone else, to compromise my country, and I won’t. I appreciate your feelings for me, Miss Foster, I really do, but I must handle it this way. Now, please, tell Tim Flannery to notify the networks that I wish air time to deliver a short, major address—fifteen minutes, say—on a matter of national emergency—make it tomorrow at six o’clock our time. Thank you, Miss Foster.”

  She shook her head sorrowfully, then ran from the office.

  From the sofa, Leroy Poole had witnessed these scenes with fascination. He continued to watch as the President, by now completely unaware that there were others still in the room, swiveled toward his telephone console once more. Then, to Poole’s bewilderment, Gladys Hurley was on her feet and advancing toward the desk. Poole leaped up and chased after her.

  Dilman’s hand was on the white telephone when he saw Mrs. Hurley. He blinked, perplexed, then seemed to remember, and pushed the chair back and rose. “Mrs. Hurley,” he murmured, “forgive me, but—”

  She stood tall, head high, shoulders thrown back, worn fingers working over her smooth shiny purse.

  “You forgive me, Mr. President,” she said. “I am sorry you cannot see fit to save my boy, but from what my eyes have seen, I have seen your goodness. If you cannot help my son, I can help yours and yourself, because you are deservin’ of help from every American. I am goin’ home and I am burnin’ those files of Jeff’s, Mr. President, because even if your boy was in it too, like Jeff was, he did no wrong against the people’s law like Jeff did, and if I will appeal anywhere, it will be to the Lord Jesus Christ, to punish Jeff’s misdeeds and give him mercy so he can become the companion of the holy angels in heaven above.”

  Then her voice trembled, as she went on. “Mr. President, no matter what, my Jeff was always a good boy, attendin’ church and learnin’ the scriptures, keepin’ to cleanliness, never fibbin’ or runnin’ wild in the streets, behavin’ and readin’ his books. And when he growed up, he always respected his father, when his father was alive, and was obedient to his father, and he took care of me, always took care of me and his younger brothers and sisters and needy kin with money and letters. He was a good boy, Mr. President, and he only meant well, but there was no one to understand. . . . Come on, Mr. Poole, let’s leave the President be. He’s got his work to do for all of us.”

  At nine-thirty that evening, the West Wing of the White House was still ablaze with light.

  In the Reading Room of the press section, a handful of hardy correspondents, aware that the President was still at work, lolled about, hopefully waiting for some fresh morsel of news. In the antechambers beyond the Oval Office, numerous secretaries, on overtime, pecked away at their typewriters. In the corridors, the special police and the Secret Service men of the White House Detail ceaselessly maintained their vigils.

  And, in the Cabinet Room, before an audience of three, Douglass Dilman was concluding his rehearsal of the latest draft of the crucial speech that he would deliver to the nation the next evening.

  Nat Abrahams, recovered from his ordeal on the Senate floor, puffed his mellow pipe, picked at the rumpled napkin on his depleted dinner tray and listened. General Leo Jaskawich, chewing a half-smoked cheroot, absently doodled on a scratch pad and listened. Assistant Secretary for African Affairs Jed Stover, one hand forming a hood over his shaggy eyebrows, followed the circling needle of the stopwatch cupped in his other hand and listened.

  Across the glossy Cabinet table, seated in the high-backed leather chair bearing the diminutive brass plate engraved THE PRESIDENT, Douglass Dilman, without exerting himself, without emphasizing the key phrases, approached the end of the television address that the four of them had hammered out before their informal dinner.

  Dilman flipped the page, and then, in a voice becoming hoarse, read aloud:

  “It is my fervent prayer that these powerful battalions of this democracy, now battle-ready and on full alert, will not have to leave our nation’s boundaries. It is my fervent prayer that even if we should commit ourselves to a limited conflict, it will not spread into a worldwide holocaust, and that our ICBMs will rest forever in their silos, and our jet bombers will continue confined to their runways or routine missions, and that our Polaris submarines will cruise under the seas with their nuclear rockets safely unarmed.”

  He paused, and then he resumed.

  “This is my fervent prayer, and I know that you share it with me, one and all. But let not the enemies of freedom misconstrue this wish for peace as an evidence of weakness. There are many abroad who may think the United States speaks in many voices, and who may choose to hear, and believe, the voice that pleases them the most. They may prefer the American voice that reflects our normal, two-party political wrangling and discord, so that they may suspect we are disunited. They may prefer the American voice that reflects our onetime isolationist ideology, that promises we will not trade a single American life to preserve the independence of an African democracy whose entire population can fit into a single one of our largest cities, so that they may suspect we are disunited. They may prefer the American voice that reflects our own domestic racial strife, the one vowing we will not protect our colored brothers in other lands any more than we will integrate them in our own land because they are inferior, so that they may suspect we are disunited.

  “To the hopeful cynics abroad, I can only say—do not be misled by the discordant sounds of opinion and disagreement so much a part of our democratic system—for, in times of danger, America has always and will always speak out in one single united voice, and that will be the voice of the majority of its free citizens.

  “Tonight, fellow Americans, the words to be spoken by our united voice, the voice we want our friends and enemies around the earth to hear and heed, may best be taken from the words spoken by our beloved former President, John F. Kennedy, who said, ‘The free world’s security can be endangered not only by a nuclear attack, but also by being nibbled away at the periphery . . . by forces of subversion, infiltration, intimidation, indirect or nonovert aggression, internal revolution, diplomatic blackmail, guerrilla warfare or a series of limited wars. . . . Let every nation know, whether it wishes us well or ill, that we
shall pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose any foe to assure the survival and the success of liberty.’

  “Thank you, and good night.”

  Dilman exhaled, tossed the typescript on the table, and looked up.

  “Well, how did it sound to you?” he asked. “There are a few rough spots, but I think we can smooth them out in the morning. Otherwise, I believe it says what should be said.”

  Jed Stover was all enthusiasm. “I think it’s great, and about time!” He held up the stopwatch. “Almost on the nose, Mr. President. Only fifteen seconds over.” Then he added, “This is going to make Amboko and the African Unity Pact nations very happy.”

  “I’m not so sure it’ll scare Premier Kasatkin,” said Jaskawich, “but it’s sure as hell going to scare the living daylights out of the Senate!”

  Revolving his empty teacup in its saucer, Nat Abrahams said nothing. He saw Dilman’s attention focus on him.

  “What about that, Nat?” Dilman asked. “I’ve given you a tough enough job, asking you to handle that trial, without making it tougher. Anything you want me to reword or tone down?”

  Nat Abrahams removed the pipe from between his teeth. “Hell, no,” he said. “The devil with the Senate. Sure they won’t like this, but it’s only a big stick you’re waving at Russia, not a bazooka. It probably won’t influence a single senator’s vote, one way or the other, not yet.”

  “Then you think it should read as it stands?” asked Dilman.

  “Not quite,” said Abrahams. “If anything, at least in one passage there, I’d be a little more explicit. I mean earlier, when you go into our military resources, and when you detail the power potential of the Dragon Flies. I think you should come right out and explain why you and Steinbrenner have selected this all-white force for the African assignment.”

  Dilman’s features revealed his worry. “I don’t know, Nat—”

  “Why not, Mr. President?” asked Abrahams. “It’s in the open anyway—”

  “It sure is,” said Jaskawich. “Mr. President, I’m inclined to agree with Mr. Abrahams. You heard the late afternoon broadcasts, saw the early evening papers. ‘A reliable top-level Pentagon source admitted today that the military chiefs are doing their best to dissuade President Dilman from throwing only white troops into the African inferno.’ ” Jaskawich snorted. “ ‘A reliable Pentagon source’—ha! Spelled Pitt Fortney. You’ll never be able to prove he leaked it, but one gets you ten he did. You’re his superior officer, Mr. President, so he can’t blow you down face to face. What he’s doing is the next-best thing, whipping up a tornado against you among the general public. If anybody’s going to fight and die for us in Africa, he’s going to make damn sure it’ll include our Negro soldiers with our whites, even though the mixed battalions aren’t prepared for that kind of warfare. Or maybe he just wants to solve our race problem by shipping as many colored men to Africa as possible. No, seriously, Mr. President, Fortney’s tidbit has been out for hours, burning across the country like a prairie fire, prejudicing more and more misinformed people against you. Mr. Abrahams is right. Douse that fire while you can.”

  “Maybe I should,” Dilman mused.

  Abrahams bent forward, leaning on his elbows. “It wouldn’t take much, another line or two in the speech. You know, ‘Fellow Americans, concerning the Dragon Flies, you may have heard irresponsible talk that this entirely Caucasian battle force will be committed to the defense of Baraza, if required, because of your Commander in Chief’s desire to protect those of his own race. This canard could not be further from the truth. The Secretary of Defense recommended the Dragon Flies because their units are the only ones equipped and trained for the type of defense indicated. Unfortunately, there are no colored soldiers in the Dragon Flies, because none have been given the long training necessary for handling weapons of such complex—” Abrahams shrugged. “That sort of thing, and that would be enough. It may blunt a good deal of criticism from around the country, and it’ll certainly show Fortney you’re not going to take any of his treachery lying down.”

  Dilman hit his fist on the table. “Sold. We’ll write it in.” He stared at Abrahams. “Do you think all of this will become an issue in the trial, Nat?”

  Abrahams emptied his pipe. “Mr. President, everything you say or do is an issue in the trial. But you wouldn’t be making this speech at all if you didn’t believe there are some things more important than the trial.”

  “That’s right, Nat.”

  “So—”

  There was a sharp rapping on the corridor door, and Nat Abrahams stopped and looked over his shoulder as the door came open and a distraught Tim Flannery rushed into the room. His face was as fiery as his hair, but then, as he started toward Dilman, he seemed to realize there were others present.

  “Sorry to bust in on you like this,” he apologized, “but—” He hesitated, as if wishing to speak to the President, yet unsure if he should do so in front of Abrahams, Jaskawich, and Stover.

  “What’s wrong, Tim?” Dilman asked. “Is anything the matter?”

  “I hate to tell you, Mr. President,” said Flannery, “but your boy’s out in the press lobby—”

  “My boy? You mean Julian—he’s here?”

  “He just popped in from nowhere, and before I heard about it and could stop him, he had gathered the wire service men around him and begun making a statement. When I got out there, it was too late, dammit. Now he’s answering their questions—wouldn’t listen to me—so I thought I’d better find you—”

  Dilman came to his feet. “What kind of statement? What’s Julian saying?”

  Flannery hesitated, then blurted, “He just now confessed that he had for a long time been a secret member of the Turnerite Group. He—he said that young Negroes like himself got sick of seeing how their parents had been bought off by white men’s lying promises—sick of seeing the way the old folks were still in the anteroom, twiddling their thumbs, waiting for their citizenship papers—and he was one of the ones who had decided to do something about it. So he joined the Turnerites and pledged himself to secrecy.”

  “He confessed to all of that?” said Dilman quietly.

  Flannery nodded. “Right off. Then he told the reporters that if they believed that much, they had to believe more—that he never did a single violent thing or subversive act for the Turnerites—only did clerical work for them—and shortly after the Turnerites were banned, he telephoned Frank Valetti and resigned. Then he said—” Flannery faltered, and glanced uncertainly about the Cabinet Room.

  “Go on,” Dilman said, “what else did he say?”

  “He—he was sorry about only one thing—that he had to lie to you from the start. He told the reporters you never really knew he was a member, and that Zeke Miller’s Article of Impeachment concerning him was idiotic—because not only you didn’t know, but if you had, you wouldn’t have obstructed the Justice Department or made a deal with Hurley, because you disliked the Turnerites and their policies and their methods.” Flannery paused, and shrugged helplessly. “That’s as much as I heard. I was afraid to stop him, haul him in here. I didn’t want to start any commotion. But if you’d like me to go out there now and—”

  Flannery halted, suddenly aware that no one in the room, not Dilman or any of the others, was listening to him any longer. Their attention had been diverted to someone behind him. Puzzled, Flannery turned around, and then he, too, saw Julian Dilman standing in the open doorway.

  For once, Julian’s hair was not sleekly pomaded, and his form-fitting suit was wrinkled. Fidgeting, his tremulous eyeballs rolled, and his gaze went from Abrahams to Dilman to Flannery, and then back to his father. With an effort, he seemed to gather up his courage and finally entered the room.

  “You heard what I did?” Julian said to his father. Julian nodded toward Flannery. “He told you?”

  “Yes,” Dilman said.

  “I—I know it’s going to count against you in the—the trial—bu
t I had to do it.”

  “Why?” Dilman asked.

  “Why?” Julian repeated. “Because when they impeached you, I figured you’d quit, and you didn’t. You set out to fight in the open the ones I tried to fight in secret. And then, from what I heard on the radio today, I knew you meant it—not being scared to punish Hurley because you believed he should be punished, and then—what I figured out from that ‘reliable source’ Pentagon story against you—that you were not afraid of the big-brass Charlies in uniform because you believed our best troops, no matter what color, should go to Africa. It—it just made me sick of my lying, when all I had wanted to do was to fight back in the open like you—so I took the plane here and figured the best way to begin was to stand up and tell the truth.” He paused. “I—I hope you’ll forgive me for what I did in the past, and what I did out there just now.”

  Dilman considered his son evenly. “I already knew what you did in the past, Julian. I found out this afternoon,” he said. “As for what you did out there in the press lobby, that’s all right. I guess it had to be done. . . . Now get yourself upstairs and find some nourishment in the pantry. I’ll be up in a little while.”

  Quickly, awkwardly, Julian left the room, and when he was gone, Dilman turned slowly back to Abrahams.

  Dilman stared thoughtfully at Abrahams for several seconds, and then he said, “Yes, I know, Nat, this can help lose me the Senate trial. Well, I suppose this was a sort of trial, too, in a way—only this was one I couldn’t afford to lose.” He tried to smile, but no smile came, and then he said, “That’s something. At least, it is to me.”