by W. S. Fuller
“I am Hazar. Welcome to Palestine.”
2012
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Sam Bradley was alone in the subcommittee hearing room except for a few pages and the TV crews in the back who were busy plugging in wires, drinking coffee, and talking. It occurred to him that the crews always seemed to have a close, jovial camaraderie that made it appear they all work for the same station or network. At least until there was any interviewing to be done. He had planned to be early. This was his first hearing as a member of the armed services committee, and he wanted to have plenty of time to let it soak in, to enjoy the experience.
Sam tried to let every experience soak in...the bad as well as the good. He was never sure if he was better off for it or not. At times he was convinced that people who are able to put disturbing thoughts out of their minds, who could play the ostrich game, compartmentalize with impenetrable walls - spend a larger percentage of their days happier, or at least more content, than he did. At other times he was sure that his willingness to open himself to as much as possible in life made it a much richer experience. Only after a few beers did he always come to the same conclusion...he was sure the latter was true.
Looking across the room again at the cameras, Sam thought of his parents, certain they were already waiting, in front of the TV. He was glad they were alive to see this. The vision of those early years, when their interest in politics and current events had spurred his own interests, was clear and strong. Among relatives around the dinner table, they enjoyed many heated, though always civil, discussions of candidates and ideology. And their son, of course, came to be regarded as quite argumentative.
His thoughts settled on the basic, gentle goodness of his parents, their unwavering dedication to fairness and equality, and how he had come to realize that it was these traits that had been the most positive influence on his life. His mother the teacher, and his father the bookkeeper, had never tried to instill in him the drive and competitiveness that is associated with a black man, or any man for that matter, who graduated from Yale, Harvard Law, started and built a successful public relations company, served on the boards of a few of America’s largest corporations, and was now a United States Senator. But it was their beliefs, along with their love and time, that gave him the understanding and ability to take advantage of his opportunities and become successful, without having to sell out his principles.
His mind quickly shifted back to the hearing. It had been a number of years since he served on the board with Robert Quigley. Robert left to take the presidency of H.M.V. Industries a couple of years after his promotion to Executive Vice President and the position on the board. The move had come as a surprise, and had been quite a coup for a man of his age to take over a major division of one of the country’s largest defense contractors. Sam and Robert had serious ideological differences back then, and he knew the gap had not narrowed. Sam only hoped that some of the tough questions would still remain when it was his turn. He had a list he imagined Robert would just as soon he had left at home, although he recalled how tough and shrewd an adversary he could be. Neither of them were shrinking violets; there should be some interesting exchanges.
Emerging from his ruminations, he found the room filling with senators, aides, spectators, and the press. He opened his briefing book and had begun to go through some notes when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Good morning, Senator Bradley. Congratulations on your election.” Robert Quigley had a warm smile on his face.
“Hello, Robert. Thank you.”
“Doesn’t our knowing each other somehow disqualify you from participating in all this?” Robert asked, with a grin. “I don’t guess it really matters though because I’m sure you’ll maintain your usual practice of only asking comfortable, non-controversial questions.”
Sam studied Robert’s face for a moment. It had the easy, confident look and wry smile of someone about to face a familiar, worthy opponent in an important contest. Sam smiled back as he spoke. “Well, when you get to be my age, it’s difficult to change your style.”
The hearing moved along at what Sam knew was the normal crawl for these events. Many of the questions dealt with background information and highly technical assessments of the armored personnel carrier’s specifications, operating procedures, test results, and costs specific to various aspects of the research and development. He was amused by the number of technical, as well as more general questions, that were repeated again and again by each senator as they queried Robert. Nothing like a good technical grasp of the issue along with a few very pertinent questions...even if they are repeats, to impress the voters back home in front of C-Span.
Robert looked smaller than his six foot one, wide-shouldered frame as he sat alone at the long table facing the bank of senators behind their ornate, elegant, heavily-paneled enclosure. He was holding his own though, and was as quick, well-prepared and combative as Sam knew he would be.
It was finally Sam’s turn to speak. His eyes met Robert’s and he began. “Mr. Quigley, it seems there are two issues here and although they are certainly interrelated I would like to address them one at a time. Also, I think my colleagues have done a very admirable job of handling the detailed, technical aspects of this matter, so I will attempt to be somewhat more general with my questions.”
Sam continued, “Three years ago the vote was very close when H.M.V. was chosen to produce the POWELL APC, a new high speed, tracked, heavily armored personnel carrier that would replace the MRAP, whose heavy armor has saved many soldier’s lives, but lack of speed and maneuverability in rugged terrain or outside of an urban theater is a major problem. There was a great deal of disagreement and competition with the Marine Corp and within branches of the Army itself over whether this was the best choice for a rapid method of moving troops short distances in hostile territory, or if this mission could best be accomplished by a new transport aircraft utilizing stealth and hover technology. The POWELL, of course, won out, and was fast tracked to the extreme. Would you please tell us, Mr. Quigley, what performance and cost projections H.M.V. put before congress at that time that you think were the most instrumental in swinging the vote your way?”
“I’m not sure I understand your question, Senator.”
“Let me try again,” Sam said. “What do you think were the primary, determining factors in the POWELL APC being selected for production over an aircraft transport?”
“It was demonstrated, without a doubt, that the POWELL was far ahead of the aircraft in meeting or exceeding every primary performance criteria that had been established for its intended mission and operations.”
“And these demonstrations were the results of computer enhanced testing and tests with actual prototypes. Is that true, Mr. Quigley?”
“Yes, that is true Senator.”
“What role would you say the cost estimates of the POWELL vis a vis the aircraft played in the decision to select the POWELL, Mr. Quigley?”
“They certainly played a role, but I believe the main reason for the selection was, again, that the POWELL did a much better job of meeting the performance criteria.”
“The costs estimates for the POWELL were, in fact, twenty percent less than the estimates for the aircraft, were they not, Mr. Quigley?”
“Yes, senator, I believe that is true.”
“And they came at a time of economic hardship and a crusade of cost cutting. How do you explain, Mr. Quigley, the fact that your POWELL APC cannot travel as fast, withstand as much enemy fire, or deflect the percentage of a roadside explosive, as was alleged, and demonstrated, during the testing that led to its selection.?”
“The POWELL will operate at each of its projected performance levels after certain adjustments and modifications are made. You can be sure of that, Senator Bradley. Ultra sophisticated, heavy systems of this type commonly need modifications before they become operational.”
“Modifications, possibly, Mr. Quigley. But I wouldn’t consider increasing a vehicl
e’s speed by twenty-five percent merely an adjustment. And when you add the armor that it appears you are going to have to add to give it the protection you claimed it would have...well, that’s probably not going to help make it a threat in the 100 meters either. And rather than have the performance we were promised for less money than the competition, we now have sub par performance with cost overruns that put the POWELL above the projected cost of the aircraft.”
Sam paused and leaned forward in his chair, his fingers entwined and holding his chin as he peered at Robert Quigley. “Mr. Quigley, did your company fudge on the performance projections and the costs estimates because you wanted to make sure you got this contract? The evidence seems to be pretty overwhelming.”
“As I have stated, there were some irregularities in the initial projections and how they were determined, and those who have been deemed responsible have been terminated from H.M.V. The investigation is still continuing. But again, let me repeat, Senator, the POWELL will meet all the operational criteria as soon as the modifications are completed.”
“Well, I certainly hope so, Mr. Quigley, because we might be about to go to war in the desert and need the kind of transport vehicle we were told we were so desperate for, that you could provide, and that we at this moment definitely do not appear to have. “
Sam leaned back in his chair, then spoke again. “I would like to talk about your very generous contributions to the PAC’s of certain congressman that voted for the POWELL over what now looks to me may have been a far wiser choice - the aircraft. You maintain that H.M.V. has done nothing technically or legally wrong, and I think it’s likely that, in the strict technical or legal sense, you haven’t. What I would like to know, Mr. Quigley, is what you think of a system that allows, even encourages, a company such as yours to essentially buy votes for a very large expenditure that may not have been appropriated because of its worth, but rather because of greed and insecurity?”
“First of all, Senator, let me say that I take exception...I vigorously disagree, with any accusations you are making that the POWELL was selected for any reasons other than the proper ones. As for the PAC’s, they are one part of the system we use in this country to help fund the enormous costs of a political campaign. I suggest if you think the PAC’s are a problem, you should introduce a bill to change the system.” Quigley’s vise-like control was wavering, betrayed by his voice.
“Mr. Quigley, whether I have a problem with PAC’s in theory is not the issue here. What I have a problem with is that your company and its subsidiaries contributed almost one million dollars to four congressmen who changed their votes and in essence put H.M.V. over the top with enough support to insure the POWELL’s selection. There must be a better way of doing this. We are constantly wrestling with balancing the budget and searching for much-needed funds for domestic programs. To be successful, we must not spend more money on defense than is necessary, and it is therefore essential that we have honest information and data about weapons, manpower, and the support our military needs in the rapidly changing world we find ourselves facing.”
“Yet we have the army, navy and air force each arguing for additional and more expensive weapons and appropriations, not always because of a real need, but often because of competition and a fear of losing their fair share. We have defense contractors who will provide unrealistic figures to back up the military’s justification of the programs, and then contribute enough money to influence the votes of the members of congress. And, yes, we have those members of congress who will let themselves be influenced by money and pork barrel politics. Dwight Eisenhower’s military industrial complex seems to live on unabated.”
“Senator Bradley, our industry operates within the same market system, and utilizes the same dynamics, as any other industry in this country. We compete for business and then must produce a quality product. A failure to do either will prohibit us from being able to attract and maintain a profitable market share.”
“There are differences, Mr. Quigley.”
“And what are those, sir?”
“Your industry is paid with taxpayer dollars, and in the theater where your product performs...if that product is not the quality you promised it to be, twenty-five young Americans will die a horrible death in a faraway place every time it comes up short.”
2012
CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA
John looked up and back as his count reached four and saw the ball high above him. He strained for an extra burst of speed to keep pace with the tight spiral...Bubba ain’t lost a thing ...reached, the ball was suddenly in his hands, then tucked it under his arm and covered the twenty remaining yards to the end zone.
“Awright, John baby.”
“The man can still catch the long ball.”
“Catch the long ball, what about the man that threw the long ball. It was there, baby, right goddamn there.” Bubba’s high pitched voice brought John memories as he walked back up the field with Tim Graham, who was chasing him on the play.
“John Boy...man, it ain’t fair for you to still be in such good shape,” Tim complained. “We just ran sixty yards, I’m about to damn die, and you don’t even look like you’re breathing.”
“Yeah, well it ain’t like I got a choice. There aren’t too many out o’shape Marines. Running around out here without combat boots is a real treat,” John Champion replied, as they rejoined the group of men in the middle of the field.
“Deja Vu,” Mickey Oliver yelled. “If we coulda had you for the varsity alumni game we coulda really kicked some butt. The rest of us dudes were sucking wind by the second quarter. God I’d love to beat their young asses.”
“Speak for yourself, Animal,” Bubba tried to sound offended. “The ball was still gettin to where it was supposed to be at the end of the game. There were just a few guys like you that couldn’t get to it.”
“Right, Bubba, the ball was on the money those two times that your seven-step, seven-minute drop didn’t cause you to end up on your fat ass.” Mickey laughed while he pointed a finger at Bubba Hoskins. “I coulda taken a phone call between the snap and when you threw it.”
“That’s all for me. I’ve got to go”
“Me too. Great game. Let’s do it again next Sunday.”
“Take it easy. Hey John, if you end up in the desert, kick some raghead butt for me, O.K.?”
“Yeah, man, me too.”
George Burnett walked over and put his hand on John’s shoulder. “I’ve got a few beers iced down in the car. Can you hang around for a few minutes and help me with them?”
“Sure, I could use one.”
“Be right back.”
George was John’s best friend in high school, and he had been looking forward to spending some time with him on this trip home. Lying down in the thick grass, John crossed one leg over the other, chewed on the long stalk of a piece of crabgrass, and looked at the graceful, white mare’s tails against the deep blue of the autumn sky. The smell of grass...I love the smell of freshly cut grass... always makes me think of playing football, or baseball, even when I haven’t been playing. God I’d love to take this smell with me.
The familiar, sharp pop of a can being opened signaled George’s return. “So, you looked great out there. Man, that’s fun.” He handed John the can.
“Thanks, yeah, I enjoyed the hell out of it.”
“So, how long you gonna to be around for this time? I’m looking forward to us spending some time together.”
“I guess I’m not supposed to really tell anybody, but you could always keep a secret. I got a call early this morning. I’ve got to be back in forty-eight hours. The best bet is we’re gonna ship out for Israel.”
“Jesus”, George said. “You just got here. So when are you going to leave?”
“Tomorrow night. I can take a late flight. I wasn’t going to play but I figured I needed it. Exercise is supposed to be good for stress, isn’t it? I’ll go back and spend tonight and tomorrow with the folks and then take of
f.”
“So what do you think, man. Is this going to be as bad as they’re making it sound?”
John hesitated before answering. “It looks like it might. The Arabs have a hell of a lot of men and firepower lined up, and if anybody makes a move it could get real nasty real quick.”
“What do you feel like, John? I mean, are you gung ho? Are you anxious to get into it? It seems like a lot of people are.”
“My guess is the people who are so gung ho don’t have a clue as to what it’s really all about. I may not either, but I don’t think I’m that anxious to find out. I just didn’t do it right. All the hell-raising and partying...man, it just wouldn’t have been that hard to stay in school. If I’d just gone out four nights a week instead of seven,” John said, finishing his sentence with a small chuckle.
“So how much longer do you have?”
“Not quite two years.”
“Do you know what you’re going to do when you get out?”
“I’ll definitely go back school. I’ll have as much of it paid for as I want. Who knows, I might just hang around and get a masters or doctorate. From where I’m sittin now, college is a pretty nice environment. If I ever get back I think I’ll stay a while.”
“What’s going on with you?” John asked his friend.
“Nothing really much different. The two kids, and work, and taking care of the house, I don’t have a lot of free time. But that’s okay. I can’t complain too much. I still get to play an occasional round of golf.”
“Yea, occasional my ass. How occasional?”
“Oh, maybe once...sometimes twice a week.”
“Let me get my violin, George. Great looking wife with a real brain, two terrific kids, good job with the bank, nice house, golf two times a week, and I’m getting ready to go live in a sand box in a hundred and twenty degree heat, get shot at, and you can’t complain too much. Jesus! Have you seen Shawn lately?”
