Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 09

by Warrior Class (v1. 1)

  “Maybe they can't do anything about it.”

  “Boris Yeltsin proved that even a nobody can stand up to the power of the Red Army if he has the strength of his convictions.” Thom said. “History is full of stories of successful visionaries.”

  “And dead martyrs,” Goff added.

  “I don't intend on becoming a martyr, Bob," the President said. “But I am going to fight for my beliefs. The American people elected me for one simple reason: to form a government with my vision, my ideals. They wanted less interference in foreign affairs, to bring our troops home from endless, pointless peacekeeping missions, to downsize government, improve our quality of life w ithout raising taxes or polarizing our people, and to make America strong by putting America first. If they don’t like what I'm doing, there's a way to get rid of me w ithout my becoming a martyr, too—impeach me. But it won’t happen, and for one simple reason—because I follow the rule-book: the Constitution of the United States.”

  Secretary of Defense Goff shook his head, not knowing exactly how to respond to his friend. He was either a true visionary, he thought, or he was going insane. “So you're going to let Russia and Germany march into the Balkans unopposed,” he said after a long, frustrating pause. “You’re going to let them carve up the Balkans, followed shortly by Eastern Europe, then perhaps by Western Europe. We lose all our trading partners and allies in Europe, Then a spark ignites a third world war, and we either sit on the sidelines and watch Europe go up in flames, or we have to send another thirty-five million men and women into combat to restore the peace, like we did in World War Two.”

  “When the combined Russian and German tanks roll through Buckingham Palace. Robert, you can tell me you told me so,” the President said, “I don’t think it’s going to happen, at least not on my watch.”

  “You’re betting the peace and security of the entire world on this, Thomas.”

  “If the world wants peace or the world wants war, Robert, they’ll get whichever they choose,” Thom said. “My job is to protect and defend the United States. I’m going to make America the shining example of a strong, peaceful, democratic nation, and invite others to join us. I’m not going to send our armies out to enforce our ideas of what kind of society or government they should live under.”

  Robert Goff shook his head and looked down, and looked at his hands, then at papers on the President’s desk—anywhere but into his friend’s eyes. He was not convinced one bit that the President was right, but he knew that arguing with him was not going to help or change his mind. That’s why he was surprised when the President clasped him on the shoulder. “You okay. Bob?” he asked softly.

  Only then did Goff look into the President's eyes. He responded, “Yes, Mr President.”

  Thom’s face clouded a bit in disappointment when he heard those words—Goff did not use them very often when they were alone—but he still smiled warmly. “You still with me?” he asked.

  “I’m with you, Thomas,” Goff responded. “Even if it’s there to help pick up the pieces.” And he turned and departed the Oval Office without saying another word.

  Thomas Thom returned to his desk and shuffled some paperwork around without really noticing what they were, then retreated to his study. He fielded several phone calls and visits from his secretary, then hit the DND (Do Not Disturb) button on his phone, settled into his chair, closed his eyes, and began his deep-breathing exercises, commanding his muscles one by one to relax, and then letting his mantra echo quietly through his head until, gradually, all conscious thoughts raced away over the horizon.

  Many casual practitioners called it a very intense “nap,” but meditation was much more than just a period of relaxation. The transcendental state was a span of time, in which the sub-conscious mind was exposed, and at the same time the conscious mind was free to expand—to roam the vast areas that were generally closed to it. It was far different from a nap—in fact, meditation was never meant to be a substitute for sleep. Quite the opposite: the transcendental process was an energizing, invigorating process, because letting the conscious mind race about in the wide-open energy field of the subconscious mind filled both the mind and the body with incredible power. It was akin to a racehorse, tied to an exercise trundle: it was fine going around in a twenty-foot circle. It was even better when allowed to run on a mile-and-a-quarter racetrack during practice or on race day. But let it out into an open field, and the horse becomes a different animal, random and tireless and almost wild. The human mind worked the very same way.

  It was also a two-way exchange. Many thoughts, experiences, even realities existed in the subconscious mind, and the transcendental state allowed those waves of energy to emerge. In that sense, meditation was an educational experience, a way of reliving, preliving, or even creating a whole new lifetime in just an instant.

  But like any exercise, the human mind can grow weary if left to roam too long, and through years of training and discipline, Thom called his mind back to the conscious world and let the doorway to his subconscious mind close. It was not a sad or reluctant event at all. He knew the doorway was always there, to summon when needed, and he knew that the potential energy available to him there was limitless.

  But the subconscious realm was an alternate reality he had created to explore the universe that was himself—the person, the being, the energy that was all of his pasts and all of his futures right there, in one instant, available for him to see and study and experience. He had created other realities—this one, of him as president of the United States, in the beginning of the twenty-first century, on the planet called Earth. It was time to play that role, immerse himself in that universe, and act out his part in that performance. But he could do so armed with the know ledge and experience that he had gained from his other realities, because to him they were all his realities, all pertinent, all interconnected.

  He picked up his phone and punched a button. “Yes, Mr. President?” his vice president, Les Busick, responded.

  “Your friend, the one you mentioned the other day? Is he in town?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d like to talk with him. Today. Right now.”

  Busick hesitated for a moment. Ever since he had learned his “friend” was coming to town with a radical, dangerous proposal, he knew the President should meet with him. Every time he had brought it up, the President had turned him down. He might have been tempted to give him an “I told you so,” but Busick knew that things had to be pretty serious for the President to want to talk with him now. “Where?”

  “In the residence.” Every place in the entire building—in the entire District, for that matter—was open to dozens of prying eyes, except for the residence itself; and as many presidents soon learned, there were many very discreet ways of getting inside the President’s private residence without half of Washington finding out. “As soon as possible.”

  “Would you like me there, too?”

  “It might be better if you weren't.”

  “I see.” English translation: I might be doing something you might have to deny. Finally, Busick thought, Thomas Thom is doing something like a real president. “I’ll buzz you when they arrive.”

  “This place is so neat and organized,” the visitor said, with a smile. “Was I that big of a slob?”

  President Thomas Thom watched his visitor with a mixture of apprehension and irritation. They were seated in the President’s study in the private residence in the White House, far from the prying eyes of the media, Congress—and, he hated to admit, some members of his own Cabinet. But now he had this gentleman to contend with. Somehow he had the feeling he was in the process of making a deal with the devil, and he hated the prospect of doing so. “Let’s get down to business, shall we?” President Thom prompted.

  “Whatever you say, Tom,” former president Kevin Martindale responded, casually concluding his distracted little tour of the residence and returning to the seat offered him. Since losing the White House to Thomas Thom in the
last election. Marti ndale seemed much thinner and had let his hair grow longer. It was just as wavy as before, with the “photographer's dream"—the two long curly silver locks that seemed to drop down across his forehead whenever he got mad or excited— still present, but now the rest of his mane was very nearly the same shade of silver. He wore a short, thin, partially gray beard, too.

  “This is a different look for you, isn't it?" Thom asked.

  “I'm not in front of the public every day," Martindale replied. He regarded the President with a half-amused, half-accusing expression. “But then, neither are you."

  “Maybe that’s how you always wanted to look," Thom offered.

  “We’re both kids of the sixties, Tom," Martindale said. “We learned it was okay to be different, to follow whatever our hearts told us instead of what others were telling us."

  “True." It was still a damned unusual look for Kevin Martindale, Thom thought, and it didn't fit his image at all. Martindale was a career politician, and ever since he’d burst on the national political stage almost twenty years before, he’d always looked and acted the part of a savvy, smooth, well- spoken, intelligent insider. “Especially an ex-Marine—four years in the Corps, including two tours in Vietnam. State attorney-general, U.S. senator, secretary of defense briefly, then vice president, private citizen, then president."

  “Then private citizen again," Martindale added. It didn’t impress him at all that Thom knew details about his background—he had been in Washington a long time, and the things he'd done had definitely set a place for him in the history books. “But I guess after all those years of being straightlaced and buttoned-down, it was time for a change.” Thom didn’t say anything right away, so Martindale went on: “Talk about your big-time changes— Rambo to Mr. Rogers, warrior to wallflower? Will the real Thomas Nathaniel Thom please stand up?” His eyes narrowed, and his casual smile vanished. “Why'd you call me here, Thom?”

  “I heard you’ve been doing some recruiting.”

  “Oh?”

  “Present, former, and retired military guys, especially special ops and aviators.”

  “That’s interesting,” Martindale commented. His sources would have advised him if any U.S. or foreign intelligence agencies were checking up on him, and none were. Thom might be guessing—and then again, he might not be. “What else have you heard?”

  “That guys are joining up.” Martindale shrugged and said nothing. “I just wanted to touch base, find out what you’re up to.”

  “Since when, Thom?” Martindale retorted. “Since when did you care about me? Since when did you care about anything or anyone?”

  “Excuse me?” Was he trying to goad him into reacting? Thom thought. How childish can a grown man be?

  “Tradition, respect, legacy, honor—none of that stuff means anything to you,” Martindale went on, “or else you would have attended the inauguration, and you would have stepped up in front of Congress and the American people and talked about your vision of the future of our nation in your first State of the Union.” Thom looked like he was going to say something, but Martindale interrupted him with an upraised hand. “Hey, I’ve heard your reasons before. ‘It’s not in the Constitution.’ Well, the United States and the American people are much more than the Constitution.”

  “I know exactly what our country is, Mr. President,” Thom said. “I know the United States is embodied in the Constitution and our laws. I was elected because I believe that, and the American people believe it, too.”

  “You got elected because me and the Democrats were too busy hammering away at each other to notice you slipping up behind us.”

  “That’s one good reason,” Thom said. “The military questions, especially the attacks on Taiwan, Guam, and the Independence, killed it for you.” Martindale scowled. “Tell me, Mr. President—why didn’t you retaliate?”

  “Against whom?” Martindale asked, perhaps a bit more sharply than he wanted. “China? Everyone said China was the ‘obvious’ attacker. But we still don’t know exactly who planted the nuke on the Indy to this day, only that there were no nuclear weapons on the ship. I had no authority to attack China in retaliation for attacking Taiwan. As far as the attack on Guam— well, I had other players waiting to go to work. They did the job, and I didn’t have to be the first American president since Truman to use nuclear weapons in anger.”

  “ ‘Other players?” Thom repeated. “You mean HAWC and Madcap Magician.”

  “I see you’re familiar with them,” Martindale said. “They’re good troops—at least, they were until you sold them out. Now they’re useless. What was the purpose of telling Sen’kov who they were?”

  “It put Sen’kov off guard, it bought us time, and it allowed our troops to get out safely,” Thom replied.

  “And it shot to hell almost twenty years of weapons development and all future covert-action capability from Dreamland,” Martindale pointed out. “Why? So you can soothe your conscience? So you didn’t have to get into a fight with the Russians? I think you’ve heard this before, Thom, but let me tell you again in case you’ve forgotten: the Russians like to fight. They like to argue, they like to deceive, they like to confront and challenge. And they don’t respect anyone who doesn’t argue, fight, deceive, confront, or challenge in return. I’m sure your national security advisor briefed you on basic historical tactics for dealing with the Russians.” But before Thom could answer, Martindale snapped his fingers and added, “Oh yeah, that’s right—you don't have a national security advisor! What in hell is up with that? You’re surrendering a valuable advisor and critical White House staff organization just to save a few bucks?”

  “Robert Goff is a good man.”

  “He’s the best,” Martindale said. “But his job is to run the Department of Defense, to keep the American military, such as it is, running smoothly. His job is not to help you formulate policy—his job is to carry out your orders. He’s overworked and understaffed, and it’ll hurt your military effectiveness.”

  “My military force structure and my staff of advisors is exactly what I’m supposed to have—no more, no less.”

  “That's true—if you were living in the eighteenth century,” Martindale said. “But you’re actually in the twenty-first century—maybe not mentally, but physically. You understaff the White House and force the Pentagon to do more work, which understaffs them, and all the shit rolls downhill—it screws everybody up. Just because Thomas Jefferson didn't have a national security advisor. Well, I’m sure if he had thought of it, he would've gotten one. Wise up, Thom.”

  “Fortunately, I don't have to justify or explain my budget or staffing strategies to you.”

  “I’m a citizen of the United States, a taxpayer, and a voter, not just your predecessor,” Martindale reminded him sternly. “You sure as hell do have to explain that stuff to me.”

  “Maybe later, then,” Thom said irritably. “Right now, what I want to know is: why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why were you so afraid of using the military?”

  “I wasn’t afraid of jackshit, Thom.”

  “Then why didn't you use the military more often? Conflicts all over the world, nuclear weapons flying, threats to peace and security almost every year—and yet you never once started any massive deployments, never called up the Reserves or Guard. You massed a few carriers, put a few bombers back on nuclear alert, but never made any real attempt to prepare the nation for the possibility of a general war, even though you were clearly authorized and expected to do so. Why?”

  “Read it in my memoirs,” Martindale snapped.

  Thomas Thom spread his hands in a symbol of surrender. “Mr. President... Kevin,” he said. “I really want to know.”

  “Why? Because you’re scared that your precious, righteous philosophy of disengagement and isolationism from world affairs isn’t working?” Martindale shot back, angrier than ever. “That after a year of slamming me during the campaign about my ineptitude over how
I handled crises around the world, you’re discovering that maybe it’s not so easy to do nothing?”

  Thom couldn’t be goaded into firing back. “Because I need to know, Kevin,” he said softly. “I know you didn’t do nothing. But why did you do what you did? Why didn't you just use the immense power we have to solve these crises?"

  Martindale fell silent, then shrugged his shoulders, as if not caring if Thom knew his reasoning or not. “Plain and simple: I hate the idea of losing,” Martindale finally replied. “Spending weeks or even months mobilizing an army, then sending them across the globe to fight and die in a war, just doesn't sound right to me. It sounds like a wasteful, inefficient, risky thing."

  “So if you send in HAWC or Madcap Magician,” Thom summarized, “and they get beat, you think you haven’t lost?”

  “No, I've lost, all right—but I've lost a scrimmage, not the real game.” Martindale explained. “And both those units have been pretty damn good in their scrimmages—sometimes they beat the bad guys so badly that there is no game afterward. In any case, the secret units were fast, efficient, highly motivated, they reported directly to me, and their funding and support were buried in black programs with minimal congressional oversight. That is, until now.”

  “I see," Thom said He looked at Martindale carefully— then, to Martindale’s surprise, he smiled and nodded. “Very well. Thank you for your time, Mr. President.”

  “That’s it? That’s all?” Martindale asked incredulously. “No threats, no warnings, no condemnation?”

  “Of what?”

  “Of—” Then Martindale stopped. He smiled, wagged a finger at Thom, then stood up to leave. “I see. Very clever. You shove me around a bit so I’ll reveal some information, then simply leave me to fend for myself.”

  “I don't know what you're talking about. Kevin,” Thom said. “I just wanted to ask you about some of the aspects of your tenure as president. I think I have a pretty good idea now.”