“This is yet another tragic incident, and there is absolutely no excuse for this type of violence on American soil, or anywhere else for that matter. But beating the drums of war is not the answer to this problem—it’s simply the continuation of a disastrous, interventionist foreign policy that helped create the problem in the first place.”
Senator Johnson started to interrupt, but she cut him off.
“Hold on, Senator Johnson. Hold on for a moment, please. You had your time. Now I’d like mine … but allow me to preempt your tired old talking points about ‘blaming America.’ I am not blaming America for anything. The blame for senseless acts of violence sits squarely on the shoulders of the perpetrators. We can all agree on that. But to think our own actions have nothing to do with the threats we face is naïve. Every time we intervene in another country, we create more enemies. Every time a not-so-smart bomb or drone strike kills innocent people, we create more enemies. You have been a United States Senator for more than three decades and have voted for the use of force every chance you’ve had. It’s not working, sir. It’s time to start using our other available tools, not just our hammers. One more thing and then you can have your turn: I have no idea what polls you are referencing. My office is inundated with calls all day long from constituents who are vehemently opposed to military action unless it is absolutely necessary. I hear the same in my travels from coast to coast. Americans are tired of perpetual war and the blowback we never seem to learn from. It needs to stop now. No more.”
“I wish some patriot would shoot this bitch in the head before she gets us all killed,” said the same deep voice behind Mark and Andy.
This time they both recoiled and half-turned their heads to see who was talking. It was the portly man with the Glock. He was close enough that they could smell his thick, boozy breath.
“What? Just sayin’,” he went on, looking back at Andy and Mark, before Lee Carter jumped in.
“William, you’re free to think whatever you want, but don’t say stupid shit like that in my pub. That woman’s been through a lot, and even if she hadn’t I don’t want any talk like that around here. Got it?”
The man reluctantly nodded without taking his eyes off the television.
“Senator Johnson, would you like to respond?” asked the broadcaster.
“Yes, I would. Senator McDermott is a good person and no doubt an inspirational woman. We are all well aware of what she’s been through, and I personally admire her strength and resilience. But those experiences do not give her any special insight into the intricacies of foreign policy, counterterrorism, intelligence gathering, and the way the real world works. And let me be very clear here. I do not like the way the real world works, but we need to see things the way they are, not the way we want them to be. Liberal idealism is a death sentence for the United States as the world’s only superpower. And if we aren’t fulfilling that role, someone else will step in to fill the vacuum, and it won’t be Sweden or Canada. The result will be a much more unstable and dangerous world than the one we have now. There is nothing pretty or clean about war but—”
McDermott saw an opening and jumped in.
“How would you know, Senator? You went from law school straight into politics. It’s the only job you’ve ever had. And this is part of the problem—lawmakers who are quick to start wars they know they won’t have to fight themselves. You’ve got no skin in the game, sir.”
Senator Johnson took a deep breath and exhaled slowly before replying.
“You’re partially correct, Senator. A man of my advanced age has zero chance of finding himself on the battlefield. The closest I get to combat is D.C. traffic. However”—his eyes narrowed and he paused briefly before continuing—“let me remind you that I am the senior United States Senator from the great state of North Carolina, home of numerous military bases including Fort Bragg and Camp Lejeune. These good folks are not just my constituents; they are my brother and sister patriots, dedicated to preserving this republic for all of us. I do not take sending them into harm’s way lightly. I also have a niece who lost a leg and a good chunk of one of her arms on the battlefield in Iraq. That was a war I voted to send her to, and a decision I have to live with every day. I have plenty of skin in the game, and tragedy does not discriminate, Madam. It strikes families on both sides of the aisle.”
“I’m sorry I have to cut this conversation short,” said the broadcaster, “but many thanks to Senators Johnson and McDermott for taking time out of their busy schedules to be with us today. Next up: the growing threat of cyberterrorism. Have terrorists already taken over your computers and smartphones? Be sure to stay right here with us—what you learn may save your life.”
Forty-six
“And we are off the air,” barked the producer.
The bright lights went dark and the crew immediately began adjusting their equipment for the next interview.
“Thank you for your time, Senator McDermott.”
She nodded in his direction as she ripped the lapel microphone from her blouse and dropped it on top of the seat cushion. With her head held high, she strode out the door of the Capitol Building media room and headed down the long, marble corridor toward her office. She ignored the young assistant who was scurrying after her.
“Senator … wait … please. Senator, that was my fault. I should have prepped you.”
No response.
After several turns, they arrived at an office. The plaque on the wall next to the door read, Senator L. McDermott – Connecticut. Someone had drawn a smiley face on a yellow sticky note and placed it next to the plaque. She pulled it off, crumpled it in her hand, and tossed it onto her secretary’s desk as she entered the office.
“The minority leader’s office is on the phone,” announced the secretary.
“I’m not surprised,” answered McDermott as she passed the desk and headed toward her private office.
Once inside, she stood with her arms folded staring out the window. When the door closed she turned to face her chief of staff.
“I’d say that didn’t go very well. What do you think?” she asked sarcastically.
Thirty-year-old Meghan Sullivan bowed her head as she spoke.
“I’m sorry. That was my fault.”
“You fed me the line about skin in the game but you didn’t bother with some pretty basic fact checking.”
“I know. And I’m sorry. I’ll reach out to Johnson’s staff and smooth things over.”
“And what about the rest of the country? How do we smooth things over with the people who just watched me make a complete ass out of myself on national TV?” she asked rhetorically.
Meghan sat down on the only piece of furniture besides the Senator’s desk and chair, a small loveseat tucked into the corner of the tiny office. She removed her bargain-basement pumps and rubbed her aching bare feet into the thick carpet for a few moments before answering.
“Mom, I said I was sorry. It won’t happen again.”
Senator McDermott shook her head and thought out loud as she sat back in the soft leather chair left behind by her predecessor.
“Sure, I’ll run for office. The Senate? Why not? How hard can that be?”
Meghan groaned.
“You’re doing fine, Mom. It’s your assistant who needs work. I feel horrible, but I promise I’ll do whatever damage control I can to keep a mistake from becoming a tragedy.”
Tragedy. McDermott bristled at the word. For more than a decade, rarely had a day passed without her having to hear her name in the same sentence as that word.
“I know you will. And you can start by dealing with the minority leader’s office. If they ask for me personally, tell them I’ve left the country.”
“Will do. But please don’t leave the country without me. You’re all I have.”
When Meghan closed the door behind her, the Senator kicked off her shoes under the desk and reached for the framed picture that sat next to her computer monitor. She and her husband Jack
stood side by side, bookended by their beautiful twin girls.
You would have been so proud of her, Jack. She’s been my rock.
And then the highlight reel started to play again in her head.
She is at home catching up on housework. The girls are at school. The phone rings. It’s Jack. Lots of noise and commotion in the background. A poor connection, but she’s able to make out the words “I love you” and “tell the girls.” The phone goes dead.
She tries unsuccessfully to call him back. She paces until the phone rings again. A panicked friend asks, “Are you watching this?” She turns on the television to see images of the Twin Towers engulfed in flames. People are leaping to their deaths. Jack’s remains are never identified.
Grief turns to frustration and anger. She walks for peace at countless antiwar rallies alongside her two girls, their fingers tightly entwined.
“This is the toughest thing you will ever have to deal with,” her therapist says mistakenly. …
“Are you watching this?” asks a different friend a few years later.
Images of an elementary school on lockdown. A gunman on a mass killing spree. Caroline, a first-year special-needs teacher, is killed while shielding her students. A mother stands over the bullet-riddled body of her daughter.
The only hand left to hold is Meghan’s.
More protests and demonstrations. Antiwar. Gun control. Transparency. A silent activist becomes a nationwide keynote speaker. The speaker becomes a candidate with no chance. Another school shooting two days before the election. The underdog rides into office on a wave of public emotion.
Now what?
Staffing. Budgets. Arcane Senate procedures. D.C. power politics. Whispers behind her back.
“Do you really think someone with no experience or political capital can make a difference inside the beltway?” asks the Sunday morning broadcast journalist.
“Yes. If I can prevent one mother from losing her child in a school shooting—if I can prevent one foreign intervention that preserves American service members’ lives and avoids the inevitable terrorist attacks on American soil that come in response to those interventions—then I will have made a difference. It’s that simple.”
She quickly establishes herself as one of the National Rifle Association’s top public-relations threats. The spotlight intensifies. Jealous peers join in on the endless criticism. Hurtful lies. Sexism. Death threats.
Armies of private detectives and journalists digging for any hint of scandal or impropriety. Meghan’s husband exposed as a philanderer. She is publicly humiliated. They quickly divorce. He leaves her with nothing but his last name.
More death threats. The Democratic Party’s solution? Increased security. Surrounded by men with guns. Hypocrite.
From the other side, it’s standing ovations and endless condolences. Speaking offers. Book deals. All blood money as far as she is concerned. No, thank you.
I don’t want sympathy. I want to save lives.
The Senate Minority Leader rejects her letter of resignation and counters with a coveted seat on the Senate Committee on Armed Services. She accepts.
Jack always said to follow the money. She does, and she finds tens of millions of dollars funneled to classified units with funny names and phony addresses. Organizations with weaponry, operatives, and no oversight. Illegal entities run by criminals. Door after door gets slammed in her face. Stern warnings. Disconnected calls.
“For the love of God, I’m on the fucking Armed Services Committee! Don’t tell me this is need-to-know! Hello? Hello?”
She contemplated reaching for the locked jewelry box in the bottom drawer of the desk and stealing a quick glance at the photo she had kept secret for decades. A knock at the door brought her back to the present. The secretary popped her head around the door.
“It’s time for your security briefing, Senator. Whenever you’re ready.”
McDermott dusted off the frame and returned the picture to its place on the desk.
“Send them in.”
Let’s see who wants to kill me today.
Forty-seven
“Who was the nutjob standing behind us back there?” asked Mark.
Andy slowly maneuvered his jeep past a public works crew and briefly exchanged pleasantries with the two cops on detail.
“I’ll have to introduce you to those two guys sometime. Great guys.”
As he cleared the construction, he sped up and glanced at Mark.
“The idiot behind us at the Witch Hunt was William Lundgren.”
“The village idiot?” asked Mark.
“One of them. People who know him say he’s harmless – all talk. But he scares the shit out of me sometimes. Check out his video blog when you get a chance and you’ll get to hear his unfiltered wisdom on everything from immigration to Islam.”
“I think I’ll pass.”
Andy reached across Mark’s chest and pointed his finger out the passenger’s side window at the freshly mowed open field in the center of town.
“Founders Field. Remember, on July 4th my football players, other students, and I will be celebrating the town’s veterans. I expect you to be there.”
“You have my support, but please don’t ask me to participate. It’s nothing personal, Andy. I just can’t do it.”
“I figured you’d say something like that. What exactly is it that you do anyway?”
Mark took a moment to admire Founders
Field. Groundskeepers were planting fresh flowers while others trimmed branches from the few scattered trees.
“I can’t really talk about it much, Andy. But it’s nothing exciting. A lot of paperwork. Meetings. Typical bullshit like any other job.”
Andy laughed out loud and pounded two beefy hands on the steering wheel.
“My ass it is! You’re good, man. You’re very good at downplaying. I’ll give you that.”
Mark smiled and shook his head.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about. Regardless, it may not matter for very much longer. I might be ready to retire and settle down back here.”
“Interesting. And would Luci play a role in you settling down, Mr. Landry?”
“I hope so. But it’s not easy. She’s really making me work for it and I can’t say I blame her.”
Andy nodded slowly with an ear-to-ear grin.
“She’s worth it, Mark. She’s an extraordinary woman.”
Mark squinted and looked at his friend sideways.
“Dude, it sounds like you might have a little crush on her yourself.”
Andy turned onto Chestnut Lane and let the jeep coast down the hill toward Mark’s house.
“Mark, every man who knows Luci has a crush on her. She’s gorgeous, smart as hell, tough, and genuinely cares about people. Do the work. She’s worth it and I’d love to see you two living happily ever after right here in town.”
Mark unbuckled his seatbelt, hopped out of the jeep, and walked around to the driver’s side.
“I’ll be home watching the Sox game later on if you’d care to join me,” Andy offered.
“Okay. I’ll let you know. I’m not much of a sports fan but I appreciate the offer.”
“So what the hell do you watch? News?”
“No. Magnum,” answered Mark.
“You do know there’s much better shows on these days than Magnum P.I. reruns, right?”
“Let me ask you something, Andy. That idiot back there got me thinking. I’ve seen some of the online comments and threats Luci gets over at the Valley Insider. She doesn’t seem too worried about it, but they are definitely pretty extreme. You know the people in this town better than anyone. What do you make of it?”
“Yeah, it bothers me too, but I wouldn’t put too much stock in anonymous comments. People can be idiots, especially when they feel threatened. The demographics of the town are changing; that’s just the natural evolution of things. You can’t stop it, but it will certainly change the local culture and that sc
ares people. It’s always been that way. Like I said before, none of it’s really new.”
Andy stuck his head out of the jeep and backed out of the driveway as Mark climbed the steps and entered the house through the side door.
Forty-eight
Frank Tagala held the full report of the Russian arms deal in his hands and resisted the urge to scream. Fifteen printed pages of typed content littered with marks from Ashton Brown’s red pen. Fix this. Change that. Check your spelling. Be more specific.
You gotta be fucking kidding me.
He stuffed the report into his bag along with a laptop and headed for the elevator. Classified information was not supposed to leave the office, but if he made the corrections at home he could at least have a cocktail or two at the same time. But first he had to make a quick stop in the basement of the building where evidence is secured until trial.
Might as well add the serial numbers to the report and save Professor Brown some red fucking ink.
When the elevator door opened, he turned right and headed to the door at the end of the hall. He pushed the ringer and, a few seconds later, heard a voice from the small speaker mounted on the side of the door.
“Yes, may I help you?”
“Frank Tagala.”
“Ah, yes. Agent Tagala. May I see your credentials, please?”
Frank held his middle finger up to the tiny surveillance camera embedded in the top of the speaker.
“Thank you very much. You may enter,” said the voice.
The door jamb buzzed and Frank pushed his way into a small room with an additional security checkpoint. A heavy-set man sat at a desk on the other side of a reinforced chain-link fence.
“Good afternoon. May I help you, Agent Tagala?” he asked.
“Just open the fucking door. I’m not in the mood.”
“All right. All right. Hold your water, Frank,” he replied.
The cage door buzzed and Frank approached the desk.
“Bob, I need to see the hardware I brought in a few weeks ago.”
“From Russia with love? No problem. Third aisle. About halfway down on the left.”
Wrong Town: A Mark Landry Novel Page 14
