by Ben Bova
“I am here to determine if we can arrange a truce, a gentleman’s agreement to stop this nonsense. It is doing more harm than good.”
Farthington ran a hand across his nearly bald scalp. “I think we’re agreed on that point.”
Medvedev hunched closer to Jake. “Once these things are set into motion, they can be very difficult to stop.” Glancing at Harmon, he went on, “Military operations can take on a life of their own, you know.”
“Are you saying,” Harmon asked, “that the Russian government would be willing to stop attacking our satellites?”
“It is possible. Not easy, but possible. Of course, you would have to agree to stop attacking our satellites.”
“Our countermeasures are strictly defensive,” Harmon objected. “Your people started this shoot-out.”
Medvedev smiled his somber little smile again. “We are not here to argue about who started the struggle. We are here to see if the struggle can be stopped.”
“Certainly it can,” the general snapped. “Just stop shooting at us.”
Medvedev shook his head. “That’s not an agreement; it’s a surrender. Our military leaders would never accept it.”
“Then what would they accept?” Jake asked.
“An assurance on your part that you will not attack our satellites.”
“And your government would offer a similar assurance to us?”
“Yes. Of course.”
Harmon shook his head. “Reminds me of something the head of the Warner Bros. movie studio once said: ‘An oral agreement isn’t worth the paper it’s written on.’”
Jake broke into a chuckle, then realized that no one else was laughing. He stifled the laugh.
“Let me try to explain,” Medvedev said. “This conflict in orbit is taking place in the deepest secrecy. You have not told your news media about it, not even your Congress. Neither have we, of course. Officially, the conflict does not exist.”
“But satellites are being knocked out of commission,” said Farthington.
“Exactly so,” Medvedev agreed. “The question is, how do we put an end to a conflict that neither side admits to exist? Before it escalates into something more serious.”
Silence descended on the book-lined study.
Until Jake said, “By trusting each other.”
General Harmon shook his head. “That’s a hard one. Trust doesn’t come easily.”
“But it must come,” Medvedev insisted. “If we cannot agree to trust each other, the militarists will take control of the Kremlin. Sooner or later, you will face a growing military confrontation and I will have a bullet in my brain.”
Farthington realized, “You’re taking a considerable risk, talking to us like this.”
“More than you know,” said Medvedev. “That young fellow waiting for me in the car outside might very well be an intelligence agent. Ever since Vladimir Putin died, the Kremlin has been in an uproar. Who will take up the reins of government? Who will be Russia’s new leader?”
Jake realized, “Then this issue of attacking each other’s satellites is only the tip of the iceberg, isn’t it? We’re really talking about establishing trust between our two nations, moving to a healthier relationship.”
Medvedev didn’t reply. But he nodded.
“We were allies once,” General Harmon murmured. “Against the Nazis.”
“That was a long time ago,” said Medvedev.
“It’s what Obama wanted to accomplish,” Jake realized. “A reset of the relationship between us.”
Farthington half whispered, “If we could accomplish that…” His voice faded into silence.
“If we could accomplish that,” Medvedev took up, “we could make the world a safer place. We could confront the terrorists wherever they exist. We could build new trade agreements.” Looking straight at Jake, he added, “We could join you in your movement to develop the frontier of space.”
“If we can trust each other,” Harmon added, almost gruffly.
“If we can trust each other,” Medvedev repeated. “You Americans have a tradition of keeping your military out of politics. Unfortunately, we in Russia must always look over our shoulders to see if our military is dogging our tracks.”
“Wellll,” Harmon said, stretching out the word. “We’re willing to stop if you are.”
“On nothing but our unsecured word?”
The general smiled. “We can do better than that, I think.” And he reached out his hand toward Medvedev.
The Russian stared at General Harmon’s hand for a moment, then grasped it in his own.
“A gentleman’s agreement,” Harmon said.
Medvedev pumped the general’s hand vigorously. “Gentleman’s agreement,” he said, looking genuinely pleased for the first time since Jake entered the room.
Farthington said, “I think it would be a good thing for us to keep this back-channel open. We can meet here whenever you want to.”
“Easier than meeting in Moscow,” Medvedev agreed.
“I’ll bet,” said Harmon.
Getting to his feet, Farthington announced, “This calls for another round of drinks. Grigor, another vodka?”
“Da.”
“Hal, you sticking with Bushmills?”
The general glanced at Medvedev, then said, “Da.”
As he headed toward the bar Farthington asked, “Jake, another club soda for you?”
“I think I’ll switch to Jack Daniel’s.”
“Good!”
Once they were all settled with their fresh drinks, Jake heard himself ask, “Can one of you tell me why you wanted me in on this meeting? I mean, I’m flattered, but international agreements aren’t really in my job description.”
Medvedev actually laughed. “The author of the space plan is so modest?”
Jake felt puzzled. “I don’t understand.”
“Your space plan is the key to the future,” the Russian explained. “It offers us a way to cooperate instead of competing. It gives us the opportunity to move out to the stars.”
“That’s a big step,” Jake objected.
Farthington stepped in with, “Even the longest journey begins with a single step.”
Medvedev hoisted his glass. “To the author of the space plan, the creator of a better future for all of us.”
Jake felt his mouth drop open. And he loved it.
Philadelphia
Jake wanted to tell the world that it was his space plan that gave Medvedev and his cohorts in the Kremlin the courage to try to stop the undeclared war in space.
But he knew he couldn’t say a word about it to anyone, of course. Not even Tami.
She was excited, too, when she phoned Jake the next night. “They’re sending me to Philly! I’m going to cover the convention!”
“We’ll be together!” Jake crowed.
“Yes!”
Excited as a schoolboy, Jake immediately phoned the Downtown Courtyard hotel in Philadelphia and upgraded his room to a studio suite with a king-sized bed. Kevin will growl at the added expense, he thought, but I’ll pay the difference out of my own pocket if I have to.
O’Donnell, Pat Lovett, and just about the entire campaign staff poured into Philadelphia a couple of days before the convention’s official opening. Senator Tomlinson stayed home in DC with Amy, getting some well-earned rest before the mammoth meeting was gaveled to order—and prepping for a speech he was scheduled to deliver at the Brandeis University commencement ceremonies in suburban Boston.
Jake arrived at the hotel early in the afternoon before the convention was to open. As he unpacked he noted the view of the Philadelphia city hall through the suite’s lone window.
Jake straightened up and stared at the dreary, overly ornate edifice. At its center rose a tall elaborately decorated spire, topped by a statue of William Penn, all in drab, depressing gray.
That’s got to be the ugliest building I’ve ever seen, Jake said to himself, shaking his head at the thought that somebody actual
ly designed the building to look that way.
It was grotesque. Yet it was almost hypnotic. Jake tore his gaze away from the city hall and forced himself to finish unpacking. Tami was arriving later in the afternoon and he wanted to be waiting in the terminal for her, with a bunch of flowers to offer her.
The hotel seemed filled with Tomlinson campaign workers. Jake bumped into people he knew—or at least recognized—in the hallway, in the elevator, cramming the hotel lobby down on the main floor.
He mumbled brief hellos as he made his way toward the front entrance and the line of taxicabs waiting there.
He was ten minutes early for Tami’s flight, which gave him just enough time to select a bouquet of roses from the flower shop in the terminal, and then hurry to the area where Tami’s flight was discharging its passengers.
And there she was! A tiny figure, almost hidden by a gangling family wearing sashes and buttons, all proclaiming SEBASTIAN! Slim, dressed in a no-nonsense checkered hip-length blouse over tan jeans, Tami was towing her roll-along suitcase and had a sizeable tote bag slung over one shoulder. She was deep in conversation with a much bigger guy dressed in a Tomlinson T-shirt and baggy blue jeans.
And then she saw Jake. Tami raced toward him, the roll-along bouncing behind her. She dropped the suitcase and flung both her arms around his neck. They kissed mightily as the other passengers streamed around them, grinning appreciatively.
Once they disengaged Jake handed her the roses and breathed, “Hello, honey.”
He saw tears in her eyes. “Hello, Jake,” Tami said.
She introduced the guy she’d been talking to, her cameraman, while Jake picked up the roll-along she’d dropped. By the time they reached the terminal’s entrance Jake had forgotten the fellow’s name. There was a long line waiting for cabs but Jake and Tami weren’t bothered, they talked nonstop until at last the taxi supervisor yelled at them, “Here’s your cab, lovebirds!”
Jake and the cameraman stowed the luggage in the trunk while the taxi driver sat behind his wheel with his meter already chugging away. The cameraman got into the front seat, Jake and Tami sat together in the rear and off they went to the Downtown Courtyard hotel.
* * *
“A suite!” Tami gushed as Jake led her through the front door. He was so excited that he thought about lifting her off her feet and carrying her in, but decided that might be too much.
Tami took in the suite’s appointments with a swift glance, dropped her shoulder bag on a chair, and placed the bouquet of roses tenderly on the table next to it. She moved into the bedroom and immediately spotted the city hall standing grimly outside the window.
“Wow,” she said. “That’s—”
Jake spun her around and clasped her again in both his arms. “I missed you,” he told her, needlessly.
“I missed you,” Tami said.
They also missed dinner later that evening.
* * *
The next morning they went down to the lobby restaurant for a big breakfast.
“The convention’s deadlocked,” Tami said cheerfully, between bites of her butter-and-syrup-slathered waffle. “Sebastian’s ahead, but he doesn’t have enough votes for a first-ballot victory.”
Jake nodded. “Pat Lovett’s out trying to rustle up every vote that he can find. The uncommitted delegates are lining up to see what we’re offering them.”
“Same with Sebastian,” Tami said, reaching for her coffee.
And Jake thought, The trouble is that we can’t say a word about the deal with Medvedev. A public revelation would kill the deal. And maybe kill Medvedev too.
“I’ve got to go check in at the news media center,” Tami said, “before the opening ceremony. Don’t know when we’ll be finished.”
Tapping his jacket pocket, Jake said, “I’ve got my cell phone. Just give me a buzz.”
Her smile lit the restaurant. “Every hour on the hour,” she said. Then she added, “If I can.”
“Pat wants me to circulate among the delegates on the floor, talk to them about the space plan, how it’ll boost employment and all.”
“I thought that kind of talk went on in smoke-filled back rooms.”
With a smile and a shake of his head, Jake countered, “Most of the rooms around here are non-smoking.”
“But you still use them for twisting arms.”
Pretending shock, Jake said, “We don’t twist arms! We tell people the truth and let them see the sense of what we’re saying.”
“So does Sebastian.”
Going serious, Jake said, “No. His people are the ones twisting arms. He’s calling in every favor he’s given since he first arrived in the Senate.”
Tami looked decidedly unconvinced. Then, switching topics, she looked out across the crowded restaurant. “Have you noticed how many call girls are working the hotel?”
“Call girls? No.”
“Come on, Jake. You’re not a corpse. The place is swarming with hookers.”
“I only have eyes for you.”
Tami’s expression went from dubious to appreciative. “Me too,” she said, so low that Jake barely caught it.
But the spell lasted only a moment. Their waitress hurried by and dropped their check on the table.
Jake grabbed it. “This one’s on the Tomlinson campaign.”
“I’ve got an expense account too,” Tami complained. Mildly.
Jake couldn’t suppress his grin. “We’ll talk about that tonight.”
Deadlocked
After a day of settling procedural details, the conventioneers went out on the town. Philadelphia was not known for its nightlife, but a couple of thousand convention delegates went seeking entertainment and found it. Easily.
The next morning, despite hangovers and grossly exaggerated tales of romantic encounters, the delegates got down to the serious business of nominating candidates for the presidency.
Several dark horses were named, more to put them in a position to bargain with the eventual winner than as serious contenders.
Senator Tomlinson was nominated by aged warhorse Senator Zucco, who stressed the new beginnings that the Tomlinson space plan offered the nation, and the world. (And New Mexico, of course.)
As soon as Zucco finally mentioned Tomlinson’s name, Lovett’s people exploded in a frenzy of marching bands and high-stepping cheerleaders. Watching from Tomlinson’s suite in the Loews Hotel, Jake half expected to see Amy out there strutting with them. The auditorium rocked with noise as carloads of glittering confetti descended from the ceiling.
Jake was impressed with Lovett’s choreography. Across the room the senator grinned at the display, then turned to his wife and wisecracked, “Somebody down there likes me.”
Senator Sebastian was the final nominee, and the celebration for him was even bigger, with drone aircraft flitting through the auditorium dropping SEBASTIAN FOR PRESIDENT souvenirs onto the yelling, laughing, celebrating delegates.
Standing next to Tomlinson, Pat Lovett watched the festivities with unalloyed admiration. “Drones,” he muttered. “We should’ve thought of that.”
* * *
With a handful of campaign insiders, Jake watched Tomlinson’s evening speech on the Brandeis campus from the campaign headquarters suite in Philadelphia’s Loews Hotel.
The senator spoke in a large tent that had been erected on the school’s grassy campus. The tent was packed with university bigwigs and parents of the graduates, all listening to Tomlinson’s vision of what the future could hold. Despite the evening’s muggy heat, he soon had his audience spellbound.
The senator started by delineating the difference between the rule of law and mob law. “In our ongoing struggle against terrorism,” he said, “we mustn’t descend into the same tactics that the terrorists use: if we drag people out onto the street and kill them because of their names or their beards or the color of their skins, we’re no better than they are.
“America has been built on the fundamental freedoms that are based on
the bedrock of the rule of law. We assume that you have to prove that a man is guilty before you punish him. We assume that the rule of law is what stands between us and the terror of the mob.”
Then the senator’s speech shifted to the space plan, with its bright promise of developing the frontier overhead.
Stretching his right arm in the general direction of the nearby Atlantic Ocean, Tomlinson said, “The sea was once a barrier to the Europeans, a wall that fenced in their hopes to expand civilization, to grow and prosper. Their dreams ended at the water’s edge. But they learned to build ships that traversed the sea, and transformed the ocean from a barrier into a highway. Civilization grew and expanded. People built new worlds, governed by freedom and the prosperity that only free men and women can create.
“Today we look up and see the barrier of outer space, a vast and seemingly unpassable wall that prevents us from expanding civilization anew. But we have learned to build craft that can traverse that barrier and turn it into a highway that leads to new wealth, new opportunity, new civilizations.
“A new age awaits us out in space. This generation of Americans can lead the world to a new era of peace and prosperity for all the peoples of Earth.”
As one person, the crowd rose to its feet and mightily applauded the new vision.
Sitting in the Loews Hotel suite, Jake felt his eyes misting at the dream Senator Tomlinson was promising.
* * *
As expected, the first ballot failed to produce a winner in Philadelphia. Sebastian was a mere twenty-eight votes short, but Tomlinson’s strong showing forced a second ballot.
And maybe a third, Jake thought as he watched the proceedings from Tomlinson’s suite. And a fourth.
It’s going to be a long convention, he realized.
Oratory flowed from the speaker’s platform like lava pouring from a volcano. Down on the convention floor deals were proposed, discussed, made and unmade. The delegates voted again, and again Sebastian came close to victory, but could not clinch it.
Despite Lovett’s wishes, Jake avoided the convention center as much as he could. Too crowded, too noisy, too steamy with politicians great and small eagerly pushing their own agendas, their own state’s favorite programs, their own egos.
