“And Norcross at least grasps that the situation is desperate, and he’ll act rather than weasel around it,” Weisbrod said. “I see the logic. But Will Norcross still scares me. Do you think he understands that if we do this for him, he owes us a more middle-of-the-road, national-unity sort of administration than he campaigned for?”
“I think that you and the Cabinet should put that question to him directly, in your first meeting with him after President Pendano reassumes office.” Cameron was nodding now, liking the thought more as he considered it. “Yes, extract promises from Norcross that he’s not going to treat this as a mandate for the Christian Right—by all means. Insist that he say it in public, not just to you. Please. Because we need the country to pull together. Now—you’re the guy to talk to Pendano, and you know it—do you think he’ll be okay with it?”
Graham sat still for a long, long moment. “I think it’s what Roger would prefer, if he can be coaxed into it. But we’ve both got to be clear about what the deal is. So, here’s what I think we’re agreeing to: Pendano can never function again as President—but he has the power to eliminate Acting President Shaunsen, and the country needs that. If Will Norcross commits to being a national-unity president for all the country, and leave his religious views to his re-election campaign if he has one, then he’s the best man for the job. Therefore, we are doing this because the country needs a functioning, full-time, national-unity president, right now. Have I forgotten anything?”
“Not a thing,” Cameron said. “Ditto, as some of my colleagues on the right used to say.” He extended a hand and the two men shook. “And I’m glad we’re friends.”
“Ditto,” Graham said. “All right, well, nothing will be improved by delay. I’m going to grab Heather O’Grainne and head over to the White House.”
“Excellent. I don’t think we can count on Shaunsen to give up without a fight, when push comes to shove, and I mean that pretty literally. Bringing a big man, especially military or security, into the White House would look suspicious; Heather’s a good, inoffensive alternative.”
“You know, that may be the first time she’s ever been called that.”
ABOUT AN HOUR LATER. WASHINGTON. DC. 10:00 A.M. EST. WEDNESDAY. NOVEMBER 6.
“All right,” Chris said, opening the morning meeting, “what do we have for prospects for tomorrow’s paper? What’s everyone working on?”
“Got a roundup,” Hayley said. “Hunger riots all up and down the East Coast.”
George Parwin looked up, and added, “Bad news in all the major cities—roundup or bunch of shorties, no details on any of them. According to a ham in New Hampshire, thousands of people died of exposure after walking out of the Boston metro area looking for food, when a freezing rainstorm caught them. Confirmed for sure, two days ago half of Chicago burned because there was no way to put it out—must’ve gone not long after St. Paul, actually. My DoD-intel source let me look at aerial photos of street barricades and armed men splitting the black and white neighborhoods in St. Louis.”
Brown said, “Food story—satellite pictures show that early blizzard might’ve killed a quarter of the cattle in Montana.”
“Okay,” Chris said. “And of course, metro and local, Shaunsen is pledging good government jobs for everybody, and plans to sue to get results thrown out in some states where he lost, because of the ‘unfair advantage’ Norcross—”
“Hey!” The shout was from Don Parmenter, up in the cupola, where they tried to maintain a watch with binoculars. “Troops moving out of Fort McNair and Fort Myer.”
“Where are they going?”
“This way. Too soon to tell otherwise, but they’re definitely not heading out of town.”
“Right,” Chris said. “Okay, everyone, the story ideas sound fine; George, write them up as separate shorties, we can always stick them all back together if we need the space for anything else. Brown, yeah, go with that, on the Montana story. And I better run, because odds are those troops mean something’s going on.” He shouted. “Hey, Don, want to come and see if we can get caught in a battle?”
“You know that’s why I took the job,” Parmenter said, hurrying down the stairs. “Let’s not miss it.”
ABOUT AN HOUR LATER. THE WHITE HOUSE. WASHINGTON. DC. 11:00 A.M. EST. WEDNESDAY. NOVEMBER 6.
The Secret Service ERT at the plywood barrier in front of the White House entrance had his machine pistol wrapped in a plastic garbage bag. He looked exhausted, but smiled when he saw who it was.
“Hey, Dr. Weisbrod. Gonna make the future better?”
“Doing what I can. They only deliver it one day at a time. Heather, Karl; Karl, Heather.”
Heather asked, “Isn’t that garbage bag going to rot like all the other plastic?”
“That’s the idea. When it starts to, I know the gun oil and the bullets are suspect, and I turn it in to the armorer; he tears it down, degreases it, sterilizes all the surfaces, reloads with ammo from sealed boxes, and puts it in another bag. It will work till we run out of sealed boxes, I guess.”
“How soon is that?” Heather asked.
“Everyone I know is scared to ask. Don’t tell me if you find out.” Karl looked the bagged weapon over, apparently seeing no signs of slime, fuzz, melting, or rupture. “Can’t believe how heavy these all-metal-and-wood things are—makes me respect the old-timers from when I first joined.” He turned and waved a distinctive signal to the man inside the doorway. “Just letting him know you don’t have me at gunpoint. Go on through.”
They were passed from guard to guard up to the third floor. The Secret Service smiled at them; the NUG-thugs didn’t.
To Heather, Roger Pendano looked like he’d aged twenty years, developed anorexia, and taken a bad beating that morning, but at least the president’s eyes had a little light and fire in them.
They sat down in the cluster of leather armchairs surrounding a low table, and Pendano launched at once into a rambling monolog about college days that made Heather’s heart sink, especially since he seemed to be drawing on a pad, until he flipped the pad over and showed them:
Been flushing my pills per G’s sugg’n. Depr’n worse ↓↓↓ / feel like self↑↑↑. Playing dead 4 doc. Hate life, want 2 die, BUT und’st’d ↑↑↑. Heard Shaunsen tell doc keep me dosed no matter what, 2 imp’t 2 USA. Who won elec’n?
Heather withdrew a jelly jar from her bag and put on rubber gloves from a sealed bag; she unscrewed the top of the jar and took out a BugSweepR, turned it on, and took a tour of the room while Pendano and Weisbrod talked about how good the tollhouse cookies used to be across the street from campus. Following the “warmer/colder” indicator and the point indicator, she discovered two bugs (under the table and behind the headboard of the bed), a TV remote (behind a bookcase), and an old digital watch (under one couch).
The remote or the watch, of course, could also be a disguised bug, so she put them all in a screw-top metal can half-full of nanospawn crystals, shook them vigorously, and tied the can to the faucet in the bathroom with bare copper wire. A scan with the BugSweepR revealed no signal coming from any of them. She emerged from the bathroom and nodded at the men.
Graham began to explain. “Mr. President, Norcross won; the country is starving, freezing, and burning; and Shaunsen seems to be groping his way into some kind of bass-ackwards coup. The number of impeachable offenses he’s committed this week alone is beyond counting.”