Turner drummed her fingers on her desk. The meeting was about over. “I want results. We are not going to be caught with our options down. Mazie, open up a back channel to Robert and stay on top of the situation.” She looked around the room. “Anything else?” Head shakes answered her and the meeting was over.
As usual, Parrish stayed behind to confirm the next day’s schedule. “I think Robert understands what I want,” she said.
“He does,” Parrish assured her. “Did you see how he came alive? He’s an old warhorse. Sound the bugle and he charges. But I’m worried that he might overstep his bounds. That could cause problems with Leland.”
“Not to worry,” Turner said. “Robert has a wonderful sense of presence.” Her personal assistant came through the door. “Ah, Dennis. We’re about finished here.” It was a gentle reprimand that he was late.
“My apologies, Ma’am,” Dennis said. “I was talking to the Secret Service. They’re wondering if Brian is coming home.”
Turner sank into her chair. “No. I want him to stay at least until the end of the semester unless there are other problems.”
“His roommate is having some problems with a First Classman.”
“Why?” Turner asked.
“The lead agent isn’t sure. But apparently it’s resolved now.”
“Did the Secret Service tell General McMasters?”
“No. Per your instructions they only go to the superintendent if it concerns Brian. Otherwise, they go with the flow and don’t interfere. The agent has good words about the place and is going to enroll his daughter.”
“That’s quite a recommendation,” Turner said, feeling better about her decision to keep Brian at NMMI. “See if he can find out exactly what the problem was.” She thought for a moment. “What’s the schedule for Maura and Sarah?” Dennis rattled off times and arrangements from memory. “I wish I could go,” Turner said. “I wanted to pin on his cadet boards.”
SEVEN
The motorcade moved with majestic dignity through the heart of the city. Inside the president’s limousine, Turner’s advisor on domestic affairs kept up a running commentary on what she was seeing. It was urban renewal on a scale not attempted in fifty years and the rusting city had undergone a turnaround, coming alive with promise and hope. The advisor assured her it was only the beginning and much remained to be done. But by attending the dedication ceremony that launched the second, and most critical, phase of the program, the president was ensuring the support the city needed.
“And it melds perfectly with your address in Chicago to the National Association of Investment Bankers,” Richard Parrish, added.
Turner suppressed a twinge of regret. She would have preferred being at NMMI with her family. She focused on a large block of dilapidated buildings. A cyclone fence with razor wire on top surrounded the burnt-out, rat-infested complex. It was an eyesore of monumental proportions. “Who does that belong to?” she asked.
The domestic affairs advisor checked his notes. “Here it is. At one time, the Army. But now, HUD.”
“So it’s ours,” she replied. She pointed at a group of young men clustered around an opening in the fence. “Are those drug dealers?”
“We wouldn’t be driving by if they were,” the advisor answered. “Drug dealing is high tech now, call and deliver, strictly out of sight. They’re most likely gang members who can’t handle the technology and are unemployable, even as criminals. At best, they might be part-time runners.”
Turner said firmly, “Richard, I want something done about this.”
“I’ll check into it, Madame President.” No one in the limousine made a note or seemed overly concerned.
Turner spoke in a low voice, her words even and without emotion. “I want action on this. Fortunately, I know how bureaucracies work. They nod their heads in agreement, put it on the bottom of the pile, and hope I’ll forget about it. That’s not going to happen here. I want a memo on my desk by close of business Tuesday outlining what we are going to do, when we are going to do it, and who is in charge. If that memo is not on my desk, or if it’s bureaucratic hooey, I want the two highest-ranking GS-17s who are responsible for those buildings in my office Wednesday morning. And I assure you, it will not be a pleasant meeting.”
She picked up the phone next to her and spoke to Dennis in the front seat. In a few crisp sentences, she summarized what she had said. Dennis would not carry out her directions, but he would ensure they were not forgotten. The domestic-affairs advisor keyed the phone on his side of the car. He chuckled to himself. A lot of bureaucrats were going to wish Madeline Turner had gone to New Mexico instead of Detroit.
Matt Pontowski walked around Little Matt’s room and smiled. The bunks were inspection tight, the lockers in perfect order, and the floor spotless for Parents Weekend. “Just like when I was at the academy,” he said. He examined his son’s desk. A framed photo of him and Little Matt in front of their T-34 stood between the telephone and computer monitor. “You really like it here?”
“Yeah, I guess so.” Little Matt shifted uneasily from foot to foot. He looked good in his uniform and was proud of his new shoulder boards that Pontowski had pinned on after the parade, but something was bothering him. “Dad, I want to go to the Zoo like you did.” The Zoo was the Air Force Academy at Colorado Springs. “I want to fly fighters.”
“Just like your great-grandfather and grandfather,” Pontowski said. Conflicting emotions tied his stomach in a tight knot. Pontowski’s father, Matthew Zachary Pontowski II, had been killed in Vietnam flying F-4 Phantoms. Did he want his son to be the fourth in the long line of Pontowskis whose destiny was tied to the profession of arms as practiced by men who fought and died in fighter aircraft? Little Matt was a sweet kid, small for his age, and uncoordinated, not the stuff of fighter pilots. Yet, he wanted to hug his son for wanting to carry on the family tradition. “Well, son. You’ve got lots of time to think about it.”
“Think about what?” Brian asked from the doorway. Like Little Matt, he was wearing his new shoulder boards that had been awarded after that morning’s parade. His sister Sarah and Maura O’Keith were standing behind him.
“Nothin’,” Little Matt muttered.
Sarah bounced into the room and climbed the ladder onto Little Matt’s bunk above his desk. “Hey, Chubs,” Brian said, “stay off Maggot’s bunk. He’ll get stuck with two demerits. That’s two hours of walking tours.”
“It’s okay,” Little Matt said. Sarah smiled at him.
Maura and Pontowski exchanged greetings and the customary pleasantries about the activities flowing around Family Weekend. There had been a major change in the afternoon’s activities because the visiting football team from Hobbs had to cancel at the last moment. Sarah sat on the edge of Little Matt’s bunk, her feet swinging back and forth as she watched Brian shift his weight from one foot to the other. He was obviously uncomfortable and bored with the weekend. “Well,” Maura said, “what’s next on the agenda?”
“There’s an intramural soccer game instead of football,” Little Matt said. “It starts in ten minutes. Zeth, she’s our squad leader, is playing. She’s really something, the only girl on the regular team.” Sarah climbed down off the bunk and Little Matt quickly brought it back to inspection standard. “It doesn’t take long to do this,” he told her. “Zeth taught us how.”
With the room in inspection order, they headed for Stapp Parade Field where temporary goals had been set up for the game. Pontowski was surprised when Sarah slipped her hand inside his as they walked. “Did you fly down in your airplane like last time?” she asked. He nodded an answer. “Can I go for a ride?”