“But I gather that you’re not just going to settle into the life of a chef.”
“No, sir, I’m not.” The tone changed. “A few moments ago I spoke about the leadership I served under. How solid it was. How secure as a nation we were. Well, I can’t say I feel the same way now. I think your listeners would agree. I love my life in Tyler, but even that is at risk. Maybe not today or tomorrow. But day-by-day, life gets more precarious. So I have set a course that Cervantes spoke of when he wrote, ‘The brave man carves out his fortune, and every man is the son of his own works.’”
“So, as a civilian, you are taking a stand?”
“I must, Mr. Strong. For to do nothing now would be tantamount to opening the door to ultimate disaster. And you have kindly afforded me generous airtime to address my concerns on national radio. After tonight, I’ll take it further.”
“Further?” Strong asked.
“To where the problem resides.”
“Which is?”
“Our nation’s capitol. Tomorrow at 4 P.M., I will hold a press conference in Washington, D.C., at the base of the Marine Corps War Memorial to the Armed Forces at Iwo Jima.”
“Why the Iwo Jima memorial?”
“Because I feel I can speak for the fighting men who have laid down their lives in the name of our great country. The memorial is a lasting symbol of a nation’s gratitude for the honored dead. Certainly, it depicts World War II Marines in one of the most famous battles of the Pacific Theater. But it also represents the dedication of all service men and women who, since 1775, have given their lives in defense of the United States of America.
“You’ll be giving us an indication of what you’ll be talking about tomorrow, General?”
“Well, I can’t think of a better place to reach true Americans than through your program, Mr. Strong.”
“Please, it’s Elliott.”
“Elliott,” the general replied.
“Before we get to specifics, a few questions if you will,” Strong asked.
“Of course, my pleasure.”
“You’ve suggested that America is not on a course that you can embrace. Is it the leadership in Washington, the politics, or the nature of things that worry you?”
“That’s actually a very complex question, Elliott. I think the people are on the right course, with the moral values that matter — the values that define what it is to be an American: to be the center of the free world. To be free. To have the right to life and liberty.
“The majority with the moral compass have no trouble finding their way. But for many of our elected officials, it is a different matter. They are plugged into high-voltage power in Washington. They extend their hands out to us, but ask us to step into the rain. As you know, it’s a deadly combination.”
“Do you take issue with Lamden-Taylor?”
“On every count.”
“And do you question the legitimacy of Morgan Taylor’s ascension to the presidency?”
“I do.”
“Can you elaborate, General?”
Bridgeman did not miss a beat. “Yes, I can.”
The dialogue was proceeding exactly as rehearsed. Strong covered the points in order. He provided a friendly, non-confrontational environment for the general to express his views. The conversation was drawn out to maximize the impact, but it never detoured from the established outline. Bridgeman’s job tonight was to create water-cooler conversation for tomorrow. The goal was to leave the listeners with a sense of confidence through short, clear answers. They would be measured by a serious delivery. General Robert Woodley Bridgeman was already accomplishing both.
“Morgan Taylor has to go.”
“Your gal Friday from the Pentagon sent over some stuff. She’s a lot nicer to deal with than you, Roarke.”
“And a bit more dangerous,” the Secret Service agent told Touch Parsons over the phone.
“But she sounds so nice.”
“Army Intel. She’ll suck the eyes right out of your head. She knows more things about you than your mommy. And what she doesn’t know, she’ll find out one way or another.”
“Well, turnaround’s fair play. You see, I’ve done a little checking up on the good Captain Walker, too. Thirty-five. Good-looking. Career field officer until she became a desk jockey and a computer junkie. Maybe you could fix us up.”
“Oh, Walker will love knowing that you’ve spied on her. News like that will get you real far. Broken collarbone, smashed kneecaps. You’ll be lucky if your balls are still attached when she’s through with you.”
“Yah, then why did she check me out on the agency website?”
“You hacked into a DOD computer?”
“Due diligence, Agent Roarke.”
“Why?”
“Because I can. So why don’t you play matchmaker and let me take my chances? I haven’t had a date in two years. It’s the least you can do since you fucked up the rest of my life with your half-baked ideas.”
Roarke was actually amused by Parson’s schoolboy hots for Penny Walker. As far as he knew, she hadn’t been serious with anyone for a long time. He thought about it for a moment. They just might hit it off.
“What will you give me?” Roarke asked.
“What do you mean?”
“What will you give me?”
“I don’t understand.”
Roarke’s voice grew serious. “I want Depp.”
Parsons, noting the change in tone, responded in kind. “I’m doing the best I can.”
“Then plan on working late over some java as soon as I get back to D.C.”
Paul Erskine could make a mean cup of coffee. He’d worked at Starbucks in Rapid City, Tulsa, and San Francisco. This particular Starbucks in Boston’s financial district suddenly had an opening. One barista on the early shift didn’t show up the very morning Erskine applied. “So, if you’re good and you can handle the 5:30 A.M. shift, the job is yours,” the manager told him.
“Put me on. See for yourself. I think you’ll be happy,” Erskine proposed. His Southern accent made him all the more friendly.
The manager took Paul up on the offer. Erskine delivered the speediest, friendliest, most organized effort the manager ever saw.
“If you need references…” Erskine said after the demonstration.
“No, you’ve got the job! You can start in the morning.”
“Well, bless your heart. Thank you. I appreciate it.”
The manager was quite happy to have someone he didn’t have to train, someone with some maturity. Erskine was in his 30s and obviously something of a wanderer. He wore a nicely pressed white shirt, fairly new blue jeans, a bead necklace, and two of the yellow rubber bracelets that signified support for cancer patients. His long brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail and large aviator glasses framed his face. He had a five-day stubble that completed his bohemian look. The manager noticed that he didn’t have a wedding ring, a signal that Erskine was probably one of the typical coffee hobos who explored America by taking jobs at coffee grinders.
The most important thing was that he’d worked in Starbucks before and he knew the drill. That counted immediately. Erskine had proficiency, that was certain. And he had speed. The added bonus was his personality. Just right for the morning crowd. The earliest commuters started crowding his doors at 5:45. The biggest crunch was between 7:45 in the morning and 8:30. Erskine was a godsend.
“What’s your phone number?”
Erskine recited it. “But you won’t ever need it. I’ll be here on time.”
The manager laughed. “Just in case we need you for a second shift.”