“That’s what I thought, too.” Stan looked up and he told McGraw what he’d discovered.
Afterward, McGraw said, “I had nothing to do with any of that. I had no idea.”
Stan wanted to believe him but— “You’ve taken over, Tom. You did exactly as you told me you’d do.”
“No. The President had a heart attack. It took all of us by surprise.”
“And after all this time, the President isn’t better yet?” Stan asked.
“I know what you’re implying—”
“Don’t tell me I’m wrong. It’s clear what happened. You and Harold have taken over.”
“Chairman Alan is also part of the triad. Who else could have done as we have these past months? We’re finally winning the war.”
Stan studied McGraw. “Why are you bothering to talk to me now? I don’t get it.”
“I want to know if you were really going to shoot me.”
“I was thinking about it. I even had the derringer in my hand, planning how I’d do it. They have my son, Tom, my son! The bastards went into a hospital and hauled out a sick man. They must know he didn’t murder that sergeant—that man was the real traitor.”
“So you were going to shoot me? Why?”
“I told you six months ago what I would do if they took my son. Well, they have. Is he dead or alive? If he’s alive, I want him back.”
“Damnit, Higgins, I can’t trust a man who thinks about killing me.”
“Can I trust you?”
“What kind of question is that?” McGraw asked. “Whatever I do, I do for my country.”
“Is that the lie you tell yourself every morning?”
Anger flashed across McGraw’s features. He’d gained weight since taking over and his face had become puffier. “How can you expect my help if I know you plan to kill me?”
“Listen to me, Tom. I’m a loyal man: God first, family second and my country third. You can trust me because I do exactly what I say I’m going to do. Help me get my son back, and you won’t have a more loyal man.”
“And if I don’t?”
Stan stared at McGraw. He could see the belligerence on the general’s face, the surprise and hurt as well. Stan hadn’t expected that. “I’ll tell you what you can do. Aim me at Harold and I’ll kill him for you.”
“Treason,” McGraw said in a clipped voice.
Stan laughed bleakly. “Don’t you understand what kind of situation you’re in? You’ve staged a coup, or at least you personally allowed one to take place. Maybe it was fortuitous that Sims had his heart attack. I don’t know. Heck, maybe he still is sick. I’m telling you that you’re in a very dangerous situation. Triumvirates don’t last. One man becomes more powerful than the other two. I’ve been watching the news. Harold wields the real power. You’re a figurehead, and Alan supplies the muscle. The people love you, just as they loved Marc Anthony once. Harold is more like Octavian, who became Caesar Augustus. Harold is already outmaneuvering you.”
“We’ve had our arguments,” McGraw said. “I won’t deny that.”
“Who won the arguments?”
“We went his way most of the time…”
“There you are,” Stan said.
“No. We’re winning this war. We’ve driven the Chinese out of America, or almost out. We have plans now for a coming Burma offensive.”
“I thought it might be something like that. The Indians are going to make a move, eh?”
“I’m supposed to be gathering an American Expeditionary Force.”
“Interesting,” Stan said. He thought about it before shaking his head. “Look, Tom, about Jake, if anyone deserved better, it’s my boy. He’s fought in some tough spots: Denver, Buffalo and he survived the nuclear assault.”
“Are you absolutely sure about your information?”
“I spoke to the doctor the Homeland Security people threatened. The doc didn’t realize it, but I recorded our conversation, just in case I ever need it as evidence.”
“That’s against the law,” McGraw said.
“Oh, that’s rich. You’re very law abiding, you and Harold, aren’t you?”
McGraw’s face turned crimson.
“At least you can still blush about it,” Stan said. “I doubt Harold can.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re too prissy for your own good?”
“I know,” Stan said. “You’re going to tell me how you’re a realist, a man of the world. Let me tell you something. Once we throw away our principles, there’s no telling where it stops.”
“Do you want my help or not?”
Stan looked into McGraw’s eyes. He didn’t know what the general was thinking, but… “I want your help,” Stan said.
“For doing this, there might be something I’ll ask of you in return.”
“What’s that?” Stan asked.
“If I free your boy, you’ll owe me one.”
“I would,” Stan said.
“And if that meant going to Burma…?”
“I’d go even if you weren’t bargaining for my son.”
McGraw slid off the desk, and he began to pace. “I’m due in Washington in a few days. I’ll mention your son to Harold.”
“You might need to be firm. Jake isn’t going to last—”
“I know how to make my arguments,” McGraw said, with bite to his words. He paused, fingering his chin. He clipped his fingernails far too closely.
Why haven’t I ever noticed that before? Stan asked himself.
“What you need to do,” McGraw said, “is to start looking for a replacement in your regiment.”
“No Behemoths in Burma?”
“Three-hundred-ton tanks? How would we get them there?” asked McGraw.
“Hmm, right,” Stan said. “They’re better used here, seeing we’re still in short supply of them. If the Chinese make a sudden surge out of Mexico—if the South Americans suddenly grow a new pair—”
“Just do as I ask, and be prepared to leave for a secret training base. We have to surprise the Chinese.”
“I don’t know if we’ll do that, but sure, I’ll do as you ask. Don’t let them keep Jake, Tom. If they do, I won’t be any good to you.”
“Is that a threat?” McGraw asked.
“No, sir. Just a fact.”
McGraw nodded, and the meeting was over.
Director Max Harold sat in the oval office in the White House. He reclined behind the President’s desk with an old ballpoint pen in his hand. He kept clicking it as he scanned a tablet. He liked keeping his fingers busy as he read. It helped relax him, and he’d read somewhere that it helped keep the blood flowing better.
On his desk, an intercom buzzed.
“Yes?” Harold asked, without looking up.
“General Williamson is here to see you, sir.”
“Ah, good,” Harold said. “Send him in.” The director clicked his pen a few more times, finishing the report. Then he pocketed the pen and set the tablet on the desk.
The door opened shortly, and tall Militia General Williamson marched in. He wore Himmler-style glasses over pinched features. The man was a stickler for protocol, and dedicated to the new regime. He had another quality Harold admired: a high capacity for toil.
That was one of Harold’s secrets to success: plain hard work. “I hope you’ve had a pleasant journey,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” Williamson replied, as he stood at attention.
“Please, sit down.”
“Thank you, sir,” Williamson said, taking the nearest chair.
Harold liked to keep things formal, so he remained seated behind the President’s desk. He realized he played a risky game taking over like this. In essence, he’d become a dictator. Long ago in school, he’d read about Cincinnatus the Roman patriot. In ancient times, the Romans had needed a dictator. They came to Cincinnatus as he plowed his field. He took up the sword and he led his countrymen to victory. After the war, he returned to his farm and his plow, giving up supreme power as easily as he’d taken it.