Jack Hays kept Charlie talking for another fifteen minutes, looked at his watch, and knew he had to come to a decision.
The governor looked Charlie Swim in the eye. “The legislature will never pass most of these things, and right now you and I lack the political capital to even push them hard. My suggestion is that you pick the most important thing on the list and push just that. For example, education reform. We need a public education system that trains people for the jobs we have and are going to see in the foreseeable future. That we can sell, maybe.”
“We need that and a lot more.”
“We can’t change the world in a week, a month, or even a year. We have to convince the voters we are advocating needed change. If you draft education reform as a war measure and tell every delegate and senator I’m for it, and shepherd it through, I’ll sign it if they don’t committee it to death or amend it beyond recognition. Tell them Texas can’t afford to waste valuable education dollars. Right now we need every able-bodied Texan without a job to enlist in the National Guard. But when our future is secure, we need an educational system in place that will prepare people for good jobs, veterans, high school kids, everyone.”
Swim jumped out of his chair and shook the governor’s hand. “Thanks, Jack.”
“Thank me after I sign it. Now go get at it.”
At ten that night the war began in earnest. Two cruise missiles smashed into one of the main power plants in the Houston area, leaving a section of the city without electrical power. No doubt similar strikes would soon be forthcoming for power generation facilities all over Texas. Hospitals and key public institutions had to have emergency generating facilities up and running as soon as possible and be prepared to handle mass casualties. The director of emergency preparedness, Billy Rob Smith, left the governor’s office on the run in company with Lieutenant Governor Bullet G. Fitzroy. Jack Hays had already loaded Fitzroy with more tasks than the man could conceivably handle, but Fitzroy had a background as an executive at a large conglomerate and knew how to prioritize, delegate, and supervise.
Ben Steiner remarked to Jack Hays that they would soon find out what Texans were made of.
Sluggo Sweatt, the president’s man, sent for Jake Grafton, and within a few minutes he was escorted into the office where he had been interrogated. Grafton, like all the prisoners, was now clad in a red one-piece jumpsuit. That morning all the prisoners had been lined up, required to take off their civilian clothes, and issued jumpsuits. It wasn’t that the authorities thought any of them could escape; the jumpsuits were designed to lower their morale and emphasize their status as prisoners.
Sweatt addressed him. “Mr. Grafton — you notice that I don’t call you Director Grafton or Admiral Grafton, because you are no longer entitled to either honorific — are you ready to talk sense and sign a confession?”
“No,” Jake Grafton said and dropped into a chair.
“Stand up when I talk to you,” Sweatt said sharply. Jake did so.
“Your wife, Callie, and daughter, Amy — have you heard from them?”
“Yes.”
“Your cell phone, please.” Sluggo held out his hand.
Jake removed it from the pocket of his jumpsuit and passed it across. Sluggo played with it a moment. He called up the numbers and jotted them down.
Allowing detainees, or prisoners, to retain their cell phones was counterintuitive, but Sluggo and his friends knew precisely what they were doing. Prisoners could make and receive calls from their friends, or anyone else. The prisoners would tell their sad tales and fear would spread like a hothouse fungus. Friends on the outside would soon cease to reach out to the prisoners, who would quickly become psychologically isolated.
Finally Sluggo slid the phone back across the desk. Jake didn’t reach for it.
“Three more people have confessed their roles in the plot to kill the president and take over the government. They implicated you. Swore that you knew, that they had discussed key items of the plan with you on several occasions.”
The assassination of the president was a new wrinkle on the coup, Grafton noted sourly. When he said nothing, Sweatt added, “The prosecutors are thinking of asking for the death penalty for you.”
Still no response.
Sluggo Sweatt sighed. “Well, I’ve done all I can for you. I’ve told you the situation. You need to go back to your tent and think about your future. A confession would keep you alive.”
Jake stood totally relaxed.
“Take the phone.”
Jake pocketed it, and Sweatt nodded to the man behind Grafton, who took his arm and led him out.
He thought that the next time they brought him in the rough stuff would start, physical abuse, and threats against his family.
Jake Grafton knew that most men can be broken if the captors have the time to create enough pain. He didn’t know if he was one of those rare men who could summon the inner strength to resist to the death, but he hoped — make that prayed — he was. Many years ago when he flew combat missions over enemy country in constant danger of being shot down, he had made up his mind to never surrender. Ever. Sluggo might make him prove it.
As he walked through the compound, he wondered what Sluggo Sweatt knew about the shenanigans at the White House.
The compound was crowded now. Jake estimated there were about two thousand people milling around. He recognized at least three congressmen and two senators. And then he saw someone whose face he knew welclass="underline" Sal Molina, the president’s right-hand political op. Now, apparently, his former political op. Wearing a red jumpsuit.
“Well, well, well,” Grafton said as Molina recognized him. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Molina turned his back on Grafton, who grabbed an arm and spun him around. That was when he realized tears were leaking from Molina’s eyes.
“Did the hard-liners throw you out of the inner sanctum?” Grafton asked roughly. “Or did you just decide you needed a summer vacation courtesy of the taxpayers?”
Molina’s Adam’s apple went up and down a few times. “Texas insulted Soetoro with their Declaration of Independence. He took it real personal. Since I’m from Texas and have relatives there, he decided he didn’t want me around.”
“Can’t say that I blame him.”
“I tried to warn you, Jake.”
“So you did.”
After they had eaten dinner, some kind of stew with a little hamburger in it, Jake Grafton, Sal Molina, and Jack Yocke, the Washington Post’s erstwhile columnist, settled under Grafton’s favorite tree. The ground was damp from a morning shower, but they could talk in semi-privacy here, something they couldn’t do elsewhere, not even in the latrine, which consisted of rows of commodes with no stalls.
Yocke rattled off the latest news, gleaned from his cell phone; Grafton and Molina made few comments. Then Yocke asked Sal Molina point-blank, “So what’s the big plan over at the White House? I’ll bet they almost creamed their pants when the Saturday terrorists went hog wild.”
“I don’t know,” Molina replied.
“You lying bastard. They’ve been planning martial law for years. Some people have even suggested Soetoro’s boys gave the terrorists the weapons.”
“That isn’t true.”
“But Schanck and Al Grantham jumped all over it, didn’t they?”
“Is this off the record?”
“Oh, lighten up, dude. Like I’m going over the fence tonight and this interview will be in the Post tomorrow.”
“They might eventually let you out.”
“Might?”
“Might. Maybe after Soetoro drops dead of old age or cancer or something.”