“Are you asking me to join a conspiracy?”
Hooper paused, then he grinned slyly and said: “Hell no, Foggy, this is a purely hypothetical discussion, remember? You’re being asked to think. For the first time in your life, to judge by your performance so far.”
“Sure. Hypothetical like the man from Mars.”
Hooper forced the point relentlessly. “What we have here is a flaw built into the Constitution. Say your Commander in Chief is abandoning his responsibilities, betraying his Oath of Office. Now say that public impeachment of said Chief would alert the enemy and bring forth the Day of Judgement. What I need from you is an answer: what would you do about it?”
“Not my problem.”
“On the contrary, Foggy, for reasons which will emerge this evening, you’re the key. Answer my question.”
Wallis felt as if doors were closing all around him. He said, “I’ll have that beer now.”
Hooper tried another tack. He wedged the fishing rod between his knees and reached for a can, tossing it to the soldier; water lapped against the underside of the boat with the slight movement. He opened his briefcase and pulled out a sheet of paper. “Typed it out this morning. Listen:
“A strict observance of the written laws is doubtless one of the high duties of a good citizen, but it is not the highest. The laws of necessity, of self-preservation, of saving our country when in danger, are of a higher obligation.
“Okay so far? Now listen to this:
“To lose our country by a scrupulous adherence to written law would be to lose the law itself, with life, liberty, property and all those who are enjoying them with us; thus absurdly sacrificing the end to the means.
“Straight from the horse’s mouth, boy, from Thomas Jefferson. The guy who wrote the frigging Constitution. You know, reading this, Jefferson practically anticipated Nemesis.”
“I know what you’re asking me. I need time.”
“Time, laddie, is the one commodity we do not have. Hey!” The line went taut. Hooper began to pull at the rod, reeling it in. “Hell, Foggy,” the CJCS went on in a more conciliatory tone, “we’ve all been programmed with particular values and these work for us nearly all the time, but democracy is only a tool. It has limits like any other tool and sometimes you have to do things for the public good that the public would lynch you for if… damn you, I’m trying to talk to this guy… look, this is a new game and you need new rules… stop wriggling…” Hooper stood up and the boat rocked dangerously as he reached out for a writhing fish.
“Steelhead, General, it’s a beauty.”
“Time’s running out, Colonel, and we need to know where you stand.”
“We?”
“Party starts about eight o’clock. We’ll be looking for answers.” Hooper, grimacing horribly, held up the squirming fish. “Now what the hell’s bells do I do with this?”
The Party
[Extract from testimony before the Defense Appropriations Sub-Committee of the House of Representatives in relation to USAF budget. John Chalfont, Utah Democrat, presiding.]
Chalfont: Well, what I’m asking is, say the President has a heart attack or something and he doesn’t relinquish authority, who then can make the decision to launch if the situation requires it?
Hooper: Sir, that is not an area we like to talk about much.
Chalfont: But the word has to come from someone, is what I’m getting at. We can’t just be a headless chicken.
Hooper: No sir, it has to come from the Vice-President. We are at all times available to respond.
Chalfont: Well, say SecDef walks into your office and tells you to launch your missiles, you don’t need codes or stuff like that and he has the authority because the President is sick. Do you do it?
Hooper: The policy is that the President makes that decision.
Chalfont: But he’s sick.
Hooper: I don’t believe I can answer that.
Hamilton: What my colleague is getting at is, with the new Russian threat, we can’t afford another Haig fiasco, we have to get the right finger on the button. Who has the authority to press the button if the Commander-in-Chief is out of it? Say the national interest suddenly required a launch.
Hooper: The Vice-President has the authority.
Chalfont: General, I don’t want to sound as if I disagree with that, but is it not still the case that the CJCS needs to be consulted?
Hooper: He’s subordinate but yes, he has, that hasn’t changed from the First Cold War days.
Hamilton: He holds the appropriate codes?
Hooper: A lot of us hold the codes, down to the Brigadier-General on the Cover All plane.
Hamilton: A hypothetical, General. Say the President and the Vice-President are killed in a plane crash and Zhirinovsky sees his chance…
Hooper: We could respond.
Hamilton: Are you then telling us that a military authority exists for launching nukes separate from the civilian one?
Hooper: I did not say that, sir.
Hamilton: What does that mean? Is that a denial?
Hooper: Well, there’s no actual military authority as such but look, the Situation Room is soft and Raven Rock is hard. Say Washington is wiped out and nukes are pouring down on our country. What would you expect military commanders to do in that situation?
Hamilton: So authority to launch passes from the President to the Vice-President, with CJCS in consultation, and what we’re trying to get at is, what does the decision handbook say if they’re both incapacitated? What is the civilian authority?
Hooper: It has to be the Secretary of Defense, in consultation with the Joint Chiefs.
Chalfont: And if SecDef was in that plane crash?
Hooper: Well, that’s a pretty hypothetical scenario, if I may say so, sir.
Chalfont: But what if?
Hooper: You’re into a massive decapitation there, but there are still procedures. [Remainder of reply deleted.]
There’s a conspiracy to overthrow the President, maybe kill him. They want me to join it, and I’m thinking about it.
The gorilla leaned precariously backwards, mouth agape, scratching its armpits and making what it imagined were gorilla-like noises. A French whore, her slim legs straddling the neck of her onion-selling companion, stretched her arm over the gorilla, unsteadily trying to pour a glass of red Martini down its throat. The onion seller staggered, the whore screamed, Martini arced through the air and a little crowd cheered as they collapsed on to the grass and the gorilla jumped up and down shouting Ooh! Ooh! Ooh!
God, I hate these people.
Wallis had another problem. She was a dusky, blonde, man-eating southern belle, full of pouting coyness; she was dressed in a red crinoline dress of alarming cleavage; and she was also, Wallis had learned with increasing desperation, persistent to the point of obtuseness. Ten minutes of guttural snarling in response to her subtle probing had failed to dislodge her.