“Ah, there you are, Foggy. Great party, huh? Saw you and the Farmington girl. Should’ve stuck in there, boy, that family owns half of Texas.”
“Which half?”
“The one Margaret doesn’t own.”
“I’m an old married man, sir,” said Wallis.
“Sure you are, yes sirree. Son, you can’t just hide away like that, the world’s too small and we’re too smart. You want to mix mix mix. We got a visitor. Follow follow follow.”
Hooper, wriggling his fat bottom energetically, rumba’d his way past the now half-eaten pig. He gobbled the last of his sandwich and lifted two red Martinis from a passing silver tray, leaving the smoking cigar. He blew the waiter a kiss, but the man’s Aztec features remained frozen. Then the soldiers were through the open French windows of the lodge. A log fire crackled in the downstairs room, throwing its flickering light over a dozen hugging couples.
Wallis followed his leader up the pinewood stairs and along a corridor whose floor was soft with Chinese carpet and whose subdued lighting showed walls lined with paintings signed by de Heem, Marieschi and Laurencin. They passed Wallis’s bedroom and turned left into a small study, all red decor and mock colonial furniture. The band had started up on “Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer” and the door shut it off with a pneumatic clunk.
A werewolf, in a dark three-piece suit, was lounging back in a grey swivel chair behind a desk, the hairs of its face bristling. A lamp and a thin, red book were on the desk, which was otherwise bare. Eyes assessed Wallis from behind the mask. The werewolf indicated chairs and the soldiers sat down. Hooper took off his sombrero and dropped it to the floor, and the bonhomie went off with it. The soldiers put their drinks on the desk.
“The Ayrab — is he with us or not?” the werewolf asked.
“We have a definite maybe,” Hooper replied.
“What’s his hangup?”
“Some crap about his oath of allegiance.”
“Look,” said Wallis, “what General Hooper tells me is that I have two duties, one to my President and one to my country. The two have always coincided. Until now. What we have now is a President unable to act because he’s frozen by cowardice or pacifism or whatever, and I have to ask, which comes first, President or country?”
The werewolf nodded encouragement, but its eyes were filled with caution.
“My oath of allegiance is to the Constitution, not the President. But, we have procedures. Remove him constitutionally, I tell the General here. But he tells me that the act of so removing the President is too dangerous. The Russians will cotton on to what’s happening and try to nuke us, out of fear for themselves. The story he’s trying to sell me is that the price of constitutional action is the obliteration of America. Which would make the Constitution a bit pointless in the first place.”
“He’s grasped the issue. I told you he’s a bright boy,” said Hooper.
“But what the General forgot to mention,” Wallis continued, “is that the Chief might act at the last. Maybe he’s praying for a miracle. When the Almighty fails to oblige, the President might still come up with the Major Attack Option. We just won’t know until Nemesis is practically in our air space. Any removal of the Chief before the last seconds is blatant mutiny.”
Hooper made a noise like escaping steam, and gulped down the second of his drinks. Bellarmine took off his mask and said: “Colonel, it’s the only way we ever thought to operate.”
“I don’t know why I’m listening to this. This chatter is about treason. The decision to nuke belongs to the President of the United States and him alone.”
“I don’t believe so,” the Secretary of Defense replied calmly. He opened the book in front of him. “Truman document NSC memorandum number thirty invests the authority to launch nukes with the President. Okay. But there’s an answer,” he continued. “Listen to this. Here is Section Four of the Twenty-fifth Amendment to the Constitution:
“Whenever the Vice-President and a majority of either the principal officers of the executive department or of such other body as Congress may by law provide, transmit to the President pro tempore of the Senate and the Speaker of the House of Representatives their written declaration that the President is unable to discharge the powers and duties of his office, the Vice-President shall immediately assume the powers and duties of the office as Acting President…”
“Now hold on, sir,” said Wallis. “Who are the executive department? Surely at least the Cabinet? What about presidential aides?”
“Why not the whole frigging civil service?” Hooper interrupted. “Let’s wait for the cruise missiles to swarm out of Chesapeake Bay like Venus arising and then get the Speaker out of his bed, assemble Congress for a nice cosy debate and have the typists standing by for the written declaration. The missiles will get here faster than you can read it, never mind type it, but hell, I’m just a soldier, I guess we have to get the Supreme Court in on the act while the bombs are falling.”
“Ease off, Sam, you’re on too much choke,” said the Secretary of Defense. “Wallis, I respect your need for a legal basis, but it exists. The authority for launching nuclear weapons passes through the President, the Vice-President and myself as SecDef. The procedural requirement is that a decision to launch is made in consultation with Hooper here as Chief of JCS.”
“That means two against two,” said Wallis, “with the President carrying the ultimate authority.”
“There’s a loophole,” said Bellarmine. “In the context of the Situation Room, with a nuclear strike in the balance, and each and every second of huge importance, Hooper and I alone are the principal officers of the executive department. On the issue of presidential fitness to discharge his powers and duties, Hooper and I alone make the decision. We don’t consult the cabinet, and we dispense with written declarations. The guys who wrote this stuff just didn’t have this situation to handle.”
“Seems to me that, by the Twenty-fifth, if you remove Grant you end up with the Vice-President,” said Wallis. “Where does McCulloch stand?”
Bellarmine said, “He hasn’t been briefed. He knows nothing about Nemesis.”
“Come on, pal, McCulloch’s a chimpanzee,” Hooper interrupted. “Fat wino shopkeeper with an IQ about sixty. He couldn’t even grasp the issues. Everybody knows Grant just chose him for the Southern vote. You want a chimpanzee to make the decision for a nuclear strike? Is that what you want, Wallis? The decision left to a chimpanzee?”
“Yes, sir, if it’s next in the chain of command.”
Bellarmine tapped his fingers on the table. “McCulloch won’t be available for consultation.”
“What does that mean in plain English, sir?”
Hooper said, “Foggy, you might want to consider whether that’s an appropriate tone to address the Secretary. What you’ve just been told is all you need to know. McCulloch won’t be available for consultation.”
“But by the Twenty-fifth, you need the Vice-President to remove the President.”
“He won’t be available for consultation,” Hooper repeated in a voice which closed the matter.
Bellarmine continued. “Our problem is this, Colonel Wallis. Suppose we remove Grant by wielding the Twenty-fifth. Would the Communications personnel then accept my authority as President pro tempore? The big enemy is the clock. The whole transfer of command has to be over in seconds. There will be no time for long explanations. Or even short ones.”