“Can I speak frankly, sir?” Sheehan asked.
“That’s why I hired you, Marc. Out with it.”
“Sir, in my opinion, you suffer from the H. Ross Perot syndrome,” Sheehan said. “Everybody loves Perot. He’s a straight shooter, he’s knowledgeable — or at least he’s got a great staff — he’s articulate and polished, and he’s not afraid to take on the big boys on their own turf. He also gets no respect, for those very same reasons. He hits people between the eyes with clear-minded logic built on years of experience—”
“And people don’t like it.”
“And people don’t like it,” Sheehan echoed. “And government doesn’t like it either. Folks tend to shut you off simply because you come on strong — they think you have a hidden agenda, a secret plan. Right or wrong doesn’t matter.”
“Marc, I can’t accept that,” Hardcastle said, lining up another shot after Vincenti intentionally missed an easy shot just so he wouldn’t clear the table on Hardcastle again. It seemed Vincenti was scowling at everyone — at Hardcastle, at Sheehan, at the world. He had not said ten words all evening unless asked a specific question, and nothing that anyone had said all evening seemed to please him. “What I’m writing about here is not fiction — it’s real,” Hardcastle went on. “My goals and methods are real and workable.”
“Sir, what you’re describing is America under siege, America on the defensive,” Sheehan said. “Nobody likes to hear that we’re so vulnerable. They would rather believe that you’re a flake rather than we’re facing a major terrorist crisis in this country.”
Hardcastle flubbed another shot by trying a long, difficult shot, scratching in the process. Vincenti put Hardcastle out of his billiards misery by clearing the table again. Hardcastle didn’t seem to notice, but asked Vincenti, “Set ’em up again, Al, double or nothing.”
“I can swim in the beer you owe me already, Admiral,” Vincenti pointed out.
“You don’t drink, remember? You thought betting dou- ble-or-nothing beers with you was a sucker bet? I’ll never pay off. Set ’em up,” Hardcastle repeated with a smile. “Marc, I’m ready to go to the Task Force in the morning.”
“The press conference is set for next week,” Sheehan reminded him. “Why not wait a few days, get some more feedback from the congressional leadership? Our little clambake in Virginia Beach is set for this weekend, and so far attendance looks good.”
“Clambake?” Vincenti asked as he retrieved the billiard balls.
“Good way to feel out the heavy hitters in Congress,” Hardcastle explained. “Project 2000 is throwing a party out on Virginia Beach for the leadership and their families— private transportation, plenty of chow and booze, private beach, even parasailing and Jet Skis. We gotta lure the big cheeses to at least listen to what we have to say. Even thirty minutes with them, talking about our programs, would be worth the money.”
“Yeah. Right. Makes sense,” Vincenti muttered. He finished racking the balls, then put his cue stick on the table. “Sir, excuse me, but I’ve got to get going,” Vincenti said.
Hardcastle looked up at him, a hint of a smile on his face. “If you don’t need me anymore, I’ll be hitting the road.”
“You got something to say, Al, say it,” Hardcastle said. “Spill it.”
“Sir?”
“You’ve been scowling and shaking your head at me and Marc all night, Vincenti, but you haven’t said a word,” Hardcastle said. “You got some baggage to unload, so do it.”
“I don’t have anything to contribute here.”
“Bullshit. I’ve got you here for a reason,” Hardcastle said. “You read the report.”
“I gave you my comments, sir.”
“Nice, polite, Air Command and Staff College point paper,” Hardcastle said. “Standard responses. Pretty disappointing.”
“I guess I’m just not politically savvy, Admiral.”
“I don’t need your political savvy, Al,” Hardcastle said. “Task Force 2000 and Colonel Sheehan handle that for me.”
“So what do you need, sir?”
“I need you to tell me if I’m right, if I’m close, or if I’m full of shit, Al.”
“I’ve already commented on your plan.”
“So I’m right, then,” Hardcastle said. Vincenti was about to speak, but remained silent. “So I’m not right,” Hardcastle concluded. “So which is it, Al? Am I close or full of shit?” Vincenti stared at Hardcastle, obviously trying to decide what the politically correct answer to that question was. “Goddammit, Vincenti, I was told you weren’t one for holding back, that you spoke your mind. So let’s have it.” “Sir, I’m not really qualified to tell you how to run this.” “It’s about Linda, isn’t it, Al?”
Vincenti’s frown deepened, and darkened. “What are you talking about, Admiral?”
“Linda McKenzie. She’s dead, and you think it’s your fault.”
The rest of Hardcastle’s staff had stopped talking and had turned to watch this exchange. “Sir, ” Vincenti said, looking Hardcastle right in the eyes. “With all due respect, you don’t know shit. ”
“Linda was your wingman.”
“Stop calling her by her first name like yo'u knew her, Admiral. She’s Major McKenzie to you.”
“Whose fault was it that you launched with defective nightvision goggles?” Hardcastle asked. “Whose fault was it that Linda was allowed to close in on Cazaux without her checklist completed? Whose fault was it that she was allowed to approach too close to an armed and dangerous suspect?”
“I don’t have to explain anything to you, Hardcastle.”
“I don’t think she should have even been on alert with you, Al,” Hardcastle went on, taking a step towards Vincenti, who was now, Sheehan noticed with some alarm, within arm’s reach. “I think you’re a piss-poor flight leader, Al. How in hell could you let Linda fly with you after you’d been screwing her?”
A half-dozen bodies moved in unison at that last comment, like runners leaping off the starting block. Vincenti lunged for Hardcastle, Sheehan lunged for Vincenti, and the other staff members dropped notebooks and laptop computers and leaped to their feet in surprise. Vincenti got his hands on Hardcastle’s shirt, but Sheehan looped his arms over Vincenti’s from behind, and the two Air Force officers were evenly matched. Hardcastle simply smiled, allowing Vincenti to shake him and rage: “You pompous arrogant asshole. ” Sheehan dragged Vincenti away from Hardcastle and steered him against the pool table. He was angry at Vincenti for daring to raise a hand toward Hardcastle, but he was even more surprised and angry at Hardcastle for speaking that way to the Air Force pilot. “Knock it off!” Sheehan shouted. His anger turned on Hardcastle, as it should be: “Admiral, you were out of line.”
“Yes, I was, and I apologize,” Hardcastle said calmly to
Vincenti. “But I’m also correct, aren’t I, Al?” No response, only a glare. “Talk to me, Al. You’re the key to everything I’m trying to do here. Talk to me, damn it.”
“Why the hell should I trust you, Hardcastle?” Vincenti shouted. “What are you trying to do here? What’s your game? Who gave you the right to poke your nose in any of this?”
“I’m here because I’ve got a big mouth, Al,” Hardcastle said evenly. “I’ve got a colorful past, and people listen to me because I entertain them with my attitude and my showmanship. But I’m really here because I care.”
“Bullshit, ” Vincenti said. “You’re here because you can get some press for yourself and this Project 2000 crap.”