“Oh, me, too! I love that movie.” A smile spread across her face, then turned into a frown. “Except I have a mid-watch. If I don’t get some sleep, I’ll be dragging.”
“You can sleep when you’re dead,” he said, repeating what a chief had told him a few weeks ago when he yawned in his presence. That startled her, and he continued. “Meet me down here at nineteen hundred. I’ll even buy you a Coke. And we could get some popcorn out of the vending machine.”
She stared him for a moment, an odd expression on her face. “You wouldn’t be asking me out on a date, would you? Because you know that’s not allowed on the ship.”
He flushed. “No, of course not. We’re friends, right?”
She didn’t answer, just continued to stare at him. Finally, when he was starting to feel like a complete idiot, she said, “Sure. Only make it a little before seven, OK? I hate to stand in line.”
The two Magruders waited in an office down the hallway from the Oval Office. Even though they’d both been here countless times, Tombstone always felt a stunning sense of humility at being summoned by the President. No matter that some individuals who had inhabited the historic building had shown themselves to be unworthy of the highest office in the land. No matter that party politics was never far from anyone’s mind. This was still the White House, the embodiment of every dream and vision of America, the seat of power in the most powerful nation in the world. To be a part of those decisions, to walk these halls and advise the President, remained a rare honor for both of them.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” the Chief of Staff said as he stepped into the office. “The President would like to see you now.” No apology for the two-hour wait was tendered and none was expected. The Magruders stood and followed him down the hall. Ahead of them, they saw a lean figure hurrying away. “Senator Hamlin,” the COS confided. “The President will explain.”
The President stood and walked around the desk to meet them in the middle of the room. “Thank you for coming.” He motioned them to a comfortable seating arrangement away from the desk. A steward silently set a tray of coffee before them, then left, closing the door behind him. The Secret Service agents seemed to fade into the background.
“I have a serious problem,” the President began, “one I hope you can help me solve.” He outlined the events in Bull Run, pain in his voice as he mentioned the Smart children. “It’s a major tragedy, one that should never have happened.” The Magruders, still absorbing the details, murmured their agreements.
“My problem,” the President continued, “is that I’m not sure what went wrong. You’d think after the intelligence fiasco surrounding 9/11, we’d have sorted the information flow out. Homeland Security Defense was supposed to have been the answer, but I don’t think it’s working. Not yet, anyway. The CIA and the FBI…” He paused, studying their faces for a moment, then nodded, evidently pleased by what he saw there. “No. I don’t have to tell you about intelligence and territoriality, do I? Neither of those esteemed agencies has particularly liked joining a new team. I won’t say that they’re being actively obstructive — I’d have their asses if I could prove it — but I do think that’s part of the problem. Selective intelligence sharing — and it’s not working.”
“Fire both agency heads and start over,” the senior Magruder said bluntly.
“I wish it were that easy. But then I’m left with new leadership awaiting Senate confirmation, and I can’t have that right now.”
“Why not now?” Tombstone asked.
“The militias,” the President answered. “Something like this happens and they go on full alert. We show any weakness right now and we’re inviting another Wounded Knee or Waco.”
“Do you have any evidence that they’re planning something?”
“Enough to worry me,” the President answered. “Which brings me to the point. In the long run, HSD is going to be the answer. Jeremiah Horton is a decent fellow — he’ll do the right thing. But something like this, integrating forces that aren’t used to working together — well, frankly, the military has more experience at it than the civilian agencies do. That’s where you come in.”
“How?” Tombstone asked.
The President sighed. “This is a new war, Tombstone. We’re used to law-enforcement activities inside the U.S., not war. Everything is going to have to change — everything. Including posse commitatus.”
“Wow,” the senior Magruder said, abruptly setting down his coffee mug. “That’s a big step.”
“No kidding,” the President answered. “The concept of using military forces for law enforcement inside the U.S. is strictly prohibited. And I’m not going to get the law changed without proving that it’s the right thing to do. So, I’m going to back-door a demonstration. I’m going to use your civilian company as a coordinator, and I’m going to ask you to draft contingency plans for a multiforce mission using both civilian law-enforcement and military assets. Your mission is to be prepared to put down any militia actions taken in response to this tragedy. You have my full authority and the support of the entire government as needed.”
Both Magruders were silent for a moment, absorbing the radical idea. Then Tombstone asked, “Is there any precedent at all for this?”
The President shook his head. “You know the old saying. It’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission. If the militias are up to something and you do stop it, then there’ll be precedent.”
“And if we don’t?”
The President’s face was cold. “Then there’s always impeachment. And frankly, gentlemen, if that’s what it takes to get us through this, I’m prepared to risk it.”
For the next few hours, Williams checked his watch every five minutes, wondering why time was moving so slowly. She always got to the chow line five minutes early — did that means she wanted to be five minutes early for the movie? Or earlier than that so they could make sure they got some popcorn? Finally, not wanting to leave it to chance, he slipped out and bought a box of microwavable popcorn at the ship store. Just in case she wanted more than one pack. Or in case there was another movie she wanted to see.
His aircraft was coming back from a routine surveillance patrol, and he had to be on deck after it landed, so he missed seeing her at the evening meal. He hurried through the post-flight checklist, made sure the bird was secure and all tie-downs were in place, then rushed down six decks to the vending machine. There was already a long line there.
He heard her call his name, and spotted her near the entrance to the galley. She held up two sodas. He slipped out of line to join her. He produced the popcorn.
She looked happy. “It looks like we’re set.” She led the way to the microwave, and they waited behind three other people to use it.
Finally, they were set. Again, he let her lead the way, and she selected a table about three quarters of the way back from the screen along a bulkhead. He slipped into the seat next to hers. The noise level in the galley was deafening, but abruptly died down as the lights dimmed and opening music started. “Just in time,” she whispered, grabbing a handful of popcorn out of the bag.
She just looks like a kid. For some reason, he found that particularly appealing. Her gaze was fixed on the screen, her lips slightly parted and moist, spellbound by the opening credits. He helped himself to some popcorn, and over the next two hours, found that he was watching her as much as the movie. And he was quite certain which one he enjoyed more.