On a visit to Chile ten months ago Quayle had purchased — in full view of a contingent of reporters — a souvenir doll with a flip-up dick. This light-hearted indulgence in the joys of crude male locker-room humor enraged feminists coast to coast, including Strader.
Dan Quayle was, in Strader’s opinion, the living, breathing personification of all that was wrong with America. That the pampered, privileged son of a filthy-rich white man, one who had majored in “booze and broads” in college and emerged so dismally ignorant that he failed an examination for National Guard enlisted public affairs specialist, could go on to become a congressman, a U.S. senator, then Vice-President, and now, acting President, was enough to test the faith of even the most wildly optimistic.
Sitting here looking at Dan Quayle as William C. Dorfman explained why the presence of the National Guard was required in the District of Columbia, Sam Strader realized with a jolt what the future held. Quayle was stupid, practically retarded, and it was written all over his bland, expressionless face for anyone to see. And the whole world was looking! She was going to be the next President of the United States. The premonition gave her goose bumps.
Quayle sat in his chair beside the podium, Strader said later, like a neolithic about to receive an honorary degree from a bible college in Arkansas. Spread at his feet were two dozen senators and congressmen and reporters from every major television network, wire service, and most of the nation’s major newspapers. And Quayle looked bored with the whole proceeding.
As Dorfman explained it, the Guard would augment the federal security police charged with guarding public buildings and maintaining order, thereby freeing FBI and police to search for and apprehend the assassins who had killed the secretary of state, the national security adviser, and the House majority leader, and injured the President and the attorney general. In addition they would apprehend any Colombian narco-terrorists who might still be lurking about.
The press was restless. Too many questions remained unanswered.
The instant Dorfman opened the floor the questions were shouted: Who was behind the violence? How had these Colombian killers gotten into the country? What assurance could the government give the American people and citizens of Washington that the violence was over?
“We are doing our best,” Dorfman said, “to preserve the public order. Obviously various criminal elements are at work here and we are proceeding vigorously, within the limits of the law, to apprehend those responsible. And to protect—”
Quayle interrupted. He got to his feet and went to the podium. “Listen,” he said. “If we knew who these people were and where they were we’d arrest them. Obviously we don’t. We’re doing everything we can. We will do everything we need to do. I promise.”
“Will you declare martial law?”
Quayle exchanged glances with General Land, who was standing off to one side of the platform. “I will if I have to,” he said slowly. “I’ll do whatever has to be done to protect the public and preserve the Constitution.”
“What about people’s constitutional rights?” Samantha Strader asked in a strident tone that carried over the reporters’ voices.
Quayle looked at her. His expression didn’t change. “I’ll arrest anybody who needs to be arrested and the courts can sort it all out afterward.”
The politicians looked queasy. The print reporters scribbled furiously while the television people waved their hands and shouted, “Mr. Vice-President, Mr. Vice-President,” but the press conference was over. Quayle was leaving. Dorfman, General Land, and their aides all followed. The reporters waited only until Quayle passed out of the room, then they charged for the main doors.
Watching it all from a far corner, Jack Yocke shook his head and made a few notes in his small spiral notebook. Nearby Sam Strader cornered Ott Mergenthaler. “Do you really think Dapper Danny made this decision, or was it good-buddy Jabba the Hut Dorfman?” she asked.
Ott mumbled something, and Jack Yocke grinned as he annotated his notebook. Ott hated it when people asked him questions — it nudged him off stride. But Strader’s questions were pro forma: she was the elected one, following destiny’s star.
“For five years,” she continued, apparently oblivious to whatever pearl Ott let slip, “the Colombian druggies have used terrorism and murder against their government and their fellow citizens. They’ve blown up airliners, banks, slaughtered thousands. Everyone knew that someday narco-terrorism would come here.” That statement lifted Yocke’s eyebrows a millimeter. “Now the American people want to know, When it came, why were the macho muchachos in our government caught with their pants down?”
Yocke realized that someone wearing a uniform was standing beside him. He looked around into the face of Jake Grafton, who was apparently listening to Strader.
“Want to answer that one, Captain?” Yocke said, inclining his head an inch at the congresswoman.
“Off the record?”
“Way off.”
Grafton’s shoulders rose and fell. “They weren’t unprepared. They just weren’t ready, if you understand the difference. It’s almost impossible for people who have known only peace to lift themselves to that level of mental readiness necessary to immediately and effectively counter a determined attack. The mind may say get ready, but the subconscious refuses to pump the adrenaline, refuses to let go of the comfortable present. We refuse to believe.”
“Pearl Harbor,” Yocke replied, nodding.
“Precisely.” Grafton looked around toward a crew breaking down the electrical cable network for a battery of television cameras. “So what do you think?” Grafton added.
“I think Dorfman is finding out who’s in charge.”
Jake Grafton nodded. A smile flickered on his lips, then disappeared.
“You were on the Capitol steps this afternoon when Cohen was shot. Why didn’t you get down and stay down?”
Jake Grafton shrugged. “I figured he’d only shoot once.”
“That was a rather large assumption.”
“As I said, the human mind works in strange ways. But what sane person would want to shoot me?”
“There’s that,” Yocke acknowledged. “But he shot at the Vice-President and missed. You could have collected another stray slug.”
“Did he miss?” Grafton asked. “I got the gut feeling this guy hits what he aims at.”
Captain Grafton turned and left, leaving the reporter scratching his head. He had the feeling that Grafton had wanted to say something else but changed his mind.
Senator Bob Cherry was in a hurry when he got back to his office that afternoon. After the press conference he and a dozen of his colleagues had spent an hour grilling William C. Dorfman, and Dorfman had been insufferable, as usual. How George Bush tolerated the man’s presence, Cherry told himself, was an enigma that only a shrink could explain.
And then there was Dan Quayle, a man with the intellect and personality to be a mediocre deputy sheriff. In a rural county, of course. Cherry had been convinced for years that Quayle had been chosen for VP instead of Senator Bob Dole because Bush and Dole, who had fought hard for the presidential nomination, personally loathed each other. As if personalities mattered.
As Cherry charged through the outer office, he spotted T. Jefferson Brody sitting at the guest’s chair at his aide’s desk. Brody rose. “Evening, Senator.”
“You want to see me?” Cherry asked as he made for the door to his office. Brody noticed the senator gave Miss Georgia a quick smile in passing and got one in return.
“Just a couple of minutes, Senator.”