only the third or fourth generation. Just
wait until we get into the fifth or sixth."
"The fifth or sixth what?"
"Generation of terrorism." He turned to look at
her, his eyes intense and liquid as they gathered the reflected light. He
shivered. She waited, then seemed to catch his chill in the otherwise warm
night. "That's going to be nuclear blackmail. Guy will come in with a nuke
on his back. Blow us all away unless we give in to whatever bullshit he has in
his head. It's coming. In fact, could be done right now. It's a goddamned
miracle it hasn't happened yet. I pity the President who has to deal with that mess."
"So if you look at the bright side, your little
problem isn't so bad."
"I said I'd pity the guy," the President said.
"But now nobody pities me. Damned if I do, damned if I don't. Problem is
it's a spectator sport. Everyone can be an armchair general."
"Except the general on the firing line."
"Nobody understands. Especially if it's one of yours
taken hostage."
"Well, I'm glad it's not one of mine," she said,
thinking of her own children, Tad and Barbara.
He patted her arm and was silent for a long time.
"I can hack everything," he said. "All the
political crap, the endless rituals and ceremonies, the staff ego wars, all the
tugging and pulling, dealing with those stubborn bastards in the Soviet Union
and the pigheaded self-destructive fools of the third world. Even with the idea
of the awesome power of that box in the briefcase. No sweat." He paused,
sighed, sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. "It's the crazies with
these wacko burning causes, the ones who think they have 'the answer.'" He
was silent for a long time.
She shrugged and rubbed her toe against his shin.
"On my desk," he said, "I have these option
papers. We got these highly trained shoot-em-up hit teams. They go in, tear the
place apart, bring home the people dead or alive. One option is to send them
in. We know approximately where most of the hostages are being kept. Might get
between twenty and thirty percent out alive. The Defense and Intelligence boys
are big on risk analysis, kill ratios, stuff like that. Then there's the political
boys. They say thirty percent is too low. Got to be at least double that,
ideally ninety percent. They want both a victory parade and a funeral. Joy and
sorrow. Stir the emotions."
"That's disgusting," Amy said, removing her feet
from the railing.
"Then there's Harkins' way. Sneak in and kick
ass."
"Whose?"
"Anybody around. Take hostages. Ten to one if
necessary. Then kill them. Afterwards, deny it all with a wink."
"When mad enough, kick the dog," Amy said.
"Maybe so. But you know what I've been doing out
here?" He turned and watched her, expecting no response. "I'm
actually considering it, the Harkins way."
She turned, looked at him archly, then reached out with her
hand, stopping just short of his head.
"Don't know if I could live with a man who orders
things like that." She wondered, in the final analysis, if her objections
would really matter.
"Things keep up this way, I may have to. Preempt, like
the Israelis."
He looked out over the railing. From where they sat they
could see the exquisitely lit Mall, the Washington Monument, the Capitol dome,
the tinsel ripple of the Potomac. Following his gaze, she noted that a number
of cars slowly meandered in the street behind the rear gate and she could make
out dark human figures on foot, some stationary, some moving.
"I like this house," he said softly. "And
I'd like to renew the lease." He swung his legs back to the deck and stood
up, pressing his body against the railing.
"Mr. President..."
It was the voice of the Secret Service man who had been
standing just inside the door. The edge of the Truman balcony had become a
security hole. Standing up so close to the railing presented his body to a
would-be assassin. He moved back into the shadows.
"Well, that's one compensation," the President
said.
"What is that?" Amy asked.
"We're safe in
wait until we get into the fifth or sixth."
"The fifth or sixth what?"
"Generation of terrorism." He turned to look at
her, his eyes intense and liquid as they gathered the reflected light. He
shivered. She waited, then seemed to catch his chill in the otherwise warm
night. "That's going to be nuclear blackmail. Guy will come in with a nuke
on his back. Blow us all away unless we give in to whatever bullshit he has in
his head. It's coming. In fact, could be done right now. It's a goddamned
miracle it hasn't happened yet. I pity the President who has to deal with that mess."
"So if you look at the bright side, your little
problem isn't so bad."
"I said I'd pity the guy," the President said.
"But now nobody pities me. Damned if I do, damned if I don't. Problem is
it's a spectator sport. Everyone can be an armchair general."
"Except the general on the firing line."
"Nobody understands. Especially if it's one of yours
taken hostage."
"Well, I'm glad it's not one of mine," she said,
thinking of her own children, Tad and Barbara.
He patted her arm and was silent for a long time.
"I can hack everything," he said. "All the
political crap, the endless rituals and ceremonies, the staff ego wars, all the
tugging and pulling, dealing with those stubborn bastards in the Soviet Union
and the pigheaded self-destructive fools of the third world. Even with the idea
of the awesome power of that box in the briefcase. No sweat." He paused,
sighed, sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. "It's the crazies with
these wacko burning causes, the ones who think they have 'the answer.'" He
was silent for a long time.
She shrugged and rubbed her toe against his shin.
"On my desk," he said, "I have these option
papers. We got these highly trained shoot-em-up hit teams. They go in, tear the
place apart, bring home the people dead or alive. One option is to send them
in. We know approximately where most of the hostages are being kept. Might get
between twenty and thirty percent out alive. The Defense and Intelligence boys
are big on risk analysis, kill ratios, stuff like that. Then there's the political
boys. They say thirty percent is too low. Got to be at least double that,
ideally ninety percent. They want both a victory parade and a funeral. Joy and
sorrow. Stir the emotions."
"That's disgusting," Amy said, removing her feet
from the railing.
"Then there's Harkins' way. Sneak in and kick
ass."
"Whose?"
"Anybody around. Take hostages. Ten to one if
necessary. Then kill them. Afterwards, deny it all with a wink."
"When mad enough, kick the dog," Amy said.
"Maybe so. But you know what I've been doing out
here?" He turned and watched her, expecting no response. "I'm
actually considering it, the Harkins way."
She turned, looked at him archly, then reached out with her
hand, stopping just short of his head.
"Don't know if I could live with a man who orders
things like that." She wondered, in the final analysis, if her objections
would really matter.
"Things keep up this way, I may have to. Preempt, like
the Israelis."
He looked out over the railing. From where they sat they
could see the exquisitely lit Mall, the Washington Monument, the Capitol dome,
the tinsel ripple of the Potomac. Following his gaze, she noted that a number
of cars slowly meandered in the street behind the rear gate and she could make
out dark human figures on foot, some stationary, some moving.
"I like this house," he said softly. "And
I'd like to renew the lease." He swung his legs back to the deck and stood
up, pressing his body against the railing.
"Mr. President..."
It was the voice of the Secret Service man who had been
standing just inside the door. The edge of the Truman balcony had become a
security hole. Standing up so close to the railing presented his body to a
would-be assassin. He moved back into the shadows.
"Well, that's one compensation," the President
said.
"What is that?" Amy asked.
"We're safe in
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