

Presidential Risk by Michael Bronte

Copyright ©: Michael Bronte

All Rights Reserved

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Thank you, Gail

Chapter 1. The unGame

To a man—or an unman, as it were—they were impervious. Heat, as hot as that from any sun, or cold, as cold as that from beyond the farthest reaches of the furthermost heavens, didn't affect them. The feeling of such would be a human thing, a sense they had possessed once, but for which there was no need now. To even say heavens is inaccurate, for where they were, is (or was) beyond all comprehension of space, beyond any concept of infinity that most mere mortals assume is the measure of the universe. They were at a point in creation where they became indistinguishable from the creator, or creators, where time was an abstract concept because, like the weather, or lack of it, there was no time. What was, is what will be, and what is, has been before. They took human form because it was what they had been once, and they were used to it.

One by one, they passed through an invisible door, an undoor through which they, or their chosen brethren, could pass, but through which the unchosen could never go, or come, in any form. It was a figment common only to their select little group, as was the table. It was the untable. It was large enough for all who wanted to play, and it was J. Edgar's duty to guard the undoor. He was in lime chiffon for this particular unGame, and they called him Klinger.

Ready Teddy walked in brusquely, as always, and he waited impatiently, as always, for Georgie Boy to take his customary position at the unhead of the untable, for it was round. Several unplayers followed in various states of uninterest.

Old Hickory Jackson decided to play, his form a swashbuckling copy of the one he occupied on Earth. He clanged and clanked to his position, adorned with various needless hunks of glittering hardware. Fearless Frankie and Woody came in together like a set of bespectacled salt-and-pepper shakers. They were followed closely by Chrome Dome, who was in animated conversation with The Ladies' Man, and Lame Brain Johnson. (The Ladies' Man always said that's what L.B.J. really stood for.)

"Aah, with, aah, all due respect, General, he was not the greatest king of all time. The, aah, greatest king of all time would be an American." Chrome Dome was a tad confused. "Elvis," said The Ladies' Man, answering Chrome Dome's unasked question.

"Ah," said Chrome Dome.

Behind them, the shifty-eyed Tricky Dickie tried to eavesdrop. T.J. was alongside, handing him something that looked like an Italian sausage.

"Here, this will help."

Tricky looked at it with some amusement. "What's this?"

"I call it the _audio magnet_. I just invented it." T.J. could make an explosive out of a tampon and some raspberry Jell-O, if he had to. "Put it to your ear, and you can hear every sound in the megaverse. Try it."

Tricky did, and his shadowy uneyes lit up like cat's eyes caught in the headlights just before impact. "I'll betcha Klinger would have liked one of these back in '62."

Ulysses came past, a cloud of stinky smoke billowing from his stogie. He had his unarm around Ron-Ron in fatherly fashion. Poor Ron-Ron. He could never remember the rules. Abe-The-Hat was right behind. Abe was good at the unGame, maybe the best, probably because he didn't talk much and didn't get all distracted like some of the other unplayers. A few of the non-regulars decided to join the festivities this particular unday. Billy Mac came, and so did Garfield the Cat, along with Mister Peanut, and a few others. Calvin Cool was the last one in.

Georgie Boy asked, "Is this everyone?"

"I think the Adams boys will be in later," Woody replied.

"They're always late. You'd figure one of them could be on time. What the hell are they doing this time?"

Knowingly, The Ladies' Man said, "Aah, I think they, aah, might be out plowin' the, aah, south faahty with Marilyn."

"I didn't know she liked farming," Mister Peanut commented, his massive choppers reflecting the light of a hundred suns.

Shielding himself, Georgie Boy said, "Turn your head, would ya? That shine is hurting my eyes."

"At least I don't have to worry about termites." That was pretty bold for Mister Peanut.

Chrome Dome distributed the boxes, and, as usual, everyone had to wait while Woody made sure he had just the right number and proper assortment of pieces.

"Let's get this show on the road," Ready Teddy bellowed impatiently. "Who brought the dice?" Finding them, he rolled first and calculated his total: eighteen. "Damn!" he yelled. It would be nowhere near enough to place the first army.

Mister Peanut was to Ready Teddy's immediate left, an arrangement that proved to be instantly annoying. He grabbed the dice and blew on them, creating a solar wind that caused a comet to veer off course. "C'mon baby. Amy needs a new pai'ah of shoes." He fired the cubes across the untable, the rumble analogous to an erupting volcano: twenty-three. "Hot diggity dog," said Mister Peanut. His smile lit up the lower quadrant of the Impandic Galaxy.

"Let me show you how to do it," the True Man said, but his roll totaled only fourteen.

"So much for the man from the Show Me State," The Ladies' Man cackled. "Let's give it the old Haa'va'd roll." Suddenly, he felt a tug on his coat.

"Can I roll Jackie? Huh? Can I? Can I, please? C'mon Jackie, lemme roll. Please!"

"Sorry, Bobbie. You didn't quite make it to the Oval Office, remembaa'?"

"But I woulda' made it. C'mon Jackie. Can I roll? _Pleeeease_?"

The Ladies' Man rolled, and the dice rumbled like a cosmic rockslide: twenty-two.

Bobbie stamped his unfoot, and knocked an entire constellation out of shape. "You're a big meanee!" he yelled, his lower lip crossing over his upper.

Chrome Dome was next. "Get lost, kid." He snapped up the dice and hurled them clean to the other side of the untable—a distance wider than some of the solar systems hanging around them like so many Christmas ornaments. Old Hickory Jackson stopped two of them from flying off, the dice sounding like a solar snap as they clinked against his saber and settled like square asteroids. "I've got a new strategy I'd like to try if I get the first army," Chrome Dome declared, looking like a big turtle as he craned his unneck so he could count the dots: twenty-five.

Ulysses spewed a huge cloud from his stogie. It immediately balled into a new planet in the Growegian Universe, where the gravitational condensation was extraordinarily strong. "Nice roll, Ike." He pulled a flask from his jacket. "Anybody want a snort?" There were no takers. This time the rotgut of choice was a special blend of Zenian tea that hadn't aged long enough and kicked like a Mantaran mule. Ulysses tied with Mister Peanut.

They went in turn, all who were going to play on this particular unday, all of them hopeful they would be the first to claim a territory. Georgie Boy rolled a twenty-six. "I'll take it," he said, yanking the proverbial chain and rematerializing in the seat next to Ron-Ron. "Gonna be tough to beat, eh, Ron?.... Ron? Yo, Ron!"

Ron-Ron's unhead was nodding to and fro.

"Jesus," Ready Teddy griped.

An unvoice boomed. _"Yes, may I help you?"_

Pulling a huge walking stick from under the untable, Ready Teddy said, "Sorry, Number Two. I'll take care of this myself." He took a bead, and swooped the stick through a bank of nitrogen vapor clouds, crashing it onto the untable. The resulting cosmic boom radiated into several extraterrestrial regions. Ron-Ron didn't even move.

Next to last was The Kid. The Kid was Kid Zach—Taylor, that is. Someone had tried to nickname him Opie once, but that name bit the dust real quick when The Kid got kinda ticked at it. It wasn't a good idea to get The Kid ticked. While the history books said Ulysses was the relentless one in battle, he couldn't hold a candle next to The Kid. The Kid had been a soldier for forty years, more than any other unplayer, including Chrome Dome. If there was a war on, The Kid had been there. "The only good Injun, is a dead Injun," he'd once said, then, he peeled back another scalp as if he'd been peeling a banana. Even Ulysses shivered at that.

The Kid gathered the dice, shaking them as if he were trying to loosen the dots. Standing, he held his unhands above the untable and parted them slightly, letting the dice fall one by one, the destiny of current mankind on Earth hinging on the value of each upturned cube: six, six, five, four... plop... clunk... six. "Yes!" he said, giddy with the thought of being the first to claim a territory. It was good to be first.

Suddenly, there was a commotion at the undoor, and Klinger called for help. Lame Brain Johnson, Polk Salad, Fearless Frankie, The Ladies' Man, Woody, Calvin Cool, Billy Mac, Ruddy Haymaker, Old Hickory, The True Man, Chrome Dome, Mister Peanut, all of them scurried over. Even clumsy old **F** ix **O** r **R** epair **D** aily got up without tripping over himself, but the commotion was a lot more wind and fury than anything else. "What the hell is going on?" Georgie Boy called from the untable.

"It's just Ross," a presidential unvoice called back.

"Again? That boy's never gonna give up."

"You want me to break his knuckles?" Kid Zach asked.

"That's all right," T.J. said. "I'll take care of it."

T.J. made his way through the throng, which, having discovered it was just old Jug Ears, was making its way back to the untable. "Nice dress," The Ladies' Man commented as he glided passed Klinger. "Chiffon?"

"Made it myself," Klinger said appreciatively as his uneyes followed The Ladies' Man's tight little unbutt.

T.J. looked through the undoor and shook his unhead ruefully, observing a comet's tail glowing brightly in the darkness of the Norsb Galaxy some light years away. Riding the comet, Ross was circling a gravitational sun, getting dangerously close as he circled, and circled, and circled. What a lunatic, thought T.J. Ross was going to slingshot the comet, and himself, toward the undoor. Indeed, just before being sucked into the billion-degree mass of burning gases, Ross deflected the comet off an incoming planet stream, and careened toward the undoor at the speed of negative light. "EEEEE-Hhaaaaaaa!"

"Everybody duck!"

The unplayers held on for dear life as the comet roared by, creating a wake of galactic nebulae and smoldering asteroids that blasted into the undoor like cosmic cannon fire.

Finally waking up, "What was that?" Ron-Ron asked.

"That crazy fool!" Ready Teddy roared. Angrily, and not so softly, he walked through the undoor and took a stance, tapping his huge walking stick against his unfeet. He took a couple of practice swings and waited—in what amounted to two Earth years—for Ross to come around again. "Here he comes," Ready Teddy mumbled. At just the right moment, he swooped the stick through the swirling clouds of celestial particles, and knocked the comet clean out from under Ross's ass. Home run.

Furiously, Ross marched across two zodiacal parallels and faced down Ready Teddy, unnose to unchest, seething. "You could have knocked my nuts off!"

"You don't have any nuts."

"Are you going to let me in, or what?"

"What's the password?"

"What password?"

"You have to know the password. Do you think you can just waltz in here without knowing the password? We all know the password, don't we, boys?"

"Yeah, sure, right, absolutely, positively, harrumph, harrumph, harrumph, gots to know the password."

"See," said Ready Teddy.

"If I get the password, can I play?"

"If you get the password, you can get in. We'll talk about playing later." Ready Teddy folded his unarms.

"How do I find out what the password is?"

"That's your problem."

"Fatso."

"Pipsqueak."

"Fart bag."

"Blowhard."

"Really?" Klinger asked from the other side of the undoor.

"I'll be back," Ross snarled, and he stormed off.

"I'm sure you will," Ready Teddy called after him. With that, he carried his big stick back to the untable, and asked softly, "Where were we?"

Abe was last to roll. As usual, Abe hadn't said a word all unday. Slowly, he scooped the dice with one bony unhand and removed his black stovepipe with the other. One by one, he dropped the dice into the hat and rumbled them around, his black, beady uneyes glowing darkly from beneath bushy uneyebrows. The dots were a blur as the dice thumped the side of the hat for what seemed an eternity, until finally, at just the right moment, Abe tipped the stovepipe and hurled the dice. The cubes scattered like cockroaches, each one turning up six.

"Every damned time," The True Man noted. "How do you do it, Abe?"

Abe didn't answer, and he took a single infantry piece and placed it right in the middle of the Congo. With the first army now placed, the rest of the unplayers quickly deployed their armies.

Ulysses' stare burned into Lame Brain Johnson. "You're next, Lame Brain."

"I . . . wish . . you guys . . . wouldn't . . call me that," said Lame Brain. "I . . really . . . . don't like . . it . . very . . . . much."

"Could you talk any slower?"

"I . . . don't . . think . . . so."

"PLAY!" Ulysses hollered. Lame Brain put an army down on Siam.

"The guy just can't get away from there," said Polk Salad, who was next. Polk Salad looked at Ulysses' concentration of armies in Alaska, and thought it to be a unique strategy. If Ulysses could protect his back door—and there was only one way in across Kamchatka—he could mount a rather formidable attack almost immediately. Ulysses' armies looked like a rattlesnake getting ready to strike. Polk Salad decided not to confront the snake, and quickly put an army on the Ukraine. "You're next Ron-Ron. What'erya gonna do?"

"Well," said Ron-Ron. "Where's Granada?"

"There's no Granada territory on the board," Ready Teddy said impatiently.

"Well," said Ron-Ron. "I beg to differ, Mister Teddy. I attacked Granada once."

"That was while you were the Earth surrogate," T.J. explained. "Don't you remember?"

"Well," said Ron-Ron. "I think I do. Where's Granada?"

"There's no Granada territory on the board!" Ready Teddy repeated. "We're not going to forget everything again, are we?" His whole being effervescing, Teddy tried hard to control himself. "Where are you going to place your army, Ron-Ron? Do you like the purple territories? Or maybe you like the pretty red ones."

"Well," said Ron-Ron. "I do like the red ones, but that's because I like Argentina. They have cowboys in Argentina, like when I was in the Oval Office. Cowboys. I like cowboys. Do you like cowboys, Jackie?"

Uncharacteristically, Ready Teddy signaled, unpalms down, to just go along. Perceptively, The Ladies' Man nodded. "Yes, Ron-Ron. I like cowboys. You like cowboys too, don't you? Remember the Twenty Mule Team, Ron-Ron?"

"Well," said Ron-Ron. "I think I do. We had a Twenty Mule Team while I was in the Oval Office."

"No, Ron-Ron. That was before you were in the Oval Office. That was while you were still on TV."

"I was on TV?"

"Yes, Ron-Ron. You were on TV, and you were in the movies too. Remember?"

"Well," said Ron-Ron. "I think I do. When is it my turn to put down an army?"

The Ladies' Man hung his unhead in frustration. "It's your turn now, Ron-Ron."

"It is?"

"Yes."

"Oh goody. Where's Granada?"

So as not to frighten him, The Ladies' Man slowly took Ron-Ron's unarm, and guided it toward Argentina. "Here you go, Ron-Ron, nice and easy. Put your army down here. I know you like the pretty red territories."

"Oow!"

Startled, The Ladies' Man jumped back. "What's the matter?"

"I have this shooting pain whenever I move like that," Ron-Ron replied. "Right here, under my armpit. Wanna see?"

"That's okay. Here, I'll put the army down for you."

"Thanks, Jackie. You're okay. Will you put it on Granada for me? Please, Jackie?"

"Sure, Ron-Ron. Sit back now, okay?" The Ladies' Man put the piece on Argentina and surveyed the unboard, mulling his own strategy.

When it was his turn, Abe built up his armies in North Africa. He wasn't going to make the same mistake he made last time and attack too early. This time, he would play to win.

Chapter 2. Below The Tropic of Cancer

There's a spot about a hundred miles north of Lake Chad, in the heart of central Africa near where the borders of Chad, Niger, and Nigeria come together, where the animals gather to drink at a series of ponds that are the size of football fields in the dry season, larger when the rains come. The ponds are fed by any number of underground flows, and as such there is no river or other natural barrier to block free movement of the animals between Chad and Niger. They don't know there's a border there, for it's but a fenceless line in the hot dirt. Were it marked somehow, it would be made invisible by churning winds that travel hundreds of turbulent miles over the desert of West Africa, sucking arid particles by the ton high into the atmosphere and forming great, moving clouds of grit.

There are hunters at the edges of these ponds. Some have tapered mouths; others lie hidden in the brownness, their tails dancing reflexively as if hypnotized by a snake charmer. The motion is just enough to keep the flies from biting, and the buzzing is incessant.

The hunters are patient. Sooner or later, all the other animals will come to drink, for it's a long way to other water over the brittle grass of the brown plain, which is virtually desert at this time of the year. Sometimes, the hunting is easy, especially when the herders arrive from the mud villages. There are always one or two head that straggle from the herd, and the herders have only two eyes, and one gun—sometimes. And when there are no domestic cattle, there are their wild counterparts. The hunters will settle for either.

With the water low, the drinkers churn noisily through the shallows, gravitating to the dangerous middle of the ponds. The tart odor of wildness carries on the dry breeze, signaling the hunters as if it were an alarm. The drinkers concentrate, their nostrils flared to snare the slightest odor drifting on the hot breeze. The only breaks in their closeness are the big, rounded rocks breaking the surface of the water. Abruptly, one of the rocks moves, rearing up in a spray of muddy droplets to reveal monstrously huge teeth and a throat that looks large enough to swallow one of the drinkers whole. The drinkers jump at the yawning hippo, resettling skittishly as soon as they realize the rock doesn't eat meat.

The ponds themselves are ringed with green. One can't help but notice the abundance of flying and darting creatures, whose numbers dwindle once the brownness begins. The surface of the water is a blur as mosquitoes the size of small hummingbirds hover in frenzied activity, searching for a tender nose. One of them finds its mark.

Already in a state of heightened alertness, the animal jumps when its nose is pricked, causing its immediate neighbor to jump as well. Instinctively, a chain reaction begins, and the few dozen members of the wild herd soon thunder off into the dry, branchy lowlands. Normally, the thundering continues until the members of the herd are satisfied they are no longer being pursued. This time, however, the small, wild herd runs squarely into a much larger herd of domestic cattle being guided by three villagers. They, having just become wranglers as opposed to cotton harvesters, aren't at all capable of preventing their animals from joining in with their wild counterparts. The several-hundred head comprise several-thousand hooves that pound on the dry savanna, sending a great cloud of dust into an atmosphere, which, at that very moment, is hosting two huge air masses that are churning violently against each other. The result is a vertical tower of heat that extends several miles toward Mars. The dust is carried hundreds of feet into the air until it spills off, forming a thick, billowing cloud that is several miles wide.

The two pilots, who were flying low to avoid radar, couldn't have been more surprised when they ran into what they thought was a sandstorm. Logic and experience told them it couldn't be, for they weren't flying over desert, but over scrub plain. Nevertheless, there it was: a gritty, choking cloud, peppering their twin-engine Citation, causing them to panic in much the same way the animals below them had panicked. The Citation coughed and sputtered as its turbines sucked more and more grit into their bellies. Soon they failed to breathe, and the Citation went into a flat spin stall. The panic inside the plane was short-lived, and the wreckage was virtually unrecognizable.

As the land north of Lake Chad extended for hundreds of miles without so much as a pimple on the Earth, and, seeing as it was such easy flying, the mission control people for President Olu Tohouri quickly concluded that the Citation had been shot down. By whom, they did not know, but they would surely find out. Everyone knew what Tohouri would do if he detected incompetence, and this was going to be someone else's fault.

Tohouri was in the middle of feeding a shrimp puff—one of his favorite Western treats—to a comely young lass who'd been hired for the occasion, and who was undeniably very good at her trade despite being only seventeen. Unlike most members of the Massi tribe, the girl was light-skinned, probably a result of some French blood in her ancestry. He liked them light, and he liked them shapely, and she looked good on his arm. He thought he looked good too, when, truth-be-told, his crusty skin beaded with sweat despite the air conditioner that hummed in the window of his _Royal Palace_ , the palace which had been _willed to him_ after he'd had the former owner decapitated in a bloody coup the year before. Sitting on a Victorian sofa, he brushed the girl's heavy braids aside, and she giggled when he indiscreetly fingered a nipple through her native attire. He didn't look up when a tall Sudanese Colonel named Rabih came up and stood nearby.

"I'm busy," Tohouri said, smiling yellow when the young lass whispered something about his genitals into his ear.

"I am sorry, Your Excellence," said Rabih, using the monarchist term even though Tohouri's ascension to power was hardly hereditary. "I have urgent news."

Annoyed, Tohouri finally looked up, and, from the look on Rabih's face, decided his sexual exercise could wait. "I'll be up shortly," he said, waving off his guest to an upstairs bedroom. Adjusting the .45 on his hip and satisfied that he looked sufficiently presidential, "What is it?" he asked.

"Your Excellence...." Rabih began again.

"Call me Mister President," Tohouri snapped.

"A thousand pardons, Mister President." Normally, Rabih would have made a face at such a vain request, but not this time. "The Citation has been shot down." Rabih's eyes dropped, relieved to see that Tohouri made no move toward the .45.

"How?" Tohouri asked calmly, despite the rage evident on his face.

"It just disappeared from the sky. One minute we were talking to the pilot, the next minute it was gone."

"Where?" Tohouri demanded.

"It was crossing the border, north of the lake."

Tohouri smiled chillingly, maintaining appearances as he sipped his Dom Perignon. "Are we sure it was shot down?"

"We see no other explanation." Rabih waited nervously.

Tohouri's demeanor turned abruptly to that of a man draped in psychosis. "The bastards!" he exclaimed. "Who betrayed us?"

Grateful to shed the blame to unknown others who'd be dead soon, Rabih said, "We will find out, Mister President."

"See that you do," Tohouri commanded, "and send up the Tomcats. I want immediate retaliation to those responsible."

Rabih hesitated, debating whether or not to question the order. "Both of them?" he asked apprehensively. The F-14s had cost fifty million apiece, but that's what smuggled war planes cost. If they lost one, or both, of them.... Well, a quick suicide bullet to the head would be his best alternative. He needed to be clear on this.

"Both of them!" Tohouri ordered. "Tell them to shoot first, and ask questions later."

That was clear enough. "I'll give the orders. Do you want me to call the Libyans?"

"Why not," Tohouri called as he moved to the stairs to see his young whore. "They always have a taste for blood."

Chapter 3. Sky Soldier

A courier marched into the sprawling headquarters of the 82nd Airborne at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. The duty officer looked up, not taking note of anything in particular as he was thinking about the little sweetheart he'd met at the country music bar four days earlier. The hard-faced courier unlocked his sealed briefcase, and handed over a message that instantly made the duty officer forget about his little sweetheart. The message read: _This is an execute order, by direction and authority of the Secretary of Defense_.

"This ain't no joke, is it?" the duty officer asked. The courier didn't answer. N-hour—notification hour—had come. "It's show time," the duty officer mumbled as he ran to the downstairs portion of the building that housed the emergency operations center. He picked up the _red line_ phone, and within seconds phones were ringing all over the encrypted circuit. Within minutes, soldiers were being recalled to Fort Bragg from wherever they happened to be at that very moment. Many cursed inwardly, thinking it was just another drill—the Army was good at pissing you off that way—but regardless of that, any soldier who happened to be in the Division Ready Brigade—the DRB—during the six-week tour where they were on constant alert, put down his beer, packed up his gym clothes, left before the end of the movie, or did whatever he had to do in order to get back to Fort Bragg an hour ago. The clock was already ticking toward N+18 when the first C-5s would take off from Pope Air Force Base just down the road. Pauli was in the library six miles away when his pager went off. He was back at Fort Bragg in eighteen minutes.

Pauli was on autopilot as soon as he hit the gates. He discovered immediately that he was part of Ready Force One, the first battalion to enter the sequence for N+18. Despite the mundane nature of his activities in the ensuing minutes, he felt himself being fueled by a generous dose of adrenalin.

"Any idea where we're headed?" a fellow soldier named Zimmerman asked as they were changing into their cammies.

The cloth was thick, and the gear was heavy. The sweat was pouring down Pauli's back. "Beats me," he said, also wondering as to his fate.

By N+2, he and the rest of the Ready Force One lead battalion were in the assembly area, isolated from the rest of the men of the Second Brigade. In the hours between N+2 and N+10, Ready Force One inspected its equipment and moved it to the Green Ramp at Pope. At N+12, when Pauli was issued a five-quart bladder in addition to the usual one-quart container, plus sunscreen and lip balm, he knew he was headed to someplace hot. At N+16, when he was outfitted with protective equipment and syringes filled with atropine, an antidote for nerve agents, he knew he was headed to someplace crazy. At N+22, four hours behind schedule, with the equipment-carrying C-5 Galaxies long gone, he boarded a MAC transport for the bumpy seventeen-hour flight to their destination, and he was already exhausted. Sleep on a transport plane, in anticipation of who-knew-what, didn't happen easily. It had been all hurry-up-and-wait, and the adrenalin rush of the first few hours dissipated like fizz from a warm soda.

When Ready Force One stepped off the transport onto the scorching concrete in the middle of the Saudi Arabian desert, the smell of exhaust was everywhere. Part of the incredible show of hardware, a C-5 Galaxy with the words _Military Airlift Command_ on its belly was regurgitating its cargo. The first to be puked out were crates of 105-mm howitzers, and deadly, rapid-fire Vulcan air defense cannons. Sheridan light tanks came next, six of them, each sporting 152-mm guns. Stout HMMVV _Humvees_ came next, equipped with TOW antitank missile launchers. The final items to emerge were two troop-carrying Black Hawk helicopters, _and_ two tank-killing Apache helicopters. All this came out of _one_ C-5, and there were four more strung along the seemingly infinite concrete, with more on the way. Pauli heard an officer note to a thoroughly impressed young Saudi officer, "When the old U.S. of A. sends the 82nd Airborne, people know you're not fucking around."

Some of the soldiers cracked jokes, or tried to. Others fingered first their guns, then themselves: _This is my weapon, this is my gun. This is for killing, this is for fun._ Others tried to sleep. Pauli couldn't. He tried to analyze the situation: someplace hot, someplace crazy, someplace where chemical weapons were a distinct possibility. Instantly, he regretted that Angel Menjivar had talked him into becoming a sky soldier. It happened during his eighth week of boot camp at Fort Jackson.

* * * * *

It was Wednesday morning of that eighth week and Drill Instructor Angel Menjivar reviewed the day's lesson in his head as the bleary-eyed recruits stumbled from their barracks.

"Fall in," he called. He surveyed the men—well, they weren't quite men yet—as they assembled. He needed to pick a victim. It was a unique choice of words, but that's exactly what it was. Many of them needed his guidance badly, as the society wasn't churning out intellectuals these days, but that's why they'd joined. They wanted a chance to become something more than futureless members of a supposedly classless society, and that's why the lessons were important.

The enemy, whoever, or whatever, it was, would kill you. Everyone knew that. But, sometimes death didn't come quickly. Sometimes, soldiers were captured, and a good soldier had to be able to withstand the torture on his body by not letting the enemy torture his head. Today's lesson: humiliation. One had to be able to withstand humiliation in order to survive, a fact that Angel had also found to be true outside the Army.

Carefully, he scrutinized the sleepy faces as he mentally rehearsed his plan: unfair treatment, degradation and humiliation, bust the son of a bitch. Then he'd give the moral of the lesson, and reconcile with the victim—privately, of course. He never apologized publicly. That would tarnish his solid reputation of being a very huge prick. He had to pick the right victim, one toward whom he could be a real hard-ass and make the rest see what humiliation was all about. All of them would have the experience at one time or another. This was simply going to be a first time for one of them—someone's lucky day.

There was Miller. No, thought Angel. It would be difficult for the men to feel sorry for him. Besides, Miller was at least six-three and he didn't want to look up at someone he was trying to humiliate. That would be too humiliating. His eyes moved down the line to Petrovic. No. Petrovic was a wimp. The other guys would laugh at him. Penroy—too stupid to understand he was being humiliated. Bivens—he probably liked being humiliated. Everyone thought he'd wear panties if he had a choice, but it was _don't ask, don't tell_ these days. Rosen—no. No Jews. Campo—wait. Campo would be good. The kid was smart, and he was smaller than the other guys, but there was something about him, a certain toughness. He might react, and he, Angel, would have to crush him like a bug. The guys would feel sorry for him. They would feel the humiliation themselves. Campo it was.

Angel moved slowly down the line, the meanest, ugliest scowl he could conjure plastered to his face. When he was within a couple of feet, Angel looked straight into Campo's face. The kid's eyes were focused straight ahead.

"Is something funny soldier?" Angel moved in, the brim of his bonnet pecking Campo on the forehead.

"No, sir."

"No, sir, what?"

"No, sir, _sir_!" Pauli called out, a little more _oomph_ in his reply. A couple of chuckles floated out from among the assembled.

"Are you trying to be funny, soldier?"

"Sir, no sir!" Pauli replied. The eyes, which were focused straight ahead, made an ever so slight dart in Angel's direction.

"Then what's with the grin, Private?"

"Sir, I'm not grinning, sir."

"You're not grinning?"

"Sir, no sir."

"Then I must be seeing things, because I see this stupid, shit-eating grin plastered all over your stupid face. It's not a grin, Private?"

"No, sir."

"Well, then I must be the one who's stupid. Do you think I'm stupid, Private?"

"No, _sir_!"

"Good, 'cause I'm not. Am I, Private?"

"No, sir. I believe I just answered you, sir."

"You believe you just answered me? Tell me, Private, why do you feel you have the need to tell me you just answered me?" Angel saw the look of confusion. It barely crinkled the young man's forehead.

"I was just clarifying, sir." The eyes were straight ahead, the entire body stiff as a plank.

"Clarifying? What words do you think I did not understand sufficiently that you feel the need to clarify?" Angel's voice boomed in the post dawn coolness, as much the cause of the goose bumps on the soldiers' skins as the frigid morning air.

"None, sir!"

"None? You feel that I didn't understand any of your words, soldier?"

"No, sir. That's not what I meant, sir."

"Then what exactly did you mean, Private? I need clarification, evidently, don't I?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Well, then, I must be stupid after all. Do you always go around calling your superior officers stupid, Private?"

"No, sir!"

"So, I guess it's just my lucky day. You must think I'm very special." Angel looked up and scanned the faces of the men: frozen solid. "Private!" Angel screamed, nose-to-nose, "I think you should drop down and give me thirty!"

Angel watched as the kid dropped, only the heels of his hands and his toes touching the gravel. Thirty-one seconds later, Pauli popped back up, puffing lightly. Again, Angel went nose-to-nose. "Out of shape, Private?"

"I don't think so, sir." Pauli's jaw was working beneath the skin.

"Well, Private, we're going to give you a chance to prove it. 'Tennn... hut!" The men snapped to attention. "Right face, hhharrch!" They all turned to the right and broke into a rhythmic march. "To the fore, Private!" Angel walked alongside the men. "Men, Private Campo will lead this morning's march. All forward, double time, hhharrch!" The pace quickened, and Pauli pulled out and double-timed it to the front. The formation closed up seamlessly, forming a solid block of bodies as Angel looked at his watch. It was five after the hour.

At fifteen after the hour, he felt that little tickle he always felt when his pores filled with sweat. He turned and examined his men, noticing a distinct pink hue forming on most of the foreheads. Campo was cruising along in double time, streams of vapor shooting from his nostrils. The feeling crept over him that he'd picked the wrong guy. This was going to be painful.

"You call this double time?" he roared. "My fucking grandmother's faster than this on her worst day. Move your fucking dog ass, Private!" Angel glanced at his watch again. It was twenty-three after the hour, and they'd been on double time for eighteen minutes. About three miles, he figured. Time to turn up the heat. "To the sand soldier!" and the platoon veered off the asphalt onto the fine snow-white sand that was everywhere around Fort Jackson. The soldiers' strides became leaden as their feet sank; gasps were becoming increasingly distinct.

"Private!"

"Yes, sir!"

"What is the object of basic training?" Angel glanced across his shoulder. Perfect, he thought. The kid thinks it's a stupid question, which it was, but that was part of the lesson. Angel yelled louder. "I say again, what is the object of basic training, Private?"

"To turn men into soldiers, sir!" The words came hard between puffs.

"The object of basic training, Private, is to prepare pussies like you for combat. Soldiers are killing machines, Private. Kill or be killed, that's what war is all about. Do you understand that simple concept, Private?"

The sand was sucking Pauli's boots right off his feet. "Yes, sir!" he bellowed as enthusiastically as he could, given the banality of the comment. Twenty-five minutes.

"There are two kinds of soldiers, Private. What are they?" Pumping steadily, Pauli maintained the pace. His t-shirt was glued to his back. "I asked you a question, Private!"

"I don't know... sir!"

"Well, I'm going to tell you, Private." Twenty-eight minutes. "There's the infantry, and those who support the infantry. What kind of soldier are you, Private?"

Heaving mightily, "I... I am an infantry soldier, sir!"

Angel laughed heartily—as heartily as he could, given the burn in his chest. "You are not an infantryman. Infantrymen are disciplined, Private, and you are not disciplined. Infantrymen are tough, Private, and you are not tough. You are a pussy. Do you know what a pussy is, Private?" Angel glanced over his shoulder expecting to see a couple of smiles, but there were no smiles, just pained, florid faces, with grimaces. Thirty minutes.

Pauli didn't answer right away. Thirty-one minutes.

Angel screamed at the top of his lungs. "Answer me, soldier! Or you and your pussy friends will be out here all fucking day! Now, what is a pussy?"

"A weakling, sir! A pussy is a weakling, one who cannot, or will not, fight!"

That wasn't bad, thought Angel as the sweat rolled off his face, but that didn't matter, did it? Whatever the kid said, it wasn't going to be right. "Well, I must not be as stupid as you think," Angel called. "You see, Private, a pussy is nothing but another name for the female genitalia. Just another name for a slimy gash like the one you came from." Arrival: Humiliation City, thirty-two minutes. The kid surprised him by stopping dead in the sand, making the soldiers mash up against each other like the Three Stooges. "What are you doing, Private?"

"Take that back," Pauli said amid the heaving gasps from the men.

"Take what back, soldier?" It was time to break the kid.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about," Pauli snarled, hawking a huge glob of gritty spit into the sand. He took a half step forward, or seemed to.

So, the kid wants to dance, Angel observed. Funny, he didn't look like the defiant type. Rebelliousness and machismo made them incapable of absorbing the moral of the lesson. In battle, you sent the defiant ones into the enemy's teeth, for their single-mindedness prevented fear from making much of an inroad into their psyche. They usually died proudly.

"The only thing I'm taking back," Angel said, stepping so close his spit flicked on the kid's face, "is the notion that you could ever become a soldier. Now, get back in formation, Private. You've just earned yourself and the rest of these soldiers a trip up Drag-Ass Hill." Angel felt a little twitch at the corner of his eye.

The kid didn't move a muscle. "I'm not going anywhere," Pauli said, "and neither are you until you take it back. There was no reason for that."

What the fuck was he doing? Surely, he wasn't squaring off. Even the bravest, albeit foolhardy, recruits didn't do that. Angel remembered the last one who'd tried somehow ended up with a broken nose. Angel put on his best prick face. "The Army doesn't tolerate insolence, soldier. Now get back in formation before I have to teach you a lesson." It would be a different lesson than the one he'd intended, but sometimes that happened.

"Listen, Sergeant...."

"Listen, Sergeant?" I don't think you understand how the Army works, soldier. I do the talking, you do the listening." Angel slammed his finger into the kid's chest. It had to hurt. "Now, I'm telling you one last time, get back into formation, or you'll be sorry you ever popped out of that slimy pussy we've been talking about."

Angel never saw it, not out of the corner of his eye, not even in the last millisecond before he went down. The move was that quick. As he blew out a mouthful of sand, he thought to himself: he'd be dead now if this kid was the enemy. The knee that kept him pinned to the sand was jammed painfully into his back; his arm felt as if it had come out of its socket. With the brim of his bonnet stuck in the sand, Angel managed to hear the kid's words despite the blinding anger that almost prevented him from doing so. The kid's voice was no louder than the buzzing of the flies.

"I understand perfectly how the Army works, Sergeant. Now, you need to take back what you said about my mother, or I might just unhinge your arm."

Angel tried a violent roll, but it served only to further disjoint his shoulder. Pain flooded his eyes, displacing the seething anger there. He didn't say anything, the rapid movement of his chest being the only movement he could muster.

"I'll take your silence as an apology," Pauli said, and suddenly Angel was free, the weight lifted from his bent vertebrae. It had only been a few seconds, but it seemed like an hour. Flushed with embarrassment, Angel rose from the salty sand while shards of pain cut through his shoulder. He looked at the men. The kid spoke first.

"I'll clean out my gear as soon as we get back," Pauli said with a note of dissidence, "but you should be the one receiving the dishonorable discharge, not me."

Angel took a step forward, his fists balled. Every instinct told him to lay the kid out, although the Army frowned on that sort of thing these days. He stood there, smelling his own sweat, looking into the kid's face. The eyes were solid, holding meaningfulness in the gravity of the situation. Angel turned to the men, knowing he couldn't back down. He would fail as a drill instructor if he let the men see a chink in his armor. He turned to Campo, prepared to teach him the error of his ways, but Campo had already resumed his position at the front of the platoon.

"Shall we resume, sir?" he called clearly.

Angel looked around, not knowing what to do. He couldn't let it slide, but he couldn't just go up and deck the kid. That would have been the cheap way out, and the men would know it. He had to handle this honorably. All thoughts of the lesson were gone now. Angel picked his bonnet and his bruised ego out of the sand, and brushed them off.

"Atennnn—hut!" The men snapped to attention. "Abouu—t face! Forrr—warrrd . . . . hharrch!" He stepped off precisely, and the men fell in perfectly with his rhythm. "Left... Left... Left-Right-Left," they called off in cadence with their footfalls. "Left... Left... Left-Right-Left." The calls continued all the way back, the voices deep and stronger than anytime he could remember. Heads turned; the calls echoed off the buildings. "Left... Left... Left-Right-Left!" They stopped with a single, precise stroke, the abrupt silence as deafening as their call. Sergeant Menjivar marched stiffly to the front, and leveled a gaze on Private Campo.

"Private, you are confined to quarters until I figure out how I'm going to deal with you." Then, he turned to the men. "Fall out!" Angel turned away wordlessly, certain that he would be a juicy topic at breakfast.

"Got 'em going this morning, eh, Angel?" another DI called from across the yard.

"Right," Angel scoffed. It took him most of the day to figure out how to approach the problem, and even then he wasn't quite sure when he made his way into Campo's quarters.

Pauli was reading a newspaper. He didn't get up, and Angel understood why. This wasn't sergeant-to-private. It was man-to-man. Angel sat on the bunk next to Pauli's.

"Are you going to throw me out?" Pauli asked calmly.

"Maybe, depending on what you say."

"What do you want me to say?"

"A formal apology would be a good start."

Pauli's dark eyes were immovable. "Sorry," he said. "That isn't going to happen. You blew it, Sergeant."

The hair bristled on the back of Angel's neck, but he managed an even tone. "Tell me Private, how did I blow it?"

Pauli tossed the paper on the bunk. "I know what you were trying to do," he said, "but you went about it entirely the wrong way."

"Is that so?" Angel asked indignantly.

"You're not going to instill any sense of discipline in these men by doing to them what was done to you. They're different."

"Is that so?" Angel asked again. "How so, soldier?"

Pauli figured he had nothing to lose. "Back when you joined up.... When was that?"

"'72."

"Back then, the whole society was screwed up. There was a revolution going on."

"A revolution?"

"Yes, a revolution—with its roots way back in the forties."

Angel brushed a hand over his close-cropped hair. "I'm listening, soldier, but this better be good."

"The society is always changing, and the Army has to change with it," Pauli explained. "However it evolved, the value system for today's kids has been formed so that validation within themselves, their self-esteem, is of the utmost importance. These soldiers want self-fulfillment, Sergeant. Sometimes, I think it's gone overboard, where the only thing they think about is how something affects them, but the secret to controlling these kids is to make it come from the inside. You've got to make 'em gotta-wanna, Sergeant. Using intimidation or humiliation won't work. You gotta lead 'em, not force 'em. You gotta get 'em with sugar, not with vinegar."

Angel snarled, and there was a minute of silence. It seemed like a truce.

"Are you going to have me court-martialed?"

Angel looked into Pauli's eyes, and it was like looking into the eyes of a priest. "I'm gonna think about it," he said as he got up to leave.

Pauli picked up the newspaper. "What do you think about this nutcase in Africa who's talking about crossing the border with his armies?"

"Tohouri? That crazy bastard wants to take over the world. He's already killed half a million people, and nobody's done a damned thing to stop him."

"Shame," said Pauli. "You think we'll end up sending some of our boys over there?"

"Probably," Angel concluded. "We always do." He left the barracks and decided it wasn't late enough in the day to grab a beer, but a jolt of caffeine would do the trick.

Fellow drill instructor Sergeant Benjamin Franklin Montague pulled up at the coffee machine next to him. "So, you gonna throw his ass out?"

Evidently, his encounter in the sand was already common knowledge. "Don't think so."

Montague looked at him sideways. "It's not good to set that kind of precedent, Angel. You know what that could do to the rest of us."

Half an hour later, Angel concluded his conversation with Sergeant Montague. "It's a different Army nowadays, Montague. You gotta get 'em with sugar, not with vinegar."

* * * * *

While Menjivar had decided not to drum Pauli out of the Army, he did manage to pay some special attention to him. He'd called him to the basketball court "for a workout," he'd said; told Pauli he'd heard he was a pretty good basketball player. Pauli refused at first, but was persuaded that it would be a good idea to show up. When he did, he found Menjivar in the middle of the foul circle holding some eight-ounce boxing gloves, one pair black, one pair red.

"Put these on," Menjivar had said without a lot of fanfare. The court was deserted. "Three three-minute rounds." Angel put an egg timer down on the court.

"Why?" Pauli had asked, making no move for the gloves.

"Two things," Angel replied. "First, I need to teach you a lesson. You don't take down a noncommissioned officer in the line of duty—ever—and get away with it. Second..." and Angel hesitated, "I need to prove to myself that I can still do this job."

Pauli noted the emotion in Angel's eyes. "That isn't my problem."

"It's either this, or a court martial. Your choice."

How bad could he be beaten in three rounds? Looking at Angel's rock-hard abdomen and sinewy arms, the answer was less than comforting. "I'm no boxer," he said, wondering if he'd be able to speak as clearly with two fat lips.

Angel ignored him. "Headgear?"

Pauli looked around, not seeing any. "Guess not." The gloves felt heavy as rocks, and he wondered how one would feel rocking into his skull at fifty miles an hour. Angel popped his gloves together, and Pauli knew he was in deep shit.

"Inside the circle," Angel said as he raised his hands so they could touch gloves, sportsmanlike, before they tried to beat the crap out of each other.

Suddenly, the foul circle looked about the size of postage stamp, which he could use, Pauli figured, to mail his own teeth back to himself. Angel bent down and tapped a button on the egg timer, and began prancing around to his left, Pauli's right.

Pauli stayed flat-footed to maintain his balance. Angel's first jab banged into Pauli's right hand, which in turn banged into his forehead with enough power to snap his head back and make him stumble. The second punch rocked him from the other side. Pauli shook it off, and tried to concentrate. Look at the gloves, he told himself, but he didn't see the right one that came behind the faked left. It sent him sprawling. So, that's the way it was going to be. He raised his hands and tightened his jaw in determination—or so that his teeth wouldn't snap off; he didn't know which. Already he felt a warm trickle of blood inside his mouth. Doggedly, he stepped forward as Angel launched some light, popping jabs, three of them thumping him in the forehead in virtually the same spot. Watching the gloves wasn't working. He took a step toward Angel, who had what looked to be a smile on his face. Screw you, thought Pauli, and he tightened his hands, ready to launch a haymaker from the right side. The egg timer went off.

"I figured you'd be better than this," Angel said tauntingly.

He was better, Pauli thought, but Angel was too fast. His twisted his neck, trying to loosen himself up. He had to come up with something, and quickly, otherwise what he'd thought earlier would come true, and he'd be walking around with swollen lips and black eyes for the next two weeks. For a brief second, he glanced at the hoop. Basketball: he'd always been able to figure things out on the court. What was it he always told himself? No flash, no theatrics, just analyze the situation. It'll come to you. And don't watch the ball; watch the bellybutton. The hips will tell you where the player is going. It had to be the same in boxing. Something had to tip off what a fighter was going to do. What was it?

"You ready?" Angel picked up the timer.

"I'm ready," said Pauli, pounding his gloves. Angel put the timer on the court, and Pauli immediately fired a right into Angel's cheek, sending him staggering.

"So, you're getting serious," Angel said, drawing a bead.

Again, Pauli decided not to dance around, as it made it hard to focus. Angel fired a left. It landed. Pauli shrugged it off. Angel fired another left. Pauli was low now, moving. It missed. The eyes. The eyes got bigger just before Angel launched his punch, and, clearly, it was more difficult for Angel to hit him when he was down low like that. Watch the eyes, Pauli told himself. He threw an awkward left and it landed harmlessly on Angel's glove. He would have to fight defensively, but maybe he could sneak one in when Angel was off balance. That's what he had to do—get him off balance, then, _bang_ , smack him one but good; watch the eyes. Suddenly, in a split second, they widened, just a millimeter maybe, but they did, and sure enough a glove moved—a right. It sailed past like a fast-moving bowling ball.

Pauli crouched low, and again the eyes widened, even more this time as Angel put a little more effort into the blow. It was another right, and again it sailed past. Angel stumbled, and for the briefest moment Pauli saw where he could easily have sprung a left into Angel's jaw. A hard punch would have put him down. Angel turned and hit him with a weak jab, and the egg timer went off. There were tracks of sweat pouring down Angel's cheeks. A look of uncertainty had replaced the one of confidence. Pauli stepped outside the circle, gloves on his knees, puffing. Angel did the same. Neither man spoke.

"You ready?" Angel asked after about a minute.

"Anytime," Pauli said, thinking it sounded a little cocky. That was fine. He put up his hands. Angel decided to move around again. Pauli shot a left, more as a decoy than anything else, keeping his eyes on Angel's the whole time. Sure enough, the slits got rounder, and a left followed immediately. It was just like dancing—one, two, _cha, cha, cha_. Pauli bounced a right off Angel's head—three, four, _cha, cha, bang_! Pauli crouched, spinning to the other side of the circle, guessing that Angel would come after him. He did. One, two, _cha, cha, cha_. _POP—_ a right off Angel's nose. Three, four, _cha, cha, POW—_ a left, and then another into Angel's right eye, but Angel was no pansy. He clobbered Pauli with an unexpected left to the solar plexus. It hurt like hell, but Pauli was glad he'd gotten it there, as it would have turned his face into meatloaf. Five, six, _cha, cha, BOOM—_ a right to Angel's jaw, and suddenly Angel was down. Quickly, he sprang back up, seemingly unfazed. A fake left, he feigned to the right, the eyes round, Pauli stepped to the side as the punch whistled by. One more minute. Pauli crouched, and Angel unexpectedly put his hands in the air.

"Uncle," he called out clearly.

Pauli was stunned. "Really?"

"Really," Angel huffed. "I've had enough. This isn't what I had in mind." Angel rubbed the side of his face, trying to ease the soreness there.

"So it would have been okay for you to smack the crap out of me, but it's not okay for me to do likewise. Is that it?" Angrily, Pauli pointed a glove at Angel. "What's wrong with this picture, _Sergeant_? This is bullshit. The whole fucking Army is bullshit."

"Go take a run, soldier, and come by my quarters when you cool off."

Fine, piss on it. Damned hypocritical place. Ten weeks of his life down the drain. Pauli took Angel's advice and ran the sand hills of Fort Jackson until there was no more sweat left in his body. At 1800 hours, Pauli dutifully walked into Drill Instructor Sergeant Angel Menjivar's quarters. The chip on his shoulder weighed maybe a ton.

Angel pointed to a chair, but Pauli didn't sit. Angel didn't seem surprised. "Thank you," he said.

"For what?" Pauli responded.

"For proving to me that it's time to hang it up."

Stunned, "I didn't intend—"

Angel held up a hand. "I know. It was me who called you out, but you only served to validate what I already knew. It's been coming for months. Younger blood, newer methods, it's a new Army now, and you taught it to me."

"I didn't mean to teach you anything. I'm just trying to get through this."

"Not to worry. You're in, son, deeper than you could possibly imagine."

"I don't understand." Pauli rubbed his cheek, wondering if it looked as red as the same spot on Angel's cheek.

"It's almost time for your AIT, you know."

"Yeah, so?"

"So, what'd you decide on?"

"Communications," Pauli answered, wondering what his Advanced Individual Training assignment had to do with anything.

"Why electronics?" Angel asked.

"I don't know. I thought I could be pretty good at it. Besides, I could use the training for when I get out."

Angel paused reflectively. "Would you think about something else?"

Pauli was lost. "Like what?"

"Like this." Angel pulled a manila envelope from his desk, and slid it toward Pauli. Inside was the double _A, All American_ insignia of the U.S. Army 82nd Airborne Division, along with some brochures. Pauli looked at it with some amazement.

"You'd make a great infantryman," Angel said, "and the 82nd is as good as they come." It took four more days for Angel to finally convince Pauli to go for it. Everything had been a test all along, Pauli learned eventually. There had been a method to Angel's madness.

* * * * *

"You don't look so good," said Zimmerman, with whom Pauli had become an instant friend, seeing as they'd spent most of the time since N-hour beside each other.

_"Sshhh_ ," Pauli said as he cocked an ear toward two gossiping lieutenants. He heard some floating tidbits about the mission. "Olu... Chad... crazy bastard... killing children...." It was enough. He knew where they were going. The papers had been full of it recently—recently being the last few months. Olu Tohouri, the plainly insane and psychopathic African dictator, had formed a deadly union with the plainly insane and psychopathic president of Libya, and between the two of them, they had built up an impressive stock of military hardware. According to the papers, they were taking their show on the road and crossing borders, wiping out entire mud hut villages, women and children included.

"What are they saying?" Zimmerman asked, seeing Pauli strain to hear a few more unguarded phrases.

Suddenly, Pauli's colon tightened. "Jesus Christ."

"What?.... _What?"_ Zimmerman asked.

"We're going to a uranium mine."

"Uranium? Don't they make, like, atomic bombs out of uranium?"

Pauli nodded. "I think so."

"Just fucking great," said Zimmerman. "I don't know about you, but this isn't what I had in mind when I joined the Army."

"Neither did I," said Pauli, thinking suddenly about the days before Army life, at home in Fairfax, Virginia. Thinking about Fairfax spurred another thought. "I wonder where Ann-Marie is right now," he mumbled absently, speculating on whether he'd ever see her again.

"Who's Ann-Marie?"

Pauli pulled his chinstrap. "Just someone I used to know."

"Why 'used to know'?" Zimmerman probed.

"'Cause I fucked up," Pauli admitted. "Big time."

Chapter 4. Handprint

Shaking his unhead with a mixture of respect and disbelief, Ready Teddy said, "You started a war with a mosquito?"

"Pretty good, huh?" A sly grin curled across Abe-The-Hat's usually stoic unface. "Betcha they never saw it coming."

He was right, of course. While T.J. could figure out how to make a subsonic space vehicle run on chicken gravy, neither he, nor any of the others, were any match for Abe when it came to strategy. Surprise was a prominent weapon in Abe's strategic arsenal. It sometimes cost a few more lives down on Earth, but that was no big deal. They all knew life down there was but a brief blip in untime when compared to unlife in the afterlife, where even the end of eternity seemed like next week. A year here, a decade there, it was totally unimportant. Life on Earth was but a birth, a gateway, which began from nothing, and would make full circle back into nothing. That's how the Big Guy wanted it, and it wasn't about to change anytime soon.

The Big Guy had tried a couple of different things since he'd gotten to be the Big Guy, but he was pretty new himself. He'd tried teaching others about creation once before—that was where all that Bible stuff had come from—and it was one large mistake. Earthlings weren't even capable of understanding ubiquity, let alone managing it. It wasn't until they abandoned their bodies, or _died_ , that they discovered they were part of never-ending nothingness from which they could be reborn, if they wished, or, if they were ready, they could move on to other dimensional extensions of spatiotemporal existence. That's how they got to be one of the Big Guys, which was the next level, and there were an unimaginable number of dimensional extensions beyond that. Some Earthlings moved along quickly, taking only an Earth millennium or two to move on to the next extension, others took longer. The whole thing was rather incomprehensible, so things moved slowly, which didn't matter because, like... where else were they gonna go?

**F** ix **O** r **R** epair **D** aily, who had a real strategic stranglehold on Greenland—just in case he wanted to conquer the North Pole—announced boldly, " _Attack!"_ It was totally unexpected.

Incredulous, The Ladies' Man said, "Really?" The target was his beloved Ireland.

"Really," said **F** ix **O** r **R** epair **D** aily as he rumbled the dice in his unhand.

"You mean you're actually going to _do_ something?"

"Yes, I am. Please prepare to defend yourself."

"I'm shaking," said The Ladies' Man.

"This ought to be good," sniped Chrome Dome, who occupied Western Europe. "Call me when it's my turn." With that, he snapped his unfingers and a five iron materialized. He teed off on a couple of useless moons, knocking them into a gravitational depression.

The Ladies' Man took up one of the dice just as Klinger announced that Fric and Frac Adams were coming through the undoor with Marilyn. Jealously, Klinger eyed Marilyn's low cut dress as she oozed over next to The Ladies' Man, who looked none too pleased.

"C'mon Poopsie," she cooed as she snuggled up. "Don't be angry. We were just havin' a little fun."

"Yeah, you're a lover, not a fighter," Tricky Dickie taunted, happy to add anything that caused The Ladies' Man any discomfort. He still wasn't over that TV debate thing in '59.

"Aah, put a sock in it," The Ladies' Man snarled.

"You're fighting?" Marilyn realized. "Oh, Poopsie," she moaned. "Do it like a man." The words came out in typical Marilyn breathy tones.

Ulysses disgustedly shoved a stogie into his yap. He didn't have much unstomach for this sort of thing.

**F** ix **O** r **R** epair **D** aily piled on. "Like a man," he taunted. "Or, maybe you need Woody to back you up from northern Europe?"

"I have no need for Mista' Woody," the Ladies' Man responded, feeling Marilyn grind her huge unbozangas into his unarm. "Although, I, aah, think I'm getting one."

Green with envy, Klinger watched from the undoor. Gosh, he thought, that sure was a beautiful dress.

**F** ix **O** r **R** epair **D** aily issued one last challenge, and The Ladies' Man rolled the dice. He lost, and promptly moved off with Marilyn to plow the north forty, into which he was gazing.

"Short hitter," said **F** ix **O** r **R** epair **D** aily as he moved into Ireland. "Didn't even stay in the Oval Office that long."

"Takes one to know one," said Fearless Frankie, who was next. "Let me show you how a marathon man does it." Fearless Frankie chomped on his cigarette holder, and announced his intentions. He attacked, of course, and made quick work of Billy Mac in Kamchatka. His armies now stretched all along the Pacific in Asia. The dice moved to Calvin Cool.

Calvin Cool was in Irkutsk. Nobody ever wanted Irkutsk. Nobody even knew where Irkutsk was back down on Earth. Irkutsk and Yakutsk: they sounded like places where Fric and Frac would have had summer homes. Now, Calvin Cool was a funny duck, in that he was tighter than the ass on one. Having him as president during the Roaring Twenties was like having a schoolmarm as the warden at Alcatraz. He sure was a fidgety little guy—kind of the Barney Fife of the presidential set.

"I'm going to attack," said Calvin.

A round of snorts, guffaws, and chuckles made their way around the untable.

"Watch out," said Old Hickory. "Calvin's gonna put a bullet in his gun."

"Very funny," said Calvin, summoning up a load of determination. He proceeded with his attack, and it was sad.

Garfield The Cat was next. Garfield was the sleeper in the bunch. He was like the guy in those classroom pictures, second row, third from the left, who always had the goofy look on his face and turned out to be someone important. In this case, it was president of the United States. Garfield proceeded to extend his armies into the Middle East, easily disposing of Ruddy Haymaker, who was an old friend from their Civil War days, when they were both generals. The unGame was getting smaller.

And so it continued, the less aggressive biting the dust, as it were, relegated to spectator status, where they sat, vaporized, materialized, or did whatever they did, for they all liked to move about in mystical ways, because they could. Soon, it dwindled to nine, and it was about to be eight, but even the most ardent spectators lost interest after a while. They would pay attention again later if anyone got close to winning.

Marilyn and Klinger were huddled behind a gaseous nebula. "Mackie," Klinger said convincingly. "It's gotta be a Bob Mackie. Why, just look at it."

Marilyn leaned over and let Klinger get a look at it. "You really think so?"

"Absolutely magnificent."

"You're sweet."

"What is it, satin gabardine? I love the way it hangs on you. You're an eight, right?"

"Thirty-eight," Marilyn said proudly.

"Not those," Klinger pointed out. "This."

Marilyn sank into a little pout when she realized the object of his adoration wasn't her, but her dress.

"I just adore it," Klinger went on. He loved girl talk. "How do you think that would look in my size, maybe in a sweeping red chintz?"

There was a commotion at the undoor.

"It's Ross again," Klinger announced dutifully.

Ulysses was in the middle of analyzing his next move. "I thought we got rid of him," he grumbled. "The guy is like herpes: you don't see him for a while and, _boom_ , he pops ugly on you—and always at the worst time."

Klinger made like the Colossus at Rhodes, his hairy unlegs clearly defined beneath the chiffon. "What's the password?" he demanded as he blocked the undoor.

"Aah-hah!" Ross exclaimed. "It's just sad to think that a bunch of yahoos like you, can think y'all can keep a man like Ross-The-Boss outta your little club. Well, lemme tell ya, old Ross-The-Boss has done some checkin'. He's raised the hood, took a look, checked the dipstick—guess what he's found out? I'll tell ya. The password—that's what! Came like a bolt of lightning, clear as day. It's ready, locked, and loaded, and old Ross is ready to come in and show y'all how it's done. Now step aside, _boy_."

Klinger didn't give an inch. "What's the password?" he growled through his veil.

Ross lifted the veil. "Hold on to your hat, boy, here it comes."

Klinger chuckled a cosmic chuckle, casting a glance at the presidential audience over his unshoulder. They were all waiting for him to vanquish this latest intrusion into their quest for world domination.

Ross stepped back. "Now, y'all tell me if what I say ain't exactly what y'all is thinkin' when I say it." Ross backed off some more, giving Klinger some room. Klinger stood fast, unlegs wide, unarms crossed. Ross counted, "And a-one, and a-two...." Suddenly, a huge puff of roving anagalactic bolide atoms burst into Klinger's chiffon dress from below, causing a huge, cosmic billow.

"That happened to me once," said Marilyn.

Polk Salad was nearest the undoor. "Jesus!" he exclaimed.

_"Yes_?" boomed the unvoice.

"Sorry, Number Two, not you. But, what's that smell?"

"Tuna!" Ross roared. "That's the password! Tuna, tuna, tuna! Now, y'all go ahead and tell Ross-The-Boss that's not exactly what you was thinkin'. Cain't do it, can ya? No you cain't. I'll tell ya why you cain't. 'Cause old Ross has done got the word, made it happen, met the challenge, seized the opportunity. Ain't that so, boys?"

Mortified, Klinger turned to the untable. "Tuna?" he asked.

Georgie Boy said, "Yup. That's what I was thinking."

"Gotta give it to 'im," said Fearless Frankie.

"Ike, me and you go way back," Klinger said in a desperate appeal. "Tell me it ain't so."

"Sorry," said Chrome Dome. "That's what I was thinkin' too. Couldn't help it. Smelled just like it too—just like a big, hairy tuna."

"Jack? Now you and me has never been friends, but...."

"Aah, sorry there, J. Edga'. Definitely tuna, and I've, aah, smelled a lot of tuna in my day."

Klinger was devastated. He turned to some of the older unplayers. "T.J.?"

"Yellowfin."

"Andy Jack?"

"Tuna," Old Hickory verified. "You let us down Klinger."

Klinger hung his unhead dejectedly, making no attempt to stop Ross as he strode proudly toward the undoor.

"Step aside, FBI dick."

Suddenly, Klinger put an unhand into Ross's unchest. "Handprint," he said firmly.

"What handprint?" Klinger pointed to a glowing green rectangle at the corner of the undoor. "There weren't no handprint requirement last time."

"There is now," Klinger replied, his humiliation melting away. "You never know who can make themselves into whom up here, so we need a handprint now. Right boys?"

The presidents looked at each other in sudden consternation. Finally, "Handprint," said Woody, breaking into a chant. "Handprint! Handprint! Handprint!"

The other presidents joined in. "Handprint! Handprint! Handprint!"

"See," said Klinger, proudly defiant. "Gotta have a handprint. No tickie, no laundry."

Ross scowled. "Fine!" he spat, and he put his unhand up to the glowing green rectangle.

_"BBBBB-AAAAAAA!_ "

"Sorry," said Klinger. "Rejection."

"What do you mean rejection? I'm Ross—Ross-The-Boss. You can ask anyone."

"Sorry," said Klinger. "Your print doesn't match up with your file."

"File? What file? You got a file on me?"

Klinger's uneyes narrowed. "I got a file on everyone. No handprint match, no admission. Now scram."

"How do I know my file is accurate?" Ross whined. "I wanna see it."

"Sorry, confidential." And that was that.

"Yeah, well, we'll see about that." Ross grabbed on to a passing miniroid. "I have ways," he yelled angrily as he disappeared into a spiraling gaseous tunnel.

Klinger turned toward the untable.

"Nice going," Ulysses praised. "Where'd you come up with that one?"

"I got a million of 'em," Klinger said proudly.

Ulysses refocused. "Where were we? I forgot who was playing."

"Me," said Chrome Dome.

"The black armies are mine," called Kid Zach.

"That's me in Asia," said The True Man.

"Japan," said Fearless Frankie, cigarette holder pointing.

"You got the United States, right Georgie?"

"As usual."

"We all know where Abe is. Who's in Australia?"

"That's me," said Ready Teddy.

"Splitting your armies?"

"Split this."

Ulysses took the dice. "Are we ready to get serious, or what?"

Chapter 5. The Congo

Pauli bounced like a rubber ball inside the C-141 Starlifter as it collided with the turbulent equatorial air. What a godforsaken place, he thought. This mission was going to be different. Instead of their normal desert cammies, they'd been issued the latest in fashion for the jungle in various shades of blotchy green and black, and that meant snakes. He'd learned to take just about anything over his many months in Africa, fighting from the oven of the central plains, to the endless dunes of the Sahara, to the thin mountain air of Ethiopia. He'd gone from dropping six pounds a day, sweating so profusely his clothes stayed soaked day and night, to gasping for air so thin that he got dizzy for lack of oxygen. So far, he'd been able to endure it all, but snakes... snakes made him crazy. They would be everywhere where they were going, slithering around in the muck, and hanging from trees trying to eat his eyes. Some would have bulges the size of soldiers in the middle of their disgusting forms. _Oh, God!_ His skin crawled with the anticipation of bumping into a huge, hungry snake flicking its slimy tongue at him. Pauli reached around and made sure his knife was secured. If he had to, he'd cut the fucking thing's head off.

Unavoidably, he bumped the soldier next to him. His name was Martinez. They were packed tight as sardines, 125 men, shoulder-to-shoulder, and there wasn't even room to sneeze. The smell of sweat was everywhere.

"How much longer?" Martinez asked.

Pauli pulled in his feet as the jumpmaster made his way through the belly of the lurching Starlifter. "Soon," he said without looking at his watch. He heard the sound of someone retching, and made a mental point to not slip on it later. "Why don't you try and get some sleep?" he advised, but the thought of sleep vanished as the jumpmaster began barking orders. It was get-ready time. "We're in Congo airspace," he called above the roar. They were definitely getting close. The air was more humid and it smelled different, even in the belly of the C-141. It stunk.

Martinez struggled to his feet. "What's the mission again?" he asked, the fifty-five pound load causing him to fall off balance although it was comparatively light. All the men in Pauli's squad had light loads, since they were one of two scout squads on the Starlifter. Their weapons consisted mainly of new REC7s, or old-but-reliable MP-5 submachine guns, with a few M-203 grenade launchers thrown in just in case they needed to blow up, like, a skyscraper in the middle of the jungle. Their mission: a series of surgical strikes aimed at cutting off Tohouri's transportation routes through the Congo. Oil from wells off the coast in the Atlantic, uranium from mines in Chad and Niger, gold and diamonds from the Central African Republic, all of it moved through the Congo on roads and on the Ubangi River, both of which Tohouri used freely.

Pauli pulled Martinez back down. Get-ready meant only that you unfastened your belt. "Didn't you listen to the briefing?" he scolded.

"What's the difference?" Martinez snapped back. "The only thing I could think about was jumping out of this plane so a bunch of jungle bunnies can shoot my ass off on the way down."

Pauli grabbed Martinez by one of his straps. "Now listen up. You damn well better pay attention now, or a lot of us aren't coming back if you screw up. Keep your mind clear, soldier. Concentrate. Plan for chaos." Pauli couldn't tell if Martinez got it, but there wasn't time to find out.

"Outboard personnel up!" the jumpmaster yelled. The men with their backs against the fuselage struggled to their feet.

"Inboard personnel up!" Those seated back-to-back along the center of the plane stood up as it descended. They were approaching the drop zone, and the plane would be a mere 1,500 feet off the ground. It was the most perilous time, even more so than the jump itself where at least they would be scattered and make smaller targets.

"Hook up," the jumpmaster called, and Pauli hooked his static line. Musty night air blasted through the door. It had to have been ninety degrees, but still it felt cool as the weight of his cammies and bulky gear made him sweat like the proverbial pig.

"Equipment check." Using one hand, each soldier examined his gear from helmet to boot.

"Sound off," the jumpmaster ordered, and each soldier signaled an okay and tapped the soldier in front him. They were just about there. Still quiet. Someone farted, or worse. He could smell it. Nerves, thought Pauli; guts were rumbling.

The plane banked hard, an unexpected maneuver, and Pauli wondered if it spelled trouble. "In the door," the jumpmaster called twice, and the soldier nearest the door let go of his static line. The hook was pushed as far away as possible to avoid fouling. Suddenly, the jump light turned from red to green. "GO!" the jumpmaster screamed, and the soldier was gone. No anti-aircraft fire so far. "GO!" the jumpmaster screamed again. "GO! GO! GO!" Pauli shuffled forward quickly. Still quiet, no blasts rocking the plane. "GO! GO!" Hooks scraped against the cable; the soldiers moved forward. Two more. One more. Pauli was next. He'd jumped a dozen times now, and still this was the longest second of his life, every millisecond a distinct picture frame in his mind. "GO!" It's the last sound he hears, nothing but a muffled bark in the wind near his left ear. With rubbery knees, he's off into the blackness, hitting the silk. The next sound will be either be that of his feet hitting something, or gunfire. Either way he could end up dead.

"One-Mississippi, two-Mississippi...." At four-Mississippi, if he didn't feel the jerk of his main chute, he'd pull the ripcord on his reserve. Right on time, he felt the jerk as the main chute deployed. Quickly, he came out of his chin-down, elbows-in, feet-together position, and tried to focus on the horizon as the growl of the next Starlifter in the formation grew louder. Pauli looked up for his canopy check, but the darkness was too thick. He looked for the horizon again, barely making it out, and it looked to be rising normally in the dark sky. He pulled left into the wind, what there was of it, and he felt the chute spin. Looking down, he guessed he was almost halfway to the 250-foot mark, at which point he would lower his rucksack to lessen the jolt at landing. It was still quiet; eerie. Another pull on his risers, and that's when he saw it: a single flash of light. He knew instantly, before the next millisecond passed, that the ground around him would erupt with other flashes of light infantry fire.

His heart leaped into his throat, and his body tensed as if doing so would prevent a bullet from penetrating it. As expected, dozens, or was it hundreds, or was it thousands—he couldn't tell—of flashes punctured the darkness as the first reports, little popping needles of sound, penetrated the sound of the whooshing air. Instinctively, he yanked hard on the opposite line, trying to redirect his chute. Down, down! Down, damn it! He tugged mightily, and thought he felt a bullet whistle by his chin. Another rocked into something metal on his rucksack, and he instantly felt a burn along his ribcage. Thirty seconds to impact, he figured. Suddenly, he felt a line break, severed obviously, and his descent hastened dramatically. The flashes were all around him, a semicircle several hundred yards in circumference. Whoever was down there had waited until the equipment was dropped so they could trap the paratroopers in the sky to try and murder them in their harnesses. The howitzers and the tanks would be easy pickings after that.

Twenty seconds, falling fast, which was fine by him. He'd rather take his chances on the ground where he could shrug out of his harness and make like a mole. Fifteen seconds now, falling even faster. He glanced up, and for the first time saw where a panel on his T-10 Charlie chute had come apart. He was falling too fast! Ten seconds. He tried to focus. There, some dark shapes, chutes on the ground, billowing. The loads weren't moving. Five seconds. He didn't have time to drop the rucksack. A dark shape, right below him. He prayed it wasn't a tank. With the added weight of the rucksack and the increased speed of his fall, that could spell disaster.

He balled himself up, keeping his feet together. Three seconds. "Push off to the side," he told himself aloud, "as soon as you hit the...." _BAM!_ He landed like a pallet of bricks, and the pain shot straight up both legs from ankles to hips. He collapsed on his rucksack and rolled over, smelling the musty smell of moist dirt. His back felt shattered, and the popping of weapons fire became more distinct in his ears. He laid there for what seemed an eternity, looking up at the night sky. Soldiers were still dropping, unmoving in their descent. It was a massacre.

Suddenly, the high whine of engines roared out of the darkness, and Pauli knew instantly that the Starlifters were veering off. Had the jump been aborted? There was an alternate drop zone in the event that the first one proved inadequate for some reason, and having two thousand paratroopers shot dead in their harnesses would certainly be classified as inadequate. He tried to orient himself. From the heading of the departing planes, he was able to determine the direction of the pre-selected assembly area. As the distinct sound of AK-47s echoed around him, he shrugged out of his chute without standing, noticing there were no bullets impacting the ground around him. He guessed the shooters were too busy making target practice of his fellow troopers in the air. He tried to determine the direction of the fire, but he seemed surrounded by it.

Quickly, without thinking, he hauled off over the openness, stopping only when he thought he'd reached the northwest corner of the target zone. He waited, hunkering down at the edge of a tangle of brush and ivy, with shoots of some kind of incredibly tall grass piercing the cover. He heard water nearby, a stream maybe, but he didn't dare move. He waited, pain racking his back, his ribs burning. He put a hand there, and it came away bloody. He tunneled into the brush, raising his head only to look for the low glow of chemlights that were to be used to mark the assembly point. There were none. Rejoining his unit would be impossible. He felt for his rucksack, his only friend now, and pulled out a small flashlight. He buried himself in the underbrush and flicked it on, just for a second, to determine the time: 0300 hours. The shooting was diminishing and he heard voices in the distance, along with the sounds of laughter and occasional bursts of automatic weapons fire. They were killing in the drop zone. Without hesitation, he painfully shouldered his rucksack and slithered off into the unknown of the Congo, his REC7 assault rifle slung over his left shoulder, his M-9 bayonet in his right hand. It was time to analyze and hunker down, and kill any fucking snake that came near him.

At 0520 hours, enough of the sun's rays were breaking through the tree canopy that Pauli could make out the humidity that formed in clouds on the floor of jungle around him. At least he guessed it was jungle. It certainly wasn't civilization. Already the heat was stifling. The burn in his ribs had progressed to the point of numbness, and the noise of the jungle was punctuated by stretches of absolute stillness. Alone, tense, and exhausted, he knew he needed sleep, but he was afraid he'd wake up dead. "Don't go down," he whispered to himself. "Concentrate on the mission." Then, he scolded himself for the foolishness of his own order. "Mission my ass. Just work on staying alive." His eyelids were bags of sand, and his body gave him no choice. He dreamt of Ann-Marie.

Chapter 6. Ann-Marie

Ann-Marie Doherty wasn't the flashy type, but God had been good to her and there was no way she could hide what was underneath her expensive clothes. Holding her tray high, she passed the cafeteria tables where the college-prep guys sat, and Pauli imagined that subconsciously maybe she was teasing them by holding that tray there. It looked like she was carrying a couple of grapefruits.

Pauli always sat at a rear table away from the hotshot jocks and the brainy college prep guys. They tried a little too hard to be cool, he thought. They acted like jerks mostly, but they weren't tech-ed kids, and that made them a better brand of jerk. Yeah, well, someday he'd outclass them for sure. His mom told him that almost every day.

Pauli took a bite of his baloney sandwich, smelling the mustard as well as the motor oil caked under his fingernails. It was a weird combination, but he'd gotten used to it. Chewing, he watched as Benny Cunningham got up and went over to Ann-Marie and put his arm around her while everyone looked on. What an ass he was.

He thought about Ann-Marie as he munched his sandwich, reflecting on how she'd tooled into the gas station where he'd worked that summer. She came in regularly to pump gas into her jazzy little Miata even though there were plenty of other gas stations around, and she wore a different outfit every time, each one a coordinated effort of expensive little summer things from The Limited, or The Gap, or some other chicky mall store. Once, she came in wearing a little two-piece bathing suit underneath a flowery beach robe thing that blew open in the breeze while she pumped her gas. Her face was hidden by one of those big summer hats, but he knew that she knew that he was watching, which he was, for he was a very observant person. She didn't seem to mind. When she came to the little window to pay for her gas, he'd done the polite thing and put his head down so as to not be too obvious, but it was impossible for him to not steal a glance or two. Her skin was glowing tan, her long auburn hair naturally highlighted from summer sun.

She said, "Hi, Pauli," when he took the money, and she smiled what Pauli considered to be a sincere smile, for he was a very good judge of things like that.

He smiled back. "Hi, Ann-Marie. Going to the beach?" Then he thought: where else would she be going dressed like that? To the opera? She simply smiled and pranced back to her spiffy little Miata, while he sweated in his little booth. God, he thought as he dried his hands on his grubby thighs—he always had grease on his thighs—someday he was going to talk to her some more.

Pauli uncapped a bottle of Yoo-Hoo when Roinell came over. Roinell King and Pauli were in every class together.

"Hey. Wha's up?" Roinell asked.

"I can't believe she's hanging out with that idiot," Pauli answered, his eyes trained across the room.

Roinell sat down and chomped off half a chilidog in one bite. "You stuck on that again. I told you wha'chu gotta do, man." Roinell positioned the other half of his chilidog for insertion.

"Careful," said Pauli. "You might lose a finger."

"Funny," Roinell mumbled. "Why don't you ask her out? You've had a stiff one for her since last year."

"She'd shoot me down in a heartbeat. She's got to be the most popular girl in the junior class."

"It's a new year. We're seniors now," Roinell reminded him. He rolled his eyes over to where Ann-Marie was sitting. "You're right though. Lady like that has got to have 'em lined up and crawlin' on broken glass to get within an inch of that _thang_." Roinell was no dummy, and could be quite eloquent when he wanted to be. This wasn't one of those times.

Just then, Benny Cunningham got up with his entourage of pimply-faced wanna-be jocks. Roinell locked eyes with him as he strutted by.

"Why do you guys hate each other so much?"

"He called my mom a nigger-bitch once. I'm tempted to go out for the football team just to knock his ass into the bleachers."

"You keep eating like that," Pauli said as he peeled a banana, "and you won't be able to fit into the bleachers."

"Hey," said Roinell, patting his jiggly belly, "I'm down to three-eighty."

Pauli looked at Roinell's gut. It almost wasn't a joke.

A toothy grin suddenly made its way across Roinell's face. "You want me to take that banana over to Ann-Marie and ask if we can watch her eat it?"

"You're a bigger jerk than Cunningham," Pauli snarled, shoving Roinell's arm away.

Roinell just laughed. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"You gonna ask her out, or what? I don't see no chain tying her down. I'd bet she'd go out with you, bro."

"I think there's about as much chance of that happening, as me being voted president of the senior class next week."

"I told you, you gotta get into her world, old buddy old pal. You've got to get her to notice you, see what a sensitive guy you are." Roinell said _sensitive_ in a sensitive way.

"Like that's gonna happen. We're light years apart. She'll be off to William and Mary next year, and I'll still be at the Gas 'n Grease changing tires." Pauli retreated into his thoughts for a moment. "Mom and I are barely scraping by."

"So try out for the hoop team this year. You're still the best point guard in the school, even if you are a shrimp."

"I'm tall enough for her," Pauli fantasized.

"It is if you get her lying down." Roinell slurped his Jell-O.

Pauli shook his head and watched Ann Marie dump her tray. For a second, he thought he detected the slightest flash of a look come his way. It couldn't be, he said to himself, but it happened again, and Roinell's words echoed inside him: _get her to notice you_. Maybe he would go out for the hoop team this year. Then, the thought stopped dead in its tracks. There was no way he could work and play basketball at the same time. Mom was barely making it after the operation. Student council, however, that didn't take up much time, did it?

"Wasn't Ann-Marie on the student council last year?"

Downing a carton of milk, "Think so," Roinell answered blankly.

"You think she'll be on it again this year?"

"Beats me."

The thoughts stuck as Pauli finished his banana; student council, president of the senior class—she'd notice him for sure. Maybe he'd even ask her to the prom. Then he thought: what was he thinking? He might as well run for president of the United States.

* * * * *

Rain tapped the windows. Pauli stood in front of the mirror, nearly jumping out of his skin when a sudden clap of thunder shook the house. It wasn't much of a house, and he wondered if thunder had ever caused one to collapse. Frustrated with the bowtie—he'd never worn one before—he undid it so he could try again. Damn, he thought, this was just perfect: a huge storm on prom night. He heard a knock and said, "C'mon in, Mom." He knew it was her, for two goldfish and the cockroaches were the only other living creatures in the house.

Anita Campo opened the door and carefully placed her cane. It was almost a full minute before she was standing with her son in front of his battered dresser. "You look so handsome," she said. "You look just like your father when he was your age."

Pauli took a sideward glance at his mother's reflection. "Are you okay, Mom? You don't look so good."

"I'm fine," she lied. Another rumble rolled off in the distance. "Let me help you with that." Pauli settled into a chair, his head coming to her chin even though he was seated. "You're getting to be such a man," she said, a pained smile seemingly permanently knitted into her worn features. "Look how big you are."

"I'm only five-foot-six, Mom. I'd hardly classify that as big."

She grasped her son's biceps and made a weak attempt at squeezing. "Just look at these shoulders. They're as wide as your father's were, and he was over six feet tall." Her hands moved to the bowtie, and they moved like a skeleton's hands would move.

Pauli stopped her. "I can do this."

"Hush," she said, popping him a love tap on the head. As she finished, she lovingly brushed a tuft of hair off his brow. "Stand up and put the jacket on for me. I want to look at you one last time."

"What's with this one last time stuff? I'll be home after the prom party... maybe." He grinned slyly.

"Now, I know you're old enough to do whatever you want, but...."

"Just kidding, Mom." He stood in front of his mother and flapped his arms awkwardly.

"Oh, Pauli," she sighed. "You and Ann-Marie will be the best looking couple there. I wouldn't be surprised if you were chosen king and queen of the prom. Do they still do that?"

"I... I really don't know."

"I'm so happy you finally got to go to a prom before you graduated. You should have gone last year. If only—"

"Now Mom, we've already covered that. It wasn't your fault you got sick. Besides, I didn't ask anyone last year."

"But you should have. I'll bet there were a dozen girls you could have asked."

"I don't think so, Mom. Guys like me don't get to go out with a lot of girls."

Another rumble of thunder rolled through the house. Pauli smiled a wistful smile as a memory filled his head. "I remember when I was little, whenever I heard thunder and I got scared, Dad always said it was God bowling with his friends. I used to think that was pretty funny."

A tear burst down Anita's cheek, and Pauli hugged his mother softly, fearing she'd break. Suddenly, the beep of Roinell's car sounded above the oncoming storm. "My ride is here," he said, pangs of sadness filling the space between them. It shouldn't have been like that.

"You go," she said. "And have a night you won't forget for the rest of your life."

Pauli took one last look in the mirror. "I'll bring you a picture," he called, as he bounded into the hallway that separated the two pairs of rooms that comprised their little house. He stood in the front door for a moment. A few raindrops were coming down, about the size of baseballs it seemed, and Pauli thought he could almost run between them. He thought he heard his mother say, "It won't be necessary," and he looked into the hallway on the verge of asking, "What won't be necessary, Mom?" but she wasn't there. He pulled the door closed with a lashing sweep, jumping all three steps to the walkway. The air smelled powerfully of rain, and it churned in great warm waves. He thought about going back to see if his mom was all right, but the baseballs of rain and an oncoming rumble convinced him to open another door and get on with his life. Inside Roinell's '76 LeSabre, there was a new cardboard pine tree dangling from the rearview mirror, and the air was heavy with its aroma.

Roinell held out his hand for a brotherly soul slap. "Sa-a-a-y brother man!" Pauli barely touched it. "Well, all right now," Roinell continued. "We be doin' some partyin' tonight!" He notched the LeSabre into drive and eased the two tons of polished steel from the curb. "Are you all right, brother man? You look a little distracted."

"I'm fine," Pauli said curtly. "Mom's not feeling well again, that's all."

They came to the corner where Pauli's street met with Route 50, and Roinell flipped the switch to the air conditioning. Instantly, a rush of musty air mingled with the pinecone smell, and Roinell smiled proudly. "Fixed it this afternoon. Got to have everything perfect for tonight, you know." With that, he thumbed at the back seat. "I weaseled us a six-pack. Reach in there and get us a couple 'a cool ones."

Pauli recognized Roinell's big blue fishing cooler sitting there. "We're still under age," he said. "We don't want to get into any trouble."

"Relax, brother man. I thought of everything." Roinell reached over, popped open the glove compartment, and there sat a bottle of Scope. "Besides, ain't no sweat for me. Me and Yolanda's old man been known to share a brew before." Roinell paused as he checked for oncoming traffic. "Ain't gonna be like that with you, though. Not with that white-bread chick."

Pauli took one last backwards glance, seeing his little house shrouded in the shadow of the approaching storm. He checked his watch: 5:02 p.m. "We've got some time," he said, knowing they were to pick up the girls at six.

"We got all the time in the world," Roinell verified. "Now snatch us a couple 'a brews."

An empty feeling occupying the space where happiness should have been, Pauli reached back and pulled two cans from the cooler. It was small sin, but he'd allow himself one. "To life," he said philosophically, holding his can low so that any lurking police cars wouldn't see it. Pauli: always the careful one, even in sin.

Roinell clinked, aluminum-to-aluminum. "To life, brother man."

They motored peacefully toward Fairfax Circle. There were some flashing blue lights in the distance, popping distinctly through the darkness of the looming storm. As they passed Roinell said, "The jerk in the Volvo probably slammed on his brakes 'cause there was a paper cup in the road."

Pauli thought it was interesting how people formed opinions based on very little information. The person driving the Volvo wasn't necessarily a jerk, but then again, it was pretty inconsiderate of him or her to not move the car from the roadway. Someone scratches your bumper, so, leave the damned car in the roadway, cause a two-hour traffic jam and inconvenience the lives of, say, fifty thousand people—for a scratch. The stream of headlights in the oncoming lanes was a solid line that stretched into forever.

People could be so self-centered, thought Pauli. The Volvo driver was probably one of those people who said, "I've got my rights," a lot. He'd dealt with them at the Gas 'n Grease dozens of times. They always looked down their noses at you, like you were scum. But it probably wasn't his fault, Pauli mused. The guy had probably been taught to be that way. He'd probably grown up watching his parents get so focused on how an event inconvenienced _them_ that the thought of how it affected others never entered their minds. _Forget the fact that my stupid car had been neglected for the last ten years, and that you, Pauli Campo, tried to do the right thing by replacing the PCV valve so the car wouldn't stall out on the Beltway and I'd get killed. Forget all that. What's important is that the PCV valve is going to cost me, Mister Consumer, Mister Citizen, Mister I've-Got-My-Rights, an extra eighteen bucks, and I shouldn't have to pay it. I want to talk to the manager_. Yeah, well, Pauli always thought, you can kiss my ass, although he'd never said it. It was like the bumper sticker said: shit happens. Deal with it, buddy. He'd had to do it every day of his short life; why should it be different for anyone else?

Roinell negotiated skillfully through the traffic, and the rain, and the stupidity. As soon as they reached his girlfriend's building, a thin black man came out with a smile on his face as big as the striped umbrella he was carrying. "That's Yolanda's old man," Roinell said curtly, and Pauli listened as they talked that brother talk that only black men can do and white guys try to imitate, but never get right.

The two disappeared and Pauli sat patiently, ruminating further on questions of life, his life, his mom, the differences between people, a million disjointed thoughts, but he finally got around to thinking about Ann-Marie. He still didn't know how he did it. He'd followed Roinell's advice and just asked her to the prom, and he heard Benny Cunningham was pissed. "Better to have others _think_ you're a fool than open your mouth and remove all doubt," his mom always said. Benny removed all doubt. Ann-Marie couldn't really have liked the guy, could she? Maybe she just didn't know him well enough to know he was a jerk. She'd only been at the school since the previous year.

Her father was some high-ranking something-or-other in the Army, maybe even a general, and she was a military brat in the truest sense of the word. There wasn't a guy in the school who didn't want to get next to Ann-Marie, and she knew it. Pauli theorized that it provided some sense of power for her, but he wasn't intimidated by her little game. A lot of gossip popped up when everyone found out he was taking her to the prom, but he never talked about it, especially when the guys speculated on whether her squeezies were squishy, or hard. But, sitting there in the LeSabre, just thinking about them made him wish the air conditioner had a glacier setting.

Roinell returned with Yolanda on his arm, and her parents on either side. He opened the back door and tossed the keys into the front seat. "You drive, brother man." Pauli took the driver's seat and glanced into the rearview mirror. Yolanda looked beautiful, and Roinell looked... horny. It wasn't far to Ann-Marie's house, which was near Army-Navy Country Club, and halfway there Pauli stopped to put the cooler in the trunk. He would've asked Roinell to do it, but Roinell was busy. He wondered if it was going to be like that with him and Ann-Marie. Probably not, he figured.

Having stashed the cooler, he pulled the bottle of Scope and took a quick slosh to erase any trace of the beer sin. A white limo pulled out from one of the driveways nearby, and he spotted other prom-goers through the half-open widows, probably kids he knew. Standing there with a mouthful of used mouthwash, he suddenly felt less than opulent.

"C'mon, brother man. It's ten-after-six."

Just great, Pauli said to himself. He was going to pull up to Ann-Marie's house, in this neighborhood, in a '76 LeSabre, with Scope and beer on his breath, and he was late. Yeah, that would impress her, all right. The image flashed through his head of Ann-Marie's dad standing outside the door, dressed in fatigues like some giant GI Joe, with an M16 in his arms. As he pulled into the long, tulip-lined driveway, Pauli took one look at the three white columns that caged the front door, and choked down the golf-ball-sized lump in his throat.

"Nice crib," said Roinell, understated to the max.

"I've never been in no house like this," said Yolanda.

"Just great," Pauli said under his breath. Neither had he. A quick tug of the cuffs, a roll of the neck, and he was ready. Checking to make sure he'd gotten all the grease out from under his fingernails, he squared his jaw and marched up the walk toward ecstasy, or doom. God, it was humid; air heavy, hard to breathe. He detected movement from behind the lead column, and he prepared himself to look into the face of The Terminator. Inexplicably, he stopped and stood at attention, thinking he was dead meat. There he was—an arm, a leg, another arm, then—wait. It wasn't The Terminator. It wasn't even GI Joe. And there was no M16. It looked like... a normal person... with a smile on his face... and not much taller than himself. Pauli let every molecule of air out of his lungs.

"At ease, son," said the four-star father. "I won't bite." Pauli shook his hand.

"So you're Pauli. Glad to finally meet you. I'm Buck Doherty."

_Buck_? Didn't guys who, like, ate light bulbs have names like Buck? The handshake was firm, and Pauli squeezed harder. Instantly aware that the heavy thing in his mouth was his tongue, he said, "Glad to meet you too, there, sir." Jesus, that was brilliant. The guy was still shaking his hand, nodding, smiling, nodding some more. The eyes didn't move, and Pauli felt like he'd just been x-rayed. Buck's hand was a vise. "I'm uh... I'm Pauli Campo." Jesus, another brilliant one, like Buck may have thought he was his congressman, or something. Pauli tried to pull his hand from the vise, but Buck obviously wasn't ready to let him squirm away.

"So you're the guy?"

"I'm the what guy?" Pauli asked. He might as well have brought one of those _I'm-With-Stupid_ t-shirts for Ann-Marie to wear instead of a corsage. The corsage! Wait. Roinell said he was going to take care of that.

"So you're the guy who wants to date my little girl. I hope you know what you're getting into."

Was that some sort of sick joke? "Yes, sir. I believe so, sir," said Pauli, feeling the smile on his face turn into some jagged line like a crack in a sidewalk. He managed to extract his hand. "I'll be right back. I, uh, forgot something." He wheeled, figuring that damned walkway had to be, what? Two, three hundred yards long? Quickly, he made his way around to Roinell's side of the car. "Roinell, where the hell are the corsages?"

"Relax, brother man. I took care of it, just like I said. They's in the cooler, man." Roinell was being a brother in front of his woman.

The cooler. That's right. They were in the cooler, next to the beer. Flowers and beer. That's what was in the cooler. Pauli pulled his head from the window only to see Buck-the-light-bulb-eater standing there looking at the LeSabre. "Roinell, get the corsages, man!" Pauli jagged his head toward Buck. "Can't let him see the beer, okay?"

Annoyed, Roinell hauled his butt from the back seat while Pauli literally ran around the car to distract Buck.

"Nice wheels," Buck noted approvingly. "400 V-8, right?"

"Right," Pauli said, almost panting. "Are you into cars?"

"I love cars," said Buck. "Who did the work on this baby?"

Pauli heard the trunk lid slam and spotted Roinell with plastic-encased corsages in hand. "Roinell and I have been working on it for four months now. You shoulda' seen it when we got it. We bought it for fifty bucks."

Buck looked at Roinell's glistening face and shook his hand. "Burn any oil?"

"Engine's as tight as a duck's ass," said Roinell, handing one of the corsages to Pauli. "Pauli's got it purring like a kitten."

_Duck's ass?_ thought Pauli. He hung his head, not daring to look into Buck's face, which he assumed was now hardening into something analogous to volcanic rock. Amazingly, he felt Buck's hand on his back.

"And there isn't anything tighter than a duck's ass," Buck said as he guided Pauli back up the walk. "But we can talk about cars some other time."

Pauli shot a look over his shoulder that could have melted iron. Turning back, he stopped dead in his tracks as Ann-Marie stepped toward him wearing a tiny, shimmering black dress that would have shown a pimple on her skin had there been one there. Silk, he supposed, hugging every curve. His eyes dropped to where the neckline plunged, catching a glimpse of what was there. Jesus, he thought, that dress couldn't have been more than twenty inches from top to bottom. He heard Roinell mutter something that sounded like "Damn!" followed immediately by something that sounded distinctly like a slap upside the head. Luckily for Pauli, Ann-Marie broke his trance. "You like?" she asked, pirouetting on silver heels.

"I like," he responded, suddenly aware that he needed to pull his eyes back into his head.

"This is my mom," said Ann-Marie.

Mom could have been an older sister. "I'm Bonnie," she said. "Pictures?"

Remembering that he'd promised his mom some pictures, thinking further that if there was a way to look even more stupid, posing for pictures would be it, Pauli said, "Absolutely."

"Aren't you going to pin that on me first?" Ann-Marie asked, indicating the corsage. She stepped right up and pointed them at him, both barrels.

"Yeah, right," Pauli said nervously as he searched for a place to pin it. Damn! Roinell sure was right.

"I'll do it," said Bonnie, not so subtly tugging Ann-Marie aside before she embarrassed Pauli to death. Having found a scrap of material big enough, she stepped back and snapped off a half-dozen pictures. Pauli rushed Ann-Marie to the car, but not before her mother insisted that she take a little lace shawl with her to, "cover herself with—in case it got chilly, that is."

"Right," Pauli muttered under his breath.

Just before they got into the car, Buck sauntered over. "Are you kids going out for something to eat afterwards?" he asked, pulling some bills from his pocket and pressing them into Pauli's hand. He looked Pauli straight in the eye. He was smiling—the way a wolf bares its teeth before it takes a piece of skin off your leg—and the words came out in a low growl. "Be careful now, and don't do anything stupid, okay kids?" There was no doubt about who Buck was talking to.

Pauli looked back at Ann-Marie, at her perfect teeth and moist lips. It would all go to waste. "I won't," he said sincerely, for he had absolutely no doubt that if he touched Ann-Marie, Buck would eat him, bones and all, and all that would be left of him would be one big fart.

At the school, Roinell suggested they _toss back a cold one_ before going inside, but Pauli refused although Ann-Marie had been all for it.

"You need to chill out," said Ann-Marie.

"Yeah, brother man," chimed Roinell. "What the lady says."

Remembering Buck's warning, "Let's not do anything stupid," said Pauli. With that, he was out of the car, opening the doors for the ladies.

Ann-Marie swung out, glowing with excitement, and Pauli couldn't keep his eyes off her. She obviously noticed, and she came in close. A twinge of excitement pulsed through his body. This was going to be a night he'd never forget, all right, one way or another. Nervously, he put the shawl around her and prepared to be the envy of the free world. Then, from halfway across the parking lot, he felt the presence. He looked around as they walked, and his eyes settled on a white minivan snaking through the rows of cars. There was trouble radiating from that van, and a second later Pauli found out why. The door popped open, and Benny Cunningham stepped out in jeans and t-shirt, his Redskins hat turned backwards, eyes glassy. Clearly, he didn't have a date for the prom. The smell of beer and cigarettes immediately inundated the area.

"Well, well, well," Cunningham snarled. "What d'we got here?" Three of Cunningham's dickhead friends appeared from around the other side of the van. "If it isn't Mister President and the First Lady. Don't we look nice?" Cunningham took a step in Ann-Marie's direction.

Out of the corner of his eye, Pauli saw Ann-Marie wrap the shawl around herself. "We don't want any trouble," he said, putting a hand up. Two of the dickheads flanked Cunningham on either side.

Suddenly serious, Roinell gently moved Yolanda off to the side while he placed himself between Pauli and the third dickhead who had purposely flanked Pauli and Ann-Marie. Roinell acted like he'd been there before.

"And wha'chu gonna do there, Mister President. Pass a fucking act of Congress? We jus' wan' a little look, don't we boys?" Cunningham was clearly drunk. Clumsily, he took another step forward.

"Not now, Benny," Pauli called stonily.

"Yeah? And who's gonna stop me?" Cunningham reached for the shawl as Ann-Marie pulled away, snagging it. It came away and she stood there, chest heaving. "I'm the one should be goin' in there with you."

"Fuck off, Benny," Ann-Marie shot back. Filled with emotion, her eyes darted between him and Pauli. It was the kind of emotion that would draw blood.

"Gimme the shawl," said Pauli.

"Come get it, Mister President." Cunningham looked at his groupies on either side. "You boys wanna see what's inside that dress?" The groupies emitted a couple of drunken dickhead grunts, and Cunningham made a move.

Instinctively, when it was an inch from Ann-Marie's breast, Pauli slapped Cunningham's hand away, while Roinell intercepted a dickhead from the side, grabbing him by the throat and tossing him around like a rag doll. Roinell let go, and the dickhead dropped like a stone, gasping for air as blood oozed from the cuts caused by Roinell's fingernails. He turned to the other two. "You boys wanna dance?" They didn't. Yolanda hauled ass toward the school.

Pauli squared off with Cunningham, looking up as Cunningham was eight inches taller. "You know, Benny, you really know how to impress a girl. I wish I could be more like you."

Cunningham let out a pseudo-primal scream—the kind that was supposed to scare people—and swung a hard right at Pauli's head.

Instinctively, Pauli sidestepped and grabbed Cunningham's wrist as it flew by. In one quick, powerful motion, he brought Cunningham's arm down across his thigh, and the crack of breaking bone could be heard clear across the parking lot.

Cunningham collapsed. "My arm! He broke my fucking arm!" Calmly, Pauli looked around. The two dickheads on either side of Cunningham were at bay, while the one who'd gotten the Roinell treatment was just struggling to his feet. "You okay?" he asked Roinell.

"Never better, brother man." He looked at Pauli with some amazement. "How'd you do that, man?"

Pauli pointed upwards. "I guess I got some help from up there." He turned toward Ann-Marie. "Are you okay?"

She swung her eyes from Cunningham's writhing hulk. "Never better," she said, looking impressed.

Pauli picked up the shawl and put it on Ann-Marie. Determining they were none the worse for wear, he put his arm around her and began walking toward the school. "Let's go and have a night we'll never forget," he said, and he felt her arm circle the small of his back.

"I'll get you, you fucking little greaseball!" Cunningham screamed.

"Now, is that any way to talk to your president?" Pauli called over his shoulder. They all laughed.

They were almost to the main entrance when Yolanda came bursting through the door. A teacher, Mister Clancy, was right behind her, and Pauli figured he was in deep shit. When this got back to Buck, he might as well kiss Ann-Marie goodbye.

"Pauli," said Mister Clancy. He had a strange look on his face. "Do you know a Teresa Dunleavy?"

"Yes, why? She lives across the street from me."

"Pauli, we got a call. She knew you were going to the prom, and well...." Clancy looked into the distance, his eyes moist.

"Just say it, Mister Clancy.

"It seems there's an ambulance in front of your house, Pauli. It's your mother. She dialed 9-1-1. She's...."

Pauli looked into Mister Clancy's eyes, and he knew. He looked into Ann-Marie's eyes, and she knew. He looked into Roinell's eyes, and they were already filled with tears. "She's gone, isn't she?"

Mister Clancy just nodded and looked into the ground.

* * * * *

The rustle of breaking branches slammed him into consciousness and Pauli instinctively reached for his weapon.

"Easy, Sergeant."

Pauli shook the sandbags from his eyes and focused on the grease-painted face hovering over him. "Where am I?" he stuttered. Half of him was still in the dream, but the pain in his ribcage answered his question.

"You've been hit," the soldier said as he began undoing Pauli's cammies.

Pauli stopped him. "We've got to get out of here."

"Nowhere to go," the soldier said. "We're it."

"What do you mean, we're it? You and me?"

"And them." The soldier jagged his head toward four dirty soldiers behind him. "You're not going anywhere right now. Looks like it bounced off a rib. Hurt much?"

"Ooowww!" Pauli howled as the soldier examined the wound.

"Guess so. My name's Coughlin. This here's Walker, Hollands, Grevey, and.... Sorry, I forgot your name again."

"Ali," said the fourth soldier. They all kind of waved.

"Campo," said Pauli. "Everyone calls me Pauli."

Coughlin hesitated. "Campo? You the same Campo who took out six machine gun nests in that bloodbath outside Tahoua?"

"How many Campos can there be?" Pauli answered.

"Well, boys, we got a real life all-American war hero here. I heard all about that stunt all the way over in my outfit. Even heard my CO say something about you getting the Medal of Honor for that one."

"Yeah, well, whatever." Wincing, Pauli finally got Coughlin to back off and stop sweating on him. The Medal of Honor was the last thing on his mind. Big deal. He kept thinking about the dream, about prom night, and being back with Ann-Marie. "What happened out there?" he asked, trying to stand and collapsing into a heap.

Coughlin squeezed Pauli's leg. "Feels like your knee is out of joint."

"No shit. Well?"

"As best we can figure, the drop zone was surrounded, like they knew we were coming."

"That's what I figured too."

"The planes must have hauled ass to the alternate drop zone. I guess they figured sacrificing a couple of hundred was better than sending a couple of thousand on a suicide mission. I still don't feel too good about being abandoned like that." Coughlin's face twisted into an ugly scowl. "Who gives a damn about what happens over here, anyway?"

In a way Pauli agreed, but, then again, he didn't. What made the lives in this part of the world any less valuable than anywhere else? Were poor, uneducated Africans lesser human beings than their Western saviors? What Coughlin had just said rang in Pauli's ears: _abandoned_.

"The bastards was out pickin' bodies before the sun came up," Coughlin continued. "It was like a fuckin' grab-bag party. I was tempted to run out there and mow the bastards down."

"And you'd be dead if you did," Pauli countered. "How'd you guys find me?"

Coughlin chuckled. "We heard you snoring. Thought it was some kind of fuckin' lion, or something. That must 'a been some dream you was havin'."

Pauli thought of the dream again. He could have languished in it forever, but Coughlin's Texas twang brought him back to reality, that being that he might never see Ann-Marie again. He hadn't heard from her in months. Last he knew, she was talking about going to law school.

"Boys, let's make up somethin' we can use to carry the Sergeant. This old boy's not goin' anywhere the way he is. I think maybe we try and find some water that won't kill us, and put some food in our bellies, and then try and head off toward the alternate drop zone. With any luck, we'll bump into somebody without getting our asses shot off. Whatd'ya think, Sergeant?" Coughlin fished a couple of MRE's from his rucksack. "You're the senior man here."

"Just watch out for the fucking snakes," said Pauli.

Chapter 7. Monuments

"Aah, I do to have a monument," said The Ladies' Man.

"Yeah," Bobbie chirped, flitting around like a gnat. "He does."

Ulysses coughed up a hearty cackle and shoved a gooey stogie into his unteeth. The unplayers were taking a break from world domination. "You call that a monument? Hah! It might make a handy-dandy little lighter, though." He blew a huge plume of smoke toward the brothers. Clearly, he didn't have much use for either of them; too starchy for his unblood.

"Like, aah, yours is so impressive," The Ladies' Man sniped weakly. "Who's buried in that tomb anyway... aah... Hiram?"

His jaw tight, Ulysses fixed a burning glare on The Ladies' Man. "Now how'd you know my birth name was Hiram? Nobody calls me that," he challenged. "Not nobody."

Bobbie cowered behind his brother, and Ready Teddy chortled with contempt. Like Ulysses, he didn't have much use for the preppy little twerps, although sometimes he masked his disdain, seeing as The Ladies' Man was a fellow Ha'va'd man. There were several of them, but that was another clique entirely.

"What's so funny?" T.J. asked, coming up to the group.

"We're talking monuments."

"Ah, that again." T.J. knew the pride with which the former presidents regarded their memorials. All of them had bridges, and highways, and buildings as namesakes, but that wasn't quite the same. It was tough to get a monument.

Ready Teddy put an unarm on T.J.'s unshoulder. "Expansion and Conservation," he declared.

"Political Philosophy," T.J. declared back.

"Founding," Georgie Boy chimed as he joined them.

Taking another unguarded opportunity for deliberation, Abe-The-Hat finally got up from the untable and came over to lash unarms with the other three. "Unity and Preservation," he added, completing the last of the four philosophical representations of Mount Rushmore.

Ready Teddy beamed like a sun. "The Fearsome Foursome," he pronounced victoriously, for whatever reason. "We're the biggest monument, and the best. Right boys?"

Suddenly, a dark cloud loomed over the untable. The presidential unplayers looked up, and they saw nothing, for nothing was there and it was blocking out Torlan—that was the particular star they were using for light that particular unday—which was as powerful as twenty pre-Mordial suns. As wisps of nothing streaked between circling flows of volcanic matter and cataclysmic garbage that dotted the continuum, beams from Torlan shot sporadically through nothing, strobing irregularly in great, blinding flashes. The unplayers became instantly annoyed—even Mister Peanut who normally had about as much spunk as cottage cheese.

"What is it this time?" he asked.

"It's The Shadow," said Georgie Boy, and he immediately covered his mouth as a beam from Torlan, intensified as a result of passing through nothing, began burning a hole in one of his wooden bicuspids. Ulysses pulled another stogie from his pocket and lit it off the beam, saving Georgie Boy from a wooden cavity.

_"Huuuuaahhaa-a-a-ha-ha-ha_ ," The Shadow bellowed, the sound waves so concentrated that they flattened the sides of several small moons around Melnom. " _Huuuuaahhaa-ha-ha-haaa_ ," The Shadow bellowed again as it swooped over the unboard. All the unplayers covered their positions.

"Klinger, how the hell did he get in here?" Chrome Dome hollered. "Didn't you learn anything about surveillance during all those years at the Bureau?"

The veil from his pillbox hat swishing as he turned, Klinger looked at the undoor in disbelief. "I was watching, General. I swear I was. Hell, I watch everybody. I just didn't see him."

_"Huuuaahh-ha-ha-ha_." The Shadow blew past, knocking off Klinger's hat, which snagged on one of the belts around Vormax and began spinning around and around like a blob of bubble gum on a Beatles album. Then the preaching began, and The Shadow's unvoice echoed beyond the furthest reaches of existence. " _I have a dream today. I have been to the mountain—Huuuaah-ha-ha-ha-ha_." The unvoice rang in deep, deafening tones, sending chills up the unspines of the unplayers. " _I have seen the face of the devil which rules the mountain, and I have fought with him who dares to push me back down into the valley of servitude.... Saaay...a Hallelujah!_ "

"Make him stop!" cried Mister Peanut, covering his unears.

"I have stared into the eyes of oppression. I have traveled back from the depths of the waters of the oceans of the worlds where hate and destruction rain upon the small, and the desolate, and the forgotten, who fester among the many that would quash them like so many unwanted ants that wallow in inequality.... Can I hearrrr..a an Amen!"

"What did he say?" T.J. asked. "I haven't heard language like that since the Declaration."

_"I have come from the personal hell of sin and damnation, and I have climbed up, brothers and sisters. Up, up, up, the mountain, up the slope, up the hill to fetch a pail of water. Praisssse..a be to Jesus!_ "

_"Thank you_ ," the unvoice boomed.

"Don't mention it," said The Shadow.

Ready Teddy moved from his position, grabbing the biggest inert planet within reach. "Goddamn it," he howled, "I've had about enough of this!" and the planet exploded in his unhand. " _OOOOWWEEEE!!!"_ he screamed, shaking his unhand as if he'd merely grabbed a hot pot. "For crying out loud, Big Guy, what did you do that for?"

_"You said God damn it. I thought you meant—_ "

"Not the planet—him!" He thumbed at The Shadow which, or who, was now swooping over the untable again. "Would you make him stop? I've got an unGame to win."

_"Well, make yourself clear_ ," said the Big Guy, retracting his words immediately. " _Well, not literally. We've got enough trouble with him._ "

"You gonna make him stop, or what?"

_"Yes, fine_ ," the Big Guy muttered, adding under his unbreath, " _You'd think I was some sort of mind reader_."

_"Hhhhuuaah-ha-ha-ha!"_ The Shadow howled as he stuck his unthumbs in his unears and made waggy-waggy, trying to scare the pants off Mister Peanut.

_"Martin_ ," said the Big Guy.

"Hhhhuuuaah-ha-ha-ha!"

_"Martin Luther!"_ They all knew the Big Guy meant business when he used their middle names. _"Leave him alone."_

Defiantly, Kid Zach hawked a goober into a celestial sinkhole. What nonsense. If only he'd been president more than sixteen lousy months. He'd have had a monument. Yes, siree, taller than Georgie Boy's, which stuck up like some big pecker, and bigger than Abe's, bigger even than the Fearsome Foursome. Fearsome indeed. He was the one who should have been feared. The Kid stewed while the Big Guy took care of The Shadow. Now, the fact that Georgie Boy had a monument was understandable. After all, he'd been the first and by most standards he'd been a pretty good president. There'd been plenty of others around, like Al _The Taxman_ Hamilton, or Electric Benny Franklin, who'd have given a kidney to be first, but Georgie Boy was the right man, in the right place, at the right time. Not only was he a _leader_ , he was a _warrior_ , not like some of the other revolutionary punks who thought themselves to be cast of the same mold. Take T.J., for instance. He had three monuments, and he'd never even friggin' _fought_. Something wasn't right about that.

Kid Zach looked at his competitors around the unboard, and analyzed the intensity of their quest for world domination. Ready Teddy was more wind and fury than anything else, and The True Man didn't present much of a problem either. Fearless Frankie? Lots of experience, but lacked the killer instinct. The Kid's attention moved to Abe: darkly intense, deeply passionate, and disturbingly analytical. Nothing got by him—no flanking maneuver, no sneak assault, no multi-pronged attack—nothing. The Kid made a mental note to make sure he had superior forces in any battle with Abe. It was the one rule of battle that worked about ninety-nine percent of the time.

Then there was Chrome Dome. Now there was a fighter, Kid Zach had to admit. Chrome Dome had been a soldier almost as long as he himself had, and he'd commanded much bigger armies. He'd be tough, as tough as Abe-The-Hat maybe, and unpredictable. That D-Day thing had proven that.

Finally, there was Ulysses. Now Chrome Dome was intimidating, but nowhere near Ulysses. Chrome Dome was _humane_. He never went past the point of gaining tactical advantage, while Ulysses would grind you into the bloody dirt. He'd go after your last man, and then he'd turn his back so he wouldn't actually have to see what happened to him. Words like _bulldog_ , and _butcher_ had been used to describe him, and he drank his way through the fiercest of all wars. Ulysses was scary. If he hadn't been such a crummy president, he would have had a much more impressive monument than that crappy tomb.

The short break ended and the unGame resumed. Sooner or later, he would win one of these, thought Kid Zach. Then he'd make sure that history would somehow rewrite itself, and he'd have a bigger and better monument than anyone else who was allowed through the undoor.

Chapter 8. Captain Pauli

Jungle animals descended on the campsite, the smell of blood and cooked flesh thick in their nostrils. The fire and the activity kept them at a distance, as did the occasional burst of automatic weapons fire. The huge fire danced gleefully as it waited to be fed another tasty head. Hanging between two stakes like a wilted plant, Pauli struggled to keep his eyes above level as they drifted like buoy markers. He hadn't had anything to eat in four days, to drink in two. A shiny flash caught his eye, causing him to lurch uncontrollably. What was happening on the other side of the huge pit he and his men had been digging for the last two days was sickening despite the laughter and drunken roars that erupted with each swipe of the machete. It was only a matter of time before it would be his head that would roll to the center of the sloping campsite. The camp master swigged on a bottle of whiskey, and grasped the next victim by the hair.

"Where are the rest of your soldiers?" he bellowed, the r's rolling in unfamiliar syntax.

"Fuck you!" was the response, and the soldier's head rolled off to meet the others ringing the campfire. The hair burned first.

The next soldier didn't wait for the question. He simply spat at the face of the camp master, indicating his desire to join the barbeque. The camp master was only too willing to oblige. "Swwommpp," went the machete, its edge not so easily cutting through bone and sinew, it having done so thirteen times before. The camp master held the head for all to see, and the savage captors howled their approval. The body slumped between the stakes, oozing.

On to the next victim. "Where?" he asked again. He had to make a second swipe this time, which he did with incredible impunity. Just doing his drunken job, with no more feeling than if he were killing a chicken for dinner. Dog tags tinkled to the ground.

Pauli erupted into dry heaves. It was his fault, he thought. As platoon captain, he'd insisted on moving forward those extra two hundred yards. He should have seen how the landscape tightened, how they were being funneled into a bowl in the earth. He should have seen that the only way out was the way they'd come in, but he didn't, and now another soldier died because of his mistake. He deserved to die.

Pauli stood as best he could as the camp master proceeded toward him. He put his mind into another dimension, no longer part of the Earth, no longer at the campsite in the equatorial jungle of the Congo. He was somewhere else: back in Virginia with his dear departed mother, with the girl he'd never made love to, with his best friend who happened to be the same color as the demon in front of him. Forty men would die because of his mistake. Seventeen already had. The camp master came up, and Pauli looked into the contorted face of the devil himself. He felt his soul preparing to move into the next phase of its existence, and wondered if the men who'd just died would be waiting for him.

With blood glistening on the blade, the camp master motioned with the machete, apparently asking for approval to rip Pauli's abdomen open and let his bowels curl onto the dirt in front of him. The camp master swigged more whiskey, his eyes glowing red with rage and hate, his face the incarnation of evil. Pauli closed his eyes as the camp master positioned the blade, and then opened them immediately in order to look his murderer in the eye. He let out his own primal scream as the blade came toward him. The yell was the sound his soul made as it left him, and he held the note for an eternity....

_"Aaaahhhhh!"_ He jumped from the bed.

"Jesus, Pauli, are you okay?"

His eyes snapped open. He waited for the pain. When it didn't come, he realized he was awake, but still he looked down to see if he'd been ripped open like a melon. "I'm fine," he said unconvincingly.

"You don't look it," his teammate said. "Damn vein in your head's poppin' out like a fire hose. You sure?"

"Yeah," Pauli said coarsely. "I'm fine. What time is it?"

"Almost five. Two hours till game time. You gonna be okay?"

"Damn it, Augie! If I say I'm okay, I'm okay. Okay?"

"Okay," said Augie, holding up his hands. "Just showing a little concern for my fellow man, is all." Then, talking to himself, "Don't look none too okay to me, though. Looks to me like you just saw the devil, himself." Augie had no clue as to how close to the truth he spoke. "You gonna shower before the game?"

"Sounds like a good idea," Pauli said. A shower would clear his head. Showering before a game was a habit he'd picked up from Augie—August Woods by his proper name—who treated basketball much the same way other people treated church. Pauli liked the discipline in the young man—he could say that, for Augie was six years his junior—and together they made one of the best backcourt combinations on the east coast. They knew each other's moves like dance partners. Pauli led.

Augie was six-foot-six, rail thin, with skin the color of melted chocolate, and moves almost as smooth. As long as he stayed healthy, he'd make the NBA draft for sure, everyone figured. "You been havin' the nightmares again, ain'tchu?" he asked as Pauli padded toward the shower, a towel wrapped snugly around his hard stomach.

At twenty-seven Pauli carried a little more weight than he did as a twenty-two-year-old paratrooper, but not much. Pauli didn't like talking about the nightmares.

"Which one was it?" Augie pressed. "The one where they shot the children, or the one where they chopped off all the heads?"

Pauli glanced at Augie who was idly flipping through a girly magazine. Not answering, he popped into the shower, turning the water to cold. He needed to get himself out of the hallucinatory funk into which he'd been drifting lately. He'd been able to get himself out of it for a while, but this past year, his final one at Alliance College, the nightmares had come back.

The visions crept into his consciousness at the most inappropriate times—as if there were appropriate times to remember horror. Sometimes they came during exams; other times just before meals, putting him completely off his food, once even in the middle of a date. That was some date, he remembered. The poor girl must have thought he was schizophrenic. _Snap out of it_ , he told himself; _time to concentrate on the game_. He walked out of the shower a new man, his awful memories washed down the drain with the bath water—for now.

"You up?" Augie asked, seeing Pauli's brisk movements.

"I'm up," Pauli answered, signaling thumbs-up.

That seemed to relax Augie, as if his own performance depended on Pauli. In reality, it did. Augie would have been nothing without Pauli, and the same could be said for the team.

Pauli was a walk-on. After two years of community college, he'd decided to maximize the benefits afforded him through the Army's continuing education program, and he applied for admission to Alliance College. Walking on hadn't been that tough. Not after what he'd been through. If he made it, fine. If he didn't, that would be just as fine. He'd made it, though; beat out all the scholarship hotshots. He'd just decided to do it; that was it—just decided, and he was a Captain again, a term that reminded him constantly of everything he was trying so desperately to forget.

Augie was a bundle of jitters. "You nervous?" he asked.

"Just another game," said Pauli.

"You call playing for the championship just another game? You're ice, man."

* * * * *

In an unusual ceremony before the second half, the nationally famous evangelist, the right Reverend Billy Solomon, led a prayer for the American fighting men who were tangled up in the current wave of insanity on the African continent. Pauli listened as the Reverend, in his own inimitable manner, appealed for the insanity to stop.

_"I have seen the face of the devil who rules the mountain, and I have fought with him who dares to push me back down into the valley of servitude_." A cheer rose from the crowd and the Reverend basked in the adoration. He waited until the applause trickled to a smattering.

_"I have stared into the eyes of oppression_ , he boomed. " _I have been to the brink of salvation. I have traveled back from the depths, back from where hate and destruction rain upon the small and the forgotten who wallow in inequality.... Can I hearrrr..a an Amen!"_

Another enormous cheer thundered off the walls. Pauli felt the vibrations of the crowd's intense " _AAAA—mmeenn,_ " as it responded as a single entity. Strange, he thought. He was sure he'd never heard the words before, but they sounded hauntingly familiar. Somehow, he knew what was coming.

"I have walked the road to damnation, and I have come back from the brink. I have gone down, brothers and sisters, down, down, down, and I have climbed back to the top, until I have touched hands with him that brings us our holy bread.... Praisssse..a be to Jesus!"

The crowd was churning itself into a frenzy. Shouts of _Praise be to Jesus_ echoed the Reverend's passion. " _Arise all ye brothers and sisters, and touch the hand of the Lord."_ He motioned for the people to stand. " _Pray with me, brothers and sisters. Protect our men...._ "

_"Protect our men!"_ the crowd screamed. Pauli found himself mouthing the words, surprised that he was getting caught up in it.

_"Stop the killing!"_ the Reverend hollered.

_"Stop the killing!"_ the crowd responded.

Pauli felt himself reacting to the emotional momentum. He'd seen the killing, and, standing there in basketball shorts, it was as clear to him as it was back when he'd ingested the unforgettable reek of decomposing corpses.

_"Bring our boys home!"_ the Reverend howled, and the crowd almost came apart. If the air were any more charged, it would have glowed.

_"No more war!"_ the Reverend chanted, and people started coming onto the court, fists pounding the air. Police appeared, making a feeble attempt at control. The team's chairs were being tossed into disarray. _"No more war!_ "

Pauli felt himself being pushed toward center court. Suddenly, inexplicably, as he was being carried by the wave of humanity, the Reverend's eyes found his. Just as inexplicably, despite the hundreds of bodies that separated them, the ties between them were magnetic. The crowd continued to chant. " _No more war! No more war!"_ Almost imperceptibly, Pauli made a little wag with his head. The Reverend's eyes narrowed, and his enormous smile collapsed. Again, his eyes locked on the Reverend's, Pauli shook his head. Enough, he said wordlessly. The Reverend turned away. In a single, abrupt motion he put his hands above his head. His features stern now, realizing he was endangering lives, he slowly eased his hands apart as if he were tying a bow. In an act of sudden compliance, like a thundering avalanche suddenly still, the chanting subsided, reduced to a few isolated shouts from the cheap seats. It was like magic.

The Reverend approached the microphone and waited, making the crowd endure the silence. Sweat dripped from his chin. _"Brothers and sisters,"_ he said in a low growl. _"Let us here in this arena, and all of you watching at home, let us bow our heads in a minute of silence and pray for all of the sons and daughters who have died in this struggle. Let us pray for the ones who are yet caught up in this madness, and let us pray that this insanity will never see the shores of this great nation."_ The Reverend turned his face somewhere in the direction of the TV cameras. _"Let us pray,"_ he whispered, and North America descended into total silence.

* * * * *

The TV commentator, a former NBA star, had his arm around Augie, who had his arm around Pauli, sort of. Actually, Augie had his arm around Pauli's head, as Pauli was fully a foot shorter. The commentator, groomed to perfection, asked the questions into the camera, serving them up like big softballs so it would be easy for Augie to come up with mindless non-answers.

"So, August," he said, "how's it feel to be voted the game MVP?" He shoved the microphone into Augie's face.

"Call me Augie," said Augie. "Everyone calls me Augie."

"Okay," said the commentator, smiling condescendingly. "How's it feel... Augie?"

"It feels great," Augie said, really hitting that one out of the park.

The commentator snatched the microphone back. "I'll bet it does," he said obnoxiously. "How do you think the other team played tonight?" Another puffball.

Augie awe-shucked it in front of the camera. "They played okay," he said, "but we played harder." Another home run.

Despite the frozen smile, the commentator's face suddenly became contorted as if he had a sudden stomachache. His producer was making the s-t-r-e-t-c-h sign. "Yeah, well, okay then," he said to the millions of viewers who were sitting on the edges of their seats. "And to what do you contribute the reason for your own fine play this evening?"

Augie paused. He thought he knew what the question was: _to what do you contribute the reason...?_ The commentator's eyes began darting back and forth between Augie and everything else in the arena. "I gotta credit my play to Captain Pauli. He was the one who told me what I had to do." Augie almost had Pauli in a headlock.

The commentator's face brightened, and he pushed the microphone into Pauli's face. "And this is Captain Pauli Camponetti, of Fairfax, Virginia," he said. "What did you tell Augie?"

"That's Campo, not Camponetti," said Pauli.

The commentator had that look—the one that said: _Yeah, well, whatever_. Thankfully for him, Augie bent to the microphone.

"I'll tell you what he said. He told me my man was overplaying me. Pauli told me I should shift to my left and look for the double team, or for the zone to collapse if they were in their three-two. A few times I didn't wanna take the shot. You know, I thought maybe I was gunning the ball too much. But Pauli said not to worry about that, and do what I had to do." Augie smiled down at Pauli. "He says that a lot, you know. Do what'chu need to do." Augie hugged Pauli around the shoulder. "Pauli's my man. He's been our coach on the court all season, and I'd like to dedicate this MVP award to him." Augie held the plaque above his head, and the crowd cheered.

Now _that_ was what interviews were made of, thought the commentator. From off camera, someone handed him a slip of paper and his face brightened even more. "Pauli, it says here you were a walk-on at Alliance, and that you never played high school ball. Is that true?"

"Yes," Pauli said simply.

The commentator stood there, smiling widely and looking at the piece of paper to make sure he didn't screw up. "Tell me Pauli, I know you were in the 82nd Airborne as one of our proud fighting men over in Africa. Which was harder, being a walk-on at Alliance, or winning the Congressional Medal of Honor?" Expectantly—for it was a brilliant comparison—the commentator quickly shifted the microphone down to Pauli. Now _that_ was a question.

Amazed, Pauli looked at the commentator, but politeness prevented him from verbalizing his answer, which was fine because, from off camera, the woman's voice carried quite easily.

_"That's the stupidest fucking question I've ever heard in my entire life_ ," came across loud and clear to fifteen million households throughout America.

Pauli looked around for the source of the comment while the mortified commentator tried to crawl into his own pocket. Ann-Marie Doherty and Roinell King both waved mischievously in his direction.

Chapter 9. Green On Money

As soon as they walked up to the place, he knew he was underdressed. Ann-Marie said they were going _someplace special_ to celebrate so he'd dressed what he thought was accordingly. Everyone there was Tommy Hilfiger. He was J.C. Penney. Occasional blasts of escaping loudness interrupted the chatter of patrons waiting in line, causing them to wiggle in place in anticipation of being overcome by all the fun inside. Pauli looked behind him, his eye drawn to a girl with purple lips and a ring in her tongue. She was dressed in skintight gold lame, and he wondered if it was necessary for her nipple to be poking through a specially-coutured hole in her shirt. "What's the name of this place?" he asked quietly.

_"Anthrax_ ," Ann-Marie yelled above a sudden burst of beat.

"Ah. Charming."

Ann-Marie craned to see how close they were to being admitted. "We're almost there."

"Can't wait," Pauli replied, his smile strained. A couple more blasts of music escaped, and suddenly they were looking at a tattoo of a skull prominently displayed on the bouncer's skull. Interesting, Pauli thought: physical onomatopoeia. The bouncer made no attempt to hide his admiration of Ann-Marie.

"How much?" Pauli asked loudly to get the guy's attention.

"Fifteen bucks." Pauli forked over the cash. "Each," the goon added, taking some pleasure in the word. His eyes never left Ann-Marie.

Pauli followed her through a gauntlet of bottle-bearing meatheads inside, thinking she smelled exactly what a captivating, seductive woman should smell like. Heads turned. Yeah, well, she was with him, he sneered. The music, if it could be called that, was incredibly loud.

"Do you think they're here yet?" Pauli yelled into her ear. Searching, Ann-Marie craned her head high, stretching her blouse tight to her body. She looked as good as she'd ever looked, thought Pauli. She'd moved gracefully into womanhood, and she'd managed to control the fullness that years could add to an already voluptuous body. Of course, it hadn't been that many years, but there'd been enough to where the tiny lines in her face began to add a sense of character where previously there had been nothing but soft, flawless youth.

"I don't see them!" she yelled. "Let's walk around."

The place was packed. Somewhere, Pauli imagined as he followed her like a child being led along by his mommy, was a dance floor. The skinny, black, forty-something-year-old wearing the Indian headdress looked especially interesting, but that seemed normal in this place. He, Pauli—the one wearing the crisp, pinstriped shirt—was the one out of place. Nothing to fear, he realized as one of the younger meatheads said, "Damn!" when they passed, as long as he was with Ann-Marie, he'd be about as noticeable as a wart on a toad's ass. Eventually they found the objects of their search. Roinell and his lady friend were at a tiny, round table in the back where the intensity of the music was reduced to that of a small aircraft engine. Roinell greeted them with a fondness formed by years of intermittent familiarity. He hugged Ann-Marie first.

"You're lookin' good, baby. The years haven't been bad to you at all. Not one bit."

Ann-Marie took the compliment like a woman who'd heard a lot of them. "You're not looking so bad yourself," she said patting his tummy.

Roinell's face glistened as it always had, despite the fact that he'd dropped about fifty pounds. Looking successful, he was dressed in a sharp suit, the tiny knot of his tie nestled securely above a shiny gold collar clasp. Pauli tugged his collar, wondering if it looked sloppy.

Roinell put his hand out. "Long time no see, bro."

A waitress with green hair came over, and the pleasantries went quickly. It sounded like she said, "What'll ya have?" but it was hard to tell as the thing stapled through her tongue seemed to get caught up in her wad of Dubble-Bubble.

"Appletini."

"Black Russian."

"Buttery Nipple."

Buttery Nipple? thought Pauli. The waitress was waiting. "Beer," he answered, unable to think of something trendier.

"What kind?"

"Cold."

The waitress made a face and moved off.

When the drinks arrived, Roinell pointed at the heavy amber liquid in Ann-Marie's glass. "Buttery Nipple?"

She grinned mischievously. "They're really good. Would you like one?" She straightened her back slightly for effect.

Roinell actually blushed and shook his head. "You haven't changed a bit."

"Should I have?"

"Not really, but I always wondered if there was another Ann-Marie behind the facade."

"Facade? What am I, like a building or something?"

He smiled. "Honey, if you were a building, you'd be on Bourbon Street."

"Thank God."

"Thank God?"

"Yeah. That means I finally moved out of that brick shithouse I've been hearing about all these years." They all laughed. She turned roguishly toward Pauli.

"I have something to tell—" Roinell began, but his lady friend slapped him on the arm before he could get it out. The looks that flashed between them hid nothing.

Pauli picked up on it instantly. "So," he asked, "when are you two getting married?"

Roinell just held up his hands. "I didn't say a thing."

"How did you know?" Her name was Whitney, and she looked like one.

"That rock on your finger is as big as a paperweight."

Whitney's fake look of surprise was appropriate enough. "Do you like it?" She pushed her slim chocolate hand to the middle of the table, and Roinell lit up like a lighthouse.

"Very nice," Pauli noted, understated as usual. "Now I know what we're celebrating."

"It's beautiful," Ann-Marie said enviously. Her sharp glance caught Pauli squarely.

Roinell asked predictably, "How 'bout you two?" He looked at Ann-Marie and jagged his head. "You finally gonna get this old skinflint to spring for a ring?"

Ann-Marie motioned for the waitress. "You'll have to ask him." The words were as cold as the ice cubes in her glass.

The evening passed pleasantly, however, and Roinell celebrated by getting half smashed and tearing up the dance floor. Thinking he, himself, looked like a giant, spastic contraction, Pauli said, "You look pretty smooth out there." Roinell sure had changed.

"Lessons," Roinell said as he chewed some ice.

"I never thought of you as the romantic type," Pauli said when the girls went to the ladies' room.

"What'dya mean?"

"Celebrating your engagement like this. It's nice."

"Is that what you think this is? Didn't Ann-Marie tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"Obviously not." Roinell downed the rest of his drink. "I'll let her explain." When the girls returned, he asked Ann-Marie to dance a slow one.

Pauli made small talk with Whitney as he watched Roinell and Ann-Marie dance. Oddly, they seemed engrossed in serious conversation, and her mood seemed to dip again when they returned. Pauli tried to hold her hand. She stewed. It lasted the rest of the night. As they walked to her car afterwards, he asked, "What's the matter?"

The evening was cool, and she was hot. "You just don't get it, do you?"

"Get what?" Innocent response, huge mistake.

_"Oooo-hhhhh!"_ she crowed coarsely. She yanked her hand from his and stomped off, expecting him to catch up.

Pauli just stood there in the middle of the parking lot. This train had been coming for a while now, and something told him it had finally arrived. Clearly, she wanted him to say something, but she was right: he didn't get it, and it troubled him. But something else was troubling him as well—something down deep, a bubbling, caustic stew of vanity, pride, and envy. All of them were monsters, and they were alive and well inside his soul. Once in a while, one would rear up and take a bite out of him, but it wasn't one monster feasting on his insides now; it was all of them. Seeing Roinell, and how successful he looked, made them hungry.

Her back turned in an icy pose, Ann-Marie waited, and even though he couldn't see her face Pauli knew she had that _I don't wanna hear it_ look. He approached, the click of his heels like the tick of a time bomb. Within reach, "Get what?" he asked again.

She wheeled angrily. "Don't play stupid with me!" Her eyes were gray now, like ice deep inside a glacier.

"I'm not playing stupid," he said meekly, but his deference served only to infuriate her even further.

"Then you're as dumb as a fucking doorknob, Pauli, but I'm not." She turned away. "Or, maybe I am. Maybe you know exactly what you're doing."

Pauli shook his head. "You're talking in circles. Just tell me what's bothering you."

The crack of her hand against his face echoed like a gunshot. Stunned, he rubbed his cheek as she moved off again, her blood boiling. He raced in front of her and grabbed her hand, but it was like grabbing the hand of a statue.

"Just tell me the truth," she snapped.

"What truth?"

"The truth that's inside you, Pauli. If you don't want to marry me, that's okay. Just tell me. I'm thirty-one years old. I'm a big girl. I can take it." She sobbed.

He stepped back. They'd never talked about.... Jeez, he _was_ dumber than a doorknob. "I, uh... I don't know what to say."

"Oh, I'm sure there are a lot of great clichés you could break out for the occasion."

Yet again, she tried to put distance between them, and yet again he cut her off, hopping nervously from foot to foot while another couple moved past. "I had no idea."

Ann-Marie flapped her arms like an exhausted swan, and she knocked him in the head. "Is anybody home up there?"

"Stop that!" he shot angrily. "How was I supposed to know?"

"I thought maybe the fact that we've been going out together since high school would have tipped you off."

Good point. He looked into her eyes, and thoughts zipped through his head at a million miles an hour. Hesitantly, he said, "I'm not sure I'm ready."

"If you were any less ready, you'd be dead, Pauli. At least you could tell me why. You owe me that."

The words were stuck way down in the pit of his stomach, and he knew they wouldn't taste good when they came up. "Because I'm afraid," he whispered.

Suddenly, she was calm, like the eye of a storm. "Afraid of what? You've never been afraid of anything, Pauli."

But he didn't answer. He just held her hand, his eyes turning away despite the fact that she tried to see into them. He wished the streams of vapor coming from his nostrils were daggers he could use to stab the monsters in his soul. The first monster reared up and took a bite. "I feel like I'm going nowhere," he said, his words tasting like shit. "When I got out of the Army and got into Alliance, I thought I had the world by the tail. I was able to leave all the horror of Africa behind me, and I was looking forward to something new. I thought by now I'd be vice president of something, but the only thing I'm vice president of is the appliance department at Sears."

"You make it sound so futile."

"I've been there almost three years, and I'm going nowhere. I even had to save up so I could afford the cover charge tonight."

"You shouldn't worry about things like that. I've got a good job. We'll be fine if it comes to that."

The second monster opened wide, and took a chunk. "I wouldn't want to put all that pressure on you," he lied. The words were transparent, and he knew it as soon as he said them.

"We'd be in it together Pauli—equal partners."

"Except that you'd be more equal than me."

She stepped back. "Are you jealous of me because I have a good job? No, wait. You didn't really say that."

The third monster took a bite. "I'm not jealous," he began, "just a little envious, I guess."

"That's the same thing." She dropped her arms now. "I'm amazed. You're the last person on Earth I'd have thought would be jealous of me." The eye of the storm was almost past, and the second half seemed to be coming around.

Pauli hung his head. She was right, of course, as usual.

Then, instead of wind and fury, "I want to say that we're in this together," she said softly, "but now I'm not so sure." She forced his head up again. "You're the strongest man I know, Pauli, but you can't let jealousy and pride eat you up. Seeing Roinell, hearing about his success, seeing that expensive ring, it's driving you crazy, and you start thinking about all the things you've done wrong in your life. But you've got to get out of the shoulda'-woulda'-coulda' syndrome, Pauli. You're not going to be an appliance salesman forever."

He sighed deeply. Another couple walked by. "How do you know that?"

Ann-Marie crossed her arms, her face a mask of exasperation. "I know," she said confidently, "but obviously you don't. Haven't you seen how whenever you're involved with a group of people, you're always the one who takes the lead?"

"What are you talking about?"

"That's been the case for as long as I've known you. I remember how you pulled Roinell along on your coattails all through high school. Without you, he would never be where he is today. He must have told me that a dozen times during the course of the night."

"He did?"

"Yes, he did. And how about when you were in the Army?"

"You know I don't like to talk about that."

"I'm not talking about those horrible times in Africa. I'm talking about you becoming a sergeant, and then a captain. How did that happen?"

"I don't know. It just happened."

"Exactly. Just the way it always happens with you. Just the way becoming captain of the basketball team happened. You're in the wrong line of work, Pauli."

"Maybe you're right," he admitted weakly. "Maybe I should start looking for a new job."

"So, you're gonna listen to Roinell's offer?"

"What offer?" he asked, the question confusing him more than ever. The whole night had been confusing.

"Didn't he tell you?"

"Tell me what? What the hell's going on?"

Ann-Marie stepped up and put her arms around him, staring deeply into his eyes. "Did Roinell tell you what he's doing for a living these days?"

"He said he's head of the local Teamster's union."

"Which means, dear boy, that he has a great deal of political influence in this county. The way the union goes, is the way the voters go—thousands of them."

Pauli's face sagged as he realized how right Ann-Marie was. Roinell was indeed a very powerful man. "So?"

"So..." she continued, lining Pauli's body with her own, "that's what this celebration was all about. I was supposed to tell you that Roinell is going to run for the city council."

Pauli laughed. "Roinell? That's ridiculous."

Ann-Marie put her hands on his face so that he was forced to look into her eyes. "No, it's not," she said sternly. "Roinell knows the system, he knows the people, and he believes in you." She hesitated. "And so do I."

Pauli stood there dumbfounded. First, the talk about marriage, and then this. "What does his running for the city council have to do with me?"

"He wants you to run his campaign. He wanted me to ask you."

"I don't know anything about running campaigns."

She broke their embrace. "You know, Pauli, you used to have dreams, a man who said he was going places. Well, let me tell you, you need to find that man, Pauli, because that's the man I fell in love with. Roinell is convinced you can do it, and so am I—I think—but you've got to decide what you want to do when you grow up. You can do anything, but you've got to go for it. Roinell is. I'll be there to help you when you decide."

"You will?"

"If you find the man I'm talking about." She slung her bag over her shoulder and turned toward the car. "If you find him, I'll be on _him_ like green on money. Let me know when he comes around."

Chapter 10. The Spooks

The title, Special Assistant to the President for National Security Affairs, was hard to fit on a business card, but it fit the stature of Admiral Thomas R. Kusczak, USN: a big man. Years of enduring discomfort on Navy vessels had contributed to his often less-than-pleasant demeanor, but it wouldn't have been much different in any case because he was basically a Class-A son of a bitch. Kusczak closed the folder he was reading and pondered, then quickly gulped the last of the very good coffee they served in the White House. It was time.

Shoving the briefing papers into a leather folder, he didn't bother to call to see if the president was free, primarily because he didn't give a fuck. He was one of a handful of people in the world with free access, and it was a privilege he exercised openly if only to piss off the chief of staff on a regular basis. He made his way past the metal detectors that dotted various parts of the White House, and walked briskly into the anteroom of the Oval Office.

"I was just trying to call you," the secretary named Mary said.

Kusczak didn't bother to respond. The man who currently occupied the Oval Office—that wimp, as Kusczak more than seldom characterized him in his own mind—would finally have to do something. As he entered the Oval Office, he wasn't pleased to see Andrew Bricker, Deputy Director of Operations, CIA, already seated and munching on a bagel. Obviously, the president had already been briefed, and his thunder had already been stolen.

"Have a seat, Tom," the president said seriously. "Help yourself to some breakfast."

Kusczak patted his flat belly. "No thank you," he replied. So, the president was acting important this morning. While being president of the United States was certainly important, Kusczak simply couldn't stomach the man's obvious manipulation of that fact. He glanced at Bricker, whom he'd known only since the beginning of his stint in the White House. He'd tried more than once to dig into Bricker's background, if only to know who he was in bed with, but the man was a ghost. Of medium height and medium build, Bricker was a bookish sort, as more than a few of the spooks tended to be. It was easier to blend in that way, Kusczak guessed. Hopefully, Bricker would be on his side on this one.

"I know both of you have probably already read this," the president said, tossing his copy of the secure briefing on the presidential desk.

"Yes, sir," Bricker answered as the president gazed through the distorted, bulletproof windows of the Oval Office.

Somewhere, a recording device clicked on, the sound of which only a much-practiced ear would detect. Bricker noticed it also, Kusczak observed, and it was obvious that Bricker didn't think that was a good idea. Like himself, he'd heard that Bricker didn't think much of the president's resolve, one of the rumors about Bricker being that he once said that many of the president's most serious decisions revolved around his ability to know which suit to wear.

"Well, what do you boys think?"

Kusczak replied first. "I'd say that if everything in there is accurate, we should step up the pace on ZEBRA." The operation had been underway on the African continent for more than two years. Its initial aim was to gather intelligence, and as such had been headed by the DDI, Deputy Director of Intelligence, who recently suffered a heart attack while jogging. Consequently, transformation of the operation to a covert one had been easy, which was fortunate since the situation looked like it was going to get messy. Kusczak had heard Bricker was good at messes.

"Andrew, how many operatives do we have in place?" the president asked. He liked using the lingo.

"Half a dozen, with two more on the way," Bricker responded.

"I see." Mulling, the president gazed steadily through the windows. Mulling was something he did well.

Kusczak interrupted the president's deep thoughtfulness. "Sir, if I may suggest...." The president waved him forward with a flip of the hand. "Some of Tohouri's allies are fearful that he'll turn on them, regardless of what he says. He's already got tanks on the Libyan border, and I don't think even his friends trust him as far as he could fart... sir."

"So?" the president challenged. "Let the bastards kill each other off. It would certainly be a good way to break down the Libyans, which is something we've been trying to do for years."

"With all due respect, sir, this isn't only about the Libyans. The Egyptians and the Israelis are scared. I wouldn't be surprised if either of them tries to have him... ah... removed from the situation."

"Really?" the president responded.

Bricker seemed somewhat surprised at the president's naiveté. He shot a look at Kusczak. "Sir?" he said.

"Yes, Andrew," the president said high-hattedly.

Bricker nodded toward the desk, inside of which he knew was a control panel. Getting it, the president reached in and flipped a switch. "Sir, if we let the Israelis or the Egyptians make a move on Tohouri, it would shift the attention on this. You know—the protests," Bricker added, knowing the president would like the political advantage of his idea.

The president's eyes suddenly came alive. "The protests," he repeated. The protests were hurting him politically, and there was an election coming up. No one thought they would last when they first started, figuring the country had gotten all that crap out its system in the sixties. They got worse, however, and they were under the president's skin like a raging cold sore. "If we were out of it, well... _I'd_ be out of it, wouldn't I?" he concluded.

It was interesting how _I_ became _we_ , or vice versa, depending on the situation. "Probably so, sir," Bricker replied, but he couldn't help but add his own editorial spice to whatever the president was thinking. "And it sure would be nice to redirect all the energy and attention from the protests to other issues, wouldn't it, sir?"

Kusczak admired Bricker's spin. It was interesting how stopping an insane dictator, who had already murdered tens of thousands of innocent Africans, could turn into political fodder. It had become a racial issue in the States, despite the fact that Tohouri, an African, was killing other Africans. There hadn't been a white face anywhere on that landscape, save the ones our fearless leader sent over as token resistance to Tohouri's brutal aggression. It would have been easier, and more humane, to have taken our boys into a pasture somewhere, lined them up, and shot them, for having sent them to the jungles of the Congo had amounted to the same thing. Thousands died there, and more were dying every month all over the continent. The wars in Africa seemed like they'd been going on forever, and the pressure at home was mounting on both sides of the issue: either go in there and stomp the bastard, or pull our boys out. The current policy had cost too many American lives, and now our valiant, shrewd president, the one who didn't like visiting our men at sea because the big boats made him queasy, was looking for a way out, which meant our boys would have died for nothing.

"I don't think either of them would initiate an operation," Kusczak said, referring to the Egyptians or the Israelis, "unless they felt aggression by Tohouri was imminent. They'd have to be goaded into it."

"Isn't it imminent?" the president asked.

"Not at the moment," Bricker answered. "Our intelligence indicates that, although Tohouri's alliances in central Africa are stronger than ever, he's stuck there. His machine is getting hungrier, however, and pretty soon he's going to need a lot more food to keep it going. The puppet leaders he has in place will do anything he wants, but the countries themselves are too underdeveloped to provide the industrial production he needs desperately."

"What's all that mean?"

"It means," Bricker went on, adjusting his glasses so that the president could see his eyes, "that he's going to have to make a move on an industrialized country if he wants to keep his machine fed. He could go north, or he could go south, but it's a long way across a lot of elephant shit into South Africa. My guess is he'll look to the Middle East."

The president looked at Kusczak. "Thomas?"

"I think Andrew's hit it on the head," Kusczak agreed. "He needs oil, and he needs production. I think sooner or later he'll march into Libya, and from there, who knows? It wouldn't much of a jump across the Red Sea into Saudi Arabia."

"And at that point, both the Egyptians and the Israelis couldn't help but get caught up in it. That would be a threat to our vital interests," the president said.

Kusczak shook his head, knowing the president's predilection toward bravado. "You're right, sir. But may I remind you of what's happening out there." Kusczak thumbed through the windows. "This is another Vietnam. You'd have to play it just right to gain the advantage politically, and I think with the mood in Congress the way it is, that would be tough to do—especially after that disaster in the Congo. There's too much opposition to define a clear-cut military objective."

The president sat and turned his chair so that the Kevlar-lined back faced his two guests. "Maybe you're right," he said. "Maybe the way out of this damned African thing is to send—"

"Sir?" Bricker interrupted forcefully. One never knew what the man was going to say—or who was listening. Idle chatter could cost lives.

The president turned, scowling. "I was about to bring in the chief of staff and see if General Parsons was at the Pentagon." General Parsons was chairman of the Joint Chiefs.

Bricker looked at Kusczak over his glasses. Kusczak gave a perceptible nod. "As you said earlier, sir, perhaps it would be best if we were out of it."

The president looked from Bricker's pale, drawn face to the fuller, more florid one of his national security advisor. "But you just got done saying that neither the Egyptians, nor the Israelis, are willing to make a move. Well, are they, or not?"

Kusczak replied, "With all due respect, Mister President, I said that neither of them was ready to make a move _now_. Something would have to spark them into moving against Tohouri."

"And what would that be?"

"Sir," said Bricker. "Perhaps it would be best if the national security advisor and I discussed this privately, in greater detail."

The president looked up and saw both sets of eyes burning a hole into him. Well, like they said, if he was out of it, well, then he was out of it. It was their heads that would roll, not his. "Perhaps that would be best," he agreed, waving them off. "Get back to me."

Bricker said, "Absolutely, sir." He extended his hand to shake the president's.

Kusczak didn't say anything. He just left. There was work to do.

Chapter 11. Coots

"Where's the rest of your people?" Jeremiah H. Snidely, of the Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks of Woodbridge, Virginia, asked.

Pauli looked around in mock surprise. "It's just me," he answered, a wide smile and a crisp handshake at the ready.

Snidely didn't get the mock surprise. "Well, let's git goin' then. Ain't got all damned day."

Well, okay then, thought Pauli. Ain't got all damned day. Snidely, a crotchety old coot by any standard, looked like he'd slept in his clothes more than once in his life. Pauli followed him through the dilapidated building—looked like an old school—speculating whether the earthy smell in his nostrils was coming from the sticky carpet, or Snidely's butt. In any case, another, more pleasant odor soon replaced it: roast beef, it smelled like. They came to a room with a lot of other crusty old coots seated at tables covered by white tablecloths. They all turned his way, and he followed dutifully to the head table, which was just another folding table turned perpendicular to the others. There were four place settings on it.

"This here table is for you and your entourage," Snidely said smugly. Clearly, he didn't have much use for politicians.

Pauli sat, and to his surprise, Snidely didn't sit with him. Instead, Snidely took a place at one of the old-coot tables with his old-coot friends, and they did a masterful job of completely ignoring him. Pauli folded his hands and smiled nervously as occasionally a gray head would turn and throw a distrusting glace his way. The hum of conversation remained constant, interspersed with the tinkle of glass and an occasional cough, while the aroma of slow-cooked beef wafted teasingly past Pauli's nose. The buzz was interrupted by a burst of volume, and he looked up. Everyone had directed his attention—there were just men in the room—toward a door near a darkened service bar in a far corner. There, a single, bent-over, old-coot lady wheeled a cart piled high with steaming plates. Pauli watched with fascination.

As the old-coot lady—her name was Mabel, he found out—wheeled the cart along, the old-coot men stood respectfully in her presence. There was nothing extraordinary about what they did, but the looks on their faces, the tone of the pleases and thank-yous, all of it happened with a kindness that sprouted only from respect. It was so different than the day-to-day plastic sincerity he saw everywhere these days, like the sincerity of a flight attendant. Simple acts of kindness, born of familiarity perhaps, but to Pauli it seemed as if the coots would have been just as appreciative, regardless of the person under the apron. She came to his table, and, following suit, Pauli stood and accepted the plates with his sincerest, "Thank you."

The old-coot lady looked at the empty chairs, smiled, and said, "You're welcome, sonny. There was supposed to be four of ya."

Wondering where she and Snidely had gotten that idea, Pauli said, "Sorry. Just me." Then, he looked down at one of the plates. It was hot, and heaped with perfectly done slices of roast beef, the meat so obviously tender that he could have cut it with his eyes. He set it down, and took a heaping bowl of perfectly white mashed potatoes, thick and fluffy, with a dollop of yellow butter puddled on top. The old lady set down an additional plate with crisp, green string beans gleaming with goodness.

She turned and said, "Well, more for you then, Mister Campo."

Pauli caught her eyes: twinkling eyes, alive and alert, knowing, loving eyes. It was the first time anyone besides Snidely had even acknowledged him. She moved off, leaving a bit of something nice in the air behind her.

He looked down at the mountains of food. Not usually one for red meat, he couldn't help but react to the richness on the serving plate. The old coots were busying themselves passing things around and making points to their conversations by jabbing their knives and forks in the air, so he filled his plate with a huge slice of roast beef, knowing instantly it wouldn't be enough. He piled on another, followed by a small mountain of the wonderful mashed potatoes, smothering it all in rich, brown, lumpy gravy. The lumps were good, and the green beans were fresh, sweet, and meltingly crunchy. He ate until he was full, and wondered if it was the best meal he'd ever eaten. When he looked up, the old coots were looking at him.

"Glad to see you're enjoying it," said Snidely. "We'll wait till you're done." Pauli pushed his plate away. It was time to go to work. He pulled some papers from the pocket of his blazer.

"We ain't interested in no speech," Snidely called callously.

Pauli looked up. "No speech? Then why am I here?"

Snidely pinned him with a stiff gaze. "We just wanna hear what you have to say."

Befuddled, Pauli scanned the tables. Nothing, not even the clinking of silverware, could be heard except the sudden _wwhooosh_ of the swinging door in the far corner. Mabel had come out and propped herself on one elbow at the end of the bar. The room was a sea of grim faces, white hair, and eyeglasses.

"What do you want me to talk about?"

Not missing a beat, Snidely said, "Life."

"Life?"

"That's what I said."

Pauli suddenly knew what a caged monkey felt like while its observers waited for a trick. "I have several positions—"

"We don't give a rat's patootie about no _positions_. We wanna hear what you think about _life_."

Again with life. "You'll need to clarify for me, Mister Snidely." _That_ didn't come out right.

Snidely glanced about, the look on his face shared by the others who stirred and fidgeted in their seats. At last, Snidely threw out what was supposed to have been a hint. "How should a man feel when he takes his son fishin' for the first time?"

What the...? The coots had flipped out. Pauli put down his now worthless papers.

Seeing his blank look, Snidely said, "Okay, how 'bout another one." A little murmur buzzed through the coots. "You heard about these _dress-down_ days they're doing on the job nowadays? On Fridays?"

"Yes."

"We wanna know what you think of 'em."

Silence.... Then someone coughed.

"You brought me here to find out what I think about dress-down days?" Pauli picked up the papers again, crinkling them. "I have some important issues to discuss. I'm prepared—"

"Mister Campo," Snidely barked sharply. "I'm trying to tell you, as kindly as possible, that we really don't care what _you_ came to discuss. We want you to talk about what's important to this country."

"And dress-down days are an important issue? Really, Mister Snidely, I've been doing a lot of research, and I can tell you that as your state senator, my agenda—"

Snidely paused. "Do you know who we are, sonny?"

Sonny? "Why, you're, ah, an Elks Lodge, aren't you?"

"The full and correct name, Mister Campo, is _The Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks of the United States of America_. Do you know what that means?"

"I give up," Pauli sighed, his exhale heavy with annoyance.

"Our declared purpose is to practice four cardinal virtues: Charity, Justice, Brotherly Love, and Fidelity. That's what life is about, sir, not _issues_. You politicians know about issues, but ain't none 'a ya know a damned thing about how to lead your own lives. Issues is points of debate, ain't they? There ain't no debate about the proper way to lead one's life. There's only the right way, and the wrong way. Do you understand what I'm saying, Mister Campo?"

"I'm sure there are plenty of opinions on that."

"Opinions ain't worth squat. Hell, we got a couple of millionaires in this room right now that can buy and sell opinions. You've heard the old saying: _Opinions are like—_ "

"I've heard it," Pauli said, holding up his hand and looking around. A couple of millionaires? No one even acknowledged who they might have been. Something bubbled inside him. "I'm not really sure what you want me to say." It went silent again, extraordinarily so.

Snidely hung his head as if he were ashamed of him. "You know, we don't invite a lot of politicians in here. Turn 'em away, usually. But, we thought you was different. At least, we'd heard that." Clearly disgusted, Snidely motioned toward Mabel. "I guess it's time for desert," he called, a sneer plastered to his face. "Peach cobbler sound good, Mister Campo?"

Head down, Pauli lowered himself into his chair. "I am different," he muttered lowly.

Turning, Snidely said, "What?"

"I _am_ different!" Pauli called loudly.

Snidely stood, but unexpectedly another voice rang out. "Then tell us how, Mister Campo." It was Mabel. In a single wave of motion, the entire gathering of old coots turned toward her, then back again. Snidely took his seat, having nothing further to add, evidently.

Pauli stood and fixed his gaze on Mabel. "When did it become popular to spike the ball in the end zone?" he called out. The question was rhetorical, but he detected a couple of perceptible nods. "It used to be unsportsmanlike. Now, the kids are dancing and reveling in triumph as if the dance were more important than the score. Somehow, I find that disheartening." More nods. "I remember my dad telling me it was wrong—well, not wrong, exactly, just that it wasn't right; some of you will know the difference—to dance in the end zone."

There wasn't an eye that wasn't riveted on him.

"Not that I didn't like making touchdowns. I did, and it gave me a special feeling that swelled inside me like a balloon. It filled me up, that feeling did. It made me happy. But, it's different now. Now, it's not the touchdown that makes kids feel good; it's the dance, the enjoyment of flaunting their success at the other kids." He paused, letting the words settle.

"There's something wrong with that, don't you think?" Nods. "I liked the feeling of victory as much as the next kid. Like a thin balloon, however, I knew it was fragile, and it could burst at any moment. I also knew that the only way to get it back was to score another touchdown. The score was what inflated that balloon, not the dance, not back then." Pauli motioned toward Mabel. "Now, in order to inflate the balloon, the kids just do another dance."

There were several more nods.

"We've lost the sense of what's basic. We've lost the sense of accomplishment. Do you see it all around you? I hear it every day. _It's not good to discipline our children the way our parents did. It's too hard on them. It'll make them think they're losers, and if they think they're losers, they won't have their self-esteem._ And I say to myself: it's fine if they can't spell c-a-t, as long as they have their self-esteem. I find something terribly unsettling about that."

There were more nods, vigorous ones; a room full of old-coot bobblehead dolls.

"What a shock it'll be when their first boss, or their college professor, or drill sergeant, goes up one side of them and down the other. Their self-esteem will be the last thing any of those people think about. But the children—well, they won't be children at that point; but they won't be grown-ups either, not if they think that way. They'll say, ' _But you're upsetting me, boss, or professor, or sir_.' Me, me, me. Can you hear it now? _Look at me dance in the end zone. I feel good about myself. I have my self-esteem. I'm me, and I'm important. My teachers told me that. My parents told me so. I'm number one!_ Yeah, well, that isn't worth a damn, is it?"

Dazed looks now. Wondering.

_"Life_ ... isn't worth a damn," Pauli said. The declaration hung there. "Lives are ending all over the world, right now, millions of them, unnaturally and brutally. I've seen death up close, and I can tell you that life isn't worth a plug nickel unless you make it worth something.

"Whatever happened to humility?" Pauli continued, changing tack. "Where people humbled themselves in the shadow of their accomplishments?" No one answered. "I say it's better to have the balloon swell inside you and deflate slowly rather than go flat because the dance is over. Isn't that what self-esteem is all about? Confidence that comes from hard work? Self-respect that comes from accomplishment? And when people look because you're dancing in the end zone, when people notice you because you're screaming _LOOK AT ME_ , when they ask, 'What are you feeling so good about?' What is the answer if there is no real substance, and no fullness like a flat balloon—synthetic, deflated, and spent." Pauli lowered his voice. "Folks, I believe the reason our culture has lost some sense of direction—and you feel it, don't you?"

Nods, all over the place, and grunts.

"Is because we're dancing in the end zones. We must find a way to get away from _me, me, me_ , and temper, twist, shape, and hammer self-regard into humility, for to have humility is to have accomplished something to be humble about. You see, the dance in the end zone is arrogance, and we're teaching our children to be arrogant, and to love themselves for it. And it's wrong." Pause. A breath. A sigh. Half a tear. "As I remember the faces of men I've seen die before me, I can't remember a single one who died because he or she had too much humility. But, I've seen _many_ die because of too much arrogance.

"Gentlemen, and kind lady, we need to stop teaching our kids to dance in the end zones if this country is to survive. We are being threatened as we speak. The African continent is being torn apart by a mad dictator who will stop at nothing, and we are letting it happen. I know. I've been there. We need to stop the madness before it jumps from that continent to another, and it will, then to another, and it will, and it won't take long. And us? We arrogant Americans? What are we doing? We're posturing. We're goading. We're flaunting. Folks, we're dancing in the end zone. I think we're feeling a little too good about ourselves right now."

Pauli sat down, his rambling over. Thinking that running for office was the stupidest thing he'd ever done, he wondered what the hell he'd just said. Dancing in the end zone? Jesus. How he'd let anyone talk him into this, he'd never know. There was a smattering of applause.

"Will you have some of that peach cobbler now?" Snidely asked.

Chapter 12. Parallels

The others were getting distracted again, Abe-The-Hat noted. That was unfortunate, for their careers as presidents may have ultimately been determined by the unGame, and they might have recognized some old strategies if they paid closer attention to what was happening.

He recalled the time Fric and Frac Adams squared off. Fric was based in the blue territories of Europe, and Frac was in North America. On Earth, that was World Wars I and II, even though both had been part of the same unGame. That was a great unGame. Fric could have won, but he blew it. First off, he launched his attacks too soon. He didn't have enough armies to keep up a prolonged attack, but Frac wasn't much stronger. After banging up against each other for a while—that was World War I—they both retreated and waited a few turns to accumulate more armies. Luckily for Abe, they were so focused on each other that neither of them noticed he was accumulating armies in Asia and positioning them on two fronts. When Fric started attacking again—that's when that Hitler guy was one of the surrogates, miserable son of a bitch down on Earth—he made the same mistake. He moved into the Ukraine pretty easily at first, then got foolish and moved into Great Britain. He and Frac rolled the dice, back and forth, back and forth, and their armies got thinner, and thinner, and Abe watched the whole thing. That's when the Jewish people had a pretty hard time of it down on Earth.

Fric finally realized he wasn't going to take Great Britain, and he made an even dumber move. Instead of taking a couple of free moves and trying to fortify his armies, he attacked Abe in the green territories, which was Russia down on Earth. That was terrible strategy, and Abe figured there was no way Fric could maintain two fronts.

With Fric penned in, Abe decided to surprise Frac by attacking North America from the other side of his green territories. That was that Pearl Harbor thing as it manifested itself on Earth. Frac never saw it coming. The whole thing was rather strange on Earth, in that Abe was an ally with Frac on one side of the unboard, while he was his enemy on the other side.

As Abe predicted, Fric eventually folded completely in Europe. Abe and Frac split Fric's territories pretty evenly, but Abe held tough in Asia. That's when The True Man dropped the big bomb on Japan. While that was a big deal down on Earth, it was only good for that one territory, and Abe essentially controlled the rest of Asia. He pissed on Frac one last time during the Korean _conflict_ , as it was called on Earth, and that's when the unGame changed format. It used to be that only six could play, and in the beginning it was always the same six: Georgie Boy, Fric and Frac, Old Hickory Jackson, Kid Zach, and Abe himself. Once in a while Fric or Frac would be replaced by Polk Salad, who wasn't bad, or Mil _lard_ , that pant load, who was terrible, but they got to know each other's strategies too well, and the unGame got kind of boring. So, they all decided to change the rules and allow any number of former presidents to play, which made the unGame more interesting—for a while. The more unplayers that played, the longer it took, and the more they got distracted. Distractions were certainly a problem when they were in the Oval Office, but up where they were, there were even more temptations, since they were free to explore eternity, and all. It even affected the old-timers.

Take T.J., who was off behind a star swirl at the moment, maybe trying to turn bat crap into a clock, or something. T.J. was involved in a jillion things down on Earth: farming, breeding, writing, inventing, building, traveling, and any other... _'ing_ that came along. He couldn't concentrate on any single th _ing_ to save his unlife. It hadn't changed. And the new timers, well, they were even worse.

Consider Chrome Dome, for instance: good at the unGame, but would rather have been playing with his putter, which is what he did when he was Earth surrogate during that Cold War thing. There were lots of wasted moves during that unGame, especially down around Siam, which on Earth was that Vietnam thing. That just got passed on to The Ladies' Man.

Now, there was a joke. The Ladies' Man tried to make himself a saint when he was in the Oval Office, and ticked off a lot of people doing it, Klinger included. Klinger still only talked to him and Bobbie when he had to. In any case, the unplayers in that particular unGame just couldn't pay attention. A roll here, a roll there. What a bunch of wimps! That's why Vietnam was the way it was down on Earth. No one wanted to win!

Well, Klinger got his revenge in Dallas—he still maintained he had no idea that was going to happen... right—and the whole mess got passed on to Lame Brain Johnson. He didn't do any better, and neither did Tricky Dickie, who was next. True to his name, he was tricky all right. He double-barreled the Asians with diplomacy in China, and bombs in Vietnam, and it wasn't a bad strategy, but, well—Watergate. Abe shook his unhead. Dumb, dumb, dumb. He didn't even want to think about Mister Peanut, or **F** ix **O** r **R** epair **D** aily. Talk about your nerves of yogurt.

Abe surveyed the unboard. It was hard to tell where this one was going, and there were a couple of unplayers he had to worry about. One was Ulysses. Much of his own success on Earth had to be credited to Ulysses, who really had a set of nerves. Too bad he couldn't feel them half the time.

Then, there was The Kid. Uh-oh. Abe felt The Kid's uneyes piercing him. The Kid was tough... and smart... and aggressive... and sober. Only sixteen months in the Oval Office. Shame. Woulda' made a great one. Mexico woulda' been part of the old U.S. of A. if Kid Zach hadn't kicked the bucket; probably woulda' moved right into South America. Canada? Woulda' been ours too, probably. Then Alaska, then Siberia, and _boom_ , the world. Kid Zach woulda' done it. Died, though. Too bad. Better watch him, Abe thought, watching him. Kid Zach was ice. Shoulda' had a monument.

"What'ya gonna do?" The Kid asked.

Abe grabbed the dice and rumbled them around in his stovepipe. It was time to gobble up a few straggler territories. One or two more attacks and he should have all of Africa. That would be the first continent to be conquered, but others weren't far behind.

Kid Zach rubbed his unhands.

Ulysses belched.

"Attack," Abe announced.

Chapter 13. Out of Retirement

Private citizen Lucca Bravo didn't spend a lot of money in bars, but it wasn't because he didn't frequent such establishments. He did, but whenever he found himself nursing a cold one after a long day of listening to pseudo-intellectual Beltway consultants, a frothy beverage inevitably appeared out of nowhere. He wished the stories about his SEAL days would go away, but they'd already made the rounds, and now they nagged him like a headache. That happened to heroes. The bartender—a girl, and a nice one—was used to giving Lucca his freebees, with reference to the beer, of course. She plopped down a drippy draft. "Over there," she said. Her name was Karen.

Lucca was tempted to not turn around. The older he got, the more he felt that a puff of his own bad breath was worth more than the crummy four bucks for the beer, let alone his time. Consultants: guys who couldn't cut it in the real theater of operations, giving lessons on how to do it, probably at five times what he was making. It was a sad state of affairs. He peeked over his shoulder and waved at the pencil-neck who'd bought the drink. Like most men who'd been in places where he shouldn't have been, doing things he shouldn't have been doing, Lucca was a tad understated when it came to physical displays. The more inconspicuous, the better. He didn't bother to go over. He gulped down the last of his first draft, and was about to take the head off the freebee when Karen interrupted his stupor.

"Your cell phone is buzzing," she said, plunking down a bowl of dusty peanuts.

Lucca looked at his watch; it had to be the wife. He'd promised to be home by seven and he was still forty-five minutes away. Now, his ass was grass, and she was the lawn mower.

"Hi, Babe," he said, trying not to snap it out. She hated it when he was short with her.

"Mister Bravo?" The woman's voice was professionally sterile.

"Yes." It wasn't the wife.

"Hold for National Security Advisor Kusczak please."

Kusczak? What the...?

"Hello, Lucca."

"Hello, Tom. How's it hangin'?"

"Like the feathers on a goose."

"Good. I was concerned. Figured you ain't gettin' much anymore. People watchin' all the time, you know." Lucca winked at Karen, who was cleaning up some spilled suds. "I got someone here you could watch if you're into that kind of thing."

"Funny," she sneered, and moved off.

Lucca turned his back on the bar. "Been a while, Tom. How'd you know I was here?"

"Did someone just buy you a beer?"

Lucca turned toward where the pencil-neck had been seated. He was gone. "What's up?" he asked, feeling the levity coming to an end.

"I've got a job for you."

Lucca sighed wearily. "I'm retired, Admiral. Have been for a while. I figured you knew."

"I do."

"I see." Silence. Time hanging.

Finally, "I need you to go under," Kusczak said.

"Get someone else."

"Can't," Kusczak countered. More time hanging.

"Why not?"

"Because, I need the best."

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Tom. I'm out. Have been."

"There's more."

"I figured as much." Lucca looked at his watch. "Listen Tom, I work with _consultants_ now—of which you probably got a few rippin' you off as we speak. I can't do it." There was an icy silence. "What's the 'there's more' part?"

"Not over the phone."

"I don't know, Tom. I got a wife and two kids."

"They'll be provided for if it goes south," Kusczak responded matter-of-factly, "... very adequately. And so will you," he added.

"How adequately?" Lucca asked, kicking himself for going along.

"Seven figures—with the first figure being more than a one."

Lucca let out a long, low whistle. "Gotta hand it to you, you know how to make it tempting. But you need to get someone else. I'm out."

"Like I said, I can't," Kusczak said with more urgency.

It was Lucca's turn to draw Kusczak in with magnetic silence.

"I need someone who can pass for Arab," Kusczak blurted.

Lucca examined his dark, Sicilian complexion in the etched mirror on the back of the bar. "What about the Israelis?"

"Uh-uh," Kusczak grunted. "We'll make the first figure more than a two if we have to."

Lucca hesitated and looked at his watch. "When?" he asked.

"You in?" Kusczak wanted confirmation.

"I'll listen."

"Here's a number to call."

"Who to?"

"Andrew Bricker."

"Well, well," Lucca sighed. "This must be really special."

"It is."

"Where's the gig?" Kusczak hesitated. "C'mon, you've got to be using a secure line."

"Tripoli," Kusczak whispered. The only thing that came over the line for almost a full minute was a bit of intermittent static. "You there?" he asked finally.

"Yeah, I'm here."

"You want that number now?"

"Yeah." Lucca took it, and hung up.

"You want another beer?" Karen asked.

"I'll know in a minute," Lucca replied as punched a number into his cell phone. "I gotta call my lawn mower first."

* * * * *

He arrived at the farmhouse by early afternoon, dusty but intact. He'd checked the five-day forecast in the _USA Today_ on the flight from Dulles: mostly sunny, eighty-five or so every day, no rain. Perfect. The ride to the farmhouse was less than perfect, however, and had taken almost as long to travel the few dozen bumpy miles from civilization—such as it was on Sicily—as had the flight itself. Traveling to the center of the island was like traveling into the middle ages, bumping along on unpaved roads to the town called the _Navel of Sicily_. For Lucca, another part of the body came to mind, this one full of something besides lint. It would have to do, though, as if there was a choice. It was secure, and that's all that mattered.

Lucca stepped from the battered Fiat, slapping his thighs and sending clouds of dust off into the breeze. Out of habit, he pulled a few bills for the driver who merely waved off and wordlessly eased the Fiat back through the choking dust. That was dumb. The driver was one of them, _them_ being their side, his side. He hoped they were the good guys on this one, but he knew in reality there were no good guys in this business. Good guy or not, this would absolutely be his last op. He was too old for this.

One last brush of his clothes, and he walked toward the dilapidated farmhouse that stood in the middle of two sloping expanses of land covered with grape vines and olive trees. Unexpectedly, a wrinkled, old woman appeared in the doorway, a toothless smile spread across her face. She rattled off a few words, of which Lucca made out none, despite the fact that he was fairly conversant with the language. The dialect was thick and very different than the Italian of east Philadelphia. But he did understand one word: _mangiare_ , and he followed her into the other room, for that's all there was on the first floor. There his eyes feasted on a loaf of crusty bread, some cracked olives spiced with olive oil and red pepper flakes, hard cheese, and a bottle of wine that didn't look like it came from any store. A bowl of oranges and peaches stood off to the side. His stomach growled instantly. The others would be along soon enough, he thought. Might as well enjoy while he could.

_"Mangia_ ," said the old lady.

Chapter 14. Dirty Tricks

"I don't believe you!"

"What's not to believe?"

"Once again, you're going to let opportunity slide right by. God, man! Goddamn!" Roinell threw his jacket across the bed and went to the small refrigerator in the hotel room they were sharing—kept the campaign costs down that way. He found a bottle of Sam Adams and angrily undid the cap.

Pauli sat on a dirty corner chair, elbows on knees, weary from the day's business. "I think someone set him up for it."

Roinell threw a hard look, unsure if that was meant as an accusation. "Set up or not, it happened. And we'd be fools not to take advantage. This is war."

"What the hell would you know about war?" The words dripped with sarcasm.

Roinell fired the bottle cap across the room. "Don't give me that shit. This is me, remember? No, I haven't been to war. No, I haven't seen death _up close_ , as you like to say in your speeches. And, no, I haven't been awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor."

"Then what makes you such an expert?"

"This," he snarled, shooting out his hand. "Do you see it?"

"It's a hand," Pauli said wearily.

"A _black_ hand. Look at it." He waved it dramatically. "I've been at war all my life."

"Save me the sob story."

Roinell drank half the beer in one pull. "Is that what you think?"

"From what I've seen, things have gone pretty well for you."

"Well, you may have _seen_ a lot of things, Mister State Senator, but there's a difference between _seeing_ things, and _living_ them. You have no idea."

"I think I do."

"Right. Like you'd know what it's like to hear the whispers behind your back, to feel inadequacy crawling under your skin like a cockroach crawling under a carpet, to know people hate you for no reason other than the fact that you're different."

"Maybe I do."

"Don't patronize me. You _think_ you understand because you came up from nothing, just like I did, but you don't really have a clue. You're one of them."

"Them?"

"Them: white people."

"And just because I'm white, I'm a racist? You know Roinell, you're the last person on Earth who I thought would fall into the trap."

"The trap."

"Yeah, the... _my life sucks because of them..._ trap; or the... _I can't get ahead because I'm being discriminated against..._ trap; or, better yet, the... _I'm black, therefore I must prove something..._ trap. I'm up to about here with all that crap. Everyone's a goddamned victim."

"Isn't it amazing how the truth comes out, _Mister Senator_?"

"Stop calling me that."

"Ah, but I have to. You see, I must show respect. I'm speaking with one of our exalted elected officials. You the man. You the massa'. And me? I'm just you're lowly slave."

Pauli shook his head. "I don't know what you're trying to prove."

"I'm trying to prove that we're different," Roinell bellowed, "and that things haven't changed in this country in a hundred and fifty years." He held Pauli's gaze. "No matter how enlightened you _think_ you are, or how enlightened you think this country is, there will never be equality, not as long as there are more of you than there are of us."

Pauli's eyes narrowed. "Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?"

"If the shoe fits...."

Pauli took a beat and tried to hold in his anger, thinking Roinell's silly words were simply the result of another hard day. "You can't possibly mean that," he said.

His back turned, Roinell gulped on his beer. Perspiration trickled down his neck. Another gulp, a chest full of air into the wall, deflating, "I'm not sure.... Probably not."

"Good," Pauli said, trying to sound relieved. Some seconds ticked away. "Or I'd have to kick you off the staff."

Roinell turned, knowing by the intensity of Pauli's glare that he meant it. "But this _is_ war," he said, returning to the original point, "and we should take advantage of the situation."

Pauli looked up wearily. "C'mon, Roinell, the man was stopped across the street from a campaign dinner. He'd had one drink the entire night, and it just happened to be at the end of the night. It's obvious the cops were waiting for him. It could have happened to any of us."

"It was still wrong for him to have been behind the wheel."

"Yes, Roinell, it was, but don't be so holier-than-thou. You know the charge will probably be dismissed. It was a setup, a political dirty trick, and I don't think we should base the integrity of this campaign on events like that." Pauli paused, feeling an uncomfortable draft in the room. "I hope you didn't have anything to do with it," he added, letting the words drift.

Roinell looked away and loosened his tie. "You know," he began anew, a different edge to his words, "I have no idea how you ever got elected."

"Now what?"

"It's been that way your whole life. Things just _happen_ to you. Don't you go after anything?"

"I go after plenty of things," Pauli defended, but clearly Roinell had more to say.

"Right. Sure. Like in high school, when every swinging richard in the school wanted to date Ann-Marie, and she.... She picked _you_ , for whatever reason."

"Maybe she saw something she liked."

"Maybe she did, but even then you didn't take advantage of the situation. You let her get away—twice—because you couldn't make a commitment, just like you're doing now."

Pauli didn't say anything.

"And how about when you were in the Army, when you won that goddamned medal?"

Exasperated now, "What about it?" Pauli asked.

"Didn't you always say there were plenty of guys who were just as brave, that it just happened to be you who picked up that machine gun when one of those crazy bastards passed out drunk in front of you?"

"Yes, I've always said that."

"That you were going to die anyway, and you figured you'd rather go out with a bullet before being castrated?" There was no relief. "And how about now, Mister Senator?"

"C'mon, Roinell, what's your point?""

"As I recall, I was the one who got you into politics. I begged you— _begged you_ —to run my little campaign for city council, and you, the war hero, you were the one who got all the press. It just happened. I still don't understand it."

"And now you're running my campaign."

"Yeah, and I'm telling you, you need take advantage. _This_ is what politics is all about."

Pauli folded his hands. "I'm not going to do it."

Roinell tossed his bottle into the trashcan and it landed with a punctuating _thunk_. "Yes, folks, and once again the noble man of the people drifts along on a wave of popularity. Where he's going, nobody knows, but he's making damned good time."

Pauli stood. "You know, Roinell, I've had just about enough of your insinuations."

"I'm not insinuating anything. I'm _saying_ it. Be the man the people think you are."

Angrily, Pauli reached for his jacket. "I think it's time for one of us to take a walk."

"Gladly," Roinell declared, grabbing his own jacket and bolting from the room first. From halfway down the hall he yelled, "I've been thinking of taking a walk for a while."

The jacket heavy on his shoulders, Pauli listened as a bed creaked regularly from somewhere behind a wall. At least someone was having a good time. He looked at the clock. It was late, almost eleven. Perhaps a walk would do him good. It would give him a chance to think about what Roinell had said. Roinell had downright laid it on him, hadn't he? From way back.

As he stepped into the corridor, he again heard the sounds of sex coming from the next room. Jesus, he thought, he'd never heard shrieking like that before, but, then again, he hadn't been in many situations where he'd had the opportunity. There'd been a couple of times when he was in the Army, but those girls were soldier crazy. They'd pretty much taken him to bed as opposed to the opposite. Maybe Roinell was right. Things did happen to him. He'd never tried with those girls. He'd never _tried_ to do a lot of things. War hero? Roinell was right again. He'd just grabbed a stray AK-47 and started firing. For all he knew, he could have hit some of his own men. He was blind with fear. So he'd killed a bunch of the savages—so what? He was no hero. They said he was, but he didn't feel like one. Roinell was right. It had just happened to him.

Pauli stepped through the lobby to the revolving door that emptied onto Broad Street. Richmond was cool for September, missing its usual blanket of heat and humidity. He hiked the collar of his jacket, and the more he walked, the more he began to doubt his own sense of what he stood for. Suddenly, he couldn't stand himself.

Maybe he should listen to Roinell. Politics _was_ war, and as difficult as it was to accept, one had to do whatever it took to get elected and maintain office in order to influence the people. That's the way it was, and he wasn't going to change it. His opponent would take any advantage, wouldn't he? Of course he would. That was politics. He knew it, and he thought he was going to throw up.

Pauli turned the corner as a few fellow conventioneers in funny hats made their way past, leaving traces of alcohol in the air behind them. They ignored him, and he felt insignificant. He turned another corner and popped into an all-night drug store to grab a paper. No _New York Times_ , no _Washington Post_ , just a few copies of the day's _Richmond Times-Dispatch_. That would do. He read the equally large headlines on either side of the front page as he dropped some coins on the counter: _Tohouri Expands War On Two Fronts_ , and _President Orders Withdrawal_. He couldn't believe it. For almost a dozen years, American soldiers had been dying in Africa, and _now_ the president orders a withdrawal? He felt his hands tense as he gripped the paper. And Congress was going along? They were just going to let that murderer, Tohouri, have it? What if this madman had been incarnated in another part of the world, say Germany, or on our own border? Wouldn't our approach to the whole situation be entirely different? Wouldn't we be in the middle of it with both feet? Absolutely we would, for then, our strategic _interests_ would be at stake. Evidently, we didn't have enough _interests_ in the poor, desolate countries where thousands were already dead by Tohouri's hand. Where were the principles upon which we based our decision to send troops? By pulling out now, we would be wasting thousands of American lives. What about Hedges, and Coleman, and Sturgis? What about all the others? Did they die for nothing? If no one stopped Tohouri, soon he'd control a continent. They said it couldn't happen, but it wasn't that far away. Then what? Europe?

Pauli crumpled the paper as he walked blindly into the street, finally finding himself back at the hotel. He wasn't wearing his watch. How long had he been gone? It didn't matter; he wasn't tired now. He wondered if Roinell was back in the room. He'd forgotten about Roinell. Was he really going to abandon the campaign? Grabbing a beer, Pauli sank into the same worn chair he'd been sitting in when he and Roinell had argued. What was it they'd argued about? It seemed like days ago. Oh, yes, taking advantage of his opponent's trumped up DUI charge, making political fodder. "Go after something," Roinell had said—no, yelled. "Be the man the people think you are. Take a position." Pauli looked at the headline one more time: _President Orders Withdrawal_. He'd take a position on that for sure. It might break from the strategy they'd already developed, but Roinell would understand. There was a knock on the door. Roinell. He was back. He must have forgotten his key. Apologize, Pauli thought immediately. He opened the door with a _swooosh_.

"Roinell...." Hardly. It was a blonde woman, quite attractive, he noticed.

"State Senator Campo?"

"Yes."

"I'm Sharon Marks. I'm on the convention logistics staff." She reached into her coat and flashed a laminated card. "May I come in? I stopped by earlier, but no one answered the door."

It had to be past midnight, thought Pauli. "Sure," he stammered, and she stepped past him, nailing him with a sultry smile.

"There's been a change in plans for the conclusion of the convention tomorrow. You'll be giving your closing speech first, before the other candidates, instead of last. I hope that doesn't cause you any problems."

Pauli looked at her sideways. "Not really," he said, "but you didn't have to bother coming here at this hour just for that. You could have called."

"I wanted to deliver the message in person." She turned toward him and deliberately undid the belt of her trench coat. "My, but it's warm in here. Do you mind if I take off my coat?"

The coat was off before he could protest, and he was looking dead-on at a pair of 36Ds straining against the material of a blue satin blouse. "Do we have something else to discuss?"

She stepped to him and undid the top button of her blouse. "I've been an admirer of yours for a long time." She popped the second button, then the third....

"What are you doing?" Pauli asked as he checked her out. "You aren't old enough to be an admirer of anything for a long time." The blouse came off, and there was nothing underneath but the best of Mother Nature—or the best of the local plastic surgeon, possibly. He grabbed her by the shoulders. "Who sent you?"

"A friend."

"What friend?"

She took his hands and placed them squarely on her breasts. "We can talk about that afterwards."

Pauli yanked his hands away. "You need to leave... now," he said, picking up her coat.

"Not before I do what I came here to do." She came up and pressed close, then dropped to her knees and reached for his belt buckle.

Suddenly, Roinell burst through the door. "Listen, Pauli, I'm sorry for what I said earlier. I...." He stopped in mid-sentence. "Oh my."

* * * * *

Across the street, in another hotel, one of the occupants of room 745 adjusted his headphones and fiddled with the volume on the device in front of him. "What's he doing?" he asked.

"Just standing there," his counterpart answered.

"What's she doing?"

"Getting down on her knees, I think."

"God, she's good. You get anything?"

"Nothing with him in it yet. Just some pictures of her."

"I'll take a couple of those," said the first occupant.

"Hot damn!"

"What's up?"

"Someone just came in—right in the middle of it."

"It just doesn't get any better than this, does it?"

Chapter 15. Unknown Rider

Gazing out the window of his personal 747, General Rabih—it was _General_ now—reviewed his mental checklist to make sure there were no forgotten details. The visit to Tripoli would be short, but by its end he planned on being the new Supreme Commander. The plan was brilliant. The Americans should be in place soon, and they were sending one of their finer swine to do the job. He wouldn't be as good as an Israeli swine, but good enough.

Rabih chuckled. The Americans. Who would have thought it? They were uncommitted, and leaderless, but rich, and while he didn't have respect for their bravery—their halfhearted attempt at saving oil assets in the Congo some years earlier had proven they were gutless—he did have respect for their money. It would come in handy when the time came to convert indignation over Tohouri's death to allegiance to the new cause—his cause. The money would make the continent his. Allies, voluntary cooperation, it would all come if there was money, and the Americans had an endless supply. They'd feed it to him, and he'd feed it elsewhere. It would all be nice and clean, except for tomorrow. Tomorrow, there would be blood.

Rabih leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. One more hour. He'd rest a bit.

* * * * *

Well, thought Lucca Bravo, now he'd actually lived the song: _From the halls of Montezu-u-ma... to the shores of Tripoli_ , but it wasn't Marines who were with him, it was Navy SEALS. They were using an old Soviet Tupelov HIP-C helicopter, camouflaged in desert browns and golds. Where it came from, and why they were using it, none of them cared. "As long as the fucking thing flies low and fast," Arrow had said. Arrow was the SEAL team commander.

"The water looks calm," Lucca said.

"It always looks calm from up here," Arrow responded, his face tigered with paint.

They blasted along at 160 knots, almost skimming the waves. Flying an arrow's path, the pilot checked his radar for anything sticking out of the water—like an aircraft carrier, or something—but there were no sleeping monsters in the darkness. He flared at LZ-1, sending the Tupelov into an unexpected lurch, and veered into a quick four-mile circle.

"What the hell was that?" Lucca squawked, his stomach in his throat.

"Never know who's hiding," Mango yelled above the gassy roar.

They'd just made some sort of radar sweep, Lucca guessed, knowing their only real friend was the darkness.

The SEALS dropped first, all of them loaded to the max. Arrow, and a rangy New Yorker they called Mango, carried the main firepower: M-60 machine guns, and three thousand rounds of linked ammo. Their jobs were to secure a position on the beach. Boy Scout and Lone Star carried standard issue M16A4s with M-203 40mm grenade launchers. The remaining SEALS, BooBoo and Puma, cradled MP5-SD2 silenced submachine guns. The ducks came last, and the whole thing was over in less than a minute. Bobbing in the water, Lucca kept his eyes glued to the red chemlights on the ducks. They were the only visible points of focus in the darkness. Paddling closer, he felt himself being pulled into the small craft as the thumping of the helicopter diminished into distant nothingness.

"Guns hot," Arrow called crisply, and the ducks, which were being held together, separated. The engines sputtered to life and they headed briskly into the night. It was supposed to be balmy in the Mediterranean, thought Lucca. Guns hot, and he was freezing.

* * * * *

At first, it was a jealousy for which Rabih chided himself—unpatriotic, he'd thought. Now, and for the last two years, it had developed into a burning hate. A few feet away, the Libyan leader and the Supreme Commander moved forward, while a small army of heavily armed soldiers allowed a path for them. Strangely, he hadn't heard any occasional faraway gunshots as they often did on official visits, but this wasn't central Africa. This was Tripoli, the jewel of the Mediterranean, and any security killings would have been bad form. They turned the corner down another narrow street of the Old City, where, like the white sandstone promenade they'd just come from, the way was lined with people cheering them as if they were liberators instead of dictators. What a circle-jerk, as the Americans called it. Rabih looked at his watch.

"Ready my car," he ordered to his aide. "I don't feel well."

"Very well." The aide turned and snapped his fingers.

When they stopped for a short respite, Rabih whispered something to the Supreme Commander, who nodded absently as he waved to the cheering crowd. Rabih moved away from the official entourage, and his own entourage gathered around him. Let them have their moment. It would be their last one. He walked to his car quickly as cheers echoed in the background.

"To the airport," he ordered.

"But we aren't scheduled to leave until—" the aide began.

Rabih drew an automatic pistol and aimed it between the aide's eyes.

"To the airport," the aide said to the driver. Clearly, the General was upset about something.

* * * * *

Andrew Bricker kissed his wife before leaving for his second breakfast of the day. At the Denny's at the corner of Route 50 and Chain Bridge Road in Fairfax, Virginia, Admiral Kusczak was enjoying his Grand Slam breakfast, his eyes glued to the front page of the _Washington Post_ , when Bricker sat down.

Not even looking up, Kusczak said, "Says here that the president is losing ground in the polls. Seems the people don't think much of his policies on this African thing."

Bricker cut to the chase. "We need to pull the plug. Rabih's gone under, and Lucca's too far in. It's a problem."

"Real shame," Kusczak said, turning the page. "What the president needs is a shot in the arm; something to boost him up in these here polls. Damn polls control everything, you know that?"

"Stop fucking around," Bricker said. "Lucca wants out."

"In for a penny...." Kusczak said as he ate some of his pancakes.

"He can't get close enough without Rabih."

"Yup, sure would help if Tohouri bit the big one somehow. You know what I mean, Andrew?" Bricker was staring him down. "How close can he get without a weapon," Kusczak asked, suddenly serious.

"What did you have in mind?"

"Why don't we make this a dress rehearsal?" Kusczak wiped his mouth and tossed the napkin on the table. "Is he still carrying the monitor chip?"

"It's in his watch."

"Tell him to keep it on him."

"He doesn't even know he's carrying it."

"I like that," Kusczak said as he threw some money on the table.

* * * * *

The winds whip off the Atlantic and sweep up off the central mountains of Algeria, catapulting hundreds of miles until they bump into a similar range that cuts through the heart of Libya. There, they churn back on themselves, gathering energy much the same way a tornado fattens itself. Revitalized, they blast westward through a gap in the mountains to the Great Sand Sea of Calanscio, where lies the ancient city of Sabha.

Lucca reviewed the details in his head as the Land Rover bumped along. He didn't like this; the plans had been changed too often. The entire operation should have been terminated, especially after those two bodies were found slumped over in a limo at the airport in Tripoli. No one had a line on Rabih, which meant he could turn up anywhere, or never turn up at all. Without Rabih, he could be heading into a death trap. Where was Rabih?

He stopped the Land Rover, feeling it rock in the oncoming onslaught. The temperature had risen dramatically within the last hour, and although he was close to roasting, he cut the engine for fear that it would swallow too much sand. He'd be dead for sure if that happened. By his best calculation, he was still several dozen miles outside the city. Unbelievably, the last living things he'd seen was a small caravan of camels and their lone herder, or driver, or whatever he was called, hunkered down in the storm. Fucking country didn't even have a fucking railroad. Fucking place. Sweating, he looked at his watch: 0415 hours. It would be late evening in Washington, and he decided it would be as good a time as any.

Reaching under the steering column, he felt for a toggle switch, and the seat bottom next to him suddenly popped forward to reveal a box about the size of a small portable radio. It looked like one actually, with an X-shaped antenna nestled in a specially made plastic mold, along with a Morse key handset in case the user was in a situation where he couldn't speak. Portable satellite communications as secure as it got: single sideband encrypted UHF. Assembling the pieces, he wondered if the sandstorm would have any effect on the link. He found out a minute later.

"Hello," the female voice said into Lucca's headset.

Hello? Well, what the hell, no sense in complicating it. "Zulu, Lima, Echo," he said. He could have recited the call signs in any combination.

"Sierra, Yankee, Foxtrot. One moment please." Then, "Have a nice day."

Things sure were changing. Moments later, another voice came through. "Big Dog here."

"This is Iceman. You sound like you're in a barrel."

"Sorry," said Andrew Bricker, picking up his handset. "That better? I'm in my car."

In his car? The spy business sure was getting casual about things. Then again, only certain very restricted communications were capable of getting into this satellite, supposedly.

"I'm glad you called. There's been a change," said Bricker.

"Another one? I can't wait."

"You'll need to go through the course work, but the program will have to be completed another time."

"Thank God," said Lucca. "I didn't like the look of the material."

"I know what you mean. We think our instructor ended up at another university."

The words fell into the pit of Lucca's stomach. "You'll have to use another grad student after I complete this class. This course sucks."

Bricker paused. "Understood. Just meet with the client and record the parameters."

"Got it," Lucca responded, thinking he'd see his wife and kids again in two days. "That meeting should be scheduled for tomorrow at two o'clock."

"Good," said Bricker. "What time is it there now?"

Lucca looked at his watch. "0422 hours exactly."

"Got it," said Bricker. "What's that noise in the background? Sounds like you're in the middle of an ocean."

"Sandstorm," said Lucca. "Looks like it's dying."

* * * * *

From Aviano Air Base in Italy, a single A-6E Intruder waited for clearance. Despite it age—the original model dated back to Vietnam—the A-6E was a formidable weapon, capable of carrying up to 15,000 pounds of every type of air-to-ground ordinance imaginable. For this mission, it would need nowhere near that much.

The pilot checked the instrument panel as the plane sucked air through its massive twin intake ports. This model of the A-6 had mounted the Target Recognition and Attack Multisensor (TRAM), which is a turret-mounted sensor package, including a Forward Looking Infra-Red (FLIR) targeting device, and laser-designating equipment for precision-guided munitions. Boiled down, it meant the plane could shoot a missile through a doorway from halfway across an ocean. It was one of the reasons this A-6 was chosen, as opposed to one of the newer, spiffier F/A-18 Hornets that replaced the A-6s throughout the military. It wasn't the primary reason, however. No, the reason this particular A-6 was chosen was that its colors would not be recognized by any other military organization on the planet, they being an adaptation of a super hero symbol from a Marvel comic book. The theme was carried on throughout, right down to the pilot's helmet and flight suit. The originator of the symbol had thought it quite comical at the time, but the levity was lost inside the plane. The B/N—Bomber/ Navigator—sat on the pilot's right, slightly lower in arrangement and a few inches back. At the moment, his face was pressed to a black hood on the instrument panel. With his foot, he keyed the intercom system, or ICS, and said, "All go."

"Roger that," said the pilot, a forty-three-year-old former Marine captain named Jerome Johnson. Although an expert inside the A-6, he was no longer part of the military. He flipped the IFF to transmit. "This is Unknown Rider," he said casually. "Checklist completed. Just let me know when, kids. Do you copy?"

"We copy, Unknown Rider. Runway 01. You are cleared."

"Roger," said the pilot, urging the Pratt & Whitney V-52 P8 engines past their lethargic pre-flight warm up. They responded with only a fraction of their 18,000 pounds of capable thrust, enough to rip the wings right off the plane should they to be pushed to that point. His course would take him right down the middle of the Adriatic to his destination aboard the aircraft carrier _USS Coral Sea_ , which was currently circling the heel of Italy's boot toward Malta. There, he would refuel and wait for the next leg of the mission.

* * * * *

Lucca arranged his press badge prominently, making sure his picture was visible as well as the words _Boston Globe_. That would explain the cameras, as well as the need to get close to the target. The bastards loved having their picture taken. As he adjusted his cameras, he wondered how close was close enough. This was a dry run now, a dress rehearsal for the next time, where the assassin—whoever it would be, for it wouldn't be him—could escape once the deed was done. Tripoli would have been perfect. Now, his mission was to find a vantage point from which to shoot his _pictures_ , or, in reality, fix a laser dot from his camera on the podium, or the car, or the tank, if it be the case, on which the guidance system of the miniature plane could lock itself. The last time, it had worked perfectly. Still, to this day, the world thought it had been a car bomb. Who would have thought a toy, a miniature remote bi-wing airplane, buzzing around at the delight of a dozen children, could have caused such destruction? A little too much C-4 on that one, perhaps.

He double-checked the telephoto lens to make sure it looked normal, for surely someone would stop him, and his equipment would be checked. Let them check. He glanced at the watch on his left wrist, the watch that, in a live mission, would emit a homing signal in the event he became stranded and needed someone to find him.

He donned the darker of two pair of sunglasses in his suitcase, and made his way down through the cool, darkened hotel lobby. Upon reaching the out of doors, he thought maybe the sun had relocated itself across the street. It was blindingly bright. Quickly, he flagged a cab. Perhaps he'd grab something to eat. He had a couple of hours before the speech.

* * * * *

Jerome Johnson examined his fuel gauges to make sure they'd pegged, feeling the pull of the catapult as the plane begged to fling itself off the deck. When the proper signals were given, he slammed the Pratt & Whitneys to full throttle, sending the A-6 roaring off the deck and accelerating to 200 knots in four seconds over the Mediterranean.

"Still has good power," Johnson said as they cleared cloud cover.

The B/N, a Navy Commander two years his senior named Swensen, replied, "Ain't carrying much of a load." He scanned the Intruder's ESM monitors for any unexpected radar types. It was just the usual air-traffic-control type.

"True," said Johnson, remembering their only payload was a pair of GBU-15 laser-guided bombs. If things went according to plan, they'd use only one of them. At 22,000 feet, Johnson pressed the button on his ICS. "Nice, ain't it?"

He was referring to the blueness of the Mediterranean, and the tranquility of flying along undisturbed at 450 knots true. It was almost hypnotic.

"Don't get no better," Swensen replied. "Fifteen minutes to Hornets' intercept."

"Roger that," said Johnson. He set the Intruder on a course toward the Tunisian coast, and reviewed the mission briefing in his head.

They were part of a nose-thumbing mission against the Libyans who, some weeks earlier, with the support of Olu Tohouri, had declared the Gulf of Sidra to be Libyan territory, which was akin to drawing a line between Florida and the Panama Canal, and declaring the Gulf of Mexico to be U.S. territory. The same stunt had been tried in the eighties, and at the time the American president—none other than the Great Communicator himself—pretty much said, "Oh yeah, bite me!" and sent a few squadrons over to bomb the living shit out of anything that moved, using the excuse that he was going after terrorist training bases. It worked then, but this was different. Back then, Olu Tohouri wasn't in the picture, and there weren't armies upon armies of well-armed killers backing the Libyans.

"Five minutes to intercept," Swensen said.

"Roger," Johnson replied. They were approaching the imaginary line in the sand, so to speak. Any ships or planes crossing this _Line of Death_ would be blown to smithereens, according to the Libyan leader, who'd said so in a very public, very ballsy speech some days earlier with Tohouri at his side. The first indication of Hornet intercept crackled in his ears, and Johnson eased the Intruder to 350 knots, banking it into a sweeping turn fifty miles off the Tunisian coast. No communication or radar needed, he spotted the formations screaming towards him from below. It looked like the Blue Angels down there.

Swensen said, "This is going to be too easy."

"Know what you mean," Johnson responded. Their part, the Intruder's part, was different from the rest of the aircraft that were speeding toward them. The Hornets were to split up and head for multiple targets, the largest number heading for one specific target forty-nine miles southeast of Tripoli, where the Libyans, with the backing of Tohouri, had just constructed the world's largest chemical weapons plant inside a hollowed out mountain. Supposedly, it covered an incredible six square miles. The Hornets were to disable the defenses around the plant—or the mountain, as it were—and surgically deploy multiple non-nuclear—but at close as you can get to it—warheads, and destroy as much of the plant as possible, while not touching off the stockpiled tons of chemical weapons already there. A tricky exercise, to say the least.

"Howdy boys," Johnson said as the Hornets surrounded him. He waved to the other pilots as if he was waving to some neighbors on the way to church. "Thanks for the shield."

"No problem," came the response. "Ain't gonna last for long, though. Here they come."

Swensen detected it at the same time. "Formations at four o'clock."

"Right on," Johnson said, his nerves suddenly all tingly. He eased the stick forward, and the Intruder thundered to 650 knots. It was almost show time, but there was no need to panic. The planes below were probably MiG-25s or Su-22s, and neither was any match for the Hornets, several of which peeled off to do some sky dancing, making huge arcs in the sky before screaming past in the opposite direction 2,000 feet below.

_"I have been to the mountain..._ " Johnson said mockingly. " _Saaay...a hallelujah_."

"And the mountain will be no more," Swensen responded.

Little did they know the killing of the mountain was a convenient distraction, and that they were actually the primary mission. The last of the Hornets peeled off, and they were alone in the sky. "Our turn," Swensen said. As they passed over the sprawl of Tripoli, Johnson dropped the plane to just above rooftop height and made several slashing passes, rattling cupboards throughout the city. Even with the tremendous speed of the Intruder, he could see people focus on the plane, pointing and covering their ears as he streaked over them. He turned, making sure he was low so everyone could get a good look at the insignia on the side of the plane, and took a heading toward Sabha. They had a deadline to meet.

* * * * *

Lucca looked through the viewfinder of his rigged Nikon, and easily positioned the tiny laser being emitted from the long 210mm lens. Everything was working perfectly. Perched on a rooftop, or in a park as the last one had been, hundreds of yards, even miles away, it would have been no problem for another operative to launch a miniature rocket, or plane, or helicopter toward the laser dot. It was amazing how advanced modern electronics had become: an entire guidance system in the nose of a toy carrying half a pound of C-4. All he had to do was keep the laser dot in position, and duck when he heard the buzz. _Boom!_ Goodbye dictator. He looked at his watch, and noted that it was five minutes till two. If all went as planned, he'd be out of the country by nightfall. He made his way through the chanting crowd. Maybe he'd actually snap off some pictures in case he was stopped and someone decided to actually check the camera. Deep cover meant doing it from beginning to end.

* * * * *

At sixty miles from the target, Jerome Johnson lifted the Intruder from its low-altitude streak across the interior. He climbed to 15,000 feet, noting his fuel gauges since it would take a full hour to return to the carrier. He had to get his load off soon.

"Got it," Swensen said, his attention locked into a scope. The laser dot came from a secret satellite that had never been used before, they were told, positioned seventy-five miles above the globe. The laser focused exactly on a point on the globe where a monitor chip was transmitting reliably from the watch on Lucca Bravo's left wrist. Swensen fiddled with some knobs on the port inboard weapons station. "Powering up on the seeker head," he said, activating the tracking system on one of the GBU-15 laser-guided bombs hanging from the plane. Underneath the Intruder, the Target Recognition and Attack Multisensor pod located the laser dot. "We have positive ID on the target," Swensen said mechanically.

Johnson responded with an equally mechanical, "Roger." He programmed in the position of the target—or targets, actually—a group of well-known terrorist leaders who were having a two o'clock _summit meeting_ , they'd been told in their briefing. Even if the GBU-15 didn't detonate right in the middle of the target basket, it would get close enough to take them out.

Looking at the time, Swensen noted they were right on schedule. "We're a go," he said. A mechanism on the ejector rack received a signal from the inboard weapons computer, and several plain old Winchester shotgun shells fired, driving the ejector feet into upper side of the bomb case. The bomb separated cleanly, and its navigation system immediately zeroed in on the satellite laser dot ninety miles away, keeping it centered in its field of view and adjusting trajectory as needed. The Intruder banked hard right.

"It's all chicken but the gravy now," said Johnson. He'd never see the final result.

* * * * *

Lucca struggled to maintain his position within the surging crowd, but he concluded that it was possible to focus a laser dot from the camera, given the current setup and security forces. That was all he was looking to accomplish, and he'd report such to Bricker. He gave one last look through the viewfinder and audibly said, "Go," imitating a live operation to its ultimate conclusion. Being the perfectionist that he was, he began counting to thirty, for even if the _toy_ was half a mile away, it could get there in thirty seconds.

"One-thousand-one, one-thousand-two...." The target turned. It wasn't Tohouri. Lucca shifted his camera to the Libyan leader, and discovered immediately that it wasn't him either. He shifted the camera lens back. "One-thousand-five, one-thousand-six...." He recognized the face. "One-thousand-seven, one-thousand-eight...." It was Rabih! What was he doing here? Suddenly, something felt very wrong.

At just over six hundred knots and already on the way, the bomb took less than seven minutes from separation to impact. With a guaranteed accuracy of three meters, it exploded at the base of the podium, and every human body within forty feet disintegrated. Lucca was about a hundred feet away and running in the opposite direction, for something had told him to do so. He was unlucky enough to have had a few hundred bodies between him and the impact zone, which meant that he didn't die instantly. His mind in full shock, he looked down to see that he no longer had a lower half to his body. The last two thoughts that entered his head in the last two seconds of his life were that three million bucks was nowhere near enough for never seeing his wife and kids again, and that he'd been set up.

The watch on his left wrist, the one with the monitor chip inside, was still ticking at 0206 hours, Libyan time.

Chapter 16. Down To Five

"So..." said Chrome Dome, laughing at his own story, "... there's lightning all over the place, and the Big Guy hits the wrong foursome."

The presidents who didn't understand golf—for it hadn't been invented yet when they were down on Earth—weren't paying attention.

Always the aficionado, **F** ix **O** r **R** epair **D** aily asked, "What happened?"

Chrome Dome continued as he leaned on his driver. "So... the foursome comes up to the gates, and Pete looks up from the list and says, 'Sorry guys, you gotta go back'.... 'Go back?' says one of the guys. 'What'dya mean, go back? We're dead. The funerals are happening already. We can't go back.'.... 'Sorry,' Pete said. 'It comes straight from the Big Guy, but he's willing to make a deal.'.... 'What kind of deal?' the foursome's spokesman asked."

The golfing presidents listened attentively as Chrome Dome imitated Saint Peter. "'The Big Guy says you can go back as anything you want.'"

The golfing presidents started snickering. "I'd go back as John Holmes," said the Ladies' Man

"Oooooh," said Marilyn.

Chrome Dome continued. "Well, that sounded like a pretty good deal, so the guys huddle for a while, and come back to the gates. 'Did you decide?' Pete asks.... 'Yup,' says the spokesman.... 'Well, what's it gonna be?'.... 'We want to go back as lesbians,' the spokesman answers."

At this, Klinger came over from the undoor and asked the obvious. "Why did they want to go back as lesbians?"

"That way, they could still have sex with women, but they'd get to hit from the ladies' tees."

Klinger made a sour unface. "That's disgusting."

"I wouldn't say that," said The Ladies' Man.

"I don't get it," said **F** ix **O** r **R** epair **D** aily.

"There's a surprise," Trickie Dickie called from among the observers. His vice president hadn't changed a bit.

Suddenly, something blew through the unguarded undoor. Everyone thought it was The Shadow again, but it wasn't. There, golden reins in unhand (he'd been Bellerophon once), atop Traveller (he'd been Pegasus once) was Robert E. Strong, straight, true as an oak, Robert E. still carried about him an aura that none of the presidents possessed, but all of them coveted. He took a moment, looking as if he was taking in signals from the environment. It was mental reconnaissance, perhaps, and while no one there understood the quality exactly, they all knew it existed. Robert E. had led so many men into so many battles, without having suffered so much as a scratch himself, that it was clear he possessed another sense, one which was able to pinpoint the direction from which death would come.

Death was part of war, and he'd accepted it, even welcomed it, for in death there would have been relief. But, death on the battlefield had never come for Robert E. He'd been destined to witness it, and divert it toward others, as all the generals at the untable had, but none had done so as often. He'd dared it to touch him hundreds of times, recklessly, it seemed, in hopes that he'd be struck down and cheat his dour destiny. The bullets seemed to curve around him, however, repelled by an invisible cocoon of unmatter that protected him from the perils of battle. Even now, a cold current of phosphorescent atoms blazed around him, and moved as he did. As such, it always seemed that Robert E. had a serene, gentle manner about him, a softness of spirit as soft as the unwhiskers on his unface. Not so. "Come and get me, you bastard!" he'd challenged more than once, daring the grim reaper to appear before him. But death never took up the challenge and, paradoxically, it won, in a way. Life during those years was worse than death for Robert E., and he was destined to suffer through it. He was unkillable.

Suddenly uncomfortable, Ulysses shifted in his seat.

Klinger quickly resumed his position at the undoor. Unarms folded, "What's the password?" he demanded. It worked once. It could work again.

Dismounting slowly, with a look that would have melted lead, Robert E. handed the golden reins to Klinger. "Make sure he doesn't fly off," he said, referring to the now-winged Traveller.

"Yup, okay, no problem, okie-dokie, that's it, all right. That's the password." Klinger took the reins, and stepped aside.

Robert E. stepped through the undoor, and the observers became deathly silent. Garfield the Cat and Ruddy Haymaker, both familiar with Robert E.'s aura, urged the others to move back, their attention focused on the ring of phosphorescent atoms. They were dangerous. It only took one to fly off, then.... Well, no one wanted to think about that. Robert E. made his way to the untable. Even Abe-The-Hat made room.

"Abe," Robert E. said cordially as he glided by atop a dense galactic mist.

"Robert E.," Abe greeted in return. "Whose side are you on this time?"

"Consultant/client privilege," Robert E. responded.

Abe looked around, searching for a clue. No one moved.

Robert E. examined the unboard, instantly absorbing the strengths and weaknesses of the various armies. It only took one-millionth of one Earth second for him to completely analyze the situation and determine which armies had the best chance to achieve world domination. There was no argument, not even from blustery Ready Teddy, that Robert E. was the best strategist to ever not play. It was a presidential unGame, after all, and no one, not Chrome Dome, not Abe-The-Hat, none of them, could hold a candle to Robert E.'s strategic analytical ability. Kid Zach looked at Robert E. like an eight-year-old hoping to get an autograph from Mickey Mantle.

Robert E. scratched his unear. "Didn't I teach you boys anything at the Point?" he asked, referring to his days as superintendent of the Military Academy.

"Sorry, Class of 1915," said Chrome Dome.

"Sorry. Went before ya."

"Already died."

"Weren't born yet."

"Never went."

A wary Ulysses hawked some cigar juice into a whirling vortex. Calm and grandfatherly on the outside, Robert E. could lash out like a coiled rattlesnake, and was just as deadly. Ulysses watched his every move, keenly aware of why Abe-The-Hat had asked Robert E., before anyone else, to be commander of the Union forces way back then, a post Robert E. turned down out of respect for his beloved Virginia.

"I'll be over here if anyone needs me," said Robert E., taking a battle stand, whiskered unchin into what would have been wind, had there been air up where they were. He stood motionless, groomed and polished, his uneyes glinting in the grayness inside the aura.

Ready Teddy pulled a cozy gaseous asteroid up close to the untable. "Wouldn't you be more comfortable over here?"

"I shoulda' known," said Abe.

The dice came around. "Attack!" Ready Teddy declared.

"Uh-uh." Robert E.'s unlips didn't even move. Woulda' been hard to tell if they had.

"No attack? You sure about this?"

"Uh-huh."

Reluctantly, Ready Teddy said, "Okay then... free move, I guess." Jealously, he watched as the others tried to annihilate each other, waiting impatiently until the dice came around again. When they did, there was one less army on the unboard. Fearless Frankie had gobbled up the True Man in Asia/Mongolia.

"Attack!" Ready Teddy declared, clearly eager for some action.

"Not yet."

"You're kidding."

"I never kid."

Disappointed beyond words, Ready Teddy sighed and mumbled, "Free move." Once again, he stood by as Ulysses squared off against Georgie Boy: back and forth, back and forth, the dice were a blur in their unhands.

Kid Zach went next. Smelling blood, seeing that Georgie Boy had been weakened by Ulysses' rampage to the north, he decided to put the squeeze on from below. It didn't take long before Georgie Boy joined the observers, materializing next to T.J. who was showing The Ladies' Man how to grow an expandable zucchini.

"Now?" Ready Teddy begged.

"Not yet."

"But, it's time!"

"Not until you see the whites of their eyes."

Ready Teddy looked straight at Ulysses. "It'll be cold day in hell before his eyes are white."

"Wait one more turn," said Robert E.

Abe picked up the dice. "General, please prepare to defend yourself."

Chrome Dome prepared to defend Europe.

Chapter 17. Taking The Bull....

The dreams never stopped. It had been so real this time. He shook his head violently, as if doing so would cast out the remains of the dream, the latest episode of a never-ending series.

"Congressman! Are you all right? Your pulse is pounding so hard I can see it."

"Elaine... I'm all right," said Pauli.

She knew better, but she'd been his assistant for a while now and she knew there was no arguing with the congressman. "That's the third time this week."

"Where are we?" he asked, pushing her hand away.

Obviously, he didn't want to talk about it. He never did. "Culpepper County," she answered, thinking he looked abnormally small sitting there on the motel bed. The man was alone in life, a modern day Lone Ranger, except that he had no Tonto. He needed a Tonto. A bubble of emotion made its way into her throat, and for a second she wanted to take him in her arms and comfort him. Instead, she handed him a glass of water.

"Thanks," he said, downing half of it quickly.

The chants came right through the walls. " _Stop Tohouri now! Stop Tohouri now!"_ It was relentless. Disheveled and rumpled, Pauli dragged himself to the window.

Elaine watched him as he crossed the room. His face bathed in late afternoon wintery light, it seemed creased and ashen, empty of the vitality that had been there only two years earlier during his first run for the House. Back then, candidate Campo had been a demure, local politician who had stumbled his way into Congress due in large part to his campaign manager. He'd been a favorite of the people, a common guy who stood for something different, a new way of life, which, in actuality, was a regression into a time before he himself had even been born.

She recalled the campaign speeches. Unpolished, they were often delivered without the aid of a microphone, a ploy that Pauli, as he still liked to be called privately, dreamed up. He maintained that his words carried more meaning because the people had to work to hear them, almost to earn them, in a sense. Everyone thought he was crazy, especially Roinell King, who left the campaign eventually. No surprise there. All they did was fight.

_"Stop Tohouri now! Stop Tohouri now!"_ The force of the chant actually shook the walls. The protest was gathering momentum, and sirens sounded in the background.

Who would have thought the tactic would actually work? The people—all six or eight of them at first—were deathly silent when he spoke, but the crowds grew bigger, and bigger—and bigger. A phenomenon is what the papers called him: an unprofessional politician, a man who didn't really want the job, but felt it was his duty. He stood before his audiences, and sometimes among them, talking about how it was impossible to be a family with a remote control, a computer, and cell phones in the same room. It was too much, he'd said. There were too many places to go; too many clubs to join. It all clogged the family arteries so that love didn't flow.

His political rivals thought he was crazy. "The man is a dinosaur," an opponent had said. "This is the beginning of the twenty-first century, not the nineteenth century. Technology is the way of the world. It opens up new avenues of education and entertainment for us."

"Entertainment!" Pauli once bellowed into a crowd. "Families aren't about entertainment! Taking your kids here or there, being soccer moms and dads, those are byproducts, not the essence of relationships. Ignore the computer for a while. Turn off the TV. Instead, take a walk together. Skip stones on the lake. Have some conversation, for God's sake!"

It was cosmic, and cliché in a way, and certainly obtuse, but somehow the message came across. At least it did for her, Elaine recalled. The man had a regard for righteousness, and a need to guide others toward it. He wasn't good at it, professionally speaking, but there was a quality about him that appealed beyond the words, for others soon echoed them _after_ they observed his popularity with the unwashed. It wasn't his words, however. It was him.

"When were you born?" Pauli asked from the window.

His mind was working again. "1967," she answered.

"Then you don't remember the protests from that time. These are the same, except that they..." Pauli pointed through the window, "... want us to _go back_ to Africa and stop Tohouri."

Elaine stepped to the window. There seemed to be a million people outside, which was ridiculous because only a few thousand lived in the town.

_"Stop Tohouri now! Stop Tohouri now!_ "

"And how would you know about the sixties protests?" she asked. "I'm older than you."

"I'm not sure," he said, "but somehow I know. These protestors are right, you know."

"That depends on how you look at it. It'll cost a lot of American lives if we go back."

"It's gonna cost us no matter what we do. We should never have pulled out. We should have committed ourselves, and we should have gone after him instead of half-assing it the way we did." Shadows danced across his eyes. A TV van pulled up right in front of the motel. "If we don't stop him now, Tohouri will come at us eventually, and we won't be ready."

"That's crazy," Elaine scoffed. "No one would let that happen. Besides, he doesn't have the military capability."

"He'll get it," Pauli said with certainty. "And he'll use everything he's got."

"We're stronger."

"Maybe, but he's crazier."

"There's no doubt about that, but we have allies."

"They've got themselves to worry about, and he's a lot closer to them than he is to us. They'll be asking for military assistance before long. Then what? Do we turn them down?" The TV crew set up not twenty feet away and within seconds a young, blonde talking head blustered for the camera. There was a smile on her face.

"Which way do you think Congress will go?"

Pauli laughed. "By the time Congress gets around to approving, or not approving, anything, Tohouri will already have invaded Europe."

"That's impossible," Elaine said tenuously.

Pauli didn't respond, his silence ominous.

A wintry chill crawled up her spine, but Elaine knew it wasn't the weather. "What do you think she's saying?" she asked, referring to the reporter.

"It doesn't matter." Pauli spread the curtain to get a better look. "Nothing will come of it. Nothing will come of any of this. Someone has to take the bull by the horns."

Elaine looked at his shadowed face and wondered what he meant, exactly. "The president and Congress will take care of it," she said, but it didn't come out as confidently as she would have liked.

"No, they won't," Pauli responded. "I'm gonna have to do this myself."

Elaine looked at him again.

Chapter 18. A Laughing Matter

"But Mister President! We can't just sit here, for God's sake! He'll invade Europe!"

Kusczak shifted his attention as if he was trying to look away from a car accident. Another modern woman conscious of her need to be tough in a tough world; the bitch was ranting, is what. It was the only way she could get herself heard. He'd agreed with the president that having a woman as chief of staff was a good idea, once. Now, it was his opinion that she was the second biggest pussy in the White House.

Being the formidable statesman that he was, the president took a position, his back to the twenty or so people in the room. They waited, for they'd all seen the pose before. He turned, his features arranged so as to form a confident visage. Kusczak knew better; confusion was raging.

"Don't get hysterical," the president said, trying to corral the emotions of his chief of staff.

"I resent that term."

"Resent what you like," he said sternly. "We need to maintain level heads about this. Odds are that it's all posturing."

That, thought Kusczak, was something with which the president was thoroughly familiar. Across the rosewood conference table, Andrew Bricker maintained a card player's countenance.

"Posturing!" the chief of staff went on. "Tohouri has _postured_ nearly three-and-a-half million people into an early death. I'd say you're the one who's posturing."

The president wheeled. "You're out of line, Madam Chief of Staff! One more crack like that, and I'll have you removed."

The chief of staff stomped from the room. "You won't have to," she called over her shoulder.

Kusczak glanced at Bricker who was rubbing his lips in thoughtful repose. She was right, of course. Too bad, she might have just cost herself her job. The recent gathering of Tohouri's armies on the Libyan coast was no posturing move. Two million men were preparing to go somewhere, and no one was doing shit to stop them. Italy wasn't that far away.

The president faced his team. "There are only six months left in my term," he said weakly. "Surely, it's not a good idea to launch a major military operation now."

This duck is so lame he can't quack, Kusczak thought. All the better. And, with no political inertia behind them, neither of the two candidates slugging it out in the polls would have an easy time convincing a bruised and gun-shy Congress to devote military might to a cause that still scarred many otherwise illustrious congressional records. No one had forgotten the senselessness and humiliation of our tangle in the Congo. It was clear sailing.

"Mister President," Kusczak hailed. "Even if he crosses the Mediterranean, it poses no direct threat to our shores."

"What about NATO, and our commitment there?"

It was a good question, but Kusczak knew the president's real motivation for asking it. Kusczak scanned the quizzical countenances around the conference table, thinking how reminiscent the scene was of the days when Lyndon Johnson sat there and asked for opinions. Back then, he'd always thought Johnson inwardly begged for an excuse to pull out of Vietnam. Poor slob. It was a no-win situation. If he'd pulled out, he would have lost face with the industrial/military establishment; if he stayed in, he lost face with the electorate. Either way, his nuts were in a vise, and both political blocks were squeezing hard. Even as a young strategist, Kusczak recognized the signs of political fatigue. It was like metal fatigue, almost impossible to tell from appearances. Then one day, _snap_ , a girder gives way and a bridge collapses. It was no surprise when Johnson decided not to run in '68. And Johnson was strong. This chump was a marshmallow.

"The Europeans need to pull their own weight on this one," Kusczak went on. "No one would blame us if we took that stance. We can't be the world's policeman forever." He prepared himself for some verbal backlash, but, surprisingly, there was none. They were all staring at him. Clearly, he was on stage, performing for the pampered.

"Wouldn't it be best to keep him contained in Africa?"

"We made our attempt," Kusczak defended emphatically, "eight years ago, just as you came into office. It was Vietnam all over again, and this will be the same. Surely, no one would blame us if we took our time here. Our borders aren't threatened. Why do we need to prove we've got a bigger dick than Tohouri... sir?" A clock ticked in the background. "Who among us is willing take the political baton on this one?"

The president leaned down and whispered something to the secretary of state, to which the secretary responded with a distinct negative wag of his head.

It was like watching the lights turn green when you were in a hurry. Kusczak barreled forward. "Of course, if we need to find a political reason that would deter us from sending our boys into the Mediterranean...." Kusczak didn't finish the sentence as all eyes turned to Bricker.

"Andrew," the president beckoned, "what color light can the CIA shed on this?"

Interesting choice of words, thought Kusczak. If you want something to look different, simply change the filter.

"It sounds like we're afraid of him," Bricker said boldly.

Was Bricker taking the other side on this? Kusczak looked for a reaction. Coolness prevailed, but Bricker didn't look like he was in the mood for coolness.

"Seems to me that we want to worm our way out of defending the Europeans," Bricker went on. "Is that what we want to accomplish?"

Bricker waited for an answer, but there was no reaction. No fervor. No pounding of fists. Just waiting, cat and mouse, political gamesmanship. No one was going to say anything that could be construed as being in favor of anything. They would just wait until something came out around which they could rally. It was the way of political decision-making. Kusczak looked at the pudgy faces around him. They were clean, gentlemanly faces, soft as ripe peaches, shaven, perfumed, powdered, and passionless. No one wanted the hassle.

"It's not that we're afraid..." the secretary of state began.

Focusing on the portraits on the walls, Kusczak could almost see the eyes rolling back into the canvas in condemnation of what was happening.

"Well, Andrew?" the president said loudly. "Is there a way out, or not?"

Bricker speared the president with a look. "We could audit the Europeans' covert operations," he said disgustedly, "just to make sure they've been in compliance with their treaty agreements. Once we're sure there's nothing that would compromise any military or other operation, why, then, I guess we could proceed with a defensible public policy on the matter and provide subsequent military backup, if necessary. Of course, if there have been treaty violations, well, then—"

"Then, we'd have a basis to delay any actions until such violations were thoroughly investigated and rectified," the president concluded for him.

Bingo, thought Kusczak. Bricker had tried to hide behind a pile of political doublespeak, but the president turned it to his advantage. No doubt who was the master of doublespeak here.

"That's one way to look at it, Mister President." Bricker took a drink as if to wash away a sour taste in his mouth.

"Look into it immediately," the president ordered. A decision had been made. The president puffed his chest.

A symphony of clearing throats and exhalations erupted in the room, followed by a round of hushed chatter that escalated into some coarse laughs, all of it punctuated by severe backslapping. Looking from seat to seat, Kusczak knew what was bothering Bricker. The natty secretary of state closed his notebook, not a note having been written on the pristine pages within. The joint chiefs huddled in a corner, decorated pillars in green, blue, and white, coffee cups soon to be replaced with rocks glasses, while the secretary of defense and the vice president exchanged words that caused each of them to smile. Kusczak noticed that Bricker was staring. Get with the program, thought Kusczak. None of the fine gentlemen and gentlewomen in this room desired to engage in anything as inconvenient as a war!

The press secretary raised his hand and called for the president's attention. "What about the protests, sir?"

"What about them?"

"Well, sir, I don't think we can let them go on forever. If we do, we take the chance that public sentiment will swing, and we'd have to consider sending troops to confront this maniac."

"Strange," the president said. "This is the first time I can remember in my entire political career where the people are rallying for us to send troops _into_ battle."

"Strange indeed, sir, and I think we need to avoid it."

"So do I, by golly." A quizzical look crossed the president's face. "Do you have any suggestions?"

"We certainly don't want these demonstrations to become a threat to national security. I think we need to squash them, even if it means using military force. It would be for the good of the people."

The president turned to Kusczak. "Tom, you're in charge of national security. Work up some plans with the Joint Chiefs in case we need to get the military involved, and get back to me." The president looked around. "Are there any objections?"

A series of nods and _harrumphs_ circulated about the room.

The curl at the edges of Kusczak's mouth widened. There it was, all in the name of national security, handed to him on a silver platter. The military was his—by presidential decree, no less—and he had six months until the election to strengthen his grip on it. With the military in his grasp, he'd be indispensable, in this administration, as well as the next. Kusczak looked across the table and wondered if Bricker would be with him on this one, or not, especially in view today's performance. If not.... Kusczak laughed aloud, and everyone turned toward him.

"Is something funny, Admiral?"

"It's nothing, Mister President, just a stray thought." The president smiled, and turned away. Kusczak imagined Olu Tohouri would be smiling before long.

Chapter 19. The Day of Reckoning

A brooding blanketed the unGame, a heaviness that felt as if they were under miles of water in some dark ocean, buoyed from inside by millions of pounds of pressure that threatened to detonate them into a small galaxy of starry, andropolactic spectrons. Unlife was a bitch.

Searching his unbrain for any recollection of whether advisors were allowed at the untable, Ulysses scowled at Ready Teddy. The fact that it was Robert E. made it even worse. "This isn't the Oval Office," he said. "Advisors aren't allowed." The words were directed at Ready Teddy, but his uneyes were pinned on Robert E.

"Ain't no rules for 'em, but there ain't no rules against 'em," Ready Teddy replied. "As far as I can see, as long as he don't actually role the dice, he's allowed."

Robert E.'s entrance had caused party time to come to an abrupt halt, and all the observers formed a ring around the untable. Suddenly serious, they all knew that if Robert E. was allowed to sit at the untable, it could open the undoor to any number of other _advisors_.

Ulysses looked across the unboard. "Abe?"

Even Abe-The-Hat looked concerned, and normally you couldn't tell from Abe's expression whether he'd just had an orgasm, or had an unleg amputated. "I'm tempted to let him stay," he said. "If I remember right, advisors usually screw things up."

"Amen to that," Lame Brain Johnson called out.

_"Hear the man, brothers and sisters. Let us hearr..a an Amennn!"_ It was The Shadow, having spirited himself through the undoor in an unguarded moment as Klinger got caught up in the intrigue around the untable.

"Klinger!" several unvoices bellowed.

Abe held up an unhand. "Let him stay."

_"Say Hallelujah!_ "

"Let them all stay. If Robert E. is allowed, everyone should be allowed."

"Now, that's more like it!" Ross called out, sweeping through the undoor on a cigar-shaped monotroid. Bobbie was dangling off the back, having caught a ride evidently. "Cain't say as I been here, done that yet, but it's only a matter of time before old Ross has done sat down and whipped these boys into high test, number one, Class-A shape. Ain't that right, Abe?"

"Shut up, Ross."

Pulling a couple of flat particle pods to either side of himself, Ulysses crooked an unfinger at Garfield The Cat, then at Ruddy Haymaker. "For old times' sake?" he asked, displaying a rare moment of sentimentality. They'd all been Civil War generals in the sixties, had occupied the Oval Office in successive administrations, and had recounted their experiences over Zenian tea many times (up where they were, Ruddy wasn't as temperate as he'd been in the White House with Lemonade Lucy—that ball and chain). Garfield and Ruddy took their seats, and suddenly that side of the untable looked like a cough drop box.

"Any objection to bringing Billy Mac in with us?" Ruddy asked. "Served under me in Ohio; damned good man."

Ulysses lit a stogie off a passing volcanic thermatroid. "Bring him on," he ordered. Team One had been formed. "A new Fearsome Foursome," Ulysses announced, and suddenly, inexplicably, down on Earth, Ready Teddy's nose fell off the face of Mount Rushmore. A new strategy was developing at the unGame.

Chrome Dome looked at the unboard, and knew instinctively he'd be no match for Abe. Even if he survived, Ulysses would chew him up from Kamchatka, much the same way he was chewing his stogie. "Woody," he called. "You know the blue territories. You want in?"

"It's still four-on-two," said Woody, pointing toward the Civil War contingent. "How about bringing Frankie back? He knows Europe _and_ Siam."

Chrome Dome didn't have to wait for a response. His cigarette holder pointing like an antenna, "Have no fear, Frankie's here," Frankie announced, dragging the True Man along with him. Team Two was ready, little round glasses, and all.

Abe reluctantly looked over his unshoulder. He was gonna need some help. No matter how good he thought he was, he knew he couldn't go up against Teams One and Two alone.

"Georgie Boy? How 'bout it? Me and you," said Abe. "And bring T.J. with you—if you think he's got what it takes."

"He's got it; just hardly ever used it," said Georgie Boy.

"Then T.J.'s in. Polk Salad? How 'bout you?"

Polk Salad was stunned. Never, and unnever as well, had it been recognized that it was during his administration that the old U.S. of A. made its greatest territorial gains. Slavery, child labor, immigration, poverty: who cared? "The Napoleon of the Stump has arrived!" he declared, taking his place proudly. He stared at Ross as if he were looking into a cosmic mirror.

Abruptly, the untable was cast into darkness, a darkness so deep that the darkest of a billion nights paled by comparison. Only Garfield's uneyes showed in the universes, green ovals upon which infinite civilizations gasped simultaneously.

In the distance, in the foreground, anywhere and everywhere at the same time, never-coming, never-ending, the apparition began to take unshape. Unclear, yet apparent, light-years of cosmic expansion condensed into a roiling mass of indistinguishable but unmistakable nothingness. It was a power and a presence of unrivaled significance, yet it had no obvious form. Those closest shielded themselves with polemic magnispecs. It was the Big Guy.

_"Praisssse..a be to Jee . . . sus!"_ The Shadow called out.

_"That would be me_ ," the unvoice boomed.

Presidential unheads swung to the apparition's right, where a second roiling mass of apparent nothingness accompanied the first. A third spectral figure, fluttered silently to its left. The triumvirate grew in distinction to those who understood.

"I'm scared," Bobbie twittered, hiding behind The Ladies' Man. "Is something there?"

"I, aah, believe so," said The Ladies' Man. "Although I'm, aah, having a haa'd time seeing it."

"I ammm..a witness to the greatness of the Lord, he who floats like a butterfly, and stings like a bee. Lorrr..d, deliver us from evil, and render us subservient to him who brings us up from the depths from which we would never rise, had he not risen. Praissse..a be to...."

_"Enough already_ ," the unvoice called. " _I'm getting a headache_."

"Who said that?" Ross called.

Having grown up the son of a minister—on Earth, that is—Woody rose from the untable. Facing an empty universe, he stood motionless, seemingly entranced. "He's come," he said.

"Who's come?"

_"He's_ come," Woody replied. "It's the day of reckoning."

"No way!" said Ready Teddy. "Now?"

"Now."

"But, I'm not ready."

"Doesn't matter," said Woody. "It's time."

"How do you know?"

"Don't know how I know, but I know, and it's now. A new order has begun."

The presidents looked at each other. Eternity couldn't have a new order, could it? Eternity was eternity, and it was all there was. And, just what the hell was a new order, anyway?

"Would you care to elaborate?" Abe asked.

"We've had our turn at the untable," Woody explained, "and it's time to move on. There are other Earthlings who have vices to conquer." He pointed to the undoor outside of which unplayers for the next unGame were lining up.

Ross recognized them immediately. "That's Andrew Carnegie," he exclaimed. "And there's Howard Hughes, that nut bar; and isn't that old J. Paul himself? Hell, I was richer than him." Squinting, "What are they playing?" he asked.

Racing to the undoor, Klinger lifted his veil. "Monopoly," he called back.

"I get it," Abe said to the apparition. "Greed, right?"

The apparition roiled and churned. " _Correct, Mister Lincoln_."

Abe looked around, unsure if his colleagues had any comprehension of what was happening. It didn't appear that anyone else was hearing the conversation. "And we're learning how to be leaders?" he questioned/concluded.

The Big Guy let go with a laugh, demonic almost, which shook creation. " _Oh, my bearded friend, it is clear that you have not grasped the purpose of the unGame_."

"There's a purpose?"

_"Indeed. Contrary to appearances, your game is not about imperious domination_."

Abe perceived an indication toward Ready Teddy. "Are you saying he doesn't get it?"

_"He will. You all will. Sometimes it takes longer for some of you, but that's okay. You're not going anywhere. On Earth, new leaders will emerge as the result of the unGames, and the outcomes will serve as bedrock for new civilizations. Leadership spawns leadership, you see. That is your role, and the unGame is but a tool to force Earthlings to develop_."

Nodding, Abe asked, "It's never ending, isn't it?"

_"To the ultimate level of spatiotemporal existence—toward which I am getting ready to move, by the way. But why am I telling you all this? You're supposed to get this on your own_."

The magnitude of what the Big Guy had just said suddenly dawned on Abe. "You're being promoted?"

_"Yup_."

"From God to... what? Isn't God, like, chairman of the board?"

_"Naw. It's more like assistant VP. There's plenty of other stuff to do around here_."

"So," Abe surmised, "who's going to be the new Big Guy?"

_"Hard to tell. Any serious candidates would probably come from our training program_."

"You have a training program?"

_"Of course. You can't learn this stuff in a millennium or two, you know_."

Woody stepped forward. "I'd like to say an Act of Contrition," he said humbly.

_"Not now_ ," said the Big Guy. " _You guys finish your game first. Things are quite a mess down there, and you have a world to save. We'll have interviews and tryouts later_." The apparition indicated Kid Zach. " _Oh, and watch out for him. He's tough to figure_."

The Kid didn't have any advisors, Abe noticed.

Chapter 20. The Child of Destiny

Remaker of the world! That's what he was, more than just a leader. Previous remakers had waded through lakes of blood in their quest for domination. Hitler, Stalin, Mao, Pol Pot: all of them had to suffer the inconvenience of pausing in the middle of their busy agendas to plan for mass burials. He'd never resorted to that type of intimidation, at least not that he remembered. A true motivator of men is what he was. Was it his fault the weaklings beneath him knew but one way to maintain power?

Tohouri reflected that the briefing room looked as American as any. It was a mark of the new order of things: no excess, no ostentatious displays, no dripping chandeliers. Such were the trappings of those who sought recognition rather than accepted it. He needed no such authentication, unlike his generals and advisors who still wore uniforms and military insignias instead of charcoal suits and lapel pins. He'd have to change that in time. One of the generals was giving a report, so he listened, basking in the satisfaction of self-worship.

"The amphibious forces are gathered here," the General recounted. The pointer tapped two points on the Libyan coast. "The Tunisians are saying publicly they will resist to the last man, but so far there has been no move to amass any real resistance. We might as well paint it red as well." The General, the chief military officer of the North Africa armies, bent the pointer against his haunches, and smiled. "Air cover will come from the interior." The pointer traced an area just off the Egyptian border where two new air bases had just been constructed. "With no unforeseen problems, we will have our staging area for the European invasion within six days." It was a brilliant briefing. As an afterthought, the General added, "In addition, we've managed to break the security codes on the French satellite facility off the Moroccan coast. We can now monitor any troop movements from the equator to the Arctic Circle," he said proudly.

"Very well done," Tohouri praised, and the General beamed. "What is the status of the blue territories?" Funny, he thought for an instant: red territories, blue territories, just like the American board game he'd played once in college. The Americans—they would become a color too, in time. For now, almost the entire African map was deep red.

A second general took the podium. "We will have our prize in hand by the end of this year!" he thundered, and a group of supporters shouted and clapped at his pronouncement. The pointer smacked dead on South Africa. The General turned toward Tohouri. "And with your permission, Supreme Commander, I will install myself as the head of its government, in servitude to your wishes." The General bowed to his god on Earth.

Cheers filled the briefing room, and Tohouri quickly stood up to take control. Disciplined military leaders had no business acting like soccer fans. He raised his arms to quiet the frenetic throng, and oddly, instead of dampening the blossoming rage, he added to it, his action misinterpreted as one of approval. The energy intensified like the winds of a feeding hurricane, until it seemed as if the air itself was taking on heat.

"Bless us this mission, Supreme Commander," called an unknown general from the first row of seats.

_Bless us this mission_ , thought Tohouri. Gods blessed. Holy men blessed. _He_ would bless, for he was a god on Earth, put here to conquer the evils of the Western pagans, and transform their blind idolatry into the worship of him, who was to carry them into spiritual regeneration. _They_ would worship _him_ , Olu Tohouri, God incarnate, transformed from the intangible realm of idealistic belief into black flesh, and red blood, the same as the first man born on tick one of the evolutionary clock. He was the Son of the Father, the progenitor of man, heir to the crown of light, and he cast out all doubts as to what he must do.

Basking in adoration, he recalled his childhood days, riding the lazy waters of the Zambezi. He remembered how crocodile eyes stayed with his dugout canoe as it rode the red reflection of a crimson sky, how the water bent like an oxbow before it, shimmering red so that it was impossible to tell water from blood. Then, he recalled the times when the water flowed thick with blood, when migrating wildebeests emerged from the dust storms to cross the river. The crocs ate well then, as they did when a canoe tipped into the river. They impaled the water the way a nightmare impales a restful sleep, and death was quick, just a splash of red amid the churning crocs. It was the natural order of things, and he, Olu Tohouri, was the risen spirit of the Zambezi, put on this Earth to reclaim the land.

He bowed his head, the dew of perspiration turning to salty rivulets that dripped on his generals and mixed with their salty tears. As the room silenced, Tohouri took the pointer and hit the map with an electric snap. "Here!" he shouted. The pointer was dead on South Africa, the only area on the southern part of the continent not colored red. "And here!" he shouted again, this time hitting squarely on Egypt. "We will launch the invasions simultaneously, and we will move quickly to strike death blows before our enemies can amass a defense. The pompous, imperialist policemen of the world won't know which of their precious allies to defend first. And when all is ours," he called, the pointer ringing the continent, "we must attack immediately to the north," and the pointer ringed the Italian peninsula, "and choke our prey to death the way a lioness chokes the life from a zebra." The location of the zebra was clear.

A general from the front row dared to raise a hand. "But, Supreme Commander, wouldn't we be better off heading to the east?" Gasps filled the air.

Tohouri motioned for quiet. "General, would you join me, please?" Tohouri arranged a chair as the General got up tentatively. Calmly, Tohouri motioned for him to sit. "If we go to the east...." Tohouri began calmly, smiling to his enraptured audience as the pointer traced its way toward China and India. "We will be overcome by superior forces." He tapped on India. "Population: one billion." He tapped next on China. "Population: one-and-one-half billion. Equals how much, General?"

"Two-and-one-half billion," the General croaked nervously.

"Correct, General." Tohouri smiled, his teeth white as Alpine snow. "And the first rule of warfare is... what?" he asked.

"That concentrated forces will break through an elongated defense," the General answered smugly.

"Oh, I'm afraid that is incorrect," said Tohouri. Still smiling, he pulled his pistol and blasted a bullet into the General's brain. The room fell silent as the smell of cordite floated among those nearby. Tohouri stood tall, a mentor before his students. "The first rule of warfare is that forces with superior numbers will overcome forces with inferior numbers." The General's body slumped from the chair and thudded to the floor. Tohouri bent down, dipped a finger into the gathering pool of blood, and smeared a stripe down his cheek. "No one will stop us," he said to his enraptured audience as he dabbed the finger on his tongue. "Not the Europeans, not the Russians, not the Americans. They don't have the appetite for it."

Chapter 21. My Fellow Americans....

"How do I look?"

Elaine brushed his lapels. "You're rumpled," she admonished, "and your tie is too long."

"My tie is fine," Pauli said as she fussed with the knot. Immediately, he got _the look_ , as he called it.

"Just trying to make you look presentable." She paused. "Where were you last night?"

"At a rally."

"Did you get any sleep?"

"Some."

"Right." She knew better than to argue. "What are you going to say?"

"Don't know. Who's doing the interview?"

"Rip Morgan."

Pauli made a face. "He's an airhead. Tell me again why we're doing this."

"It's the _Congressional Viewpoint_ segment, remember? Congress's response to the presidential decision to let the Europeans dangle in the breeze." She cast a worried glance over her glasses as she resumed her tie fussing. "Are you okay? I'm really worried about you."

"I'm fine."

"You're a terrible liar. I've never seen you so.... I don't know—sad, for God's sake. Have you ever thought about...."

"What?" he asked impatiently.

"About seeing a shrink? I think you might be suffering from some sort of depression." She paused. "I've wanted to say that for six months."

"Do you feel better now?"

"No."

"Good. And stop screwing with my tie. You're starting to annoy me."

"C'mon Pauli, I spend more time with you than with my own husband. I know what's bothering you, and it's eating you up. You'll die from it if you don't do something about it."

"Don't be so melodramatic."

"I'm not being melodramatic."

"What would you call it?"

"Concerned!" she said, dropping her arms stiffly. "But don't let it bother you. You can just go on being John Wayne, keeping it all inside, and I'll continue to be the cute, docile, blonde assistant in the background, who'll be glad to throw flowers on your grave when the time comes."

"I have to go to the bathroom," Pauli snapped.

"Fine."

"Fine," he called over his shoulder. "Tell me when it's time."

_"Yavol_ , Herr Campo."

Pauli moved off with a silent stare.

She didn't know whether to feel sorry for him, or slap him in the head. He had to be the most stubborn man who ever walked the face of the Earth—which was fine; she could handle that—but the mood swings, the bouts of morose introspection, the gloomy guilt that surrounded him like a cloud. That was the hard part. Somehow he had to come out of that—or she had to get away from it, for it was beginning to chisel away at her too, and it was a very lonely way to live.

One of the headphone-wearing television guys came up. "You're the congressman's executive assistant, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am."

"I'm Bob Glick, the producer. Would you take a minute and look over these questions? If they're okay with you, we'd like to put them on a teleprompter. Back in ten minutes?"

"Yes, fine," she answered, and she flipped through the pages. Executive assistant: a babysitter is what she felt like. Pauli reappeared. "I looked at the questions. Looks like the same old thing."

"I didn't think old Rip could be too original."

"Five minutes," one of the crew called. A make-up person came over and patted Pauli's face.

"And five, and four, three, two...."

"Good morning, I'm Rip Morgan and welcome to _Congressional Viewpoint_. With us is Congressman Paul Campo, republican from Virginia, Congressional Medal of Honor winner, former state senator, and one of the country's foremost advocates for a military response to the African crisis. Good morning, Congressman."

Blah, blah, blah. The country had heard it all before. The questions were lame. Old Rip was lame. He, himself, felt lame, thought Pauli. He prepared himself for another round of Sunday morning partisan political blithering. No one was listening. The country was asleep, in more ways than one. Suddenly, Rip took a left turn on him.

"Please watch the monitor, Congressman."

A few feet away, a studio monitor came to life. The figures were partially fuzzed out, but it was clear what was happening. The sickening image that came up was that of a hogtied man being shot in the head with a shotgun. The head literally exploded, while the body was carried neatly into a ditch by the force of the blast. A murderer moved down a line of hogtied victims, putting the shotgun to the head of each, and blasting each one into kingdom come.

His stomach already in turmoil, the smuggled tape having achieved the desired shock value, Pauli searched out Elaine, his eyes asking the unspoken question as they locked with hers. Elaine hunched her shoulders, indicating she wasn't aware of the journalistic trap. The tape continued, the final grotesque image being that of the soldiers, servants of the devil himself, smiling for the camera, blood and pieces of brain spattered on their crisp uniforms.

"Is this what you're suggesting we expose our boys to... Congressman? We'll wait for your response after the break." Rip beamed with pride. Not wanting to waste the congressman's rage off camera, he quickly moved off the set. They were back in literally a minute.

"Let me read a few words from this morning's _Washington Post_ ," old Rip began, and he did just that, reading Pauli's quotes from the previous night's rally. "In light of what we've just seen, surely you're not suggesting by those words that we mount a full scale global war? Not only is that political suicide, but I'd say it's downright irresponsible."

_Irresponsible!_ Is that what this clown just said? Unbefuckinglievable. Pauli shifted in his seat. "You know... Rip...." What the hell kind of name was Rip for a political moderator anyway? "I didn't think _your_ opinion was part of this program, and as far as my position being political suicide, I really don't give a rat's hind end."

Elaine, standing behind camera number one, just bowed her head. Here it comes.

Rip's jaw dropped, but he composed himself quickly, being the savvy TV veteran that he was. A keen wit and quick smile always at the ready, he tried to respond with his usual aplomb. "And this interview is about as elegant as one. Really, Congressman, there's no need to take your frustrations out here. The people—"

_"The people_ ," Pauli said in full voice, "are like mushrooms. They're being kept in the dark, and they're being fed crap."

It's here, thought Elaine.

Rip assumed a pose only an ex-football jock would take: nose-to-nose. "Really?"

"Yes, really. Our government leaders are lying through every smile they flash on this television network of yours... and the rest of the media is being influenced as well."

Rip smiled a smarmy smile. "Would you care to elaborate, sir? The floor is all yours."

Oh, God, thought Elaine, looking for a place to hide.

Pauli hesitated. This was supposed to have been a nice, calm interview in response to the new president's and the new Congress's decision to do nothing in response to Olu Tohouri's recent military aggression in Egypt and South Africa. Battles were raging as they sat there, and some analysts were convinced that a hop across the Mediterranean into Sicily was imminent. Just a view from the other side, Elaine had said. But this was an assault, and he, Pauli, was sick of it. Enough political b-s. Enough governmental quick talk. He really didn't relish the job anyway. If he was lucky, maybe he could get himself booted out of Congress. He didn't like associating with whores.

He looked into the camera, taking a quick glance at old Rip before speaking. The stupid grin smeared on Rip's face reminded him of an old sports commentator who did a post-game interview with him way back when during his basketball days at Alliance: absolutely clueless. Pauli stood. Elaine moved to an inconspicuous location. The camera moved in. Pauli froze. The set was weirdly silent. Panicky over the dead air, the director was a split second from breaking for a commercial when Pauli's voice cracked through the awkwardness.

_"My fellow Americans_ ..." he began.

What the...? thought Elaine. She couldn't recall anyone having using those words since Lyndon Johnson.

"In the words of Dwight D. Eisenhower, _Things are more like they are now than they ever were before_."

What's with Pauli's voice? Elaine thought further. He was digging a hole for himself a mile deep.

Arrogance evident, Rip looked at the camera, his grin still plastered to his face. "I see. Please go on."

"Why, thank you Rip," Pauli said just as arrogantly. "Somehow I knew you'd understand that quote."

"Of course."

"Of course," Pauli echoed, and he turned full face for the camera. " _My fellow Americans_ ," he began anew, "I could sit here and fill you full of rhetoric, make excuses, and pontificate meaninglessly about things that don't matter in your lives."

Her mouth dry as Arizona sand, Elaine looked for a water fountain. What the hell was he going to do now?

"But rather than defend myself against silly accusations, or try to rationalize with this excuse for a journalist...." Pauli motioned toward old Rip, "I believe I'll take the opportunity to tell it the way it is. Is the floor still mine... Rip?"

"Aah, buuhh, well...."

"Thanks Rip. You see, ladies and gentlemen, the reason we don't do what is morally and militarily right is because our leaders don't have the guts to do it. It's that simple. Like them, I could rationalize and say that it's no direct threat to us, but that's all a bunch of hooey. My critics would say we made a mistake ten years ago, and that we have sixty-one thousand reasons why we shouldn't go back there."

Elaine took the opportunity to escape.

"But it isn't right, and in its simple form, that's what this is all about. Think about what you've just seen. Old Rip here put that tape on the air for its shock value, to make me defend my position as a hawk and back me into an indefensible corner. But, the reality is that hundreds of thousands of lives are ending as you've just seen. It's a new holocaust, and we're closing our eyes to it. _The world must be made safe for democracy_ once again."

Having found a dark corner, Elaine turned. Quoting Woodrow Wilson? Had he rehearsed this?

"We can claim there's no threat to our national security. We can sing regrets for the loss of life. We can lament that our role as the world's policeman is inappropriate, but we're fooling ourselves. _There is a vast difference between keeping out of war and pretending that this war is none of our business_."

Pauli scanned the blank faces around him. His arrogance, his confrontational attitude: it wasn't playing well, and he was being played into a fool. Searching, fumbling, he couldn't express what was inside him. His mind wasn't working; his own words wouldn't come, and the words that were coming, came from somewhere else. Worse yet, they were sailing over everyone's head. It was no use, he realized. It would all play to deaf ears. Something, or some power, had allowed a madman to control an entire continent; it was illogical, and incomprehensible, but logic had no home here. Why was this being allowed to happen? Surely the world's leaders, mankind, had more sense. The camera moved closer. The words came out in a voice that wasn't his. "It wasn't that long ago that I was in an Elks Lodge, running for office, giving speeches, and doing all the things that I thought politicians were supposed to do. I remember this old man named Snidely said to me, 'We ain't interested in no speech, we want to hear what you have to say.' I'm beginning to understand that statement as I get older."

The soundman tapped his earphones and traded looks with the director. What the hell was wrong with the sound? The cameraman touched the focus on his camera. Was it him, or was the image looking a little fuzzy?

Rip's smirk was replaced by a look of total befuddlement. Trying to regain control, he asked, "Congressman Campo, rather than resorting to name calling, can you suggest a solution to this problem? One we can implement with minimal loss of life?"

"Sure, Rip. What have I got, two, three whole minutes?" Turning once again to the camera, his features arranged in a hypnotic stare, Pauli spoke to the world. "This is not the place to put forth a solution. This is the place to determine whether or not we believe."

"Believe in what?" Rip dared to ask, his face ashen now.

"In ourselves, in our way of life. Nobody wants to send men to war, but if we don't, we'll lose that way of life, and possibly life itself. We have to ask the question: is it worth it? _For if a man hasn't discovered something that he will die for, he isn't fit to live._ "

Elaine stood again, her embarrassment suddenly gone. She had heard the words before, where she didn't know, but they came back to her like an old school lesson suddenly remembered. She watched Rip sit back in his chair. This was going where it was going.

Pauli stood at center set, hands crossed before him, head bowed. " _... I refuse to accept the cynical notion that nation after nation must spiral down a militaristic stairway into the hell of nuclear destruction. I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word in reality...._ Personally, _I have sworn upon the alter of God, eternal hostility against every form of tyranny over the mind of man.... The day has come when America is privileged to spend her blood and her might for the principles that gave her birth and happiness and the peace which she has treasured...._ My fellow Americans, a little group of willful men, representing no opinion but their own, have rendered the great Government of the United States helpless and contemptible. _Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere...._ I say, _We would rather die on our feet than live on our knees...."_

People converged on the stage, ignoring protests from the director.

"Let us never forget that _the founding fathers proclaimed to all the world the revolutionary doctrine of the divine rights of the common man. That doctrine has ever since been the heart of the American people ..._ _and while a stranger would think that the people of the United States had no other occupation than electioneering ..._ it is still true that _..._ _political action is the highest responsibility of a citizen.... There is no room in this country for hyphenated Americanism...._ "

A low voiced, "Amen," leaked through to the American people.

_"We must stand together and encompass our fellow man._ Let us not forget how _The Civil War created in this country what had never existed before—a national consciousness. It was not the salvation of the Union; it was the rebirth of the Union...._ We must protect that rebirth; I must protect it. _I am strong as a bull moose and you can use me to the limit.... I am happy tonight. I'm not worried about anything. I'm not fearing any man..._ and neither should you." Pauli retreated to his seat.

Slack-jawed, Rip's usual perky nature was replaced by a heavy dullness, and across America television screens silently faded to black.

One by one, TV people and members of the small studio audience came up and shook the congressman's hand. "From your heart, to my heart," one of them said.

Staring blankly, Pauli said, "What?"

"Your speech," the woman said. "I've never had words touch my soul like the ones you've just spoken. Please help us, Congressman, or more people will die—our people."

The admirer moved off, replaced by Elaine. "Quoting dead presidents," she said, her eyes misty as well. "Quite clever. Since when have you been a historian?"

"What speech?"

"Pauli, do you have any idea what you just said?"

"No," he answered after some pause. "I... I felt like I was someone else... in another place. What happened?" His gaze was devoid of any understanding.

Maybe it wasn't depression, Elaine thought; schizophrenia was probably more like it. "We need a couple of days off," she said, putting her arm around the congressman and leading him toward the exit. Then, spotting the darkened fabric, "Why is your tie all wet?" she asked.

Pauli noted the damp triangle at the end of his tie. "I remember going to the bathroom," he muttered, suddenly chagrined. "Geez, I guess I peed on the back of my tie."

Elaine just shook her head. "I told you it was too long."

* * * * *

In a small house, 300 feet from the entrance to the town dump in Dalton, Ohio, where she'd lived for fifty-one years, and raised five wonderful children, Alice Russell wiped a tear as she switched off the TV. She'd seen the guy on the news before, and he'd made sense every time, despite his evident anger and belligerence. His words sounded familiar, although she couldn't recall where she'd heard them before, and even though she'd lost a husband in Vietnam and a son in the Congo, she wouldn't stand in the way of another family man—a grandson named Michael—going to war if he had to. As it was, however, it was all she could do to get Michael out of bed every morning so he could make it to work on time, not that it mattered; he still mooched her Social Security checks. But Michael was just like everyone else nowadays. There was no respect in the society any more. Of course, Dalton wasn't the biggest town in the world. Maybe dignity, and respect, and humility existed somewhere else. Maybe she'd raised her children all-wrong—but she didn't think so. The country needed this guy.

* * * * *

Smoky Injess deftly wedged his joint into the teeth of an old roach clip, one that had been handed down to him by his mother. They called him Smoky, not because of the color of his skin—smoke black, dark as night—but because of how he made his money: he _smoked_ people, seven up to now. A guy had to get for himself nowadays 'cause the white-trash motherfuckers was gonna take it for themselves if the brothers didn't. And who was this motherfucker quoting the Reverend King? And it was the Reverend King, too, although he didn't catch much else from the white-trash interview. Smoky knew just about everything about the Reverend King; it was the one thing his mama made sure he learned in school. The Reverend King was full of shit on one thing though: nonviolence was not the way to overcome oppression. The way to overcome oppression by the white-trash motherfuckers was to kill them all, and his man Olu Tohouri was gonna take care of that. Smoky examined his newest toy, a Colt Mustang .380. It was an old piece, but still nice. He slipped it into his pocket and headed for the door. It was time to hang. He'd buy some vodka today. He had some money. And when he ran out of money, he'd get some more, maybe go downtown and pop another white-trash motherfucker going into the Camelot Club. They always had a pocket full of cash on their way to watch dancing white pussy.

* * * * *

In a high-rise apartment on the upper west side of New York, Ann-Marie Doherty stared at the TV screen long after it had gone dark. Was that really Pauli? She'd been drawn to the television like a moth to a flame, and felt as if she'd gotten too close and burned herself. She felt like she'd been hypnotized. A personality like the one she'd just seen could make one drunk on demagoguery. Then, sitting back, she chastised herself. He was speaking from the heart. No one could fake that kind of emotion, but it was as if he was possessed. Even through the TV there was an aura, an attraction that was invigorating and scary at the same time. He'd changed.

The phone rang, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. She reached for it, shocked to find herself nowhere near the end table where the phone was sitting, but almost on top of the television, literally inches from it. How in the world...? She snagged the phone in mid-ring.

"Hello?"

"Hello, is this Ann-Marie?"

She didn't recognize the voice. "Yes. Who is this?"

"Roinell King."

She collapsed into her chair. "Roinell? What...? Where...? Why are you calling?"

"I.... I don't really know. I just felt the need."

"How did you get my number?"

"You're in the book." A pause. "You're probably going to think I'm crazy, but you wouldn't believe what I just saw."

She knew instantly. "A moth to a flame, right?"

"What?"

"He got to you, didn't he?"

The line went silent for a moment. "You saw him too?"

"Do you think he's nuts?"

"I'm beginning to think I'm nuts for what I'm thinking."

"Which is?"

Another pause. "That I'd like to get back on his staff. I know it sounds crazy but—"

"It is crazy. No, it's not. I mean.... God, I'm the one who's crazy. You know, I thought he was talking directly to me... when I was watching him on the TV, I mean. Isn't that weird?"

"So did I. I had the feeling that history was being made."

History? It was a second-rate interview, of a second-rate congressman, by a second-rate newscaster. "It was," she said, ignoring the logic of her thought.

Again, time hung there. Finally, "Do you remember the time—"

"When Pauli got up in front of the entire school on Government Day and gave that silly speech?"

"How did you know what I was going to say?"

"Because I was thinking the same thing. God, it's like I'm being sucked into pit of quicksand."

"Remember how everyone laughed when he started talking about citizenship?"

"Yeah. It wasn't cool enough for the cool kids. I remember when I looked at Susan Mitchell's face, and the tears were streaming down her cheeks. Then I felt my face, and there were tears there too. And when I asked her afterwards why she was crying, Susan turned away, embarrassed, and spoke with her head turned so I wouldn't see her face. 'Because he put a finger on my conscience,' she said. It was pretty cosmic," Ann-Marie concluded.

"Remember when Pauli got down from the podium? Remember how nobody clapped at first, how even the teachers had glassy eyes?"

"Except for Mister Clancy. He hugged Pauli when he left the podium. He understood. He understood Pauli."

"What are you going to do?" Ann-Marie asked. "Getting back on his staff can change your life."

"He already has."

"Do you still live in the D.C. area? I haven't been back since my parents left. I think it would be nice to see the monuments again."

"Monuments?"

"Yeah, you know, the Lincoln Memorial, the Washington Monument, the Zachary Taylor Museum."

Roinell said, "There is no Zachary Taylor Museum, Ann-Marie."

"There isn't? Are you sure?"

"Quite sure."

"Why, I think there is. Why don't you and Whitney come with me and find out?"

Chapter 22. Peddling Influence

Crackling hungrily, the flames leaped from the marrow of another dry log. Kusczak piled another one into the hissing wood stove, and poured a cup of strong morning coffee. Thoughtfully, he gazed through the window of his hundred-year-old farmhouse just a stone's throw off the Potomac in Point of Rocks, Maryland. With a dull dawn just breaking over the tree line, he settled at the thick pine kitchen table, still chilled from his early morning walk to fetch the Sunday _Washington Post_ , which had been waiting patiently inside its delivery box, protected from the eleven inches of heavy, wet snow that had fallen overnight. Like the wood stove, the coffee couldn't be too hot. The editorial page, however, was a different story.

There he was again, his picture smack in the middle of the opinion page. The title of the column: _Morality Speaking_. Kusczak scanned the article, picking up a few phrases: _To what end?.... The Congressman is correct.... This is our future, or the end of it._

"Damn it," Kusczak said aloud, and there it was again: _Campo_. The man was everywhere: an article touting a run for the Senate, a front-page splash showing him amid a throng of followers. Page two: another photo, fist raised, the crowd in obvious frenzy. "Fuck!" he bellowed. He picked up the secure cellular phone that never left his side these days. It was only seconds before the new chief of staff, a fragile hundred days into his stint, picked up on a similar cellular, sounding wide awake despite the early hour.

"Have you seen the paper?" Kusczak snapped. A greeting was out of the question.

"Yeah. The little son of a bitch is causing us problems."

"No shit. Do you have any suggestions?"

"What do you think?"

Answering a question with a question—a typical political ruse. It was not what Kusczak wanted to hear. "Where's the president?" he asked.

"We're all here at Camp David."

That was a half-hour chopper ride from the house. Kusczak dispatched with the chief of staff, and punched the speed dial. Within minutes, a modified Sikorsky CH-53E Super Stallion transport helicopter was taking off from the west side of the Pentagon to pick up the new chairman of the joint chiefs of staff for a very important meeting with the president.

* * * * *

"Beautiful, isn't it, sir?"

The Catoctin Mountains around Camp David were covered with a glistening, unspoiled coat of white. As the modified Super Stallion blasted along 500 feet above the tree line, Kusczak silently rehearsed his pitch. It should be pretty easy, he figured. The new puppet in the White House was too busy trying fulfill his campaign promises to detect ulterior motives from within his own camp. On the ground, Kusczak stepped into the crisp mountain air to a waiting Ford Explorer, where he was whisked to the presidential office inside the retreat.

Already engrossed in conversation, the casually dressed president rose and shook Kusczak's hand. "What's on your mind, Tom?" he asked, sitting himself behind an antique desk that Kusczak didn't remember having seen before. A hundred days in, and the guy was trying to carve out a legacy.

Kusczak suddenly noticed that the secretary of defense and the new national security advisor were in attendance. "This," he said bluntly. He tossed his copy of the _Washington Post_ on the new, old presidential desk. The relatively youthful image of Congressman Campo was pictured prominently.

The president glanced at the paper. "I want you to remember," he said sternly, "that I promised the people of this country that we would avoid war at all costs, and I intend to fulfill that promise until our national security is directly threatened. What has befallen the African continent, and what may befall the Europeans is truly unfortunate, but we have ourselves to worry about."

Kusczak cracked his friendliest smile. "I'm not here to advocate a change in your position, sir. I'm here to point out that Congressman Campo may be a threat to the national security to which you just referred."

"National security is no longer your sphere of influence," the national security advisor said without as much as a good morning to Kusczak.

"Get over it, Stan. It's bad enough that we're on the verge of World War III; we don't need to encourage civil disturbance at home as well." Kusczak spotted the look on the president's face, and decided to play his trump card. "This man could be like the spark that starts a forest fire, sir." Kusczak paused. "We need get him out of the way.

"Obviously, you have something in mind," the president growled. "Out with it, Admiral—no bullshit."

"Permission to speak privately, sir."

The president eyed his advisors. "Denied," he responded firmly. "Whatever you have to say, say it now."

Kusczak looked around. The secretary of defense was eyeing him stoically, waiting until the political rain in the room had fallen before getting himself wet. The national security advisor, however, was ready to pounce. "Have you ever heard the term, _if you can't beat_ _'_ _em, join_ _'_ _em?_ "

"Of course I have, Admiral, but please get to the point. I have a lot to do this morning."

"What if he were to come over to our side?" Kusczak let the question settle.

The president's eyebrows peaked nervously. "You mean, into this administration?"

"It would go a long way toward easing the political pressure and swinging public sentiment our way if he were inside the administration, rather than outside lobbing explosive issues into our midst."

"I see," the president said, sensing the logic. "It would undoubtedly neutralize some of the controversy."

"And it would show you to be a well-rounded and open-minded leader," chimed the national security advisor.

"Indeed," the president mumbled softly. He looked up. "Please elaborate, Admiral."

"Something in the state department could be interesting. An appointment like that could put him in a position to put his money where his mouth is."

"Indeed." The president nodded, chin in hand. "And the constant travel could keep him out of the political spotlight."

"Good point," Kusczak said. "Perhaps Undersecretary of State for African Affairs. He'd be a logical choice, what with the Medal of Honor thing, and all. Hell, why not secretary of state," he added only half-jokingly as he checked to see how the idea played. It didn't. "Sir, I think it would be for the good of the country."

"I'll take the suggestion under advisement, Admiral. Thank you for coming."

Kusczak sized up the president's sincerity, and concluded immediately that there was none. Clearly dismissed, he turned to leave. Just then, the chief of staff barged through the door. "You need to see this," he said, snagging the remote control. Immediately, a television on the far wall came to life. The audio picked up in mid-sentence.

"... You pick the time and the place, and I'll be there."

"What's this all about?" the president asked.

"Our inimitable congressman has just challenged you, sir, to a debate ... on nationwide television."

"He can't do that!"

"He just did. Nothing we do now will look good. If we refuse, we'll look chicken. If we go along, we'll be on the defensive from the start. This guy is a real pain in our ass."

The president lifted an eye toward Kusczak. "How will we ever get him approved?"

"There's got to be a way," Kusczak answered, wondering where Andrew Bricker was.

Chapter 23. The Rules

After a short conference, Team One was ready. The dice passed unhands, and each of the unplayers blew on them. None of them paid any mind to the resulting electromagnetic lightning storms that arced from their unpalms.

"I don't understand why we aren't allowed to see what's going on down there," Billy Mac griped as he held the dice hostage.

"Just throw already," said Ulysses, wondering if he should have gone it alone. "We got 'em where we want 'em. We should accept nothing less than unconditional surrender."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," said Billy Mac. "We heard enough of that at Vicksburg. I wanna ask the Big Guy about this."

_"There are to be no direct observations_ ," the Big Guy boomed when asked. " _It's a rule."_

"We have rules?" Billy Mac looked around. Clearly, he wasn't the only one confused. "Hey T.J.," he called. "Did you know we had rules?"

"I knew we had 'em, but I've never read 'em."

"Let's read 'em," said Ready Teddy.

_"Can't_ ," said the Big Guy.

"Why not?"

"'Cause they're not written down. I make them up as we go along."

"You can't do that," said Billy Mac.

_"Sure I can_ ," the Big Guy responded. " _It's one of the rules."_

The presidential countenances went blank, although it was hard to tell with the bearded guys. How come no one had ever read the rules before?

"You can't make us play by these damned rules!" Ready Teddy exclaimed. The frustration of not yet being a totally free spirit was clearly causing him great consternation.

_"First of all, I haven't damned the rules, I created them. Second of all, you'll go along with them whether you want to or not. If any of you ever make it this far, you can change the rules, but, until then, tough noogies_."

Defiantly, "Oh yeah, well, what if I decide to do otherwise," Ready Teddy challenged. Suddenly, he vanished, only mist occupying the place where his form had been.

"Aaaah!" Mister Peanut shrieked as he launched himself from among the observers. He peeked out from behind a large granitroid a couple of light years away. "Where'd he go?" Indeed, others shared Mister Peanut's fright. They'd never been tampered with like that before.

Mister Peanut's question went unanswered when, as quickly as he disappeared, Ready Teddy reappeared. His countenance was drawn, his form having become almost transparent. Meekly, he said, "I understand, and I'm sorry."

Alarm and concern exploded around the untable. _I'm sorry!_ From Ready Teddy? Unbelievable.

Not sure that he wanted to know, Woody asked the obvious. "Where'd you go, man?"

"We have to play by the rules," was all Ready Teddy said.

Shaken by Ready Teddy's loss of ever-present defiance—it was what had made him Ready Teddy, after all—Abe-The-Hat placed a consoling unhand on Teddy's thinning unshoulder. "Teddy, buddy, you gotta spill, bro. Where you been?"

Teddy looked up as untears rolled off his uncountenance and joined a galactic ice flow. "I've been to a place where hopelessness pervades," he cried. "It's an abhorrent place, where souls exist despite their desire to not exist, trapped in desperate isolation with their own misery. It is a place that once seen, even for an instant, is never to be forgotten. There are many souls there—and some of us could still end up there."

The revelation shattered the already cracked emotions among the gathered. Georgie Boy asked, "What do you mean, some of us could still end up there? You mean this isn't—"

"Not yet. We're sort of on-deck." Ready Teddy hesitated as the shock settled in. "We have to prove our worthiness."

"By playing this game?" Georgie Boy asked. "That doesn't sound right."

"By setting up the circumstances by which leaders can flourish down there. It's an unfortunate fact, but without conflict, leadership will stagnate."

Georgie Boy looked around. "Who said that?"

"I did." The form floated in from what looked to be the distant Neotolectic Sector. It hung grandly for all to admire.

"Who are you?"

"I'm one of you."

"One of us, what?"

"Presidents."

"No, you're not."

"Yes, I am. You can check."

"Really? What number?"

"Twenty-three. I was the Centennial President."

"No kidding. What's your name?"

"Harrison."

"We had a President Harrison?"

"Yeah," said Woody. "Billy Hank Harrison; died in office after only a month on the job."

"That was my grandpa," said Harrison. "He was number nine. I'm Ben Harrison."

"We had two presidents named Harrison?" Georgie Boy asked.

"Guess so," said Woody.

Ben said, "If one of you was the new Big Guy, then you could change the rules, right? Isn't that kind of what leadership is all about? Hello?"

Woody said, "I see your point."

Ben looked down at the unboard. "Are you playing?"

"Yeah. We just formed teams."

"That's a new twist. Who's on your team?"

Woody introduced his fellow team members.

"You were really in the Oval Office?" Fearless Frankie asked as he and Benny shook unhands.

"I really was."

"You serve a full term?"

"Sure did. Which armies belong to your team?" Ben asked.

"The yellow ones, in the blue territories."

Ben looked down at the unboard again, and his uneyes filled with sadness. "Oh boy," he said.

Chapter 24. The Battle of Rome

Santo Bravo wiped the spray off his night vision goggles as the hydrofoil skimmed over the Tyrrhenian Sea. It wouldn't be long before they hit the shores south of the city. Hopefully, the recon photos would still be accurate. They should be, for they were only hours old, but one never, ever, knew for sure.

_One never knew:_ the turn of phrase had been stuck in Santo's brain since the day he, his mother, and his sister had received word that his dad wouldn't be coming back. His father had died in an accident while on the job, his mother had told him, and he, Santo, knew it wasn't the whole truth. Even at thirteen, he had a knack for detecting deceit.

The hydrofoil ride wasn't exactly smooth, but none of the men seemed to be conscious of it as they dwelled on what was awaiting them. As American soldiers with twenty-first-century war toys, they'd always bragged how the enemy had best be prepared if they ever got the chance to use them, but they were not warriors on this mission. They were a U.S. contingent of official United Nation observers. Instead, it was them who had best be prepared.

The satellite photographs had shown the unbelievable: an armada of ships sailing from the Tunisian coast toward Sicily. Finally, the world observed, Tohouri had launched his much ballyhooed attack. Instead of landing on the island as he'd been threatening for the last two years, however, the ships sailed around it. Then, the satellite photos stopped coming. Nobody knew how the signal got jammed, but good old fashioned, let's-go-take-a-look-reconnaissance showed that several ships had slipped through the straight at Messina and were headed toward the beaches south of the Eternal City. The reconnaissance aircraft hadn't even cooled down before Santo had been volunteered for the U.N. observation contingent. He tightened the chinstrap on his blue United Nations helmet, and tapped that of the government dude sitting next to him, who seemed to holding up pretty well. "Better chin up," he called above the noise.

The new Undersecretary of State for African Affairs tightened down, and eyed Santo's spiffy new XM8 light infantry assault rifle. "Got an extra one of those?" he asked.

* * * * *

Sprinting across the open area of what was once the pedestrian traffic circle surrounding the Piazza del Popolo, Santo slammed into the base of the pedestal that supported the ancient obelisk at the center of the piazza. A body hung from the top of the obelisk. How it got up there, and how it was held on, he didn't have time to speculate. The Undersecretary of State for African Affairs slammed down right behind him.

"I swear you're trying to get rid of me," the undersecretary yelled.

Santo grinned, although the situation was hardly humorous. Machine gun fire rang out, and, instinctively, he ducked.

"Where's it coming from?" the undersecretary called.

"It's too dark; I can't tell, but we've gotta find out or we're dead meat. Don't move, sir."

"Where the hell are you going?"

"Relax, Mister Undersecretary, I'm just gonna look around the corner of this..." Santo looked up. "Big penis-looking thing, and see if I can spot the source of the fire." Santo shoved a magazine into his XM8, and made a move toward one of the ancient statues on his left. It used to be the statue of a lion spouting water from its mouth. Now, it was spouting water from its neck.

"No!" the undersecretary screamed when he realized what would happen, but the shots rang out before he could react. Santo fell back, his helmet bouncing on the concrete. He's dead, Pauli thought instantly. He moved for the assault rifle.

"Not on your life," Santo moaned, his hand clamping down on the undersecretary's forearm. Machine gun fire again raked the base of the obelisk, and Pauli dropped down, covering the now helpless Santo as bits of stone sailed about them like little flying saw blades.

Santo tried to move. The bullet—a big one—had gashed through his helmet. "We're better off without these," Pauli said as he pulled the blue target from atop his head.

"We're observers," Santo said groggily. "Were supposed to wear these at all times."

"They're trying to kill us, son, and the mission is now for us to not get our heads blown off. And call me Pauli. Enough of that Mister Undersecretary crap." Pauli held the helmet up so Santo could see it. "Your head would be gone if it had landed squarely. Are you all right?"

"Think so. Definitely got my bell rung, though."

"How many?" Pauli asked, holding up some fingers.

"Looks like four."

"Close enough." Pauli scooped up the assault rifle and peeked around the corner of the obelisk. Again, machine gun fire rang out, echoing off the ancient buildings that surrounded the square. "It's coming from over there, behind the high round wall on the other side of the piazza. Sounds like two of them."

Santo forced himself into a kneeling position. "Gimme the gun," he called.

Pauli chuckled. "No way, Batman. You've probably got a concussion, and you're in no condition to sprint across this piazza. With these lights on, you'd be cut down before you got.... The lights!" Pauli looked up and around to either side. He began counting. There looked to be about a dozen light poles scattered through various parts of the piazza. He looked beyond the cluster of machine-gun-riddled statues some fifty yards away, where several bodies littered the ground. "There," he called, pointing into the distance. "We've got to get up there."

Santo pulled what looked like a tourist map from an inside pocket. "We're here," he said. "That must be the Pincian Hill." Then it dawned on him. "They must be trying to take the hills inside the city. As soon as they secure the piazza, they'll send a force up there to maintain the position. The only way to dislodge a force of this size from the hills is air power, and they know the Italians would never bomb their own city."

Pauli looked at the map. "Where'd you get this?"

"My father brought it back for me when I was a kid. He said someday he'd take me here; it was where our family was from."

"They have a force here," said Pauli. "And here." He pointed to the area marked Villa Borghese and Zoological Gardens. "And here, and here." He traced over the positions as more shots rang out. "They're ringing the Aurelian Wall. As soon as they get the hills secured, they'll block or destroy the bridges, and squeeze any defenders to the river and wipe them out."

"My God," said Santo seeing the strategy. "They're going to take the Vatican."

"It's time for us to get the hell out of here," Pauli said. They'd been hunched down behind the obelisk for five minutes, and from the looks of things, that was about the life expectancy of anything in or around the piazza. Pauli turned the XM8 in his hands, hefting it for balance. "Does this thing have a sniper configuration?"

"Absolutely." Santo explained the procedure and watched as Pauli followed his instructions to the letter. "Pretty slick, huh? Looks like you've handled a weapon before."

"Once," Pauli said. He raised the rifle and looked down the barrel, ratcheting an electronically-controlled laser adjustment until he found what he thought he was looking for. "Infrared as well?"

"Yeah. The green sight-light will click on and you're pretty much locked on. Just squeeze off a round and hope it's one of them."

"Looking out there, I'd guess it's just them that are left." It was momentarily quiet. "We'll wait for another burst," he said, raising the XM8 and slowly moving it around until the green sight light popped to life. As soon as he heard more machine gun fire, he calmly squeezed the trigger and a light at the corner of the piazza, some sixty yards away, died. "Neat," he said. He repeated the feat on another light on the opposite side.

"What about these?" Santo asked, pointing at the lights above them.

"If we can get from here to there without getting cut in half," said Pauli, pointing toward a darkened corner of the piazza, "it's unlikely they can see us. The lights around the obelisk will make their night vision goggles useless."

"Unless they shoot out the rest of the lights."

"Let's hope they don't think of that. How fast do you think you can move?"

Santo's breath was coming fast. "Doesn't matter. It's our only chance. Besides, a bullet in the brain has got to be less painful than what's going on inside me now."

Pauli's heart was throbbing. "I sure wish we had a distraction."

"Let's throw some rocks over there and hope they go for it."

"Funny."

Pauli flipped the XM8 to full auto. "Get ready."

"Why?"

Pauli grabbed the blue helmets lying nearby. "When the body comes loose, throw these to either side of the obelisk and move your ass. The vertical action of the body, and the horizontal action of the helmets coming out from behind this obelisk should give us about three seconds." Pauli poised himself. "You got another clip?"

"One, and a hundred rounds in reserve."

Pauli raised the XM8 and tried to sight it to whatever was holding the body atop the thirty-foot obelisk. There had to be a rope, or a chain, something holding it on. He hoped it wasn't a chain. He moved his eye off the sight, and looked up the side. It was like looking up the Washington Monument.

"You gonna fucking shoot, or what?"

"I don't know what to shoot at," Pauli replied, the feeling crawling over him that someone was zeroing in on them.

"Something has to be tied around the body. Pump the clip into the midsection and hope a bullet cuts through it."

It made sense, thought Pauli, and he didn't have a better idea. "Get ready." He counted down. "Three, two, one..." He squeezed the trigger until the body suddenly swung free and dangled from the obelisk. Machine gun fire blasted into the other side of the monument. "Damn!" he screamed.

"The corpse is dangling from its arm. Shoot it off!"

Pauli slammed another clip into the XM8. His trigger finger white with pressure, he squeezed until the body suddenly lurched and broke free. "Now!" he hollered.

Santo flung the helmets to either side like Frisbees, and the machine guns went off immediately. Santo went down screaming as bullets ripped huge gouges into the ground. The ruse had worked, but the few precious seconds it afforded them were wasted. Already halfway to the far side of the piazza, Pauli dropped to the pavement and made the quick decision to scoot back to the cover of the obelisk. "You're hit!" he yelled, seeing the pool of blood under Santo's leg. He pulled Santo tighter to the base of the monument.

"You shoulda' run," Santo yelled. "Now we're both gonna die."

"If we do we're gonna go out fighting," Pauli said, suddenly angry. An odd sense of resentment coursed through him that he and his new friend were facing death for no good reason. He looked straight up the side of the obelisk, noting the arm that now hung there by itself. His eyes darted.

"What are you thinking?"

"Where's your service pistol?"

"Right here." Santo pulled his Beretta M-9 from its holster.

"I want you to fire into the muzzle flashes," said Pauli. "Just keep them preoccupied. You think you're up for it?"

"Do I have another choice?"

Pauli got to his feet and peeked around the corner. He could see the body that had fallen only a few feet away. The contorted face was bloody, yet looked shockingly familiar. Oddly, it looked just like the secretary of state—who was in Zurich, Pauli remembered instantly. "Get into position," he called, "and say an Act of Contrition."

Santo moved into position, the deep gash across his calf leaking a red trail as he did so. "I'd say you have four seconds, tops."

"If I'm lucky," Pauli said under his breath. "On three," he called.

Santo reached around the corner of the monument and fired two shots indiscriminately at where he thought the machine guns were located. Quickly, he pulled his arm back, expecting an immediate reply. He wasn't disappointed. "One-Mississippi," he counted. A three shot burst pinged off the side of the monument, puffs of limestone dust marking the air. "... two-Mississippi, three-Mississippi...." He reached around and squeezed off two more rounds. "What are you waiting for?" he screamed. He looked around. Nothing. "Why that sonofa—" He fired his last four rounds, and collapsed. Lightheaded, he watched a rivulet of blood, his blood, ooze onto the pavement. Taking his belt and tightening it around his leg, he settled back to wait for liberation, or death, not knowing which would come first. With any luck, he'd cheat his killers and bleed to death if it was the latter. His breath coming in labored spurts, he dragged himself to the center of the monument, the only noise being that of his fatigues scraping against the pavement. That's when he heard it: silence, loud as a freight train.

"We made it," Santo heard faintly. He looked up. There, face and clothes bloody, shreds of fabric wafting in the breeze, stood the undersecretary of state, holding a huge .50-caliber gun under each arm, the XM8 slung across his chest. "Is that you?" he asked wearily.

"It's me," said Pauli, putting the weapons down and looking at Santo's leg. "We need to stop this bleeding."

"What happened?"

Pauli looked into the eyes of his new friend. "They're dead," was all he said as he stripped off his shirt and twirled it to a thick sash. "Can you drive?"

"No sweat," Santo said while Pauli tied the shirt around his leg. "Do we have a vehicle?"

"Behind the wall. Our friends were kind enough to leave their keys in a jeep with a tripod mount for the machine guns."

"How thoughtful of them. Where are we going?"

"To the Vatican."

Santo raised his eyebrows, but didn't question the decision. He took out the same tattered tourist map they'd looked at earlier. "Can I ask you a question?" he asked.

Seeing Santo's serious look, "Something wrong?" Pauli asked.

"Don't know. Just a gut check."

"What's your gut asking?"

"It's asking: how many U.N. observers and undersecretaries of state end up getting ambushed in terrorist battle zones? This mission has an odor about it, sir." Santo held his nose.

"You have a distrusting gut."

"Can't help it. Straight down Via Rienzo?" he asked, getting back to the map.

"You're the tour guide."

* * * * *

The anchorman droned on as images of war torn soldiers flashed behind him. Looking up from his drink, Andrew Bricker gazed absently out the window, taking in the splendor of the ever-present construction barriers around the Pentagon. Being eleven o'clock in the morning, it was a little early for Scotch, but it had become not uncommon lately. "I don't like this," he said.

Kusczak shot him a look. "Get a grip, Andrew. I thought you had the stomach for this sort of thing."

Bricker slammed his glass on Kusczak's desk. "You bastard! This wasn't the way it was supposed to go!"

Kusczak calmly wiped some whiskey off the desk. "Don't overreact. There's no way I could've known what the son of a bitch was going to do. You told me yourself you couldn't believe those pictures of him slinging lead from the Vatican with an assault rifle slung across his chest like some kind of fucking Rambo! We're lucky if he doesn't become king, now."

"I put out a lot of markers to get him that appointment, Thomas, and a lot of IOUs are going to become due if we don't find a way to keep our promises. The president is taking more heat than ever on this thing."

"Don't be naive. As long as—"

"Extorting political appointments from government leaders is hardly being naive. Not an admirable use for the vast resources of the CIA."

"It's a dirty world, Andrew. The quicker you realize it, the better off you'll be. You look like you could use the sleep."

Bricker moved closer, in Kusczak's space. "You're the naive one, Mister Chairman. Don't forget that you're part of the same world as the rest of us."

Kusczak stiffened. "Don't threaten me, Andrew." Not intimidated, Bricker moved away and poured himself another drink. "Sometimes the first instinct is the best," Kusczak went on.

"What are you driving at now?" Bricker asked, his distrust palpable.

"If you can't beat 'em join 'em... remember? The original idea was to pull Campo into the administration and neutralize the political pressure he was causing. It still works."

"And now, with the recent secretary of state having been strung up on that obelisk, you're saying Campo should be his replacement," Bricker surmised.

Kusczak shrugged into his military jacket, the ribbon bar a shield on his chest. "He'd be a shoo-in," he said as he settled his hat to the perfect military angle.

"Right," Bricker said as he drained his glass. "Just like he was for his last appointment. Going somewhere, Admiral? This conversation is far from over."

"It is as far as I'm concerned. I have places to go."

Bricker spun him around, his eyes cold beneath dull spectacles. "Don't treat me like some staff secretary."

Kusczak removed his arm from Bricker's grip. "I'll deal with you later," he said, his manner carrying an air of superior defiance. "Help yourself to the Scotch."

Bricker sank into Kusczak's chair. He, Bricker, had had to read people many times trying to detect fear, or betrayal, and while he hadn't been a front-line spook for more than nine years, his blood still tickled, much the same way, he imagined, that animals knew an earthquake was coming. Something wasn't right about Thomas Kusczak. He was about to leave when he recognized Kusczak's voice coming from the television.

With the stoic, gray edifice of the Pentagon in the background, Kusczak said, "I've just come from a meeting with the director of the CIA. We now have clear confirmation of the circumstances that led to Secretary of State Madison's abduction and barbaric murder."

Bricker moved closer to the television. What confirmation? How the secretary had gotten from the peace talks in Zurich to meet death on the face of an ancient obelisk in Rome, was still a mystery, despite the efforts of twenty of his best field agents. The eyes: Bricker checked the eyes. Even on TV they told the story; they were a poker player's eyes: quick and cold.

"This act cannot go unchallenged," Kusczak continued. "I am on my way to see the president, with whom I will outline a defense of our NATO allies, and a secondary plan for a naval blockade of the Italian peninsula to protect it from further invasion."

What! Kusczak's job wasn't to outline policy, his was to fulfill policy, and the current policy was to not commit troops unless our shores were threatened directly. Bricker analyzed the political ramifications of what he'd just heard. If the president resisted, he'd look weak. If he went along, it would be Kusczak's plan. Bricker smelled the set up. To deny what had just been announced would be an embarrassment to the president, despite the fact that there was no confirmation. Or was there? Suddenly, Bricker pictured himself on a baseball diamond, way out in right field.

"Are you going to recommend an invasion?" a reporter asked.

Kusczak paused and smiled, the dramatic effect thunderous in its silence. "To do so would be to recommend World War III. There would be no winners in such a strategy."

Except you, thought Andrew Bricker. Except you.

Chapter 25. Three's Too Many

Ringing her glass with one hand, Elaine twisted a napkin with the other. She didn't know why she was nervous. She'd never met the woman, after all, although Pauli had spoken of her often enough. She glanced toward the revolving door and spotted her, and a smile crossed the other woman's face. "You must be Ann-Marie," she said when the woman reached the table.

A moment of awkward silence drifted about. They both started in at the same time.

"You first," said Elaine. Classy chick. Pauli woulda' done good had he not managed to screw things up—his words.

"How is he?"

"Pauli said you don't beat around the bush."

Ann-Marie looked down, a reflective smile on her face. "Sorry. I guess I should be more congenial."

"It's okay. He's fine, if you ask him. Drink?"

Ann-Marie looked at Elaine's half-empty glass. "Vodka martini," she commented. "You mean business."

Elaine suddenly found it difficult to make small talk. "I figured what-the-hell. Hope you don't mind."

"Not at all." A waiter came over. "I'll have the same," said Ann-Marie. A moment passed. "You look better in person."

"I beg your pardon."

"Than on TV. I've noticed you in the background several times during Pauli's appearances. Love your hair."

Elaine ran a hand over her straight blonde coif. "Only the best L'Oreal has to offer. But, we're not two high school girls here to talk about hairstyles.... Are we?"

"No, we're not," said Ann-Marie. "Do you love him?"

"You really don't beat around the bush." The waiter's return gave them an excuse to pause, and Elaine chewed an olive as she continued to size up this seemingly resolute woman. "How old are you?"

"Forty-one," Ann-Marie answered casually.

"You keep yourself in pretty good shape."

"Have to. Things have a tendency to fall these days."

Elaine smiled, and another moment of awkwardness passed over the table.

"Well, do you?" Anne-Marie went on.

"Love him?"

"Yeah."

"I'm married," Elaine said, evading.

"That doesn't matter anymore."

"It does to Pauli."

Ann-Marie stirred her drink. "He's always been the ultimate traditionalist, but being married has nothing to do with whether or not _you_ love _him_."

"Why does it matter?"

Hesitating, Ann-Marie said, "Because after all these years I think I still might."

Elaine nodded, feeling the effects of the martini. "I thought I did," she admitted more to herself than anyone else, "... in a way, but in another way, I didn't. But I _do_ love my husband," she added quickly, her eyes moist. "That much I know, or so I thought. It's been hard to tell these last few months." She looked away. "I'm babbling. I can't imagine you'd be interested in stories from the heartbreak hotel, especially from a stranger."

"It's okay. I've stayed there more than once myself."

"Are you married?"

"I was—once. Lasted only two years. Haven't been since."

"When was that?"

"I was thirty-two, and feeling desperate. Wanted to make babies in the worst way. It was a total mistake."

"The babies?"

"The marriage. The babies would have been wonderful."

"I have two," Elaine said.

"Babies?"

"Hardly. They're in high school now, and it's getting tougher and tougher to make sure they grow up right. Thank God for Jim."

"Jim's your husband?"

Elaine nodded. "He's a wonderful man. He's great with the kids, and he allows me the freedom to do this job the way it has to be done." She took a moment. "I don't deserve a man that good." Somehow it felt natural telling her innermost feelings to this woman she'd known for ten whole minutes. "Why are we here?"

Ann-Marie sipped her drink. "I need your help."

"For what? You don't seem like the type of person who'd need help from anyone."

Ann-Marie didn't get a chance to answer as Elaine's cell phone went off and she took the call. Her mind drifted, and a vision sharpened in her head as she remembered the day—God, it was now almost twenty-five years ago—when Pauli described a scene in a book he was reading. He was always reading something, but this was different. She recalled how the book had struck a nerve with him. He'd shown her a picture: The Death-dealer of Kaunas, a thick-haired blonde man, twenty-five years old, or so, hitching up a white gun belt that had evidently fallen to an uncomfortable position. The reason: he'd just smashed the skulls of fifty Jewish men with an iron bar. Ostensibly, the feat had taken considerable effort.

"I'm studying about the pogroms in Lithuania, 1941," Pauli had said. Studying: a strange choice of words. "This man clubbed fifty men to death in forty-five minutes, then climbed atop the corpses and played the Lithuanian national anthem with his accordion." Even in the grainy picture the blonde man's eyes were hollow, his face showing about the same emotion as if he were happily preparing lambs for an Easter dinner.

Thoroughly sickened, Ann-Marie recalled how Pauli described how others sprayed down the smashed heads with hoses to wash the blood into the gutters: rivers of blood while others watched on.

"Look at the faces of the other people," Pauli had said, for the death scene was ringed by observers, children among them, watching as the Death-dealer calmly walked up to victim after waiting victim, and split their skulls open. Empty, desensitized eyes looked on, but didn't see. She could only imagine the guilt those observers must have carried with them to their graves for simply having watched. Or, perhaps, there was a smug satisfaction there, a feeling of superiority they nurtured within themselves, fed by a steady crop of hatred. Either feeling was equally hideous.

"These were just common people," Pauli had said. "All of us are capable of anything, and unless we contain our own hatred, we will destroy ourselves. I can't let that happen."

And, he meant just that: _he_ , personally, could not let that happen again, anywhere, anytime. Indeed, his entire life had been spent in an inadvertent attempt at healing the race.

"Ann-Marie?" Elaine called, snapping her fingers and putting her cell phone back into her purse.

"Sorry," said Ann-Marie. "I was somewhere else for a second."

"So why do you need my help?"

"Has he ever thought of running for president?"

Elaine took the question in stride. "He's never mentioned it, but I have. It would take a lot more than you and me to make that happen, however. There are a lot of people who'd like to see him out of politics."

"He has enemies?"

"Plenty."

Pondering, "It would be more than you and me," Ann-Marie said after some seconds.

"Who else?"

"Has he ever mentioned the name Roinell King?"

"A few times. Why?"

"I'll tell you about Roinell," said Ann-Marie as she picked up her drink. "One of Roinell's favorite sayings is that martinis are like tits: one's not enough, and three are too many."

"Well, then," Elaine concluded, "if one's not enough, then we should order another."

Chapter 26. Winning Matters

Ben Harrison, promptly dubbed Little Ben, proved to have an intuitive sense of middle ground, which was conspicuously unpresent at the untable. It was why he'd become president, after all, a total about face from the bullying and insulting personality of Rover Grover. Little Ben had been so accommodating, however, that he'd pretty much let Congress, that group of pseudo-intellectual mush-mouths—then as always—run the country. As such, he would undoubtedly have been the choice had a presidential image adorned a presidential doormat. "And exactly what do you accomplish by winning?" he asked. Not a good question.

"What are you, some kind of freakin' hippie?" Lame Brain Johnson called out from his position among the observers.

"We're just looking for eternal peace and love," said Ready Teddy in a wee, mocking unvoice. "Can't we all just get along?" His recent trip at the unhands of the Big Guy had done nothing to dull his fervor for triumph.

Little guy, big stones, thought Abe-The-Hat, asking a question like that. Hadn't he made this guy a general once? Looked familiar.

Robert E.'s acceptance as Ready Teddy's advisor, and the formation of teams, had lent new interest to the unGame. The fact that the Big Guy was being promoted, and that someone would be taking his place, added some incentive as well. As such, winning became even more important, and, consequently, the untable was completely surrounded by presidential participants, and unparticipants, advisors, and wanabes—and Marilyn.

"Durn'd hippies cost me the office," Lame Brain went on.

Trickie Dickie stepped forth and held his unhands aloft, his unfingers formed into a familiar _V_. A ring of Zenian poppies adorned his normally dark visage. "Peace, man."

_"Now_ I get it!" said **F** ix **O** r **R** epair **D** aily. "That's what you were doing before you got into that helicopter: giving the peace sign... not V-for-victory.... Right?"

Trickie Dickie cracked a knowing smile. "You better believe it. I had a thousand pounds of weed stowed away on an island, a hundred-grand-a-year pension, and a small army of Secret Service bozos to guard my privacy. Who wouldn't have wanted out? Can't pee in the Oval Office without someone else knowing it."

"Got that right," said Klinger.

"Well...." said Ron-Ron. All the hubbub had stirred him from a certain three-decade nap. "That's not true, Trickie. I've peed in the Oval Office plenty of times. It always started with this warm feeling."

"A thousand pounds of weeds?" Mister Peanut asked. "What were you going to do with a thousand pounds of weeds?"

Trickie Dickie put his unfingers to his unlips, and made a hissing sound.

"You mean _weed_ ," Mister Peanut realized. "As in... _pot_!"

"We confiscated only the best," said Trickie Dickie.

"Got that right," said Klinger.

"I never!"

"What? Inhaled? Too late. Someone else used that one. You're such a wuss."

Mister Peanut took a determined pose. "I am not! I tried an invasion... once. The seventies were really messy, you know."

They all giggled.

"P..uh..lease," said Ready Teddy. "Whose turn is it? I've lost track." The unbeards of Team One wagged in unison. The uneyes of Team Two blinked behind little round spectacles. Ready Teddy looked at Robert E., who was stone silent, the cold current of phosphorescent atoms still ringing his form. Occasionally, one would pop off and arc into the universal darkness around them, exploding light years away. "Abe?"

"Don't think it's my turn," said Abe. "Is it boys?"

Georgie Boy, Polk Salad, and T.J. all harrumphed simultaneously.

"Who the hell's turn is it?" Ready Teddy demanded.

"Mine."

All uneyes focused on the darkness of a narrow isotope chute from which the unvoice had come. It was Kid Zach.

The crowd moved back. With no advisors around him, everyone seemed to have forgotten about The Kid. Everyone except Robert E., that is. "Fortify your defenses in Central America before you pass the dice," he said to Ready Teddy, but it was too late. Kid Zach already held the dice. Intrigued, the crowd moved in.

"I'd like to trade in some cards," Kid Zach announced. "This is the seventh set, and I'm trading two sets, plus one of my territories is pictured. Plus, I now control Australia and South America, which is my second continent. _And_ , I occupy eleven territories."

_"Ooo-oo-oo-h_ ," went the crowd.

Stunned, several of the unplayers and advisors checked at the unboard. Three continents had now fallen, but Australia was always the throw-in continent and really didn't count as one. Whoever got there first usually got control of it rather quickly. With all the distractions, and team forming, and vanishing, and materializing, however, no one paid attention to the fact that Kid Zach quietly had taken South America.

Suddenly tame, "How many armies is that?" Ready Teddy asked.

Robert E. had already done the math. "Fifty-four."

A gaseous wind tail moseyed by, and it was the only audible sound around the untable. Klinger did the honors, counting the armies and dropping them down, one by one, so that the echo seemed endless. "... Fifty-two, fifty-three, fifty-four." Everyone gathered in close.

As expected, Kid Zach began placing the armies—black ones—and the black mass on Venezuela grew, and grew. Abruptly, he stopped. Suspense hung heavy, like a dead sun. The presidential visages rose, each one gazing at Kid Zach, trying to guess his strategy. It was useless. The Kid had an unface like an anvil. In one fell swoop, he placed the rest of his armies—forty-one of them, to be exact—on Brazil. "Free move," he said unexpectedly. One great soldier against another, Kid Zach turned and actually smiled at Robert E. "Ain't never seen so many armies in one place since Antietam, eh, Robert E.?"

Robert E. sighed wearily. Sooner or later, The Kid had to do something with all those armies. It looked like things were gonna get worse down on Earth.

Chapter 27. The Room

Deep in the recesses of the building, the visitor put his hand to a glowing green square on the upper right-hand side of the door. It took an extra moment to completely analyze the handprint, the delay being a digital double take on the fingerprints as the scanner had just recently begun looking for engineered prints—a phenomenon that was becoming increasingly common. A hum drew the visitor's attention to a four-inch square panel that revealed itself. He said his name as a matter of fact, the practiced routine of a person who'd been there before. The panel closed, and he slowly inserted a shaped plastic key with separate magnetic codes on the back as well as along its shaped edge—shaped so the magnetic reader could not be penetrated by standard credit-card-sized keys. Finally, he punched a PIN number onto a keypad, and the door buzzed promptly. A violation of the entrance sequence would have caused an electrical shock wave to arc from three hidden ports aimed at his head, heart, and genitals, and seven hidden cameras had filmed the whole procedure. Inside, three people were waiting in various states of indifference. One of them was a woman.

"What do we have?" the visitor asked.

"We gotta take someone down," one of the men answered.

"Physically, publicly, or mentally?"

"Not physically," the woman replied. "Anything else would be fine. The more visible, the better." She lit a slim menthol cigarette and exhaled powerfully.

It sounded pretty simple, the visitor thought. He looked at the woman. Nice ass. He almost got to sample it once in Baghdad. Funny what people do when they think it's their last day on Earth. "Do we have a file?"

"We can start with these." She tossed a heavy envelope onto the table.

The visitor opened it without expression. Inside were a stack of blown-up digital photos, the first one being that of a shapely blonde woman making her way along what looked to be a carpeted hallway.

"Hotel?"

The woman with the nice ass nodded.

"Nice shoes. Hooker?"

Another confirming nod.

"What's the angle on this?"

"Next picture."

"Ah." He flipped casually. The next picture showed the woman standing in a room somewhere with her blouse off. "Good work," the visitor said admiringly, although it was difficult to tell if he was admiring the quality of the photography, or the boob job. "Where'd we get these?"

"We don't have the need to know." It was answer enough.

"Who's the mark?"

"Keep shuffling."

The visitor did so, and he looked up immediately. "When did this happen?" he asked.

"They were taken six, maybe seven years ago... when he was running for reelection as a state senator."

The visitor stopped at one picture in particular. "We can use this one for sure." In it, a young-looking state senator had hold of the woman's bared shoulders. They were clearly discussing something. "Do we have any more where they're touching each other?"

"There are a couple with her on her knees."

"Perfect." The visitor flipped quickly. "His back is to the camera... and his pants are up. Did she?"

"Hard to tell," the man on the right chimed tonelessly. "That's the best one we've got."

"We need something more compromising," said the woman. "I'm sure the admi... ah, the administrator... would agree."

The visitor looked up. "Now I understand." He came to the last picture. "Who's the black guy in the background?"

"Don't know."

"Find out. We might be able to use it." The visitor shuffled back through the pictures. "Anyone gonna tell me where we got these?" he asked for the second time. Cold stares. "Cut the bullshit. I want the source. We need to cover our ass from all sides."

The man on the right spoke for the first time. "That'll cost us plenty. It's a complicated deal."

"I don't care. I want as many strings pulled as it takes. The guy has just been tapped to become our new secretary of state, and the confirmation hearings are coming up. Obviously, we'd like to avoid him being confirmed before these come out."

"Oh, I don't know," said the woman. "It might be more fun that way."

"I'll check, but I think that would bring it too close to the president. What else we got?"

"That's it," the woman answered. "Besides these, the guy is squeaky clean."

"We need more, just for insurance. He might be able to come up with some logical explanation for this."

The man on the right stepped forward, his gaunt face skeptical. "We'll try," he said, "but a week isn't much time."

The visitor considered the statement. "It's all we've got." He dropped the pictures on the table, swirling the hanging smoke, and left.

Chapter 28. Whitey's

He looked at them with his full attention, but none of them were prepared for the eyes, eyes that took them in so quickly they were enveloped in intimacy before he even spoke. They were a paradox of mild temperament and mercilessly cold calculation. "Sorry to make you wait, but it couldn't be helped," he said. "I had an unscheduled meeting with the president." It could have sounded condescending, but he was incapable of that. Still, he offered nothing more than courtesy as a lot of _old friends_ came to his office these days. "I'm flattered that you all took time from your Memorial Day weekend to come and see me. What can I do for you?"

Roinell spoke first, due respect taking the place of familiarity. "Mister Secretary, perhaps we could meet in a less formal setting."

"I'm not the secretary yet," said Pauli. "What did you have in mind?"

Roinell grinned. "I was thinking about Whitey's."

"I haven't been there in twenty years." The first hint of a smile crossed Pauli's face.

Roinell got up quickly. "We'll be waiting for you," he said, and he and Whitney hustled out of the office.

Close behind, winking as she closed the door, Elaine said, "I've already requested a staff driver for the evening. Your car is waiting out front."

He was alone with Ann-Marie. "You look well," Pauli said stiffly.

"Do you remember the night you took me to the prom?" she asked, ignoring his attempt at congeniality.

"Right to the point, as usual." His eyes met hers. "What made you bring that up?"

"Maybe I just wanted to relive it." She stepped to him. "You had some rough years since then. Are you capable of trusting anyone after everything you've been through, or has the world made you totally cynical?"

"Cynical? Me?"

"I see it in your eyes, Pauli. They're full of broken trust and empty promises. You're like a hungry cat, always looking around to make sure nothing takes its food."

"I didn't know it was that obvious."

"You do a good job of hiding it." She moved closer. "Why don't we go to the car?"

* * * * *

Her lips were as soft as he remembered, but they were the lips of a woman now, a woman who'd learned pace and control. Still, there were sparks that were impossible to contain. Glancing into the rearview mirror, he noted the driver's eyes were looking straight ahead—too straight ahead. He'd been watching for sure. "We're putting on quite a show."

"Would you rather go to my hotel?"

Her body felt full and warm. "Did you forget we're on our way to meet with your scheming friends?"

"They're your scheming friends too."

"When are you going to tell me what you're scheming about?"

"In due time. Right now, we have some catching up to do."

She put her hand to his face and he held it tenderly. "This isn't the time for this."

"When is it the time?" she whispered. "Don't you want me, just one time before you die?" Her breath was hot on his neck.

"Funny, I have dreams about that."

"Me and you?"

Another man would have taken her right there, but he stopped short; he'd always stopped short with her. "No," he answered. "The other part."

"About dying? Most normal men would be thinking about something else right now." Her hand dropped a few inches.

"I don't think I'm normal."

His mood was like a darkening cloud. Rather than be frustrated, however, she hung in, nestled in his embrace. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"About what?"

"Whatever you're thinking about. Obviously, it's not about me."

"It's very much about you."

Her eyes arched. "You have a funny way of showing it."

"I suppose so," he acknowledged. Then, changing the subject, he asked, "Have I ever spoken about how sometimes I feel like I'm someone else?"

"Maybe he'd like to fool around in the back seat with a horny old red head."

He chuckled. "I know this sounds weird, but sometimes I feel like I'm outside myself, looking down on the world, making chess moves almost, deciding who lives, and who doesn't."

"So you think you're God." It was meant to be funny.

"No, I think I might be crazy. Sometimes, I have other dreams, like I'm going through life as a marionette and that some higher power is pulling my strings.

They passed the gold lions of the Memorial Bridge. The Potomac, a glass river, glittered beyond. "Does it worry you?"

"At times, especially when I do things that I think are beyond my capability—and certainly beyond my control. You mentioned one earlier: the night we went to the prom. Do you remember?"

"I brought it up."

"You were thinking about the romance part."

"How feminine of me."

"I'm talking about the fight part, when Benny Cunningham and his silly friends came at us in the parking lot."

"I remember that you were like some sort of Kung Fu guy."

"That's just it. I had no idea what I was doing. I'd never been in a fight in my entire life."

"Maybe you just learn fast." She snuggled even closer, and somehow the button on her blazer came undone.

"And then there was the time with Sergeant Menjivar. Someone else was throwing those punches."

She put a finger on his lips. "Look, Pauli, I don't know who Sergeant Menjivar is, or was, and I don't care who was throwing what. All I know is that I've lived half my life wishing we'd not drifted apart. Now that I'm here, I don't plan on making the same mistake again."

The car rocked gently, and he felt the softness of her breasts, her thighs. Her perfume was barely there, so that it was all he could smell. "Being near me might be a bigger mistake."

"I've screwed up before."

"Thanks." It was a light moment, then curiously, "How so?" Pauli asked.

She leaned back. "I suppose my failed marriage tops the list, but there are many things I regret—some I've done, and some I haven't done."

"You look like you've done pretty well to me: partner in a prestigious law firm...."

"You see? That's it. There are no other pieces to my puzzle—no kids, no partner, no close friends, really. I'm living in an empty bottle. None of the issues I deal with at the firm amount to a hill of beans, unless giving us another software company will somehow change the world as we know it. I need something more. That's why I've come here with Roinell. I've... we've... come to seek you out." She looked deeply into his eyes. "You have the power, Pauli. I've seen it, and this country needs you right now.... I need you right now." She brushed away a tear. "Am I being selfish?"

"It's happening to me again."

"What is?"

"Something beyond my control, you... here, with Roinell.... Obviously you want something."

"We want you, Pauli."

"You want the someone else I am when I'm not Pauli. I'm not a war hero like all the papers have made me out to be. I'm not a diplomat. I'm certainly not a politician. I've become all those things only because some force has put me into situations where I become... I don't know... possessed." Pleadingly, he looked her straight in the face. "I am crazy, aren't I?"

She touched his cheek. "I think you're so overcome by your own sense of responsibility that it's making you crazy. That night in the parking lot with Benny Cunningham? It was you Pauli. I saw it. The person in those pictures, in Rome, fighting with murderers? It was you. Now, if you want to believe there was something else pulling your strings, that's up to you, but why you're denying it I'll never understand." Hesitating, "A lot of people believe in you, and this country needs someone we can believe in."

Pauli stared. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

* * * * *

Stepping from the car, he immediately recognized the _EAT_ sign hanging from the building. It hadn't changed a bit. What had changed was the clientele. Rows of gleaming Harleys, with limp American flags hanging on them, guarded the front.

"Rolling Thunder has come to Whitey's," Pauli said. "This should be interesting."

Inside, every table was a small forest of beer bottles, and the smell of onion rings hung in the air. Pauli stood at the front, noting through the filmy haze that he might be wearing the only button-down shirt in the place. There was a tug at his elbow.

"We're over there," Elaine called above the din.

She led the way while Pauli, in turn, took Ann-Marie by the arm. They formed an odd sandwich, he thought, he between the slim blonde and the auburn beauty who still gathered her share of glances as she moved through the crowd. He noted the song that was playing: _Born To Be Wild_ , by a group whose name he didn't remember. He was just a kid when the song first came out, and memories of his little house, his mother's proud smile, and his father's sudden departure from his life, flitted through his head. Along one wall, pictures of presidents hung above the booths, the faces as familiar to him as if he'd known them personally. Sometimes, it seemed as if he had. Eisenhower, Roosevelt, the other Roosevelt, Wilson, Kennedy, Reagan, Nixon: had they all broken bread here? They made their way to a side room where no one was paying attention to the big screen TV. Roinell was cooing with his wife when they arrived.

"Did you know about this?" Pauli called as he sat down. They were at a long community table with longhaired revelers to either side: men with thick-heeled boots and berets bearing medals, women with the look of experience and raspy voices from too many cigarettes.

"You mean Rolling Thunder?" Roinell shrugged.

Pauli didn't know if that was a yes or a no, but it didn't matter. Suddenly, he was thirsty. "Beers all around?" he asked as he got up.

He would have liked to think it was the beautiful woman on his arm that had attracted all the attention when they came in, but the fact that his face had been a fixture on TV for months made him a human magnet. On the way to the bar, hands came out to shake his, and most of the people said they liked him. Some didn't. It took a while to get to the bar.

"Hi buddy."

Buddy: he hadn't heard that in a while. The bartender was young, a girl. It seemed as if she meant it. "Something to drink?"

"Five beers." He held up a spread hand.

"What kind?"

Something unmistakably American seemed appropriate. "Those," he answered, pointing to a bottle of Bud on the bar.

"Coming right up." Returning, she said, "Say, aren't you that congressman guy who got caught up in that terrorist thing in Rome a couple of months ago? I see you on TV all the time."

Pauli blushed. "Undersecretary of state," he corrected. "I used to be a congressman—your congressman, actually." He fished out some cash.

"On the house," she said, waving off the bills. "Someday I think I'm going to see your picture above those booths over there, and I'd like to think you still owe me. Okay?"

Pauli grinned. "Okay," he said, dropping the bills. He gathered the beers and pointed to a March of Dimes box at the end of the bar. "Let's help someone else in the meantime."

"Okay," she said, thumbs up. "Hi buddy," she called to another waiting soul.

When he returned, Pauli found the others grouped around two large picture frames stuffed with dozens of snapshots of past Rolling Thunder gatherings. "Anything interesting?" he asked, handing out the drinks.

Ann-Marie stepped to the side. "Take a look."

Pauli looked at the picture of a biker in full colors with his beloved Harley. In the picture, the sun was barely peeking over the horizon.

"Read the inscription."

_"Oh, say can you see by the dawn's early light_. I'm sure Francis Scott Key would be proud." But, it was their brand of patriotism, he thought. This was their life. These were their values. The Harleys may as well have been horses, for it was the same fantasy the society had shared since the days of the open range when there was always a new horizon.

Glancing back at the table of revelers, Pauli wondered what the consequences would be if another power tried to conquer this country and take away their freedom of expression. To what extremes would these uniquely American people go to defend their patriotism and maintain their culture? He shuddered at the bloodshed he pictured in his mind if that were to happen.

"It's happening again, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but he'll come out of it. We haven't lost him so far."

"Ya think?"

Suddenly aware that the words were directed at him, Pauli turned.

"Pauli, buddy! You're back! Have a nice trip?" Roinell slapped him on the back.

His friends were giggling. "Sorry," said Pauli, opening and closing his eyes. He was beginning to get a feeling about why his friends had come to see him.

* * * * *

Guessing that he'd now shaken the hand of every patron in the joint, Pauli took a pull off his beer, and threw a dart.

Roinell marked the chalkboard. "It's not at all crazy," he defended. "Didn't you see what happened here tonight? The people love you. They're fed up with twenty-dollar words from politicians who talk, talk, talk, but don't say anything."

"Even if I am appointed as secretary of state—"

"Which, you will be."

"Even if I am, and given that I accept, it will do nothing to enhance my chances of becoming...." He had a hard time with the word, "... president. Besides, my appointment would only be temporary. I think most of my time would be spent minding the store until the next election. I don't have a chance."

Roinell turned to Elaine. "Is he always this thick?"

"Not always. This is one of his thin days. You should see him when he gets really stubborn." Clumsily, she flung a dart, supposedly at the board.

Pauli said, "Look, it's obvious you've been talking about this for some time, but it's not going to happen. First of all, Admiral Kusczak has already announced his intention to run. There hasn't been a military man in the White House since Eisenhower, and given the state of things, a military man is exactly what we need. I figure he's unbeatable."

Roinell looked at his shoes. "This is unbelievable. Kusczak has only had one true field command in his entire career, and he comes off being about as trustworthy as scorpion."

"He's the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff."

"He's a political aberration."

"And I'm not?"

Silence. Ann-Marie picked up the darts. "We've run the numbers. You'd stand as good a chance as anyone."

Pauli finished his beer and picked up another right next to it. "What numbers?" he asked, suddenly tuned in to what Ann-Marie was saying.

Everyone turned toward Elaine, whose head was bowed evadingly.

"Elaine?"

"We ran a sample poll—only a couple of thousand respondents, but enough to tell us if we had a shot."

"And where did you get the money for a poll?"

Elaine finally looked up. "We paid for it."

"Who's we?"

"We, as in us," said Ann-Marie. "We're your first and only PAC contribution."

Pauli turned to Whitney, who'd barely spoken the entire night. "You know this guy as well as anyone," he said, pointing at Roinell. "What do you think about all this?"

She pinched her straw and took a sip of Coke. "I've been listening to y'all talk all night," she said bluntly. "I think you sound just like the other guys who said they're running for president—Kusczak included."

"How so?" Pauli asked, intrigued by her comment.

"Nobody's said a damned thing about stopping Olu Tohouri. Am I the only one who thinks we need to do something about him?"

Chapter 29. Investments

"Mister President! What you are suggesting will be looked upon as gluttonous imperialism, serving no use except the satisfaction of our own egos. Let us not forget the election is only a few months off."

As recently as a year ago, no one would have spoken to him in such a tone. But such was the way of democracy. Anyone, and everyone, was allowed to speak his—or her, unfortunately—mind. The president stood stoically, looking through the wavy, bulletproof glass of his oval-shaped office. The west lawn was as green and luxurious as any in the world. Turning, he sat pensively in his Kevlar-lined chair and waited for his press secretary to finish.

"While we don't anticipate any problems with the election," the secretary continued, "we don't want to do anything politically damaging,"

He had a point. What with the Italian fiasco, the last thing they needed was another failure. Damned domestic affairs: they always seemed to get in the way. Nodding, the president thanked the secretary for his candor. Alone now with his chief of staff, the president said, "If only we had a few more men."

"Please, Mister President. I'm glad we're out of there. It cost us far too many men as it was."

There was no argument from the president as he pressed a button on his phone. "Please cancel the rest of my appointments," he called. "I'm feeling rather tired this afternoon."

The chief of staff snapped to attention. "I'm sorry sir, but we can't do that."

"Why not? Is there something urgent?" The chief of staff opened his agenda. "I don't remember that appointment. Is he here?"

"He's waiting outside, and he only has a few hours."

"Show him in," the president sighed wearily.

Quickly, the chief of staff moved to the door and whispered to the specially trained sentinel whose job it was to guard the life of the most powerful man on the planet. A moment later, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff of the United States hastened through the door.

"Mister President," said Admiral Kusczak. "Once again, it is a pleasure to see you."

"Please... sit," said the president. "I'm afraid I don't feel well this afternoon. Perhaps our visit can be brief."

Kusczak leaned forward, his face stern. "I don't think that's possible."

"Why not?" the president questioned, worn upon by the constant impositions on his time.

"We need to talk, _now_ ," Kusczak shot back, ignoring the chief of staff who was glaring at him.

Angered, a vein in the president's temple began pulsing visibly. Democracy or no democracy, no one talked to Olu Tohouri like that.

* * * * *

His frustration obvious, the chief of staff wasn't bashful in offering his opinion that Americanizing his government had been a mistake. In the old days, the chief might have indeed dismissed their conversation with a summary execution—his, Kusczak figured—and that would have been that. Things undoubtedly moved much slower for them these days. There would be no firing squad for him today, however, and Kusczak pushed on when Tohouri decided to rejoin the conversation, probably to see what was causing such sour looks at the other end of his conference table.

"This was not our deal!" Kusczak bellowed as he continued to bull his way through the meeting. The chief's steely eyes shifted to meet Tohouri's, and Kusczak noted the telepathic signals that moved between the two men. "There's no way I can publicly endorse the formation of the Union of African States now. It would be political suicide."

Tohouri nodded. "But we need the backing of the United States in order to make the Union legitimate in the eyes of the world."

"That will never happen, especially after what happened in Rome."

"That is precisely why we need you. An endorsement from the new president of the United States would go a long way toward making the Europeans less anxious." Tohouri's features stiffened. "But make no mistake, Admiral, if we can't achieve our goals through negotiation, we will use other means."

Slyly, Kusczak skirted a direct response. He could play Tohouri like the simple instrument that he was, plucking a few rich notes and discarding him when he was through. He'd make his trips here known. It was bound to get out anyway; everything always did. He'd reveal the details of his junkets to the African White House, admitting that he was functioning not at the pleasure of his own president, but in servitude of a higher authority: humanity itself. He'd be his own man before a world audience, a leader who was willing to risk his own political success, indeed his own life, for the good of the world. And then, if and when the demon before him acted on his not-so-veiled threats—which he would, for he was like a wild animal, needing the taste of blood to live—he, _President_ Kusczak, would be the one man who could save the entire world from a mad dictator that no one had the balls to confront.

Tohouri was becoming more animated with each word. When the tirade passed, Kusczak stood, jutting his chest so that the ribbons almost popped off his uniform. "As the new president of the United States, you can be assured that I would work with you in achieving your goal of forming the new Union of African States—but I have to be elected first. Agreeing to your request beforehand is out of the question."

"I see," said Tohouri, grasping the implication immediately. He chuckled. "You know, Admiral, when it comes right down to it, it is always two men in a room, isn't it? Trading economic policies, trading military secrets, trading lives, it is just like when I traded polished stones as a child on the Zambezi, always trying to get the bigger stone for the smaller one." Tohouri's countenance darkened abruptly. "You might as well have brought a tin cup, Admiral. Would one billion American dollars help to insure a victory in the election?"

Kusczak smiled arrogantly. He had him now, he thought. A billion would indeed go a long way. "That is most generous Mister President. Such a magnanimous offer would be most appreciated."

"I consider it an investment, Admiral. When you are elected, you may consider the African White House your home away from home." Tohouri made a dramatic sweep with his arm. "We will be presidents together."

Just another way to say _you owe me_. "Thank you, Mister President. As one military man to another, you can be sure we will instill some discipline into this crazy world."

Tohouri smiled, and shook hands with the pompous American ass before he was whisked away by a virtual army of security men. Crazy indeed. He had him now, thought Tohouri, beaming from ear-to-ear; and, the laughter began. His prey was literally in his grasp.

Tears soon rolled down pockmarked cheeks, a blood blush visible through the dark skin. The laughter continued to the point where the initial amusement gave way to an eerie anticipation. Having seen these hysterics before, knowing how they could end, the chief of staff prepared to exit quickly.

"Where are you going?" Tohouri bellowed, his face glistening with the tracks of his rabid tears.

The chief froze. "I have another meeting, Mister President."

Tohouri opened a carved box atop his desk and pulled out an antique, bone-handled Colt .44. "A gift," he said simply. "How appropriate, yes?" Facing the chief of staff, eyes ablaze, he added coldly, "I will give this to our arrogant friend after he is elected, and then I will use it on him. Make sure our billion dollars is used wisely."

Chapter 30. The Big Guy

_"Do it again! Chrome Dome! Do it again! Chrome Dome!"_ The cheer-chant grew in intensity. The turn had been a masterful stroke of strategy, indeed.

"I thought you was plumb crazy," said Little Ben.

Chrome Dome gleamed with pride, his whole visage pumping with each beat of his unheart. For now, he was the unman at the unGame.

"Seen it before in '44," said Fearless Frankie, recognizing their last maneuver. "Same strategy Clark used at Monte Cassino, right?"

"Sure was," said Chrome Dome. "I knew Abe couldn't get his lines reinforced in time. He had too many armies tied up in other places, same as Kesselring did back in the day. He was primed for a counter-attack."

"I tried to tell you, Abe," said Georgie Boy. "I was in the same situation against Howe in August of '76."

"You weaseled out of that battle," Abe shot back. "You snuck off Long Island in the middle of the night."

"Weaseled out! I had 32.000 men in back of me, and the Harlem River in front of me. What would you 'a done?"

"32,000 men in back of me," Klinger sighed wistfully.

"Besides, you don't _sneak_ anywhere with 20,000 men," Georgie Boy continued. "Howe put flanking columns up an unguarded dirt road at Brooklyn Heights...."

"Flanking columns up a dirt road," Klinger repeated. "Oh, gosh."

"He coulda' took me right there..." said Georgie Boy, "... but he waited too long."

Klinger fanned himself. "Don't you hate it when that happens?"

"I had no choice but to cross the river into Manhattan, and sneak up the island."

"Aah-hah!" Abe howled. "So you did sneak off!"

Ulysses fired up a new stogie. "You sure go for that crossing-the-river stuff."

"Call it what you will, Abe, this was exactly the same thing. We waited too long. Didn't you get enough of that with McClellan? We shoulda' moved our armies up from the Congo and South Africa to the northern part of the continent, where they woulda' done us some good."

"Wouldn't have helped," Chrome Dome boasted, rumbling the dice and trying to figure out what their next strategy would be. "I know North Africa like the back of my hand. Besides, those dice were as hot as a Thorian fire hurricane."

"That, they were," said Georgie Boy. "But, we still waited too long."

"Maybe so," Abe finally agreed. "What'd you do when Howe stalled?"

"I crossed the Hudson into Jersey."

"Oh yeah? What exit?" Slapping his unthigh, Abe erupted with laughter.

All the unplayers stared. They'd never seen Abe-The-Hat laugh before.

"Been waitin' a long time to get that one out, eh, Abe?" It was Kid Zach, and he wasn't laughing. He shifted his attention to Chrome Dome. "You gonna make a move, or what, turtle-head?"

"Who are you calling a turtle-head?"

"If the shell fits...."

_"Hey!"_ It was the Big Guy.

"What!What!What!What!What!What!What!What!What!What!What!What!What!What!What!What!What!What!What!What!What!What!" they all answered simultaneously.

_"Just what the hell do you all think you're doing, exactly_?" The unvoice boomed, and the roiling mass of unmistakable nothingness bubbled and foamed furiously.

_"Praaaissss-a be to...._ "

_"Can it_."

Uh-oh. The Big Guy seemed kinda ticked. The observers ran and hid behind Mil _lard_ **,** who was finally good for something. No one spoke. Bobbie started crying. The unplayers hung suspended around the untable, the apprehension thick as Garfield's unwhiskers.

_"Is one of you guys ever gonna try and win this thing? We've got other unGames backed up behind you, and I've got a New Order party to go to_."

"We're trying," said Ulysses.

_"Trying... hah! You and your advisors Moe, Larry, and Curly haven't mounted an attack in three turns. What are you waiting for? We've got Big Guy tryouts on hold until this is over_."

"You're waiting for us?"

_"We're not waiting for all of you clowns, just the winner—if there ever is one_." The roiling mass of unmistakable nothingness thundered and quaked in absolute frenzy, muttering as it roiled and boiled. " _Amateurs.... I'm so sick of this level of spatiotemporal existence_."

"We're not amateurs," Ready Teddy dared respond.

_"QUIET!!!! All of you. You pipsqueaks are so caught up in your own egos that you're forgetting about winning._ "

"But...."

"But, nothing! If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen. Didn't one of you say that once? Sure, things get bad down there when conflict happens, but the unGame is about leadership. The world learns something from each episode; it evolves. Evolution—get it? Darwin? That was my idea. Greatness spawns from conflict, and the next time around, it'll get better down there. Set it up boys—that's your job—and someone down there will rise to the occasion, step up to the plate, meet the challenge, seize the opportunity...."

"Now you're talkin'," called Ross. "Make it happen, king of the hill, queen of the prom, man of the moment...."

"What, in my name, is that jug-eared fool talking about?"

"Nobody really knows."

_"Then get on with it—or I'll start the tryouts without you_." The roiling mass of unmistakable nothingness vanished, leaving the unplayers looking at themselves. Solemnly, Chrome Dome passed the dice. It was Team One's turn. Slowly, everyone emerged from behind Mil _lard_ **,** and took a stand around the untable.

Ulysses checked out the unboard. "Well," he sighed. "I guess it's time to make a move."

Chapter 31. The Senator

"I need to scan you." Bricker held up an instrument that looked much like a cell phone. "I'm sure you understand why this is necessary."

"You can't be serious. I rather take exception to...."

"I don't like this any more than you do, Senator." The senator's face flushed red while Bricker aimed the device. Checking the readout, he motioned down the horse path. "Let's walk," he said. When they reached a suitable destination, Bricker stopped and casually tossed a stone into the lazy water of the Shenandoah. "Sorry about that, Senator, but I learned a long time ago that you can't be too careful." The apology went over like a hair in the onion dip. The constant buzz in the air ebbed and flowed, and the world seemed in a natural state there on the senator's property, the seamy underworld of international eavesdropping, manipulation, and blackmail a universe away. A blue dragonfly streaked by Bricker's head. Almost whispering so as to not interrupt nature at work, Bricker asked, "How many acres do you own?"

The senator was in no mood for verbal foreplay. "Let's get on with it, Mister Director. You want something, something quite important evidently, or you would have sent one of your roaches to bother me instead of crawling up here yourself."

"Interesting metaphor."

"I usually step on roaches, Mister Director. I find them rather repulsive."

Bricker took a seat on a fallen birch. "We'd like you to reconsider your endorsement of the undersecretary of state."

The senator moved upwind, as if to avoid a scent. "So that's it. Who's we?"

"That's not important."

"It is to me. The man is a political gold mine right now."

"Always looking for the tail wind, eh, Senator? You guys will hang on to anything as long as it's moving in the right direction. What happens when the momentum stops?"

"Another bus will come along; always does on a busy street."

Bricker laughed into the dirt. "Whores," he said boldly. "High-priced call girls maybe, but it's still only a matter of settling on the price."

The senator's white coif sparkled as bright rays plinked through the canopy of leaves. "I'd rather use the term _quid pro quo_ ," he said, seemingly not put off by Bricker's insinuation.

Bricker watched a catfish idly waving its tail. "How much?" he asked.

The senator laughed heartily. "I'm way beyond material considerations."

"What, then?"

"It's difficult to assess the value of what you're asking, particularly in view of the man's popularity right now. There could be a great deal of benefit in hooking on to his star."

"His star may become tarnished in the very near future."

The senator just nodded. "I see." Then, "Surely, you're not doing this for my benefit."

"Not really. He needs to be out of the spotlight."

Once again, the senator chuckled mockingly. "Wasn't his last appointment supposed to have accomplished that?"

"It backfired."

"I'll say it backfired. Not endorsing him now would be politically difficult."

_Ca-ching_. Bricker just heard the price of the deal go up. "He's not qualified."

The senator took a seat on the other end of the fallen birch. "Let's see," he said, feigning deep thought. "The guy comes up poor, joins the 82nd Airborne, and earns the Distinguished Service Cross _and_ the Medal of Honor. Then, he goes from being an appliance salesman at Sears to congressman in five years, becoming the voice of the pro-war, stop-the-madness movement in the meantime. The president makes him undersecretary of state to get him out of the political spotlight, and then what does the guy do? Why, he gets tangled up in a terrorist invasion and ends up fighting the bad guys, seemingly single-handedly, while the whole goddamned thing is captured on TV. The entire world watched him be Superman, Mister Director. Right.... He's not qualified. He's only the most qualified person we've got: a bona fide sleeves-up statesman, who's been there up close and knows the deal from the get-go. Then again, I'd bet we have dozens of people who'd do just as well. Let's see, there's.... No, he won't do. And—"

"I get your point," said Bricker.

"I think it would be very difficult to reverse my endorsement, Mister Director. The man could run for God if he wanted to—and he'd have a damned good chance of winning."

_Ca-ching_. The price went up again. Bricker rubbed his hands, feeling, like he often did, that they were constantly dirty. "Perhaps this will convince you," he said, pulling a plain manila envelope from his pocket.

A smirk smeared the senator's face. "Will you punks ever stop trying? I could buy and sell the whole bunch of you ten times over." He opened the envelope and, to his surprise, there was only plain white paper inside—and a videotape. Slowly, he pulled the wad of paper and unfolded the pages. His eyes narrowed. "You wouldn't."

"In a heartbeat," said Bricker, his eyes cannons on the water.

The crow's feet at his temples deepening, the senator flipped the pages. Furiously, he tore the pages and fired them at Bricker's head. "You fucking bastard! You've got some nerve coming up here to intimidate me with this garbage! This happened years ago—do you understand? It was before I even knew her. You've got no right raising these skeletons."

"So, you already know about this," Bricker presumed.

"I loved her, damn it. It was the drugs. By the time I found out about the movies, I.... Goddamn you, this is none of your goddamn business."

"It is now," Bricker said coldly.

"I am personally close to the president."

"He won't help you."

Abruptly, the senator got up and walked back up the path from where they'd come. "I hope you rot in hell, Mister Director."

"I'm sure I will," Bricker replied. With his left hand, he pulled the scanning device he'd used earlier from his pocket, and clicked the transmit button to _off_. He'd used the ruse before, and it had always worked perfectly. With his right hand, he pulled a cell phone from another pocket, and quickly dialed a number that was burned into his memory. Someone answered on the first ring. "Do you get it all?" he asked.

"Every word. You think he swallowed it?"

"Don't know," said Bricker. "We'll find out soon enough." He ended the call, and vowed this was the last time Kusczak was going to use him like this.

Chapter 32. Death Cloud

It came without warning. Those caught in it clutched their throats and scrambled about, but the death cloud was everywhere. When relief came, it was the permanent kind.

Some new twenty-first-century bombs had been unveiled for the event, and they contained a new and improved version of an old biochemical friend: sarin. The slightest exposure would cause a choking, gasping death, accompanied by muscle paralysis so severe that victims often suffocated with their mouths open, unable to draw air into their lungs.

The bombs were missile launched from a disguised freighter in the Adriatic. Once underway, they separated, and _declustered_ at the proper altitude, with several devices being carried by each missile. Within two to five seconds, each declustered bomb would lock onto a different point on the ground, each guided by a miniature, battery-powered navigation system in its nose. The bombs were extraordinarily light, only four hundred pounds, their skins being constructed of layers of dense, ultra-hard, scored plastic. Free-falling from eighty thousand feet, it seemed as if they had a life of their own.

The bombs detonated internally at a point calculated by variable time, mini-radar sensors locked in their noses, approximately six meters from impact. Each bomb splintered into about two thousand jagged pieces of plastic shrapnel that shredded anything in the vicinity. It was a very effective killing method in its own right, but the cutting edges were employed mainly to disable any enemy that might be outfitted with heavy biochemical suits. Anything short of a seamless cast-iron body enclosure was rendered useless. With their pinpoint accuracy, the bombs landed right on target. The attackers simply had to wait about an hour, airdrop a few thousand troops into the target area, and backup maneuvers could begin. Radar and communications would be neutralized before the outside world would even know the operation had taken place.

The target: Control and Command Center, Aviano Air Force Base, Italy; time needed to complete the operation: forty-seven and one-half minutes; summary effect: total annihilation.

* * * * *

A biting late September day in the nation's capital, the weather was a welcome relief from the summer's seemingly endless, sweltering humidity. Pauli struggled to keep up, his shorter legs pumping furiously against Roinell's longer, lubricated strides. "What's the hurry?" he puffed, already beginning to feel a burn that never seemed to be there when he was younger.

"It's got to hurt to be good," Roinell called over his shoulder.

Normally keeping himself in what he considered to be decent shape, Pauli noted that his back was soaked with sweat, and they'd only run a couple of miles. "How far are we going?" he coughed out.

"Until we hit the zone."

The _zone_? Pauli wondered. He inhaled deeply, watching Roinell pull away with each step. Have to stop, he thought, before I have a damned heart attack, but he didn't stop. Step by step, lunge by push, he pumped until the light-headedness was replaced by a strange euphoria, a sensation where his body no longer seemed a part of him. Suddenly, he was running alongside himself, his lungs gobbling up oxygen as fast as it came off the huge trees arching over Constitution Avenue. Looking ahead, the thought came to him that Roinell was like an ancient ancestor, loping after his dinner across an African plain. The wisps of synthetic fabric flapping high on his thighs could have been heron feathers. It seemed as if Roinell was entering his zone, one that would be several miles long at that pace, and his own body was a nirvana of flowing thoughts and observations. The nirvana didn't last long. Sensing a presence, Pauli glanced back over his shoulder.

"Good morning, sir," another runner greeted. "Great day for a run isn't it?" The greeting accomplished, the stranger did nothing to veer from their current course.

Pauli simply waved, and other footfalls soon joined in. Just someone else coming up behind them, Pauli figured, for the Mall area was a popular place to run. These footfalls didn't fade either, however, and Pauli observed another runner, a woman this time, tagging along.

"Mind if I run with you?" she called out.

Pauli waved, the drudgery of the run returning abruptly.

More footfalls. "Is it him?" a voice behind him asked.

"Sure is," a voice to his right answered.

"Go, sir," someone urged, a military sounding tone, and instantly memories of running the sand at Fort Jackson formed in his mind's eye. Someone else began singing out a cadence, and he was shocked to hear several voices join in.

_"I don't know, but I've been told... this old boy is brave and bold. Ain't no one gonna mess with us... or we'll kick their butts, no fuss no muss. Just let_ _'_ _em try, just let_ _'_ _em dare... Pauli's our man, he'll whip_ _'_ _em square_."

What in creation...? Pauli turned. There must have been a dozen runners fanned out behind him like a flock of migrating geese. Hands began clapping.

_"I don't know, but I've been told... we don't run and we don't fold_."

Weirdoes. Trying to get away, he picked up the pace. Was there no relief from this public spotlight? The runners kept up, the voices behind him gaining strength. Exhaustion forgotten, he cruised into the breeze toward the Washington Monument, the oxygen-rich blood rush he'd experienced earlier coming back twice fold. He could see other runners bending toward the pack, many of them doing distinct about faces as if they'd been magnetically attracted. Damn it! All he needed was to be hounded by a bunch of groupies. There was always a crowd at the base of the monument. He'd run into the crowd and lose these nutbars. There was no crowd. Impossible. There was always a line waiting to get in to the monument.

"I don't know, but I've been told...."

It sounded as if there were hundreds of voices behind him, and he peeked over his shoulder. There _were_ hundreds, it seemed: innumerable costume configurations and colors, and he could see still more coming across the flat from 17th Street to join the mystical procession. Where the hell was Roinell? There! On the other side of the monument: Roinell's flapping jersey. He had to be half a mile ahead, moving toward the Capital.

"I don't know, but I've been told...."

Salty sweat stinging his eyes, Pauli wiped his forehead, spotting what he thought was an odd scene as he did so. There, off in the distance at the base of the Capital, was the crowd he'd been searching for. It seemed as if every living soul on the Mall was there, or headed there, and it dawned on him that it was Roinell's destination as well.

_"I don't know, but I've been told...._ _"_

The steps of the Capital came closer, and the edges of the huge crowd filled in as stragglers walked up, curious, as Pauli was, about the gathering. Someone was giving a speech. The crowd parted, clearing the way for Pauli and his entourage. The cadence faded, finally, and Pauli noticed a podium halfway up the Capital steps. The words from the podium became clearer, a prayer, unexpectedly, echoing powerfully over the Mall area. Pauli listened as he and some of the runners stepped through the throng, the bodies in front of him moving aside as if an invisible wedge were forcing them to do so. A preacher did his best to imitate the sing-song rhythm Martin Luther King had perfected almost fifty years earlier.

"... And may almighty God forgive our evil thoughts, for the residue of those thoughts is pure evil, no matter how justified we may feel. An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth, should not be the guiding misinterpretation of God's words, for revenge is a poison for which there is no antidote."

The prayer had turned political, evidently. Catcalls rang out, spears aimed at the preacher's continuing diatribe against whatever it was he was condemning.

_"God alone will avenge this atrocity...."_ The words reverberated, spoken so that every consonant had a life of its own.

What atrocity? Who was this black-robed black man who looked more like an executioner than a preacher? And how could the Capital Police allow this to take place on the steps of the Capital? One suicidal fanatic, a single bomb, and the unthinkable could happen.

"... And in the end, it is God's will that will prevail. It will be him who punishes these evildoers. We must turn toward goodness...."

"Goodness, my ass!" someone screamed. "Kill the bastard, is what we should do!"

In one huge surge, Pauli felt the crowd move. It was an entity onto itself, seemingly about to devour the preacher, who was motioning for calm.

"We must challenge ourselves to turn the other cheek, and not risk our freedom, for it could dissipate like the gas that choked our countrymen."

Gas? Turn the other cheek... toward whom? Clearly, something had happened. It was becoming increasingly hard to hear above the catcalls and the sirens that were suddenly obvious in the background.

"... _We are living in a disintegrating world, and we must not let an event such as this draw us into a futile struggle."_

Pauli turned to the person next to him. "What the hell is this guy talking about?"

"Didn't you hear? Someone bombed one of our Air Force bases with nerve gas this morning. Killed hundreds."

"Hundreds?"

"And this idiot is telling us to turn the other cheek." Shaking his head in disgust, the stranger added, "I don't know what's wrong with this world. It seems like anyone can do anything, to anybody, with no consequences."

"Which base?" Pauli asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

"Aviano, Italy. It had to be that African bastard again." The stranger turned away, joining in with the pulsing throng.

Suddenly, Pauli understood. Turn the other cheek... and let a bunch of terrorists get away with wholesale murder? Again?

"God's guiding hand will...."

God's guiding hand, my ass, Pauli said to himself. The crowd was becoming frantic, the smell of hysteria thick in the middle of it. Pauli slowly made his way along the barriers that had been set up. Looking up, he waited while someone carrying a guitar stepped to the podium and broke into song, a weak rendition of _Abraham, Martin, and John_ , a spiritual folk tune from the sixties lamenting the passing of the country's great leaders of social change. It was meant to unite the crowd, but it was a vain effort, weak and off key, much like the present leadership with whom the minstrel was trying to communicate.

Abruptly, one of the runners next to him broke out with a rhythm of his own.... " _I don't know, but I've been told...."_ Immediately, another added a rhyme.... " _We don't run and we don't fold_." Another picked up, louder, so as to clash with the singing minstrel.... " _Let us pray then let us fight... Let us do what's moral and right_. _"_

Pauli felt a shiver run up his spine. The minstrel looked down and strummed harder, his voice ringing out in contrasting disharmony, a battle of conflicting ideals.

_"I don't know, but I've been told...."_ And one of the runners came up, a large man of military cut, but his demeanor was soft, as was his voice. "Be the man," he said simply, and he shook Pauli's hand.

Another runner was right behind. "I'm old enough to remember the words of another old song: ' _Paranoia strikes deep_ , _'_ Mister Secretary.... _'_ _Into your heart it will creep_. _'_ Do you feel it, sir? _'_ _Something's happening here, what it is ain't exactly clear_. _'_ We need clarity right now, not folk songs." The runner moved on abruptly.

Pauli stood there mystified as the breeze whipped through his running clothes. The song was from the sixties as well, one he remembered from his mother's old album collection, and there were more words that came to mind: " _It starts when you're always afraid_ ; _"_ and another partial line: _"The man comes and takes you away_." Visions danced in his head of soldiers bearing weapons, herding people as if they were nothing more than unruly cattle needing to be rounded up for slaughter. Such a scene could never take place in the United States of America, the grandest of all empires. Our weapons were capable of destroying any country on the planet, if we had a mind to do so, anytime, anyplace. Sure, we might be a little complacent, but sooner or later we'd get off our fat asses, and we'd overcome a weaker enemy.... And they were all weaker. _Weren't they?_

The question hung there. The enemy in Rome hadn't been weaker. It was the worst kind of enemy, Pauli remembered vividly: a determined, well-trained, fanatical force. How different the defenders had been. They were slower, needing to discuss everything before a decision came forth. There were times in life where discussion wasn't needed, where it was better to dash forth blindly, but such action required faith, and conviction. Once established, that faith would be immovable and rock solid, like a stalagmite growing from the floor of a cave, formed by billions of tiny drops of water impacting the same spot. The only way to stop the stalagmite from growing would be to cut off the source of the water.

Damn it all, where was our leadership? What in God's name were they doing right now instead of being here, in front of the people, building their faith? Discussing? Discussing what? There was nothing to discuss! Pauli closed his eyes and pushed against the barrier. _There can be no peace unless we cut off the source of the water. Who can do it? Who will do it?_ Surely there was someone... but whom? Who could give these people the faith needed to eradicate the menace that would overcome them, just as surely as the stalagmite would grow back if the water were not stopped?

"I don't know, but I've been told...."

No. Don't listen.

"We need a man to make us bold."

No. No. No. Was he so egotistically presumptuous, so disdainful of the current leadership that he thought _he_ could guide the populace toward—dare he say it—salvation? Oh, God, he actually thought it!

"I don't know, but I've been told...."

"... and dear Lord, if you have placed one among us who can lead us from the brink of destruction, tell him to come forth and deliver us his message...."

No. Don't play God. You're just a man. But, Tohouri is just a man, too. A man could be stopped. Pauli opened his eyes and raised them skyward. "What are you looking for?" he asked aloud. He gritted his teeth, maintaining a vise grip on the barrier. Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Startled, he turned.

"I've been watching you," Roinell said. "I know you're struggling with it, but it's time."

His gaze met Roinell's head on. There was no sense in playing dumb. Roinell knew. They were spiritual brothers, and had been since they were kids, able to read each other's thoughts. There was no sense in denying his feelings, yet he couldn't bring himself to admit what he'd felt inside him for the last two decades: some force was pulling him through the political mire of what was once a great country, but now stagnant and adrift, unable to extricate itself from a paralysis of analysis where no one would make a decision.

"What's it gonna take for you to finally admit to yourself that you want to be president?"

That I _want_ to be president? The thought wouldn't budge. "It doesn't matter what I want," Pauli said. "What matters, is what they want." He made a sweeping gesture.

Roinell replied with a look of disapproval. "Most of them don't know what they want. You've been chosen to guide us, and you need to stop shirking your responsibility."

"I'm not shirking anything."

"You've done a great job convincing yourself of that."

"Listen, Roinell, I've faced up to everything I've ever encountered in my life, and you've got some nerve accusing me of shirking responsibility. Screw you, pal."

"No, Pauli, you're not getting out of it this time. You're here on these Capital steps for a reason. It's time to not be afraid of what you can do. Just listen. There's a call out there. Someone will rise to answer that call, but only the right man will be successful. People can get used to anything, Pauli, and unless someone has the guts to get into that building in front of you and shake things up, we'll lull ourselves into accepting the unimaginable—and then it'll be too late. Even the Roman Empire didn't last forever."

"I don't know, but I've been told...."

"It's time for a change," Roinell went on. "If it isn't you that leads us, it'll be someone else. Do you want to trust someone else to do this?"

"Not on your goddamned life."

"Me neither."

"I don't know, but I've been told...."

"They're calling," Roinell said. "There's a greater power making all this happen—on both sides. Believe it or not, these terrorist attacks are happening for a reason, and there's another reason why you have to be the one to stop them."

Roinell was right, Pauli admitted, there was no choice about what had to be done, and he, personally, would have to do something, just like he'd said to Elaine five years earlier in a hotel room only a few miles down the road, just like that night a million years ago in the parking lot with Benny Cunningham. Finally, he'd have to admit to himself that he _wanted_ to be president of the United States, that he'd _wanted_ it his whole life. He'd have to go after it. "'Be the man the people think you are.' Those were your words. Do you remember them?"

"Absolutely," Roinell replied.

Pauli turned away and stepped past the barriers to face his newly found runner friends. "I don't know, but I've been told...." he called at the top of his lungs.

Roinell smiled and looked into the ground.

_"I don't know, but I've been told...."_ the crowd cheered back.

Pauli didn't get to finish as two police officers immediately descended upon him. "I want to go up there," Pauli said.

"Sorry, sir," one of the officers said gruffly, "You'll have to get behind the barriers."

"I'm Undersecretary of State Paul Campo, and...."

"Listen, you could be Abe Lincoln for all I care. Back behind the barriers, buddy." Then, recognition registering, the officers did a double take on each other. "Say... aren't you...?"

Twisting free, Pauli again pointed to the podium. "I _need_ to go up there," he pleaded. "What this guy is saying is pure... b-s."

"I happen to agree with you," the older of the two officers responded with a little more respect in his tone, "but he's got permission to sling it. You gotta get back behind the barriers, or I gotta 'cuff ya."

Two of the barriers came down as the crowd surged and police rushed in, urging the people to maintain calm while they put the flimsy orange and white sawhorse barriers back up. Thinking Pauli had pushed them over, the officers turned him around and handcuffed him. Immediately, a half-filled drink splashed at their feet. Nostalgic calls of _"Pigs!"_ rose from the crowd.

Pauli gazed into the officers' eyes. "I can stop this," he said, "or I can turn it into a full scale riot. It's your call."

One of the officers pulled out his baton. "Sir, this isn't the time...."

"This is _exactly_ the time!" Pauli exclaimed, "... for someone to get up there and lead this country back to greatness. I need to get up there."

"Why?" the officer dared question.

"Because I want to declare that I'm running for president."

The officers looked at each other. "We'd get reprimanded for sure," the younger one said. "Maybe worse."

"We might," the other responded, nodding toward the raging mass only a few yards away. "But you can bet your bottom dollar that if we haul this guy off, there'll be hell to pay. Who knows what'll happen?"

"Are you thinking what I think you're thinking? You can't be serious."

"Someone once told me it's easier to beg forgiveness than to beg permission."

Shaking his head, the younger one began leading Pauli up the steps. "I was looking for a job when I got this one."

As they climbed, Paul looked over his shoulder. The heightened perspective gave him a vision he hadn't expected. For as far as he could see, in every direction, the crowd waved like a wheat field in the shifting wind. Feeling the million emotions melded into a single pulse, he walked up the Capital steps while a strange hush suddenly dampened the near riotous crowd. The preacher—Pauli recognized him now: the eminent Doctor Samuel H. Jenkins, III, noted pastor, public good-to-be-seen-with, and political puppet—looked down with awe, his eyes widening with recognition, despite Pauli's peculiar attire. Their eyes met as gladiators of the public spotlight. Sporadic claps sounded faintly, growing quickly into an animated roar as more and more people became aware of who'd just climbed the Capital steps with the police officer.

It took a moment for the good Doctor Jenkins to speak. Not smiling, he said, "This is my podium, and my crowd."

"Not anymore," the officer said, moving between them.

Putting on a practiced smile of artificial deference, Doctor Jenkins stepped to the side with a sweeping gesture, but said in a low tone, "You'll pay for this, you little thunder-stealing son of a bitch."

The air was laden with energy. Pauli stepped to the podium and the crowd rumbled with excitement. Peals of _"Go get_ _'_ _em, Pauli,"_ sounded weakly in the distance. Basking in the force around him, he felt strengthened, but the crowd was on the verge of rioting. He turned to the officer. "You gotta take off the cuffs," he said. "You lead me away from here like this, and this crowd will blow like a nuclear warhead."

The officer removed the handcuffs and Pauli held his hands high, lowering them slowly. Instantly, the electricity level went from Hoover Dam to AA battery.

"I am Paul Campo," he said into the microphone, and his voice reverberated back to him, "and I've been running today, but I've decided to stop running. No longer will I run from terrorists. No longer will I run from dishonest politicians. No longer will I run from my own fears. Today, I have decided that I must face up to evil, and summon the strength within me, the strength we all feel here, now, together, to crush the evil doers who threaten our way of life. But first, I have one more run to make, and that run is for the presidency of the United States." A cheer that shook the steps of the Capital blasted forth.

"I have two promises to make," he shouted into the microphone. "The first is that I will not turn the other cheek. The second is that, if I am elected president, I will personally seek out Olu Tohouri so that justice is done on Earth before he has a chance to face God."

Chapter 33. The Note

A specially modified GMC Suburban stopped abruptly and four well-armed Marines squirted out, their eyes covering the entire landscape by the time their passenger emerged. This time, it was the back office—or seemingly so—of a local Wonder Bread bakery off New York Avenue, just south of the Bladensburg, Maryland, line. He was led down several flights of stairs, the last three flights being recently built, a result of the _cold office_ having been moved when the nimrods from Metro unknowingly decided to put a new subway line right down the middle of their conference table. He didn't waste any time as he entered the meeting room. Bricker was already there, a phone to his ear. "Give it to me quick," Kusczak demanded.

A deep-voiced agent, dressed in the tidy uniform of a limo driver, responded from across the room. "In a nutshell, the good Senator Wagner told us to go fuck ourselves."

Grabbing some cranberry juice from a small refrigerator, Kusczak fingered the can thoughtfully. "What about the dirty movies of his young socialite wife?"

"He says it's no skin off his ass. He says he'll deny any knowledge and divorce her, if necessary; give her a couple of mill' to keep her out of the picture."

Puzzled, Kusczak said, "The guy is willing to go to the wall over this? He must owe Campo big somehow."

"Not that we can figure."

"I don't get it then. Why is the little shit's appointment as secretary of state so important that the senator will risk a marriage over it?"

"Maybe it's something simple." These words came from another special agent who was calmly pushing a paper football back and forth across the conference table. "He's been married three times before, and has been known to screw anything in a skirt. Maybe he's got another honey on the line and wants an excuse to dump the porn queen."

"I think the answer to your question is right here," Bricker said as he put the phone down. "Turn on the tube." Turning, he flashed his version of a shit-eating grin. "This is gonna make your day, Admiral." The TV flickered to life, and a local newscaster was doing his talking head bob-and-weave. A picture of Undersecretary of State Campo was in the background. "This was shot about half-an-hour ago. The networks and CNN are gonna go with it as a special report in less than ten minutes." The picture switched to a mob scene outside the Capital.

"What the hell is that?" Kusczak asked.

"The Aviano vigil," Bricker answered.

"What Aviano vigil?"

Bricker turned. "You haven't heard?"

"Heard what? I've been incommunicado for the last six hours."

Doing what? Bricker wondered, but he simply pointed to the TV. "Here it is." He sat back, ready to enjoy the show.

"Isn't that just so fucking cute?" an aide said disgustedly when it was over. "Running... not running...."

Thinking the same thing, Kusczak put down the cranberry juice and poured himself two fingers of vodka. He downed it quickly. "You think this is funny, Andrew?"

"The irony of it all tickles me, actually. You, the powerful chairman of the Joint Chiefs.... On your best day you couldn't muster half the support this guy could, in running shorts, no less. If the election were held today, Thomas, I think you'd be hard pressed to win."

Kusczak's fingers turned white with pressure on the glass. "You should have a little more respect...."

"Or what, Thomas? You'll have me relieved as director? You couldn't do me a bigger favor—if you ever get the chance."

"For the presidency," Kusczak said. "The man isn't qualified, no matter how politically correct it may seem."

"Political correctness has nothing to do with it," Bricker said. "The man is a hawk, in case you didn't notice—a position you'd be expected to take. And, the only qualifications he's ever talked about.... Come to think of it, he's never talked about his qualifications. He simply does shit, instead of talking shit. His qualifications are a pair of twenty-pound balls, Thomas, something you'd be hard pressed to measure up to."

Silence gripped the room while the two men glared at each other. Clearly, Bricker wasn't worried about the political or personal damage he'd just done.

"We've worked together a long time, Andrew."

"An unfortunate fact of which I remind myself daily."

Not turning his back, Kusczak poured two more drinks. "You like it neat, don't you?"

Kusczak spoke the words as if they meant something else. Like Kusczak, Bricker wasn't bashful with the alcohol. "You have your answer," he said, looking Kusczak in the eye.

"Which answer is that, Andrew?"

"As to why the senator won't play ball. He's rolling dice, and he obviously thinks Campo is the better bet."

"He's gambling with _his_ future," Kusczak shot back, suddenly angered.

"Maybe," Bricker admitted, "but this isn't his first county fair. The man's political instincts are as keen as anyone's, and I suspect Campo's chances before the Senate are quite good. Soon, Thomas, you'll be seeing him in all the right places." Smiling, Bricker toasted Kusczak with his glass. "To our new secretary of state."

Kusczak downed his drink. "We'll see. There's plenty that can get in the way of that." A photo flashed through his head of a young State Senator Campo, and a bare-breasted woman in a blue satin blouse. The pictures were expensive, but worth it. Slamming his glass down, Kusczak waved for his entourage to follow, which they did, lips curled into contemptuous snarls like their leader. Waiting to take the elevator instead of the stairs, Kusczak turned. "Aviano," he said. "You said something about Aviano earlier. What happened?"

Taking a final sip of his drink, Bricker said, "You need to get in the loop on this, Thomas, or you'll be left behind. It looks like another military terrorist attack. The word is that hundreds are dead."

"Hundreds?"

"At least. The command center at Aviano has been disabled, and the terrorists are occupying the base. We're waiting to see how many of them there are. The speculation is that they'll do the same thing to a nearby city if their demands aren't met."

"Impossible."

"Very possible," Bricker countered, "and we don't know if we could stop them without bombing our own base. Satellite photos are arriving as we speak. I'm sure the president could use your help right now. He wouldn't make a decision without you, would he?"

Suddenly stunned, Kusczak said, "How could they have gotten in there like that?"

"Nerve gas. Some kind of new delivery system we haven't seen before. It all happened pretty fast."

"Do we know who's behind it?"

"Not entirely. The initial word is that it's a military faction of Tohouri's old guard that's gone its own way for some reason."

Kusczak stepped into the elevator along with his security people, the gravity of the news striking them silent as well. The doors opened into what was supposedly the sloppy office of the bakery manager. Two Marines flanked Kusczak, while one moved to the entrance, his sense of mission heightened by what he'd just heard. Kusczak emerged, his mind lost in thought as he paced toward the vehicle, thinking about what his reaction should be. Getting into a public pissing contest over who should bomb the shit out of whom wouldn't work. Campo had already taken that turf. Taking the pacifist side of the argument was worse. He was the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. The people would expect a strong answer, immediate action, not some waffling, non-commitment doublespeak. That was the president's job, who, like his predecessor, had turned into a tower of pudding. Feeling the conflicting tugs of guilt and opportunity, Kusczak wondered if anyone had claimed responsibility. Didn't Bricker say it was a _faction_ of Tohouri's military? A sudden clamor interrupted Kusczak's thoughts. Quickly, one of the Marines took his arm, urging him toward the waiting Suburban.

Wrenching free, Kusczak speared the Marine with a look. "We'd already be dead if this was an assault, soldier." Indeed, the racket was augmented by the pungent aroma of the unwashed as a scruffy homeless person appeared from behind the dumpster.

One of the Marines waved his hand. "Jesus," he said. "Bastard musta' shit his pants."

Singing to himself, the old homeless person seemed oblivious as he busied himself trying to pry open the top of the dumpster.

"Let's go," Kusczak barked, when suddenly, the bum's absent-minded singing turned into a defiant command.

"Don'chu you walk away from me, you fuckers!" The voice was weak and raspy, the smell so bad that the air seemed filmy.

Kusczak and the Marines continued toward the vehicle. The homeless man came closer, eyes blazing.

"You fuckerss," he slurred, raising a filthy sleeve to reveal a stump where a wrist should have been. "I wass an' you were punks when I wass there. Blowed those fuckerss up, iss what we done. Quang Tri, motherfuckers. Blowed 'em up." He waved the stump, moving in their direction as he ranted. He was almost between them and the vehicle.

A Marine stepped up. "Okay, old man. That's far enough." Reluctantly, he put up a hand.

The old man slapped it away with his filthy stump. "Quang Tri, '67, you fuckerss! 'Ass no fuckin' way you ain't gonna blow 'em up and dead 'em, those fuckerss. You see 'em."

Thoroughly disgusted, the Marine grabbed hold of the man's slimy sleeves when another homeless person appeared from behind the dumpster, a woman. "You stop 'em down dead, you sonnbitch!" she screamed. She pulled the old man away from the Marine, who was all too willing to give up possession. "An' get you' your filthy hands off him," she continued. "Goddamn sons-'o-bitchin' fuckerss!" Wildly, she slapped at the Marine, doing the same to Kusczak, who tried to avoid any contact—but not quite. Her hand caught his chest just above the ribbons. The second Marine immediately shoved her out of the way.

"Let's get out of here!" Kusczak bellowed, and he stepped into the back of the Suburban. As the Suburban bounced over the curb, one of the Marines turned. "You all right, sir?"

"Just goddamn fine," Kusczak shot back sarcastically.

"She got you, sir."

"What?"

"She got you... there." The Marine pointed.

Kusczak put a hand to his chest and felt something: a yellow Post-It note it turned out to be, folded over a couple of times, and stuck there with something much stickier than what is normally on a Post-It note. Removing it, feeling his tunic for any grimy residue, he was about to throw it out the window, when he remembered they were always locked for security reasons. He looked for an ashtray when he noticed something written on the Post-It—tiny but legible: K-U-S.... He looked closer. It was unmistakable: the first three letters of his last name. Quickly, he checked to see if the Marines were watching. They weren't. Something told him that piece of paper stuck to his uniform was no accident. Slowly, he unfolded the note, cupping it so as to hide it from any roving eyes. His heart pulsed until it was a roar in his ears. There were three lines on the other side of the note: _$1,000,000,000—spend it wisely. The other candidate scares me. Take care of him_.

One of the Marines turned. "Sir, are you sure you're okay?"

Chapter 34. Smoke 'Em If You Got 'Em

It was break time at the untable, and the unplayers were scattered around in little groups, conferring and confabing about stuff.

"I've never seen the Big Guy so steamed," said Polk Salad. He and Georgie Boy were behind one of the Rivallian moons.

"Me, neither," said Georgie Boy.

"You think we're really screwing up, or is he just interested in that New Order party?"

"Hard to tell. Maybe he's caught up in an unGame of his own, or something." Georgie Boy looked to his left. "What's going on over there?"

Fric and Frac Adams were standing back-to-back behind a spatial free zone with most of the observers lined up in front of them. One by one, the observers called out their predictions while Fric—or was it Frac—made the proper notations.

_"World Enfeebled_ ," said Lame Brain Johnson, moving aside quickly.

_"Hurricane of Flame_ ," **F** ix **O** r **R** epair **D** aily claimed next.

Marilyn pondered for a second, her pouty unlips pursed in consternation. Finally, it came. " _Doomsday Shock Wave_ ," she proclaimed proudly.

"Good one, babe," said The Ladies' Man. "I'll go with, aah... _Ravaged Population_."

"Sorry, already taken," said Frac.

"Damn. Okay.... How about, aah, _Nuclear Winter_?"

"Let's see," said Frac, scanning the list. "Nuclear winter... nuclear winter... looks like that one's still open."

"I'll take it."

"One _Nuclear Winter_ for The Ladies' Man. Next."

"What are they doing?" Polk Salad asked.

"I think Fric and Frac are being Assiduous Recorders of Visions From Heaven."

"Really? What in tarnation does that mean?"

"It's a pool. They're trying to predict the consequences of the unGame down on Earth. The line for good stuff happening is to the left; the line for bad stuff is to the right."

"Gee," said Polk Salad. "The line for bad stuff sure is long."

"Yeah, but the payoff is higher in the good stuff line."

Across the untable, the other half of the team was making another set of observations.

"No way," Abe-The-Hat protested. "If we let them accumulate more armies, they'll surround us. We have to mount another attack. No one would be expecting it. Maybe we could form an alliance."

Intrigued with the thought, T.J. said, "You might be right." He nodded toward the black armies. "I'll bet The Kid would go for it. Let's get Georgie Boy over here and run it by him."

"I don't know," said Georgie Boy. "The Kid's as unpredictable as a runaway fire tail."

"You got a better idea?"

Georgie Boy examined the unboard. Abe was right. "You wanna go over and talk to him?"

"I think that would be rather obvious," said Abe.

"T.J.?"

"I'd rather not."

"I'll do it," said Polk Salad. "Me and The Kid go way back." With top hat cocked at a jaunty angle, he made his way over.

Immediately, Robert E. took note of what was happening when Kid Zach and Polk Salad disappeared behind another one of the Rivallian moons. "This is interesting," he said.

Robert E. wasn't the only one who noticed. At the last minute, Little Ben jumped from Fric's line to Frac's. "Has _Hell on Earth_ been taken yet?"

Chapter 35. The Confirmation

"You're feeling quite full of yourself, aren't you Mister Undersecretary?"

Feeling his stomach tighten, Pauli stared back at the good senator from across the senate chamber. Neither blinked. Elaine leaned into his ear.

"This is his turf. Being confrontational will only make you look pompous... just like him," she added with substance.

Pauli nodded. She was right, of course. He broke the stare, coming back with a more pliant composure. "I'm sorry Senator Murphy. I'm just feeling a little stiff in front of all these cameras. Nerves, I guess."

"Stiff?" the senator said. "A man who's out _running_ like you are shouldn't be so stiff. Perhaps you should find a less strenuous place to run." A chorus of chuckles and chortles erupted up and down the dais. The good senator from New York grinned and sat back, satisfied with his clever double-entendre.

Okay, so this is how it was going to be. Pauli adjusted his microphone. _C'mon puffball. Take your best shot._ He felt Elaine's elbow in his ribs. Ignoring both it, and the stern expression on her face, he waited for the boys to finish licking their whiskers. Bastards might as well have fucking high-fived themselves.

The good senator swayed to the microphone. "Shall we continue?"

"Ready when you are, Mister Chairman." Pauli waited patiently while the good senator adjusted his reading glasses and leafed through several pages, noting how the senator's face took on concern with each page.

Fully loaded, the senator removed the glasses and tossed them down, punctuating his anxiety. He faced Pauli with an air of distress that caused his fellow senators on the dais to lean forward. "Mister Campo," he began, "being the man of action you are reputed to be, I'm sure you're not one to beat around the bush. Neither am I."

Smiling, Pauli said, "Good."

"I'd like to get right to the heart of my—let's say apprehension—about your becoming secretary of state."

"As you said, Senator, why beat around the bush?"

"I'm glad you agree."

"And I'm glad you're glad. Are we gonna get to it, or what?" Elaine slammed him in the ribs again.

The senator's eyes narrowed even more. "I'd like to review your qualifications for being secretary of state of this great country. How much time did you spend in our foreign service?"

"Uh, outside of my current assignment, none."

"You mean to say you have no other background in international relations?"

"No. None."

"Well, then, er, ah, does your educational background lend itself particularly well to the office you're seeking?"

He didn't need a road map for this one, thought Pauli. "My experience and education are all part of the public record. As far as my seeking the position, I didn't, and I'm not. The secretary of state is appointed, and serves at the pleasure of the president."

"You have no particular background," the senator summarized grandly, "and you're not seeking the office. Then, why are you here? You are certainly free to refuse the appointment if you have no desire for the office." The good Senator Murphy glanced up and down the dais, noting his fellow senators were heeding his words with rapt attention.

Behind him, Pauli heard a murmur move through the crowd. "As best I can figure," he said, hunching his shoulders, "My appointment is a strategic move."

The senator broke his confused face out of the trick bag for the cameras. "Would you care to explain?"

Pauli glanced at Elaine, her only communication a stone-cold glare that revealed neither encouragement nor disapproval. She was a passenger on this ride. "Of course, Mister Senator. It is my belief that I was originally brought in as undersecretary of state to get me out of the way."

"Out of the way?"

"Out of the president's way. You see, I was raising such a ruckus over the African crisis and our embarrassing lack of action, that I think the president—or probably his inner circle—had me appointed to the position to control me. My guess is they figured I couldn't do as much damage if I was part of the administration. People generally don't like to criticize the players on their own team."

"Now just a minute," came a command from the left side of the dais. It was the good Senator Froule' from Louisiana. "I suggest y'all be a little more respectful," he drawled sternly.

"I make no apology for the truth, sir. I was used by the administration to stem the tide of public sentiment. The president, and those around, him were suffering politically for sitting on their hands. We were fat, dumb, and happy while people were dying by the tens of thousands." The Senate chamber stirred audibly, accompanied by the scuffle of feet heading somewhere in a hurry. "They had no idea it would backfire the way it did, and now they're looking for damage control: make me secretary of state, and make sure I fall flat on my butt. Probably ruin my chances for the presidency as well. It's a pretty good strategy, actually."

The row of aristocratic faces on the dais stared wide-eyed in disbelief. Fat, dumb, and happy, indeed! No one spoke until the silence became uncomfortable. Finally, the good senator from Massachusetts pushed his rosy jowls to the microphone. "Aside from your blatant disrespect of the presidency, Mister Campo, I find your characterization of the leadership of this country most distasteful, and highly offensive."

"That's not my problem; it's yours. And it's a problem with which the American people should concern themselves, for if we do nothing more to stop Tohouri and his outlaws than the halfhearted attempt we made ten years ago, one day we will be flying another flag over this building. And, as far as my disrespect for the presidency, you couldn't be more incorrect. I have the utmost respect for the presidency, Mister Senator. What I have little or no respect for is the president's policies."

The hall erupted as, beside him, Elaine hung her head into her hands. The good senator from New York pounded his gavel while the noise level skyrocketed. A bead of sweat trickled down Pauli's temple as he readied himself for the next attack.

The senator waited for the clamor to subside. At the proper dramatic moment, he asked, "Aren't you contradicting yourself, Mister Campo? What about serving at the pleasure of the president—who is trying to appoint you to this position?"

"I have no intention of fulfilling the fruitless policy of peace at all costs, especially after Aviano. Our full force of power should come to bear on those responsible for this cowardly deed, and it is my full intention to bring Olu Tohouri's head before the American people on a platter, if he's the one found ultimately responsible. You can speculate on whether I am speaking figuratively—or not."

The senate chamber edged toward pandemonium. The chairman pounded his gavel, to no avail. "Mister Campo," he shouted, "you are out of line! This is not a forum to discuss our response to the Aviano attack, and implicating the Tohouri regime without official verification of responsibility is pure speculation on your part. It is dangerous, it is irresponsible, and we will not tolerate such grandstanding!"

Only when Pauli moved toward the microphone did the crowd hush, as every breathing soul in the room glued itself to Pauli's image. "I'm merely stating my objective, Senator."

"Have you had this discussion with the president?"

"The president and I have never spoken directly about the course of our foreign policy, or this appointment. I've only communicated through intermediaries. Frankly, I doubt the president has any idea what I would do as secretary of state."

Cameras whirring, the senator asked defiantly, "You really don't care whether you're made secretary of state, or not, do you, Mister Campo?"

The sleeves of his jacket hiked above the wrist, Pauli said, "You're absolutely right, Mister Senator. Recently, I announced my intentions on the steps of the Capital. If I can't bring Tohouri to justice as secretary of state, I'll do it as president—if the people will have me. But it's a damned shame that thousands of people will die between now and the election—and not all of them in Africa, as the Aviano massacre proves—because this administration doesn't have the fortitude to stand up and do what's morally right, instead of what's politically expedient."

Suddenly aware that the hearing had become twisted into a campaign speech, the good Senator Froule' bellowed angrily, "Are you accusing this administration of trading lives for political advantage?"

"If the shoe fits...." Pauli looked Froule' and every other dumbfounded senator dead in the eye, noticing that the Senator Wagner from Tennessee didn't look anywhere near as dumbfounded as the others. "If the president and his advisors think my actions would be detrimental for this country, they should withdraw my name from consideration." Pausing, "Is there anything I've said, gentlemen, that you don't understand? I think I've been clear." _Pow!_ Left hook, direct contact. Now, it seemed as if the administration was running from _him_. Pauli's gaze came to rest on Senator Wagner again. The man's smile was ear-to-ear.

Wily as a fox, the chairman leaned back and rubbed his chin. "We're not quite there yet, Mister Campo. There are some other explanations we, and the American people, need to hear before your performance is complete."

"Such as?"

The chairman smiled wryly. "Have you ever been to the Excelsior Hotel in Richmond, Virginia, Mister Campo?"

Pausing, Pauli looked over at Elaine.

Her arms folded, Elaine was suddenly aware that she had something to do besides watch—so she shrugged.

Suddenly thrust into a defensive position, "I don't know, offhand," Pauli answered, adding sardonically, "but I have a feeling you might."

A picket fence of white teeth appeared as a response jumped from the chairman's lips. "I think you might be right." The chairman held a manila envelope aloft. "Mister Undersecretary, perhaps you'd like to take a look at this before we continue."

Noticing several picket fences now, Pauli nodded for Elaine to accept the envelope. Instantly, his hand was on hers, while his other hand covered the microphone. "This can't be good," he whispered.

"Do you know what's in here?"

"I'm as anxious to find out as you are."

Her eyes ran down the dais. "Look at them. They're like a bunch of sharks that smell bait in the water."

"Don't cover up," Pauli said, seeing an actual bead of perspiration on her brow. "You could get caught up in whatever is going on here."

She tapped her fingernail on the envelope. "Promise me it's nothing bad."

"It's bad," he said with certainty. "What I don't know is what it is, or where they got it. This is the ultimate voyeurism, Elaine. It's part of a sick society, a sickness I was put on this Earth to cure, I'm beginning to believe. I'm thinking pretty high and mighty of myself, aren't I?" He tapped the envelope. "It's up to you."

"Everyone's done some things they're not proud of Pauli, me included."

"Mister Campo?"

"Just a minute, Senator."

"You're human," Elaine went on. "Whatever secrets you have, you're still one of the finest men I've ever known." She tore into the envelope. "I was nowhere when I started this ride; I could be nowhere when it ends." She looked at the dais again. "Screw 'em," she whispered not so quietly.

Pauli chuckled as she dipped into the envelope. He steeled himself, knowing whatever was in there was sure to cause him much personal and public grief, for there was no doubt that they were trying to grind him into the public dust. He recognized the pictures immediately. Snapping his head toward the dais, he flushed with anger. The bastards were getting their jollies.

"Where'd you get these?" he spat into the microphone.

"That's not important," the chairman replied. "This committee is waiting for your explanation."

Pauli examined one of the pictures. In it, his back was turned, but the woman in the photo was in full focus, showing everything she had to offer. Glancing over his shoulder, Pauli could see people craning their necks to get a look. Seething, he shot up, knocking his chair back.

"I don't have a damn thing to say about...." He felt Elaine squeeze his arm. He looked down. She was smiling, on the verge of laughter. What the hell was so funny?

She held up one of the pictures. "What'dya think? Real or fake?" Laughter erupted as those close by undoubtedly got a look at the picture, while those further away put two and two together.

Thoroughly chagrined, Pauli dropped to his seat, remembering before he fell that his chair was no longer beneath him. Stumbling, he wheeled to the railing as he struggled to maintain his balance. Laughter filled the chamber. He dropped to his seat, and pulled the picture out of the air. "Are you crazy?" he snapped, bending the microphone down.

Standing, Elaine straightened the microphone. "Mister Chairman, we need a moment to confer."

Grinning, the good senator replied, "Certainly, Ms. Estes. Would you like a short recess as well?"

"I would have asked for a recess if I thought one was necessary, Mister Senator. This won't take long."

She leaned to Pauli's ear. "You're playing right into their hands. While these pictures are undoubtedly sleazy, they don't prove that anything illegal took place. As a matter of fact, it was probably illegal for someone to have taken them without your knowledge." She shuffled through them. "Getting angry will only make it look like you've got something to hide."

Pauli looked at her like she was from another planet. "Prostitution _is_ illegal," he said, pointing at the pictures.

"I didn't hear anyone say she was a prostitute—and I didn't ask."

Pauli looked up, meeting her eyes. They were as bright and blue as blue pearls, wide, and alert, and caring. "No, you didn't," he said.

"And I won't."

"Thank you," he said, after some pause.

"I don't have to." She thumped the side of her attaché case.

Quizzically, "What's that supposed to mean?"

Opening the case, she extracted another manila envelope, this one much thinner. "Look at the wallpaper. It's the same as the wallpaper in the senator's pictures."

Pauli took the envelope and extracted another picture, his headless body and the woman's shoulder blurred in the foreground, while Roinell King's image was in sharp focus, a look of utter surprise registered on his face.

"We have a witness as to what happened, or didn't happen, in that room."

"Where'd you get this?"

"It came in the mail a couple of days ago, accompanied by the note." She pointed to the envelope.

Pauli pulled out the note. Plainly typed was: _Carry this with you for the next few days. Don't let the bastards win._

"I didn't know what it meant at first. Now, it makes sense."

Pauli fingered the photographs. "I don't know if I want to get anyone else involved in this. You know how the media is. It'll be a feeding frenzy."

"Too late. I've already talked to Roinell. He's ready whenever we need him."

"You didn't ask me," Pauli said, "but you talked to Roinell. Did you ask _him_ what happened in that room?"

"He said as far as he knew, nothing happened."

"Do you believe him?"

"Why wouldn't I? Sooner or later, you've got to believe someone—or believe _in_ someone."

"This will never go away, you know, regardless of what we say, to the point to where people will think it's true, whether it is or not."

Elaine leaned low. "Don't worry about that. Defending this trash only takes energy away from the job that really needs to be done. We need to be on the offense, not defense, on this." Emotional now, she hesitated. "I'm with you all the way, Pauli. It's like you always say: someone's gotta do it. Trust me?"

Feeling his throat tighten, "Go for it," he said.

Elaine turned to the dais. "Mister Chairman...." she called authoritatively, "Seeing as there is no..." She looked at Pauli. "... media feeding frenzy yet, I suspect these photos have not been made public. Is that true?"

"That is correct, Ms. Estes. We find it only proper to give a person an opportunity to defend himself before raising issues of concern that may impinge upon his credulity before us, and the American people."

She smiled. "Uh-huh. And yet, you chose to reveal these here, without giving the undersecretary an opportunity to comment privately. Very magnanimous."

Chairman Murphy leaned forward and looked over his bifocals. "This committee is empowered to bring any, and all, information to light, _Ms._ Estes, which reveals the character of the man we are here to confirm to a very high office. It is incumbent upon us to make sure all the facts are before the president, and the American people."

"Is that right?"

"I don't think I like your tone, _Ms._ Estes."

"Well, that's fine, because I don't like yours either."

Senator Murphy's look could have cut glass. "Please sit down, Ms. Estes, or I will have you removed. Mister Campo, I suggest you control your associate, and I direct you to answer our questions yourself." The good senator leaned back and tugged on the points of his vest, looking up and down the dais before moving back to the microphone. "Do you have any comments about the material in your hand?"

Smiling at Elaine, who was bristling, Pauli turned toward the senator. "None, Mister Chairman, but I do have a request."

"And that is?"

"That these pictures be made public, immediately." There was an audible gasp from the dais, while Pauli dramatically waved the photos in the air. "Just one thing, Mister Chairman."

Shocked, the good senator replied, "And, that is?"

"That _all_ the pictures be made public."

The entire dais leaned forward as Senator Murphy waited for silence. After what seemed an eternity, the senator asked coarsely, "What do you mean, _all_ the pictures?"

Smugly, Pauli leaned forward and felt the microphone touch his lips. "I'm sorry," his voice reverberated. "I didn't hear the question."

Snatching his glasses off his face, the good senator bellowed, "What do you mean, all the pictures, Mister Campo! Can you hear me now?"

"Loud and clear, sir. It seems you have an incomplete set of photos here. You see, I have one more." Pauli held the photo aloft. "And, there is another person in this photo—one who can testify before this committee, the American people, and God, as to what happened in that room. Surely, you'd want to clear the air, wouldn't you, Mister Chairman?"

The senator pounded his gavel as chaos inundated the senate floor. "Order.... Order in the chamber!" he shouted uselessly. "Mister Campo, I'd like to see that picture."

"Then look for it in the morning paper," Pauli yelled back defiantly, but to no avail as someone official looking stepped forward and snatched the picture for the senator.

"Who is this?" the senator demanded.

"That man was my campaign manager at the time. His name is Roinell King."

"And, where did you get this picture?"

All heads turned as, at the far end of the dais, the good Senator Wagner from Tennessee burst into hysterical laughter, holding his belly as if it were going to burst.

Breaking into a wide smile, Pauli answered, "Probably from the same place you got yours, Mister Senator."

Chapter 36. Paybacks Are Hell

Kusczak flipped to his high beams, keeping a watchful eye on the headlights in his rearview mirror. Route 15 south of Point of Rocks, Maryland, was especially treacherous at night, and he took his time crossing the fifty-year-old girder and I-beam bridge that spanned the upper Potomac. Three miles later, he swung his Ford Explorer into the lot of the old road store above the Newgate Farm, and backtracked north to a spot about fifty yards below the old bridge. Noting the quarter-moon that was playing peek-a-boo with the clouds, he took a flashlight and his .45 off the seat, double-checking the safety to be sure he wouldn't accidentally shoot his ass off when he slid the weapon into the small of his back.

Slowly, he made his way to the bridge, barely hearing the crunch of gravel under his feet as the mating chorus of a million crickets thundered in the darkness. Two cars approached the bridge simultaneously and he stepped back as they neared, his black jeans and black windbreaker making him part of the night. Trying to spot anyone who was up there waiting for him, he saw nothing as the headlights strobed through the canopy of zigzagging girders. Nothing to do but wait. A truck passed, and its tires hummed well into Maryland before the noise subsided.

"You're early, Admiral."

Startled, Kusczak turned and zeroed in on the form: a splotch of black ink thrown into the night. "Who are you?" he demanded.

"My name would mean nothing to you." The accent was distinct, but indistinguishable, a mix of old English and native tongue. "Let us move to the bridge." The form slid past like a silent puff of air. As they made their way to mid-bridge, the harmless burbling of the Potomac became a low growl, like the snore of an unseen giant a hundred feet below.

"Why here?" Kusczak questioned. In the darkness, he saw something move.

The Black Ghost pointed to the girders above them. "The canopy," he said. "It makes detection virtually impossible. As you know, Admiral, ears are everywhere."

"Don't bullshit me," Kusczak replied. "How do I know you're not wired?" Unexpectedly, a helicopter came over the horizon, its single downward-pointing light plotting a course down the middle of the Potomac. It passed quickly, the powerful thump of its rotors evaporating in the distance.

"You don't," the Black Ghost answered.

"And I'm... what? Supposed to trust you?" Looking for a pair of eyes, Kusczak pulled the automatic and aimed it where he thought they should be. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't blow your fucking head off and just throw you into the river."

Unruffled, "I can give you a billion reasons," the Black Ghost replied.

_A billion reasons_. Kusczak lowered the gun. A car roared past, the wake of cool air carrying with it the fumes of an untuned engine. "I'm beginning to think that was bullshit, as well. So far, I haven't seen a fucking dime."

"It's been wired. I can give you the access information, if you want it."

Kusczak pondered. "And, what if I change my mind? What if I give you a message to tell His Weakness to go fuck himself, and the white horse he rode in on."

"That would be very unwise, Admiral. The endorsement of the Union of African States is very important to us. You may recall your commitment to the cause."

_"After_ I was elected," Kusczak responded. "That was the deal. The money was to help me get elected. But the way I see it, I may not need it."

The Black Ghost laughed heartily. "You are missing the reality of the situation."

"The reality is that I'm a million miles ahead in the polls, and none of the other idiots running against me can make a dent in that lead."

"Except one," the Black Ghost countered. "That would be your most recent candidate." Pausing, he added, "He concerns us."

Kusczak recalled the wording on the Post-It note. "Just a thorn in my side. I have ways of taking care of him—just as your president suggested."

Again, the Black Ghost laughed, and Kusczak finally saw what looked to be the whites of human eyes. "What's so goddamned funny?"

"You should take his candidacy more seriously. He's on the verge of becoming a very visible Cabinet member, and he has several months before the election to ply his trade. I doubt a man like him would sit on his hands."

"A man like him—all this hero worship is enough to make me sick. He got that damned Medal of Honor years ago. He's a different man now. He's said that himself."

"He's a warrior!" the Black Ghost shot vehemently. "His behavior is as predictable as the sun. If he is thrust into a confrontational situation, we know, as everyone else knows, _exactly_ how he will react."

"I told you, I'll take care of him." A trailer truck rumbled past, and Kusczak abruptly snapped on his flashlight and pointed it at the stranger. It was a face he hadn't seen before.

With a quick sweep, the Black Ghost sent the flashlight sailing into the water below. "He's for real, Admiral. He has no need for manufactured career achievements—like yours. A billion dollars is a lot of money. Our advice is to use some of it creatively."

"You bastard! Who the hell are you to tell me what to do? I could drop you right here and claim—" Kusczak was disarmed before he could finish. Despite the darkness, he managed to make out his own gun pointed at his head. Suddenly, it too disappeared, splashing into the Potomac two heartbeats later.

"Take our advice, Admiral. You have no choice."

"I'll talk," Kusczak blurted as his mind raced. "I'll explain the junkets as diplomatic missions. I'll spin it so that it'll look like something so dangerous no one else had the guts to attempt it."

"You're floundering, Admiral. We have ways of bringing other things into focus, just as you attempted to do against your opponent with those photos."

"Such as?" Kusczak asked arrogantly.

"For starters, the billion dollars we just spoke about. It would be quite scandalous, don't you think, how all that money got into an account with your name on it? And then there's Aviano, and the issue of how, despite your worthy efforts at diplomacy, we were plotting the attack the entire time. You see, Admiral, we can spin too."

Kusczak froze. He forgot about Aviano. The country was screaming for revenge. "Aviano," he said hollowly. "We should be launching a full-scale military invasion."

"But you won't."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Look at the facts. You have a lame duck president, who can't be reelected by law, and won't risk going to war in the last year of his presidency. The Italians are shell-shocked. The Europeans are wary. It's 1939 all over again. The standoff could last for months."

"That's speculation."

"That's fact. Trust me, Admiral, we know. Our people are everywhere, and information is easy to obtain."

It dawned on Kusczak just how far the sphere of influence could have spread. He stared at the dark outline in front of him. It was large, as large as he was, and he was no small fry. Spotting the glint off the Potomac as the slice of moon reappeared, he debated just closing his eyes and escaping. It would only take a second. One powerful thud.... He wondered if there was any pain in that final moment.

"There's one more thing. The idea of controlling candidate Campo by making him part of the administration was actually a good one. It simply wasn't executed properly. You might consider a more permanent solution."

Kusczak chuckled.

"Did I say something amusing?"

"He should be so lucky." Kusczak took a beat, staring into the unseen water below.

"It would insure your victory in the election, and once elected, you can execute your brilliant military plan to take back Aviano. It's the one way of showing the American people that candidate Campo wasn't the only brave soldier to have sought the presidency."

Kusczak's stomach turned as he thought about the ultimate sin for any military man. "You'd sacrifice your own forces?"

"We all have to make sacrifices, Admiral. There are larger issues at stake, which is why we have to insure that candidate Campo never becomes president."

A bitter taste in his mouth, Kusczak looked avoidingly into the dark sky. "He won't."

"Good. So, there should be nothing to stand in the way of our world partnership."

World partnership: that was the deal. A thought sparked in Kusczak's head, a tiny signal that his ambition was still alive. He could have it all: world domination in the name of justice. It could be cloaked in some loosely organized structure—like the Union of African States Tohouri was trying to organize now, or perhaps like the League of Nations Woodrow Wilson had pushed for after World War I. Wilson had come closest to actual world domination, although no one ever knew it—but it was there. He controlled the League, he controlled the leaders, he controlled the world, and he let it slip through his fingers. He wasn't strong enough. Admiral Thomas Kusczak, however, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, future president of the United States, was strong enough, and he could do it—for peace. All war was for peace, was it not? The people, the world, would swallow it whole. He could do it. "We'll need to throw the people a bone," he said.

"A bone?"

"We'll need to do something to convince them that I'm the right man for the presidency."

"What do you suggest?"

"Perhaps the taking back of Aviano could happen before the election, rather than after. It would secure the election."

"An interesting plan," the Black Ghost noted. "I'll carry it back."

* * * * *

Andrew Bricker sneered disgustedly. "We're everywhere too," he said to no one in particular after the last few words came through his earpiece. He tossed the headgear on the console in front of him. It was an unremarkable gesture in light of what he'd just heard, but he'd felt it in his bones for some time: Thomas was dirty, covered in filth, and rot, and deceit. Worse yet, he was in a position, and perfectly willing, to kill a great number people to satisfy some warped yearning for recognition, or power, or whatever it was he was after. Wondering how many times he himself had been manipulated, Bricker tried to erase the shame he felt on his soul. This would be his last op, he'd already determined, and one in which he would be intimately involved. He couldn't trust this to anyone else.

"What are they doing now?" he asked.

One of the other surveillance agents pressed on his earphones. "Sounds like they're leaving the bridge, or at least the admiral is leaving. Sounds like gravel crunching again. You want it on speaker?"

"Not necessary," Bricker said calmly. "Just be sure you get it all." Kusczak's betrayal would haunt him forever. Like Tohouri, Kusczak had to go, and Bricker speculated on whether he'd carry his own guilt with him into the afterlife. Surely there was relief somewhere, up there, where the people who'd lived good, honest lives, those who'd done good deeds, went. He was doing good, wasn't he? Certainly, he was, although it was difficult to classify political assassination as good. It _was_ murder, after all, no matter how you justified it. It carved a notch out of one's soul that wouldn't grow back. Bricker guessed that men like Kusczak and Tohouri didn't have souls, and he wondered further if there was a place where he'd bump into them again. Would there be high fives for having outwitted one another, as if life was just some big board game? It would please him if that was the case, and life on Earth was just a small episode in the grand scheme of things. The burden of changing the course of history would be easier to bear if it was just sport.

"What about the scan beam?" the other operative asked.

The question interrupted Bricker's night dreaming. The scan beam was the newest in high tech listening devices: a wide, low-level laser flow, capable of finding and locking on to a specific, preprogrammed modulation, such as voice waves. The specific modulation was detected using a wide flow search—usually done by helicopter, or other low-level aircraft. Once detected, it was isolated so that the laser flow could be concentrated on the source by the same or another SBL scan beam device. Any noise that infiltrated the area, the area being determined by the width of the laser flow, caused interruptions in the flow that were translated into digital patterns. Those patterns were then unscrambled and converted back into sounds. As long as one had a preprogrammed modulation for the beam to lock on to, and as long as the modulation didn't move out of the covered area, the SBL scan beam was a marvelous toy. The first part—the preprogrammed modulation, or, Kusczak's voice—was easy. The second part, keeping track of it, was solved by the transmitter that had been installed inside the radio of the Ford Explorer Kusczak had registered in the name of Timothy R. Conners, of Frederick, Maryland, license plate number OGB-876. In this case, a specially modified, Lockheed U-2 Dragon Lady reconnaissance plane, launched especially for this event, carried the secondary scan beam tracking device. The U-2 was doing a slow (Mach 1.2) donut run at 70,000 feet, the diameter of the donut ranging from Charlottesville, Virginia, to York, Pennsylvania.

Bricker ran a hand through his graying scalp. "Tell the U-2 to go home," he responded, thinking he hadn't been fishing with his son in a long time. "I've heard about all I want to hear."

* * * * *

"You're absolutely sure you want to do this?" Elaine asked.

"I'm sure," Roinell replied. "I've thought about it a long time, I've talked to my wife about it... yeah, I'm sure."

"What about your job?"

"I'll put in for a leave of absence. If it turns out to be permanent... well...." He held up his hands and shrugged. He waved his bottle at the waitress. "You want another?"

"No, I'm fine." Nibbling a stray piece of onion ring, Elaine scanned the inside of the restaurant, remembering the last time she'd been there. Rolling Thunder had been quite the experience. "This place kind of grows on you."

Roinell looked around. "We make quite the sight, it seems. Not many Washington types come in here."

"Funny, I've never considered myself a Washington type."

Roinell chuckled. "You couldn't be more inside-the-Beltway."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's just that you look kind of... well... done."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Well, let's take an inventory: fancy suit; nails done every couple of days...."

"Once a week," she defended.

"Once a week then; hair...."

"Perfectly natural."

Roinell smiled politely.

"Okay, maybe a few highlights. What's so wrong with that?"

"Nothing. I was simply making an observation."

"And, that is?" She sipped her drink as the waitress dropped Roinell's beer on the table.

"Look around. What do you see?"

Her blue eyes searched the room. "Nothing in particular. Just a few guys checking me out. I get that once in a while."

Roinell smiled. "I'm sure you do, but you're not all they're looking at. They're looking at me also."

"I don't think you're their type."

"Funny. I meant this," he said, showing the back of his hand. "We've turned the corner on the twenty-first-century, and sometimes you'd think Lincoln was still president."

"We can leave, if you like."

"You're not getting it. Between you, me, and Ann-Marie—if she decides to join us—what sort of message do you think candidate Campo would be sending to the American people with us standing around him all the time?"

"You're right, I'm not getting it. What?"

"There are a lot of working people in this world," Roinell began, his arm making a subtle sweep, "and their value system is as different from ours as water is from whiskey."

"What does that have to do with being well-groomed?"

"It comes down to appearances—and money. Those without it don't like those with it, and vice versa."

"So, if we look like we have it... That means, what?"

"We'll be turning off the part of the electorate that we need to win over. You, being you, and, me, being me, will make only make it more difficult for candidate Campo to—"

"Are you insinuating that _working people_ are somehow more apt to engage in racism and discrimination than us _professional types_? You couldn't be more wrong, Mister King. Values are values, and you either got 'em, or you ain't." Elaine drew down on Roinell with a long stare. "Perhaps you should look inside yourself and make sure you're the right man for this job. I'll understand if you decide not to accept."

Roinell looked uneasily into the middle of the table, saved from having to reply by Ann-Marie's appearance at the door. She found them quickly. "How was your flight?" he asked.

"Fine," Ann-Marie answered quickly as she squeezed into the booth and ordered a drink. She threw down a copy of the _New York Tattler_. "The pictures are already out."

Elaine zeroed in on the headline: _Pauli Pots 'n' Pans Makes Out With Dish at Convention_. There was no doubt as to what the photo implied.

"Pauli Pots 'n' Pans?" Elaine asked.

"It's a jab from his days at Sears. We should sue the bastards," Ann-Marie shot fiercely.

Elaine took a moment to scan the article, in hopes that it wasn't as lurid as.... Oh well. She dropped the paper. "If we could only find out where these pictures came from.... We could really turn the tables and use this to our advantage." Oddly, a loose smile appeared. "We sound particularly like an election committee, don't we? Are we gonna do this, or what?" Silently, Elaine watched as Ann-Marie and Roinell looked searchingly at each other, guessing that between them, they knew Pauli better than he knew himself. They could make him tick, and turn, and walk, and talk better than anyone else. She only hoped the strain of the scrutiny they would experience wouldn't break the relationship—as strange as it seemed at times—between the three of them.

Roinell answered first. "Like I said, I've spoken to Whitney about it. I think I'm in. Am I?" The question was accompanied by a pleading stare.

"It's up to you," Elaine replied coolly. "But if you come on board, you have to come without baggage." Turning to Ann-Marie, "What about you," she asked. "Every campaign needs a legal counsel."

"I don't know the first thing about running a campaign."

"Pauli doesn't care about that. He wants people around him he can trust."

"Green on money," Ann-Marie sighed wistfully. "I guess I'm in."

"Good. Let's make a toast: to the next president of the United States. Maybe one day, his picture will be up there." Elaine indicated the row of Whitey's presidential portraits. "Speaking of pictures, I hope you're ready for what's coming down the pike. Everyone's gonna be piling on to this."

"We have to prepare a strategy," Roinell said.

"The heck with strategy," said Ann-Marie. "Elaine is right. We need to find out where these pictures came from. If this was a setup, these pictures could blow a hole the size of the Titanic in someone's political career."

"Do you think the president will withdraw Pauli's name from consideration as secretary of state because of this?" Roinell asked.

"My sources think that's on hold for now," Elaine replied. "After Pauli's snippy performance at the confirmation hearings the other day, the word is that if he's not confirmed, the president is willing to back away gracefully, but he's not going to withdraw Pauli's name at this point."

"Why wouldn't he?"

"Because of what we just said. _If_ these pictures were the product of some blackmail scheme, and _if_ that can be proven, the political fallout could be devastating. The president doesn't want to overreact, and he doesn't want to end his term by coming down on the wrong side of a scandal. We've got some time, but we need to move fast."

"What's fast?"

"Faster than the senate subcommittee. They also want to know who is, or was, behind this. Their heads could roll just as easily as Pauli's—you know, guilt by association. They've all scratched each other's backs somewhere along the way."

There was a sudden uneasy pause in the conversation. They all knew they were going into a high stakes game with no bankroll, no backers, and bluffing was a short-lived strategy.

"We all agree there's no chance that Pauli did the obvious, right?" Elaine asked, holding up the paper.

"Like I said, there's no way," Roinell answered. "I remember the look on his face when I came into that room. Not only that—I don't know how else to say this—but the puppy was still in the doghouse."

"I don't think it's ever been out of the doghouse," Ann-Marie quipped.

Roinell chuckled. "Speaking of which, would you excuse me please?" He pointed toward the bathroom.

"Your life could get very complicated," Elaine said as Ann-Marie sat back down.

"Why's that?"

"Because you still love him, even after all these years."

"Is it that obvious?"

"It is to me. Working side-by-side with him could be very frustrating."

Ann-Marie sipped her drink. "My father always told me good things don't come easily. Besides, somebody's gotta fucking do it."

Elaine raised her glass, and said, "Touché, girl."

"You're still looking slim and trim," Ann-Marie said when Roinell returned some moments later.

"It's the forty miles a week that does it—and I hate every step. I couldn't help but notice that you look pretty trim yourself."

"I'm back to my high school weight," she said offhandedly, redirecting her attention to the paper. A wicked smile crossed her face. "I think I know a way of finding out where these pictures came from."

Chapter 37. Career Move

Smoky Injess looked at the picture, and blinked. "You can't be serious, man."

"We're very serious."

"Who's we?"

"None of your fucking business."

Smoky lit a joint. "This is gonna cost extra."

"How much extra?"

"How much you got?"

"Stop playing games."

Smoky took a deep drag, and stubbed out the joint. All he wanted was to keep an edge on. "Twen'y," he said. What the fuck. It was worth a shot.

"No way. Ten."

Smoky propped his feet, and took a swig of his Mickey's Malt. Some little girls were playing outside in the yard of the apartment building. He thought maybe a couple of them were his but he didn't know which ones. "This ain't up for negotiation. I figure twen'y is cheap—especially now that I know there's a _we_ involved." He waited. He had nowhere else to go.

"Fine. Half up front."

"No half-up-front bullshit. I want it all. I'm guessin' you got plenty 'a your own can do this. Why not get one 'a them?"

"That shouldn't concern you. How can I trust you to do it once we hand you the money?"

"How can you trust me not to? You be takin' a chance comin' up here as it is. You see many white faces 'round here, Fatboy?"

"Fine. You take off, we'll find you. We have—"

"What? Ways? People? You think you the only ones with pull? How do you fuckin' know I don't have no one watchin' your little girl right now? You want me to give you your address? Ya see, now it's personal, and if this whole thing goes south, it'll be me and you dancin' together. You be in the jungle, Fatboy, and you don't know where the lion be comin' from."

"You should take a long vacation once it's over."

"Not a problem. You got a special piece you want me to use?"

"Yeah. The Colt Mustang you've got hidden behind the breaker panel in the hallway."

Smoky looked up. "Seems y'all been doin' your homework. Yes sir, a little vacation might be good when this is all done. Atlanta sounds good this time of year, don'cha think?"

"Atlanta's nice."

"That way you could tie it all up nice and neat—make it like it's just a question of findin' the nigger who done it. Fi'ty."

A pause. "Fine. Fifty." There was no choice.

"Tomorrow." There was no reply. "I said I want it tomorrow, Fatboy."

"I'll see what I can do. I expect to never see you again when this is over."

"Not a problem. Planned it that way. Prob'ly you did too."

Chapter 38. The Pres

Everyone stood when the president arrived. Along with everyone else, Kusczak watched him stride authoritatively to his customary position behind the desk.

"What are the demands?" the president asked, his voice a half-octave higher than normal. The strain was obvious.

The special assistant for national security affairs looked up from his briefing papers. "It doesn't matter," he said. A jittery guy who didn't react well to stress, his face was more ashen than usual.

The president riveted him with a stare. "What the hell does that mean, Bob?"

"GANGLAND must be terminated immediately. We have a whole new situation."

The president sharpened his look. "What whole new situation?"

"Intelligence indicates the perpetrators were an offshoot of Tohouri's own forces, bent on showing the world some new technologies that Tohouri had insisted on keeping secret. Supposedly, there was a coup attempt."

"And?"

"He survived. He celebrated by having six of his own generals executed in public."

"Jesus," the president muttered. "Do we have eyeball verification?"

"We think so. Two of our operatives were on the scene, and they're on separate F-18s now. They should be here by early afternoon."

The president turned and looked through the bullet-resistant polycarbonate windows of the Oval Office. The scene outside looked as fuzzy through those windows as the details of this briefing, Kusczak figured.

"And Aviano?" the president went on.

"We don't know exactly," the national security advisor replied hesitantly. "Reports indicate that Tohouri followed the executions with a speech."

The president turned and hurled a glare. "C'mon, Bob. And?"

"In which he vowed to take back Aviano and install his own forces in place of the so-called _traitors_ who occupy it now."

"This is nuts!" the president declared. "You mean to tell me he's planning to invade Aviano—again—and take back something that wasn't his to begin with?" Angrily, the president turned toward Kusczak. "Thomas, what's the status on GANGLAND?"

Kusczak's mind was racing. He'd had it all mapped out, damn it all, and he would have come out of it smelling like a rose. The presidency would have been his for sure. Now—

"Thomas?"

"Sorry, sir, just thinking. Approximately 20,000 American, Italian, and NATO troops occupy the territory around Aviano. It's hard to tell how many terrorist troops occupy the base, but we're pretty sure it's in the thousands, and they're threatening to launch more chemical weapons on another target if there's an attack. Right now, it's a standoff. We either negotiate, or we destroy the base and see what happens."

"Destroy the base," the president said absently. "I promised the American people peace at all costs, and I've been able to uphold that commitment up to now. It might be time to break that promise." Chin in hand, the president turned away. "Action versus inaction: either way, I'm trapped, a victim of my own words."

There it was, Kusczak thought, right in front of him. He surveyed the office; besides himself and the jumpy national security advisor, present were the vice president, who was cleaning his ear with a pen cap, the chief of staff, FBI Director Hungerford, CIA Deputy Director Operations Murtaw—Andrew Bricker was conspicuously absent—and, in lieu of a confirmed secretary of state, Assistant Secretary for European Affairs Boudreau, who hadn't said a word yet, along with Undersecretary of State for African Affairs Campo, who also hadn't spoken. All eyes were on the president, the tension thick as they all waited for some indication of what he was thinking. Why not give the poor man some relief? "Sir, you cannot deal with threats to our national security by remembering campaign promises. You might recall that you also promised the American people you'd do something about this Aviano situation—and they're expecting you to."

The president brightened: a way out. "I did say that, didn't I? Any suggestions?"

It opened up like a script. "We need teamwork on this, Mister President, a share in the decision to invade, or not invade. That way, the bearing of ultimate responsibility wouldn't be as burdensome." Unless, whatever effort we launched turned out to be victorious, Kusczak thought, for then, undoubtedly, the president would claim complete credit. "My recommendation is that we first make an attempt to end the situation diplomatically. If, in the meantime, the perpetrators at Aviano are done away with by other forces, our consciences would be clear."

"I like it," the president said, arching his eyebrows.

Undersecretary Campo stood and leaned his fists into the table. "If _other forces_ means Tohouri's forces, that means we would have to make a deal with a murderer." The room fell silent. The words were edged with accusation.

Features stern, the president turned, his manner loaded with dramatic weight. "I'll remind you, Mister Campo, that regardless of what's happening outside this office, you serve at the pleasure of this office, and will for the next few months."

Kusczak watched the standoff develop. The pompous little shit: he'd bury any chance of becoming secretary of state if he kept this up. Kusczak decided to help him dig the hole.

"Mister President, may I have a word with you, privately?" Kusczak indicated a nonexistent corner of the Oval Office.

Acquiescing, the president listened to Kusczak's whisperings, while the others strained to pick up some loose tidbit. Nodding, the president returned, and knocked on the desk. "Admiral Kusczak has pointed out the need for unity on this issue. We need to sell this. The American people want something done, and we have to stand together behind the right decision."

Kusczak smiled as a vein in the undersecretary's neck began pulsing visibly.

_"Sell_ this? The right decision, Mister President, is to go in there and take back what's rightfully ours. Tohouri can't be trusted."

"I disagree, Mister Undersecretary, and as long as I'm president, you'll do as you're instructed, or you'll have to remove yourself from the office. If you ever actually get this job, you can do it your way."

On the outside, Kusczak maintained the stone-faced image of the military man he was supposed to be. On the inside, he was all smiles. "He'll never be president," he mumbled into his coffee cup.

Chapter 39. Portraits

Another interruption. The unplayers were milling about, waiting for this latest delay to end. A few weeks would pass on Earth while absurdity beset the unGame. Chrome Dome lit a Camel. Normally placid, his patience was wearing as thin as his visage. To no one in particular he bellowed, "What the H-E-double-hockey-sticks is going on now?"

Polk Salad found himself standing next to Chrome Dome. Noticing the cigarette, he whipped out a corncob pipe. "What's a hockey stick?" he asked.

Chrome Dome eyed the diminutive Polk Salad. "Never mind. It probably wasn't invented yet when you were down there." So, this was the guy who about doubled the size the United States during a single term in office? Huh. Who woulda' thunk it? "Say, uh... Polk Salad, whose team are you on, again?"

"Abe's."

"Huh. Abe's got a good team."

"Yup, damned good team."

"Huh." Chrome Dome nodded toward The Kid. "I hear you and him were tight. Is he as ornery as they say?"

"Zach? He's not ornery. He's just intense. He's a lot like you, actually."

Surprised, "He ain't nothing like me," said Chrome Dome.

"You don't say. You two were soldiers for, what, thirty, forty years?"

"Something like that."

"You were both major generals in command of major invasions?"

"Yeah, I guess we were."

"You were both persuaded by your parties to run for the office?"

Chrome Dome nodded. "That we were. That we were."

"And one of the major issues during both your administrations was the plight of the Negroes. Wasn't the desegregation issue during your time actually an evolvement of the slavery issue during his time?"

Chrome Dome puffed on his Camel. This Polk Salad guy was sharp.

"Naw," said Polk Salad, waving his pipe. "You two ain't got nothin' in common. Then how come you scratch when he itches?"

Chrome Dome decided to change the subject. "What's going on this time?" he asked, pointing toward the latest interruption.

"I think it's that Ross fella' again. I believe he's taking wagers on the outcome of our struggle."

"Don't we already have a pool going for that?"

"I think this is different. I hear he's taking bets on which team wins this thing."

"Bets? Like, with real money? I thought you couldn't take it with you?"

"Evidently he took a check, just in case. I hear he's giving odds."

"No kidding. Why don't we go over and check out the action?"

"Good idea." Chrome Dome and his new friend moseyed on over.

Ross was perched high above the throng, sitting sideways on a shiny Harley instead of his usual screaming monotroid. Dressed in thick Texas leather, he shuffled bills from a never-ending pile that sat atop two hovering asteroids. "Okay, boys, we got all the portraits here. We got your Lincolns, and your Hamiltons. We got your Jacksons, and your Grants. We even got some Franklins. Old Ross-The-Boss has done gotcha covered. The odds are posted right over there on that board."

Chrome Dome and Polk Salad checked out the odds: Team Three: six-to-five; Team One: four-to-three; Team Five: three-to-two; Team Two: five-to-three.

"Five-to-three!" Chrome Dome howled. "We're a lot better than that!"

"Step right up, and lay it down," called Ross. "In for a penny, in for a pound. Speaking of pounds, how 'bout you, Mil _lard_?"

Mil _lard_ stepped up. "I'd like to wager two Lincolns, and a Jefferson."

Ross made an unface. "Jefferson? He ain't on no money."

"I'm on the two," T.J. called out.

"The two?" Ross wagged his unhead in disgust. "I guess we gotta start somewhere. Okay, that was two Lincolns, and a Jefferson—twelve bucks." Ross peeled off the bills. "What team?" he asked, getting ready peel off more to cover the odds.

"No," said Mil _lard_ , setting down some coins. "I meant these."

Ross looked at the two Lincolns and a Jefferson. "Seven cents? Seven crummy, lousy cents?"

"You said in for a penny...."

"Get out of here," Ross snarled, and he shoved Mil _lard_ aside, making a whole lot of room for others to come up. "Okay," he called into the throng as he held up some bills. "Lincolns are these, got it? And these are Washingtons. Fins and skins, not pennies and nickels. We got any other overlapping portraits?"

"Hey," Polk Salad called in defense of his newfound buddy. "If you take Washingtons, you should take Eisenhowers. He's on the silver dollar."

"Legitimate point," Ross called back. "But that would mean I'd have to take those Susan B. Anthony ones too, and if I take those, I'm handing them right back out."

The crowd moaned. Nobody wanted those. "Okay. No coins," someone called out, and unheads nodded in agreement.

"Damn," said The Ladies' Man. He was on the half-dollar, a truly useless coin.

"Okay," Ross called. "Lincolns, Hamiltons, and Jacksons for you wussies; Grants and Franklins for those of you with some 'nads. Make your call, make your call, see if you can take it all."

Rover Grover moved boldly to the asteroids. "I got five Franklins, and two of me that says Team Three takes it all."

"Two of you?" Ross asked, somewhat confused. "You ain't on no money, are you?"

"I sure am," said Rover Grover, and he put down five Franklins, followed by two Clevelands." He was on the thousand.

Ross twinkled with delight. "Now you're talkin'! Let's see, that's twenty-five hundred smackaroos." Ross peeled off some bills. "Gotcha covered like an itchy blanket."

"I know what that's like," said The Ladies' Man.

"Team Three, you say?" Rover Grover nodded, and Ross peeled off more portraits to cover the odds. "Who's gonna hold the money?"

Marilyn and Klinger stepped forward at the same time. " _I will_ ," they called simultaneously.

Ross considered his choices: tight dress, pouty unlips, unbody that would stop a tank; hairy unlegs, beady uneyes, unface that would stop a tank. The money went to Marilyn, who promptly placed it into her abundant uncleavage for safekeeping.

Klinger eyed the bank, as it were. "You're supposed to put that where no one else can get to it, honey."

Marilyn issued a throaty, "Ooh, good point Klinger," and she raised her dress, tucking the money into a garter. She slid the garter further up toward the Promised Land.

"Right," Klinger scoffed cattily. "Like no one's been up that road before."

"Who's next?" Ross called out. "C'mon boys, I'll cover any portrait you got."

Fric and Frac Adams came up in unison. "We'd like to bet one of these on The Kid. We don't see any odds on The Kid."

Ross looked down. "What is that?"

"It's a Wilson."

"A Wilson? You mean...."

"That's right, it's a $100,000 bill."

Ross suddenly got a little teary-eyed. "God, that's beautiful."

_"What's beautiful?_ "

Ross searched the cosmos. "Is that you, Big Guy?"

"Yeah. What's up?"

"What'dya mean, what's up? You're up."

"You just called me. You said, 'God, that's beautiful.' Now, what's beautiful?"

"This," said Ross, holding up the $100,000 bill.

_"What are you doing?"_ the Big Guy snapped back, clearly irritated.

Uh-oh, thought Ross. "Just a couple of friendly wagers, Big Guy. Seein' as I can't play, old Ross-The-Boss here was just tryin' to have a little fun on the side."

_"All right, that's it!_ "

"What's it?"

"Everybody out!"

"What'dya mean, out?"

"Out! All of you.... now! Everyone except whoever is playing. Klinger!"

Klinger immediately took his post at the undoor. After a moment of halfhearted protest, the observers began marching out in little groups, led by The Shadow. He was used to marching. There was Calvin Cool, Andy Jack, the Virginia Jimmys—they being Little Jimmy Madison and Big Jimmy Monroe—Mil _lard_ , Tippecanoe, Bachelor Buchanan, Big Lub Taft, Chester The Fop, Hoover Dam (or Damn Hoover, depending on the situation); they all marched past Klinger, who noted their departure as none of his doing. **F** ix **O** r **R** epair **D** aily, Little Ben, Ron-Ron, Fric and Frac, The Ladies' Man, Mister Peanut, Tricky Dickie, and the rest—presidential and unpresidential alike—followed the first group, and again, Klinger consolingly acknowledged their departures, except Bobbie's, of course. Ross was last.

_"Ross, leave a Washington,"_ the Big Guy commanded.

Not daring to question why, Ross unfolded a one, and gave it to Klinger before disappearing through the undoor.

"Klinger, turn it over."

Klinger did so, finding himself looking at the back of the dollar bill, the ornate _One_ flanked by the two sides of the Great Seal of the United States.

"What's it say?"

"One," answered Klinger, knowing immediately by the great puff of disappointment, that he'd answered the question incorrectly.

_"Not that. See the pyramid?_ "

"Yeah."

"Above the pyramid. What's it say?"

"Annuit coeptis."

"Right. That's Latin for 'God has favored our undertakings'. Now, at the bottom, in the ribbon under the pyramid. What's it say there?"

"Novos ordo seclorum."

"Right. Do you have any idea what that means?"

"Not a clue," Klinger answered.

_"How about the rest of you boys?"_ No one uttered so much as a peep. _"It means: 'A new order of the ages'. Get it? New order? Now, turn the bill over and read the series date, down next to the signature, on the right side."_

Klinger squinted a bit, but managed to make it out. "1975."

"1975! That's when this new order was supposed to have begun down there! You're way late boys. Now, I know you can't tell what's going on down there because there are no direct observations, but it's not a pretty picture. There's still time to pull it out, but you gotta stop messing around here. I want all the advisors out too. Advisors always screw things up."

There was a low rumble of resentment as the gaggle of advisors got up and shuffled past Klinger.

When the advisors were gone, the Big Guy said, _"Klinger, read what's written above the 'One.'"_

"In God we trust."

_"You gotta trust me, boys. I've been doing this a long time. Now, you gotta get down to one player. Are there any questions?"_ No one spoke. _"Klinger, you see the eagle?"_

Klinger looked at the bill. "Yeah."

"You see the ribbon in its mouth?"

"Yeah."

"What's written there?"

The words were tiny, and Klinger peered at the ribbon for some time. "E pluribus unum," he answered after borrowing Ready Teddy's specs.

_"Out of many, one,"_ the Big Guy translated. _"One man will emerge down there to lead the world away from self-destruction. He will form a new order for the planet, one that will propel mankind toward new challenges: physically, morally, and intellectually. Now, fall in, and lemme see who's left."_

One by one, the unplayers lined up: Ulysses, Chrome Dome, Abe-The-Hat, Ready Teddy, and Kid Zach.

_"Okay, back to the unGame,"_ the Big Guy commanded. _"Klinger, you're out too, and lock the undoor on your way out."_

"But who's gonna watch these guys?"

"Look on the back of the bill. What do you see above the pyramid?"

Again with the pyramid. "An eye," Klinger answered uncertainly.

"That's the 'all-seeing eye of God'. I'll take care of that myself. Leave the bill."

Klinger laid down the one and stepped through the undoor. Outside, Robert E. was standing next to Traveller, eyeing Ross's shiny Harley.

"I've always wanted one of those," said Robert E., his uneyes shifting between steeds.

"Trade ya," said Ross.

"Done," said Robert E. With that, he handed the reins to Ross and straddled the powerful Harley. "Klinger, you wanna ride bitch?"

Klinger was tickled. He hopped on and held on tightly. "Where we headed, big boy?"

Robert E. donned a pair of black sunglasses and was the image of Rolling Thunder. "There's gotta be a sunset to ride into somewhere." He flipped his gray satin sash over his unshoulder, and gave the throttle a twist. With a huge Confederate flag waving off the back of the Harley, he and Klinger thundered into the light toward the Neftarlic Galaxy.

One by one, the rest of the unparticipants scattered as well, most of them heading to the Flortinian Sector where it was rumored the New Order party was about to start.

At the untable, the unplayers took their places.

_"Okay,"_ the Big Guy said. _"It's time to go to work. And don't forget, I've got an eye on you."_ The eye on the dollar bill blinked twice.

"Whose turn?" Abe asked.

"I think it's Ready Teddy's turn," said Chrome Dome. Ready was sulking miserably.

"Ready, Ready?"

"Fine," Ready Teddy said sullenly. "How come I never got a portrait?"

Chapter 40. The Ticket

Elaine was absolutely right, she thought as she turned in front of the mirror: the meeting had been easy to arrange. All that was needed was a small lie to get the senator on the phone, and a husky voice to keep his interest. The dropped innuendos didn't hurt. Men: they were all the same. This one melted like a warm Popsicle. She undid the top button of her silk blouse. His eyes would linger, and she'd play him like a predictable melody. Giving herself a quick spritz of cologne, she stepped into her four-inch heels and straightened her skirt, the one that would ride up nicely when she sat down. The navy blazer came next. That, she would remove dramatically at the dinner table. Noting how the blouse accented her breasts nicely, "Okay, boys," she said mischievously, "time to go to work." Men, she sneered again, they'd never change. She grabbed her bag and was out the door.

The restaurant was elegant and cool inside. Checking the time, she saw that she was half-an-hour early, and right on schedule. She'd told him eight, figuring a couple of white wines under her belt would help her pull this off. That, and she wanted to check out the crowd beforehand—just to be sure there wouldn't be any surprises.

"Would you care to join me?"

Startled, she turned to see the tanned face of the good Senator Wagner from Tennessee.

"Oh, my," she said. "You're early."

"I was in the neighborhood," he lied. She wasn't the only one who liked to check things out. They moved to a remote table, where a pair of sconce lights glowed softly. She sat somewhat removed from the table to give the good senator the panoramic view.

"How did you know it was me?" she asked.

"A beautiful woman like you walks in and it's difficult not to pay attention. I noticed the inquiring look."

She wasn't as put off as she thought she should have been. The man was smarmy certainly, but disarmingly charming.

"Drink?"

"Martini, straight up," she said brazenly.

The senator smiled. "Careful. A couple of those will make you crazy."

"A couple is about the right number." She moved closer and pushed the boys together. "A friend told me once that martinis are like tits: one's not enough, and three are too many."

The senator held her captive with his gaze. "Touché, Miss.... It is Miss, isn't it?"

"It is now. I'm divorced; free as a bird."

"Not everyone likes ballsy women, Miss Doherty. I do."

She froze. She hadn't told him her name, but only that she was a reporter following the confirmation hearings. "You know who I am," she said, suddenly flattened.

"Of course, but you can keep up the charade, if you like. I'm rather enjoying it." The senator ordered two Beefeater martinis, straight up. Again, he smiled expectantly.

God, he was good. His reputation as a deal maker was easy to understand. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to mislead you."

"Of course you did, Miss Doherty."

"Call me Ann-Marie."

"Okay, Ann-Marie... however, I'm not sure I disapprove."

Ann-Marie recrossed her legs. Just as she'd predicted, the skirt performed perfectly, and she suddenly felt a twinge of shame. "You like being taken advantage of?"

"By the right person, under the right circumstances...."

Maybe this was going where it was going after all. It was blazer time.

"Please," he said, putting his hand on her sleeve. It was as if he was reading her mind. "You're much too cunning to resort to something so... well... banal."

"Banal?"

"I'm sure you can be more original."

"Banal?"

His eyes glowed. "Why don't you simply tell me what you want?"

"I'm not banal."

He laughed now, a deep, resonant bluster.

Getting up, "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to...."

"Wait," he pleaded, not letting go of her arm. "Let's start over."

She lowered herself back into the chair, unable to raise her eyes to meet his.

"Let's get back to how I knew who you were when you came in."

"Okay, how?" She reached for some ice water.

"The confirmation hearings."

"I wasn't there."

"I know you weren't. Believe me, we know about you, as well as the rest of Mister Campo's close friends—of which there aren't many, by the way."

Curiously, "How do you...." She paused, realizing the senator's point. "You mean there's a—what's the term—dossier, on him?"

"Quite an extensive one," the senator answered as the martinis arrived.

"And, I'm in it?"

"You photograph beautifully."

Suddenly chilled, she took a healthy swallow of her drink. "Well, doesn't that make one feel special? What gives these bastards the right to delve into my private life?"

"You might as well get used to it. Your Pauli is one of those charismatic types for which the media has an endless appetite." He could see she wasn't pleased with the statement. "He actually makes it hard for the rest of us."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Let's say he's not good at playing the game."

"That's just the way he is."

"Ah," the senator said, admiring his drink as if it were a fine wine. "That's the rub. The undersecretary is one of those poor souls who is incapable of intentional deceit. He doesn't think of the political ramifications of always telling the truth. That makes him very confrontational."

"I take it that's not very popular."

"He's not a good back-scratcher, you might say. He's an in-your-face-with-the-truth political gnat, and the bulls in the herd don't like it. That, and all the hero worship that's been created around him. It's like a cloud that follows him around."

"He could do without the attention just fine."

The senator was already at the bottom of his drink, and motioned for two more. "Could be, but it makes him come off holier than thou, and there are a lot of people who have—how shall I say it—a real hard-on for your Pauli. He's got a lot of enemies."

The comment seemed real enough, as did the senator. "Then, why are you helping us?"

"Is that what you think?" he asked coldly.

"The photo," Ann-Marie began. "Didn't you send it to prove there was someone else in that hotel room besides Pauli?"

"That I did," the senator admitted. "But that had nothing to do with helping the undersecretary. I'm hooking on to his star, Miss Doherty. I'm only fifty-two years old—relatively young, relatively speaking—and if I can find a way to share some of his spotlight, I'll have plenty of time to continue his success—if he's successful—or help bury him if he crashes and burns." The senator flashed a withered smile. "You see, Miss Doherty, I'm not done yet."

Ann-Marie let out an insolent groan. "I should have known. You're all prostitutes."

"The worst kind, I'm afraid: the kind with a habit—and money." He took a moment to chew an olive. "Now that we both know what we're dealing with, why don't you tell me why you went to such great lengths to meet with me?"

"Because I actually believed you wanted Pauli to survive those vultures."

"I do. You're just hung up on the reasons why. Why don't we agree to disagree on that point, and move on to the rest of your agenda? There is more, isn't there?"

She nodded. "I wanted to find out who took those pictures." She watched as the senator swallowed hard.

"Why does that matter? You have your vindication."

Quizzically, she asked, "You do know where they came from?"

"I might, but you have your witness as to what happened that night—use it. There's nothing more you need to know."

"Who are you trying to protect?" She barely moved, hoping to not scare him away.

"Those pictures were taken long ago. It was a mistake. Revealing who took them would do more harm than good."

"To whom?" she snarled.

"You're very persistent, Miss Doherty, but as I've already said, I've given the undersecretary a way out of this embarrassment."

"For your own benefit."

"We've already covered that. I make no apologies."

"There's a bigger issue at hand!" she shot angrily. "We're trying to do something good here! It's your duty—"

He slammed his hand on the table. "Don't talk to me about duty!" Heads turned. "I'm no more going to violate the confidence of a colleague, than I would shoot myself in the foot—which would amount to the same thing, politically. My _duty_ , as you so righteously pronounced, is to do what I think is good for this country. I've done that. Tell your candidate to take advantage of it." His voice softened, but it was no less intense. "You lied to me to get me here, shamelessly plying your feminine charms. I was supposed to... what? Fall helplessly at your feet into a pile of malleable mush? I've admitted what I am. What makes you any different?"

Her face flushed with the realization that he was right. The whole thing was backfiring, and suddenly the martini in her hand tasted awful. She pushed it away.

The senator swirled his drink. "You're ignoring a basic strategy in the undersecretary's defense."

"What's that?" she asked smartly.

"At the time, the undersecretary was a single man."

"He still is."

"And as such, he wasn't cheating on anybody." He paused. "Was he?" The implication was clear. "The man could have simply been exercising in some harmless fantasies with a friend. To my knowledge, that's not illegal. Instead of defending himself, perhaps he'd be better off being the one who makes the accusations."

Again, she realized he was right. Her head clouding from the effects of the drink, she still felt cheated, and bitter, as if the possibility of another woman in Pauli's life betrayed her in some way. Don't be silly, she thought, chiding herself inwardly. He was a free man then. She was hundreds of miles away, trying to keep from drowning in a city of eight million, attempting to do something _important_ with her life. Her relationship with Pauli hadn't been _important_ enough to stay with him back then, and she'd gone her own way, marrying a man who let her have her _importantcy_ , but whom she didn't love. It was all so complex, at the time. What a fool she'd been. Don't be a fool now, she told herself.

"We don't know if that woman was his girlfriend," she responded, getting back to the conversation.

"Can anyone prove differently?"

The senator was giving her an opening. "I don't know. Maybe you could tell me."

"Her identity has yet to come out, even with all sniffing about."

Hello. And it wouldn't come out, she knew instantly. The senator grinned. The charm was back. He raised his glass, and she did the same, clinking out a ringing chime.

"I respect your loyalty," she said, sipping.

"Regardless of the motivation?"

"Let's hope the end justifies the means. My _means_ weren't so honorable coming in here."

"You have beautiful means," the senator said, his eyes dropping.

She didn't move. What the hell, let him get his jollies.

"You know," he said, warming to her again, "you let a very important point slide right by earlier."

"Which was?"

"That the senate confirmation committee has a dossier on the undersecretary. Wouldn't you think there is similar information available on the undersecretary's adversaries?"

"Senator," she said, eyes flashing. "You have a dirty little mind."

"Fire with fire, Miss Doherty. It's the way of the world."

"So there a file on the admiral," she concluded. "What's in it?"

"Some very interesting things."

"I'm sure. So, why have you chosen to endorse the undersecretary over him?"

"Now, now, Miss Doherty. I'm endorsing the undersecretary to become secretary of state. Endorsing him to be president is an entirely different matter."

Slyly, she asked, "What would it take to get that endorsement?"

"That depends."

"On what?"

"On my conscience, and what I think is good for the future of this country."

Right, which equates to what's good for you, Ann-Marie thought. "You're a difficult one to read." Then abruptly, "Would you excuse me? I have to powder my nose."

"Certainly," he said, getting up chivalrously. "I shall await your return."

Alone in the ladies' room, Ann-Marie looked at her herself in the mirror. "What an amateur," she said aloud. The senator was reading her like a book. Yet, why was he here? Or, still here, was the better question. He wanted something. What? Sex? Then, she thought, don't flatter yourself, cupcake. He could get that any time, any place. What was it? Freshening her lipstick, she thought she was losing it. C'mon, Ann-Marie. When you couldn't dazzle 'em with looks, you dazzled 'em with bullshit. Maybe it was time to sling a little and at least make him think you had something to offer. Fake right, go left. She'd seen Pauli do it on the basketball court. Maybe she could do it here.

The senator chuckled when she returned to the table. Fresh drinks were waiting.

"Something funny?"

"This is our third round," he said. "I wouldn't want you to lose control of your inhibitions."

She leaned into the table. "Why, Senator, I didn't think you were capable of blushing."

"Neither did I." He raised his glass, and, like before, his eyes traveled. They clinked. They sipped.

"How would you like to be vice president?" she blurted.

"Excuse me," he coughed, almost choking on his olive. "But did you just ask me if I wanted to be the vice president of the United States."

Eyes sparkling, "I did."

"On whose authority are you making this offer?"

"Beats the hell out of me. Let's drink." She raised her glass. "Yes or no?"

The senator was a tad disarmed. "I.... I don't know. I haven't thought about it. I mean, I had no idea you came here to.... Are you sure about this?"

"I am absolutely positive. So, what's it gonna be?"

"I'm not prepared—"

"Screw the _I'm not prepared_ stuff, Senator. Think about this: tomorrow, we announce that you've joined the ticket as Pauli's running mate. Then, we immediately put you in front of the cameras, giving him your endorsement to become sort of an interim secretary of state until he's elected president. During that time, he will formulate plans on how to address this crisis with the Africans, and in the meantime, you.... Are you a republican, by the way?

"Yes."

"Good. You go on the road espousing the virtues of our platform, carrying the banner of our party...." She paused dramatically. "... putting on your own drive to become the next president—after Pauli, that is. It would be like a four-year head start on the next election."

"Four years? Why not eight?"

"I don't know if Pauli could stand eight. Could be eight, could be four. Either way you're next. Like you said, you're still a young man, relatively speaking."

"Why me?" he asked.

Oh. Good question. She had to think quickly—quite a feat, given the condition of her brain cells. "In a warped sort of way, I think the fact that you've looked at your share of political ceilings could play to our benefit."

"Enlighten me," he said stiffly.

"It means you must have a lot of chits you can call in."

The senator smiled. "There aren't many people who can twist the logic like that."

"It's the martinis." Ann-Marie took a breath. "And one of the chits you could call in is to find out what's in Admiral Kusczak's dossier."

"Ah," said the senator. "Tit for tat."

"Back to tits again."

"Let's say quid pro quo."

Ann-Marie leaned into the table again, but she was anything but playful. Her eyes were bright—or glassy, hard to tell—her demeanor determined—or drunkenly careless, hard to tell. "Okay, so let's lay it out. Things are royally screwed up. The world is fighting with itself, and no one's got the balls to stop it before it escalates into World War III. Pauli's got the balls, but he doesn't have the know-how to wiggle through the political weeds. You do. He needs you—and you need him. Think of what it'll do for your reputation. How could you not become the next president? Who's gonna stop you, Donald Duck?"

The senator was a statue in his chair. Finally, he moved, taking a menu from a neighboring table. "Care for something to eat?" he asked.

"Cut the bull. What d'ya think?"

He speared her with a look. "I think you're the gutsiest bitch this side of the Atlantic."

"Thank you. What about the job?"

"I'll have to think about it."

"What's to think about?"

"Like I said, he has enemies."

"So?"

"So they'd become my enemies. We've got to be able to survive the office."

Ann-Marie's eyebrows knitted themselves into a solid line. "Tell me you're just trying to scare me."

"I'm not."

"No way."

"Yes, way."

"I don't believe you," she challenged.

"Do you know Andrew Bricker?"

"Who's he?"

"Director of the CIA."

"Not personally, no."

"I do. It might be a good idea for you and him to have a chat. The salmon looks good. What do you think?"

* * * * *

At 2:30 in the morning, the phone rang. Groggily, Elaine picked up, remembering quickly that she was in her own bed, and the children were asleep in their rooms.

"Hello.... Ann-Marie.... No, it's okay, where are you...? Really...? Dinner...? How did you manage to...? Have you been drinking...? _You did what!"_

Chapter 41. The Progeny Session

In, out... Breathing deeply as he concentrated on the task at hand. He looked down, seeing himself glisten as he swayed in rhythm with her moves. In, out.... His chest filled with virgin air so laden with moisture, one could almost drink it. Fresh oxygen flowed into his bloodstream and his head became light, as if he had downed a glass of wine. His muscles tense, he felt as if his entire being was caught up in the act. In, out.... Mankind would be better off for this. Mankind should thank him, for only a leader with his foresight would think to freeze his sperm, vials of it, to be used to impregnate only the finest female specimens on the continent. He should have thought of this before the coup attempt, but it took near death for him to realize how fleeting life was, and so, he determined to preserve it. Feeling himself stiffen to his ultimate state, he raised his arms skyward, visualizing his own form looking down on his nakedness. It was how it would be when he left the planet, for to rule the world was his destiny in this life, and the next. His seed would spawn generations in his own likeness. Leaders would be bred to fulfill the fate of the world on Earth, while he guided them from the hereafter. He faced skyward in self-worship, knowing it would take some time for his seed to spring free. The progeny sessions had become more frequent lately, sometimes twice a day. It was a sacrifice that had to be made. There was no other way to save the planet.

In, out.... The progeny subject worked steadily to capture the nectar that would insure survival of the species. She could feel his excitement as she did her work, being sure that no other part of her body touched him, just as her instructors had taught her. She could feel him tighten despite his thrusting, and she knew he was getting close. She closed her eyes, praying silently as she prepared to receive his gift.

With his arms wide in invocation of a divine blessing, he joined in her prayer as he prepared to ejaculate another leader. With a glance, he noted to her that he was ready, and she, sensing the importance of this moment, shed a tear as she intensified her concentration on the task at hand. The ministers of the progeny sessions, knowing his stamina well and sensing a climax was near, stepped to each side and held him in preparation. The maiden glanced up and held there as he uttered a guttural moan and released his seed onto the pillow of her tongue. When the sensation became too much to bear, Tohouri stepped back, and one of the ministers rushed to the maiden's side with a golden chalice heated to a perfect 98.6 degrees. Lovingly, she let the nectar of life roll from her tongue, and the chalice was rushed to a waiting incubator. There, the sperm would be allowed to rest before being transferred to a vial and marked with the proper notations. She turned, smiled at the savior of mankind, and was led off with a wave, taking the kneeling pad with her as a memento of the event. The savior had come, and she had been blessed. The ministers quickly slipped a silk robe around his nakedness, while fragrant sliced oranges and a refreshing vitamin drink were brought immediately. It was a difficult job, and the savior's work never ended, it seemed.

Tohouri stepped from the progeny alter—it being part of a huge marble sanctuary built especially for these events—and moved to an office that had been set up to one side. He used the office regularly, interspersing the business of trying to conquer mankind, with the business of trying to father it. One of the ministers brought him the morning's agenda. Tohouri examined it carefully, seeing that he had a full schedule, and another session at the end of the day. Speculating that perhaps he'd cancel that session—it was a tiring responsibility—he wondered what the next candidate looked like. He shuffled quickly through the rest of the papers, stopping when he reached the picture that was always presented for his approval. Ah, he thought, a white woman this time: a blonde, South African, no doubt. Well, one more session today, then he'd cancel them for the rest of the week. He took a long swallow of his vitamin drink, and handed a page from the agenda to one of the ministers. "Bring him in," he ordered. It was going to be a busy morning, and he might as well get the first appointment over with.

* * * * *

The Black Ghost extended a hand as he was ushered in. "Mister President," he greeted, Western style.

"Supreme Commander," Tohouri corrected.

"Many pardons, Supreme Commander." Things had gone back to the way they'd been, evidently. That certainly explained everyone's change in attire. Quickly, the Black Ghost bowed and kissed the supreme commander's raised hand.

"Please, sit," Tohouri said hurriedly.

The Black Ghost waved away a menu of offerings from one of the attendants. Clearly then supreme commander wanted to get right to business. "Our man wants to make a deal."

"Our man?"

"The admiral, Supreme Commander. Remember?" Good gravy, as the Americans said, the rumors were true. These progeny sessions were sapping his brain, as well as his strength.

"Of course," said Tohouri, evading the momentary lapse.

"His proposal is interesting."

"How so?"

"His plan will make us look reasonable before the world audience. At the same time, it will portray him as the leader for which great United States has been searching for a generation."

"How will that play to our advantage?"

Legitimate question. "By positioning the rebels as outlaws—as the admiral will call them—he will take that label off of us. We would become negotiators, advocating a peaceful solution to an unfortunate incident that we would publicly abhor. He will break away from the negotiations, of course, posturing that the United States is through talking, and he will recommend a military ultimatum. It will guarantee the election for him."

"And in return?" the supreme commander inquired.

"Once elected, in return for not interfering with his invasion, he will endorse the formation of the Union of African States. Your control of the continent will finally be legitimized, and you, Supreme Commander, will be the first mortal to have ever united an entire continent."

Tohouri's eyes glazed over with delight. "It will be a new world order."

"And you will be its inspiration."

"I like it," said Tohouri, sparkling with satisfaction.

"He will have no choice, at that point, but to negotiate on the Middle East—and its oil."

"You are correct," Tohouri agreed. "He'll have no choice—because he will be dead."

A smile curled across the Black Ghost's face. A double-cross: an unexpected, but wise decision. "Is that final?" he dared to ask, testing the supreme commander's resolve. This was too important to be some passing whim. "We will have wasted our time with this fool, not to mention a billion dollars. And, there will be others to take his place."

Tohouri dismissed both points with a wave of the hand. "The money is a mere pittance. As far as there being others to take his place, they will all be dead as well."

"I mean no impertinence, Supreme Commander, but all of them? How do you plan to—"

"In one single instant," Tohouri proclaimed. "I will rain complete and total chaos on the government of the United States and the imperial dogs who think they rule this planet. I will make them vulnerable, and I will take advantage. The Middle East will be ours before the year is out." Turning to the Black Ghost, "You have done well, and you will be rewarded. I will think heavily on your ultimate reward, but you may begin by consulting with my ministers." He made a sweeping motion. "You may select the company of any of the women who have been brought here today—except the blonde one," he added. "They are all well trained and most proficient."

"Thank you, Supreme Commander, but I would like to discuss the matter of the other presidential candidate."

This caused Tohouri to pause. "There is nothing to discuss. We have already determined that he is dangerous to our cause. We cannot take the chance that he will be elected. Didn't we agree to have him removed from the situation? Why has that not happened yet?"

"I will take care of it immediately, Supreme Commander. We are working on that now."

"What is your plan?"

"It will simply be one more senseless death, committed during a senseless crime, one of many that happen in that country every day. It will be a true tragedy for the people: the death of an American hero."

Chapter 42. The Mall

"There's the mall," Elaine called.

"I don't understand all this. You'd think we could just go to his office, or something." Trying to guide the car through the packed snow that had fallen, Roinell turned up the defroster on his Saab.

Inside, Fair Oaks Mall was nearly deserted. Some green-haired teenagers drifted about, the bad weather not enough to deter them from annoying the shit out of anyone over twenty-five.

"How do we know who he is?" Elaine asked.

"We don't," Ann-Marie replied. "We go to the plaza area near the fountain, and wait. He'll find us."

"Does he know all of us were coming?" Roinell asked.

"It didn't come up. Do you think it matters?"

"It might. You two go ahead. I'll follow up behind."

Drifting past the trendy mall stores, Elaine and Ann-Marie found the plaza area. Finally, after twenty minutes Elaine said, "I'm going to get some gum. Want anything?"

"No, thanks. I'll wait."

Ann-Marie watched as Elaine drifted past the fountain and Roinell emerged from a store entrance, meeting her. They talked for a moment, and moved off in a quest for gum, evidently. The endless noise of the fountain lulling her into a lazy state of mind, Ann-Marie jumped when her cell phone went off. "Hello."

"This is Director Bricker."

"How did you get my number?" The thought of someone knowing things about her left her a tad uncomfortable.

"It wasn't that hard."

"Oh." She looked around nervously. "Are you in the mall?"

"Yes, I can see you."

But she couldn't see him. Her hands felt clammy. "I brought some friends."

"I know. I was hoping we could meet alone."

She did a visual sweep, hiking the collar on her coat as a chill ran through her. "Okay. Where?"

"There's a furniture store on the upper level, near Lord and Taylor. I'll be inside. Leave now."

"How will I know...?" He was already gone. Quickly, she walked in the opposite direction from where Elaine and Roinell had gone. The troubling notion that she was being manipulated nibbled at her as she passed two girls with pierced noses. She spotted the furniture store, noting the salesperson just inside the entrance pouring over something terribly important.

"I'm just looking," said Ann-Marie.

The woman smiled pleasantly. "Of course. Your husband said you'd be along shortly; he's in the back, down on the left. I'll catch up with you in a few minutes."

"Thank you," she replied, and she made her way through the displays. Suddenly, he was there. Funny, he looked more like an accountant than the James Bond type. His eyes were small, and dark, and devoid of emotion, a fact she could discern even from a distance.

"You're alone?" he asked as she neared. His eyes darted past her—no once-overs as she got from most men.

"Quite alone," she said crisply. "Is all this sneaking around really necessary? It makes me feel creepy."

His look was response enough, but he said, "It's rather unusual for the director of the CIA to meet civilians alone in public. It took some doing to arrange it."

Suddenly, there were a thousand other places she would rather have been. Seeing the simple gold band on his finger, she instantly felt sorry for his wife, thinking the woman probably had never gotten used to knowing whether or not he'd be home for dinner. "Of course," she said apologetically. "I'm a little on edge."

"Don't be," said Bricker. "I don't bite." He flashed what could have been a nice smile, but it didn't get that far. "Senator Wagner said you were a good friend, and asked if I could meet with you for a few minutes."

"I think the senator thinks of himself as a good friend of any woman with high heels and a pulse."

Bricker smiled again, a genuine one. "That is one of his loving traits."

"Did he say why I wanted to see you?"

"He did, but that's not why I'm here. I'm not in the business of leaking information."

Eyeing him darkly, "Then, why did you come?"

Bricker took a breath. "I've been studying your candidate."

"Somehow, I'm not comforted by that."

"He's a very smart man, although he does his best to hide it, and he has a way of touching people with his passion. He's the right man, in the right place, at the right time, Ms. Doherty. He's a common man who's made good, but hasn't forgotten his roots. The people like that, and they feel that he wouldn't ask them to do anything he wouldn't do himself."

"He wouldn't."

"He's reconnecting government with the people. I admire his stand on a lot of issues."

"I'm sure he'd be flattered."

"And, that's why he can't run for president."

Ann-Marie knitted her forehead. "I don't get it."

"He's going to lead us straight into World War III. Millions of people will die if he becomes president."

The salesperson came around the corner. "Is everything all right back here?"

Bricker smiled. "We're just discussing how we should arrange the furniture. We'll find you if we have any questions."

The salesperson took the hint, and disappeared.

"Millions may die, anyway," Ann-Marie continued. "The reality is that we have another Hitler on our hands, and he's looking to legitimize his atrocities by putting up a façade and promising he won't do it again."

"You mean, the Union of African States."

"Precisely. We can't let him get away with it. The man sent _an army_ into Rome, for God's sake. Everyone seems to have forgotten about that. Those deaths have yet to be avenged." She was on a roll. "I haven't even mentioned Aviano."

"That wasn't his doing, supposedly, and, again supposedly, he's helping to bring that situation to a conclusion so that the perpetrators can be brought to justice."

"That's bull. Even if it wasn't his doing, the _perpetrators_ wouldn't have existed if it weren't for him. No matter how you slice it, _he_ should bear responsibility, and _he_ should suffer the consequences. _He_ needs to be stopped." Bricker paused, and Ann-Marie had the feeling that a long conversation with this man was impossible.

"I agree, but not the way your candidate is proposing," Bricker finally said. "Tohouri shouldn't be stopped militarily. It's not worth the loss of life. I'm talking about him, personally, and anybody around him capable of taking over when he's gone."

Ann-Marie stared into his eyes. Were they talking about what she thought they were talking about? "Him—personally. You mean assassination?"

Bricker just stared back.

Her mouth dry as sand, it dawned on her that just a few months ago her biggest concern in life was whether she should buy, or lease, a new Jaguar. Now, she was talking about political assassination with the director of the CIA. Was this for real? Couldn't this be construed as conspiracy? Didn't people get, like, _shot_ , for things like this? She felt her confidence slipping, knowing that she was completely out of her element.

"It used to be easy telling the good guys from the bad guys. The lines look a little blurred, right now."

"They're not blurred," Bricker responded. "They're obliterated. I don't think there are any good guys left."

"Why are you telling me all this?"

"I can't say any more than I've already said, and everything you're probably thinking right now, is true, only more so. You have no idea how far Tohouri's influence has spread." Bricker paused and came close, his voice little more than a whisper. "Your Pauli can never be president, Ms. Doherty. Trust me, and get him out of the race before it's too late. He's in over his head, and he's in some very serious danger. Are you following me here?"

Ann-Marie didn't know how to respond, but she didn't have to as she heard Roinell's voice.

"Where did the saleslady say they were?" Roinell said to Elaine as they came around the corner. "Ah, there she is. The saleslady said you were back here with a man. Is he here?"

Ann-Marie looked back behind her. Bricker was gone. "The saleslady must have me confused with someone else."

Chapter 43. The Celebration

It was one of those strange weeks in a typical Washington winter where it could be twenty degrees one day, seventy the next. Today, the city seemed rejuvenated, warm with the air of an approaching spring. If the city were a person, it would be a very confused one, Pauli mused, never knowing if it was a northerner, or a southerner, a phenomenon that went much further than just the weather. Drink in hand, he watched as a plane, tiny in the sky, outdistanced the high, racing clouds. Ann-Marie came out and stood next to him, her closeness an invitation for him to put his arm around her.

"What are you doing?"

"Just watching the clouds. I remember when I was a kid, I'd lie on a lounge chair in the back yard with my dad and we'd name the clouds according to their shapes." Pauli looked up. "There goes Jerry Giraffe."

"You mean that long one with the big puffy head? Looks like something entirely different to me." She nudged him and they laughed. "Congratulations," she said. "I didn't get a chance to say it earlier." Pauli clinked her glass, but the gesture seemed halfhearted. "What's the matter? You should be happy. Very few people get to be secretary of state."

_"Interim_ secretary of state," Pauli corrected.

"No one said _interim_."

"No, but that's what everyone is thinking. I'd like to be more than a babysitter."

"You will be."

"It'll be difficult. Nothing new will come from a lame duck administration. I think Congress just wanted to get those hearings over with."

"Can you blame them, especially after that hotel photo fiasco? They had no choice but to confirm you—and quickly. Otherwise it would have looked like the witch hunt that it was." Ann-Marie snuggled close. "They were running scared."

Pauli finished his Scotch. He'd acquired a taste for the stuff recently, and he debated another. What the hell. Ann-Marie was right. It wasn't every day one was confirmed as secretary of state. "Another wine?" he asked.

"Sure," she said. The sun was starting to set, and the air took on a quick chill. "Do you have a sweater I can use?"

"Upstairs in the bedroom, in the big armoire."

"I'll get it." She went upstairs and returned quickly. "That's quite the interesting piece of furniture," she commented.

"I just bought it. The antique dealer said it belonged to President Zachary Taylor, who brought it back from Mexico after his victory over Santa Anna at the Battle of Buena Vista." He draped the sweater over her shoulders as she stirred something on the stove. "What's this?"

"Cajun seafood gumbo." She held a spoon to his lips.

"Does it have an antidote?" he asked, tasting it.

She poked him in the ribs. "Get me my wine, Mister Secretary."

He gave her a quick nibble on the neck and moved off. He was happy that Ann-Marie was here, near him. It felt natural. Idiot, he said to himself as he poured the drinks. He should have wanted her this much twenty-five years ago. But it wasn't too late, was it? He looked at her as she cut into a loaf of crusty bread, and his heart thumped as he thought of her lips, her smell, the tiny hairs on her neck.

"What are you looking at?" she asked, a smile parting her lips.

He came over with the wine.

* * * * *

Smoky Injess moved his glass from the puddle that had formed beneath it. Nice night, he thought; warm. Good night for some _poontang_. The shiny Colt Mustang .380 was next to his drink, all polished up with two clips of hollow-points lying there as well. Two clips was overkill, but Fatboy had supplied the ammunition, and it was his party. He looked at the blocks of twenties. Fifty thousand didn't take up much room. He should have asked for more. He peeled a half-inch of Jacksons off one of the blocks. It would be enough for anything he wanted to do later, after he rested. He didn't know why exactly, but these jobs took a lot out of him. It was almost dark, and he looked at his Rolex. He had time.

He sipped his vodka and examined the picture of his intended victim. He looked at it with no feeling of bitterness or remorse, nothing really, no feeling either way. Sure, he knew who the guy was. He'd seen him on TV plenty of times, but he didn't know him, like, personally or anything, so it would be no big deal to pull the trigger. Wouldn't be a big deal anyway. He'd already been there, done that. This would be different in one respect, though. So far, all his jobs had been brothers from Northeast, and nobody gave a fuck about them. But this one—number eight—would make it onto every paper and TV station in the whole fuckin' country when it was over. He needed a plan. Fatboy—whoever the fuck he really was—would set him up in a New York minute. That much he knew. He'd told Fatboy Atlanta would be nice, so Atlanta was out, and he needed to pick another place to hang. He'd have to think on it. Smoky sat with his hand between his legs, thinking about white _poontang_ , and where to go when it was all over.

* * * * *

"More gumbo?" Ann-Marie asked as she uncorked another bottle of wine.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to get me drunk."

"Would _I_ do that?"

Pauli pushed his bowl away, and pulled her close. He tilted his head as she came to him, the smell of her perfume full in his nostrils. Their tongues dueled, and he found the hollow in her neck. "I don't want to lose you this time around," he whispered. She moaned something in return, and hot breath seared his ear.

"Let's make love," she whispered, and her hand dropped to his lap. "Oh, my," she said.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd been this excited. "Let's go upstairs."

"Wait. Let's take this." She grabbed the wine and two glasses, laughing as she handed them to him.

"What the hell is so funny?"

"This," she said gleefully as she led him up the stairs—not by his hands. "I'm really pleased that you're glad to see me."

Indeed, he was. The wine found the nightstand, and his hands found her. They fell on the bed, writhing until their clothes almost came off by themselves. Pauli kissed her cleavage, and felt the damp fabric of her panties. She let go with one thick breath after another, and then she stopped him.

"I have to go into the bathroom," she said, giving him rabbit kisses as she rolled over on top of him. "I want to make sure everything is just right. Okay?"

"Okay, fine, then.... Okay, good," said Pauli, not knowing exactly what she meant by that, but not caring either. Just a little hygiene, he figured while she padded toward the bathroom. He watched as she dropped her skirt and her brassiere along the way. His head swirled with the effects of the alcohol, but it was a nice, medium high, and he rolled over to pour some more wine. Taking a glass, he went to the windows and pulled the shades to make sure photos of him and Ann-Marie naked in the sack together wouldn't make it onto the Internet, or something. There were a lot of perverted sons-of-bitches out there.

* * * * *

"Should be around here somewhere," Smoky said to himself. He slowed the car and flipped the high beams, hoping to see a name on the white Arlington street signs. Fuckin' neighborhood was all squirrelly. It was an old one, and the numbers were hard to see. _N. Fillmore_ : he made his way up the street, looking to both sides. The cross streets were numbers. He took a left on N. Pershing, passed N. Garfield, and took a right on N. Jackson. _Fillmore, Garfield, Jackson_ ; weren't they all, like, presidents or something? Motherfuckers were probably responsible for the fact that the brothers in Northeast couldn't get a job nowadays. He didn't know who the fuck Pershing was. Suddenly, there it was: _N. Irving_. Smoky weaved his stolen Lincoln between the new BMWs and dented old station wagons lining both sides of the street. Neighborhood was a mix of new white-trash yuppie motherfuckers, and old white-trash redneck motherfuckers, evidently. He had a ways to go before the house numbers got near 206. Just as well. It would give him a chance to check things out. He found a spot under some draping trees, and turned the radio to WKYS, taking care to keep a close eye on the street to see who, or what, made its way around North Arlington at this time of night. Didn't guess there were a lot of brothers in the neighborhood.

* * * * *

He'd kissed every inch of her body, and from the sound of things it would be perfectly fine if he did it again. He went lower, blazing a trail of moist kisses and leaving her moaning in anticipation. He found that magic spot and stayed there until her breathing came like a train with no brakes. Finally, when she couldn't take it anymore, she stopped him.

"Ice," she said.

"What?"

"Ice. Will you get some ice for my drink?"

"Now?"

"Yes, please. Right now." She smiled sweetly.

Go figure. Pauli pulled a sheet off the bed and wrapped it around himself as he went to fetch... ice, of all things. Women. He returned, but the moment was lost, so to speak, seeing as he could no longer cut a diamond with his pecker.

"My turn," she said slyly, patting the bed.

He could tell by the glint in her eye that something was up, or would be again. He watched as she took some ice and rubbed it on her nipple, making it glisten. She repeated it on the other nipple, and it too perked nicely. She pushed him back, straddling him, and putting one stout nipple, then the other, into his mouth.

"You like?"

"My mother told me never to talk with my mouth full."

"My mother said the same thing." She popped the ice into her mouth.

He felt himself hardening, but the shock of cold on his hot skin momentarily stopped his ascension to glory. She seemed intent on taking care of that, however, as she swirled the ice back and forth, then forth and back until everything was appropriately cold.

"I read about this in _Cosmo_ ," she said, and then she went lower.

"Oh, God," Pauli moaned.

"He can't help you," she mumbled. "He's got other things to worry about."

"Then I guess I'm dead meat."

Ann-Marie looked down. "I don't think so."

* * * * *

Smoky checked the time, and decided to take a little walk. He made his way down N. Irving, careful to stay in the pools of darkness beneath the huge trees. Quietly, he climbed someone's front porch to see the numbers: 213. He was getting close. Smelled like they were cooking a steak inside. A dog barked in the distance, and Smoky hoped this guy didn't have some big, fuckin' guard dog, or something. He fingered the .380 inside his jacket.

He neared the corner, and crossed, and suddenly, he was there. The house was white—would it be any other color—and even in the darkness the numbers stood out: 206. It looked a little bigger than the others in the 'hood, and the lights were on so that he could see into the dining room. There were a couple of bottles on the table there, but nothing else. The guy must be in another room, Smoky figured, but he didn't see any other lights on. "Maybe he's out takin' a walk," he mumbled, when, abruptly, he heard voices up the street from where he'd just come. Quickly, he turned the corner and ducked behind one of the huge trees there. The couple blew past at a brisk pace, talking about who-the-fuck-knew-what, walking some kind of big, fuckin' longhaired designer dog. It was still too early. Too many of the motherfuckers still moving about. He moved from behind the tree, intending to go back to the Lincoln, when, from the house right behind number 206, he spotted a flash of flesh pass by a lighted window. He moved closer. Again, it flashed by, and much to his delight, it was a she, in panties and bra, and for a brief second, he could see that it was a fine specimen of white _poontang_ , of which he'd been thinking about all night. Suddenly, the shade came down, but he'd seen enough. Smoky squeezed his cock, and said, "This could be a good night."

* * * * *

Officer Glenn Hudson took a right off N. Pershing Drive and made his way between the haphazardly parked cars on N. Irving. He'd been cruising the street three or four times per shift lately, not because he liked it so much, but because there was now a declared presidential candidate living on it. Officer Hudson guessed that candidate Campo could live anywhere he wanted to, in a much bigger and much more impressive house, but N. Irving Street seemed to fit the man's personality, and he liked Campo for just living on it.

Officer Hudson recognized some of the cars. Some of the old ones didn't move for days. He flipped to his high beams as he approached a black Lincoln Town Car parked with its ass end a little too far into the roadway. D.C. plates, he noticed, probably someone visiting; ass end really was too far into the roadway. Officer Hudson flipped back to the low beams and began looking right as candidate Campo's house was just a few doors down. The cruiser barely cleared the Lincoln when Officer Hudson detected the distinct, pungent aroma. He quickly checked his rearview, but saw only darkness. He took a right, thinking he'd make another pass. He wasn't sure, but something told him that's where the wacky weed smell was coming from.

* * * * *

"You met with who?"

"It's, you met with _whom_?"

"Never mind that. You want to tell me about it?"

"Are you...? You are. You're upset."

"You're damned right, I'm upset." Then, instantly feeling sorry—he'd just made love to the woman, after all—Pauli said, "I'm sorry." Ann-Marie's naked body felt warm and soft next to his. "But you do understand, don't you?"

Ann-Marie propped herself on one elbow. "I'll listen."

He kissed her lightly, relieved that she returned the kiss. "It's just that this campaign feels like it's totally out of control."

"What's so out of control?"

"Everything. The way the media is hovering about. The way I picked a running mate...."

"You can't complain about that now."

"No. He's perfect, and I'm glad that you, Elaine, and Roinell sought him out." Ann-Marie held her tongue. "But this whole thing is turning into a circus."

She put an arm across his chest. "It's not out of control. The people love you, Pauli. You've got to ride the wave."

"They don't love me. They just don't have anyone else more popular at the moment. I'm a passing fancy, another Ross Perot."

Ann-Marie forced him to look at her. "You're hardly a Ross Perot. Everything you say makes sense, and you don't come off manufactured, which is how the other candidates come across—especially Kusczak."

"So how did you come to meet with Bricker?" Pauli asked, getting back to the subject at hand.

"He called me as a favor to Senator Wagner, who I asked to arrange it. I had reason to believe Bricker had information that could help our campaign."

"You mean information that could make a nice smear job on Kusczak."

"Don't be so sanctimonious, Pauli. We have to fight fire with fire."

"What did Bricker say?"

"About Kusczak? Nothing. However, he said plenty about you."

Now Pauli propped himself on one elbow. "Out with it," he demanded.

"He said you had no idea what you were doing." Pauli burst out laughing. "You think that's funny?"

"He's so right. I have a newfound respect for the director. What else did he say?"

She leaned in and touched his forehead with hers, while under the blanket she tried to rekindle his interest in something else. "Do we have to talk about this now?"

* * * * *

A black BMW 328i pulled up at the corner of 18th and M Streets, and a man too tall to be comfortable inside the relatively small car got out and walked to an ATM a few yards away. The car pulled into traffic and sped away unnoticed, one of hundreds of Washington BMWs. The man pulled what looked like a normal bank card, and a magnetic reader registered his identity, but just to make sure, a scanner analyzed his retina as he put his left eye about six inches from a small, unnoticeable panel used only for these special customers. His identity fully verified, the man strode casually through a glass door next to the machine, totally unnoticed by the busy urbanites passing that particular corner in the world's most powerful city.

Inside, he went to a door marked _Employees Only_ and unlocked it with the same card he'd used with the ATM. A small elevator carried him down two stories, opening into a single room. "He left a couple of hours ago," the tall man announced as if he were expected to do so, and he was. "We verified that the weapon was gone, and the signal from the Lincoln shows that it's parked about two blocks from ground zero."

"We need to get someone out there to confirm the outcome," another agent responded.

"On the way."

"Good. Anything else?"

"Supposedly, our man's next stop is Atlanta, although we've yet to verify that he's purchased a ticket for there, or any other destination. We're going to have to monitor him."

"Have we notified our people down there?"

"Yes, but it's probably a waste of time. Hard to tell where this scumbag will end up."

"What if he's apprehended?"

"If we can't take custody, he won't last the night."

"Sounds like you're on top of it."

* * * * *

Sitting inside the Lincoln, his eyes ablaze from the marijuana laced with a new synthetic drug named Code Red, Smoky spotted the police cruiser in his rearview mirror. "Fuck," he said, his thoughts about _poontang_ suddenly dashed. He knew the trash-ass motherfucker was gonna show up again. Motherfucker had already been by twice. He tightened his grip on the .380. Was the motherfucker gonna come outta the fuckin' car, or what? He decided not to wait to find out.

* * * * *

Officer Hudson wasn't surprised. The plate number belonged to a '98 Chrysler minivan. He looked up from his on-board computer, and said, "Shit!" The bastard was moving. He barked some words into his communicator and jumped from the cruiser. Damn it! Where the hell did he go? Quickly, he slid his nightstick into place, and instinctively drew his weapon. The darkness deep, Officer Hudson reached back into the car and turned on his headlights, bathing N. Irving Street in sharp beams. Officer Hudson turned his bubble gums on as well, marking the night for his backup. He'd never know if it arrived, or not.

* * * * *

"What was that?" Ann-Marie called between breaths. "It sounded like a gunshot."

Clearly, Pauli hadn't noticed anything, as he'd been busy for the last fifteen minutes. "Maybe you were having another orgasm."

She chuckled. "If mine made noise, it would be like a howitzer going off, not some little cap gun. Do you want to do it again?"

Pauli shook his head. "I don't think I can. Any more pleasure and I'm going to need a skin graft." They lay in the afterglow of blissful exhaustion, arms and legs intertwined. "Bricker's right," he said after a while. "I can never be president."

"We're back to that again." She touched his lips. "Let's talk about it tomorrow." She put her head on his chest, but her eyes didn't stay closed for long. "What was that?" she asked, sitting up in the bed.

"I don't know." Pauli looked toward the still open window. "But I heard it too this time—and it was close."

"It sounded like a scream."

No sooner had she gotten the words out when another cry sounded out. "I'll go down and make sure everything is all right. It's probably some tomcat somewhere, wailing after a female in heat. You know how us males are with females in heat."

"Just hurry up and come back. I'm cold."

Pauli took a moment to look through the bedroom window. Taking a good look at the house next-door—Jim and Kathy Kanon's house—he scouted out the area between the houses as he closed the window. Everything looked fine, but again, another nasty wail sounded right through the now closed window. Were Jim and Kathy having a fight? Quickly, he pulled on some sweats that he'd thrown on a bedroom chair, and, as if he were trying to sneak up on someone in his own house, he tiptoed down to the still-lighted dining room. The windows were open there also, and Pauli made his way to them quickly, turning lights out on the way. It was then, in the darkness, that he detected the blue and red flashes that swirled high in the trees, and it was then, with one ear to an open window, that he determined that the crying sound was no cat. Quickly, he took a mental inventory of what he knew about the Kanons. They seemed normal enough, childless professionals, as many Arlingtonians were; affectionate; had been living next door for about four years now. Jim was a lawyer/lobbyist for a large trade association, an outdoorsy kind of guy, who liked to hunt and fish; Kathy did something for some high tech firm. Pauli didn't remember what, exactly, but it looked like she did pretty well at it: dressed well, drove a nice car, always maintained a classy image, an image which didn't suffer from the fact that she was an attractive woman.

Pauli found a pair of running shoes that he'd left lying about, and he stepped into the night. The flashing police lights that were two, maybe three, short blocks away on N. Irving immediately caught his attention. It looked like something serious had happened. Maybe it was indeed a gunshot they'd heard. On N. Irving Street? Good God, he thought. He started toward the lights when another piercing wail sounded, and there was no doubt about where it came from. He turned, focusing on the open upstairs windows of the Kanons' house. He had to get a better look, and he moved swiftly back through his own home. His house had an elevated deck, about ten feet off the ground, forming a canopy over the car port underneath. The deck reached almost to the Kanons' property.

"What's going on?" Ann-Marie asked anxiously as he blew through the bedroom.

"I'm not sure; looks like there are a thousand police cars up the street."

"What are you doing?"

"Sshhh." Pauli carefully slid open the door to the elevated deck and dropped down, making his way across it. There it was. Kathy Kanon was on her knees, sobbing powerfully, while a tall, thin black man held a shiny pistol to her head. It wasn't hard to figure out what was happening, or about to happen. "Oh, God," he whispered, crawling back into his bedroom. "Get some clothes on," he growled lowly, "and get out of the house."

"Why? What's...?"

"Sshhh. My next-door neighbor is being raped. Go up the street and get one of the police officers there."

Ann-Marie didn't argue.

Pauli moved through the house and onto the sidewalk out front, making his way back to the Kanons' house, which was situated behind his, but had a N. 2nd Street address. On the way, he made a mental assessment of the situation. He knew Jim traveled a lot, and, sure enough, there was only one car in the driveway. Stealthily, he moved to the Kanons' front door, finding it ajar. The lights were off on the first floor, and he heard another muted cry. He ran around to the back door and crouched, looking up at the bedroom window above. He could only imagine what terror was pulsing through Kathy Kanon's body. Another muffled groan.

"Take it, bitch. Suck that black dick."

The words were followed by a slap, then a fierce whimper, and, repulsed by his own thoughts, Pauli visualized what was happening only a few feet above his head.

"Now, bitch! I ain't gonna say it again."

There was no time to waste. Pauli turned the doorknob and pushed the door open, forming a mental blueprint of the Kanons' house. They'd redone it recently, making the segmented first floor into a great room. The only other room downstairs was an office, which was, in essence, Jim's room, a leather-furnished hideaway, where he and Jim had watched the NCAA Final Four one Sunday, and had gotten half-snockered in the process. Pauli searched for some recollection of exactly what was in that room. Jim was a fisherman, and a hunter: ducks and geese mostly. The thoughts raced by, and Pauli tried to latch on to one that would move him toward some rational decision. The room also held Jim's gun cabinet.

"On the bed, bitch!"

"Fuck you!"

Kathy started to scream, but the sound barely got out before it was followed by a distinct half-slap, half-thud.

"Shut up, bitch! Now get on the bed and let me see some of that pretty pink _poontang_."

Pauli bolted through the door, hoping he wouldn't bash into anything. Then, he thought, what difference would it make? What harm would there be in scaring the rapist off? Unless, Pauli thought further, he got away and was never brought to justice for what he was doing up there, or, worse yet, if Kathy Kanon wound up dead. No, the better tactic would be to sneak up and... what? What would he do? Pauli moved as quickly as he could, debating whether or not he should turn on a light. Whoever he was, up there, the rapist was occupied, and light bulbs didn't make noise. Pauli found a lamp and switched it on, his gaze immediately coming to rest on Jim's gun cabinet. Jim was proud of his guns: hunting weapons they were, no handguns, lined up beneath the glass. He tried to think of where Jim kept the key. Think, think, think. He could almost feel the awfulness happening on the floor above. He pulled a stapler off the desk, ready to bash it through the glass, when he thought: the desk. That's where Jim kept the key. He remembered now. Jim had once told him if he ever wanted to go hunting, with him, or with anyone else, he, Pauli, was welcome to borrow one of the guns. Quickly, he opened the desk drawer, and found a key tied to a rawhide patch with _Remington_ burned into the leather. That was it. It only took a moment to unlock the cabinet, but, which gun? The seconds were ticking by, and every horrible second would be an eternity in Kathy Kanon's memory.

He yanked a drawer at the bottom of the cabinet, and there, curled neatly beside a sheathed hunting knife, was a hunter's ammo belt. He looked at the shells. Shotgun shells; 12-gauge, it looked like. The guns: which one was 12-gauge? Pauli's eyes moved down the row, his brain working as fast as it could to capture information: Remington 30/06, Mossberg 4/10 over/under, another Remington, this one a .22 automatic rifle; then, there it was, Jim's most prized possession, he remembered, an old, heavy, side-by-side goose gun, 12-gauge, full choke on one side, modified choke on the other. Jim had told him that during one proud moment, but none of that mattered now. All that mattered was that the old thing worked, and Pauli had absolutely no doubt that it would.

He pulled the heavy shotgun from its resting place, moving the thumb lever to the right and cracking it open. He quickly pulled two shells from the ammo belt and shoved them into the chamber, then closed the gun with an authoritative snap.

He ran through the great room, not caring if he made noise now, and then stopped, cursing himself for his recklessness. As horrible as it was, Kathy would have to endure whatever was happening to her for another few seconds and remain alive, as opposed to taking a bullet for his lack of situational discipline. Situational discipline: the term, and its meaning, was taught to him by Sergeant Menjivar after their little tiff in the sand at Fort Jackson, but, just as with his other rambling thoughts, there was no need to be reminded of that now.

The stairs were carpeted, and he took them two at a time. Poking only his head past the last step, he peered down the hallway to where he thought the Kanons' bedroom was located. The milliseconds passed like hours now, and the anger inside him grew until it became difficult to think. Careful, he thought, there was a fine line between courage and stupidity.

Light was coming from under the door, and he could hear Kathy's stunted cries while the rapist mumbled obscenities. Pauli inched his way to the door.

"Lemme see it," the rapist called.

Something crashed against the wall. "You're gonna have to kill me first!" Kathy Kanon screamed, but she was muffled quickly.

"Might just do that, bitch, but I'm gonna fuck you first. Already done one 'a you white-trash ass motherfuckers tonight, and I'm gonna get me the one next door. Just usin' you to make a pussy sandwich."

Pauli tried to make sense of the words. _But I'm gonna fuck you first_. It hadn't happened yet, at least not that part of it. "Goddamn it," he cursed, and his anger won out over his fear. He shouldered the shotgun, and suddenly, violently, pushed the barrel into the door, sending it swinging into the wall. He pounced into the room, intent on finding his target, prepared to fire if shots came his way. His cheek glued to the stock, he felt the checked pistol grip beneath his fingers as he guided the shotgun like a double-barreled divining rod in search of death.

In the split second it took to move past the door, he absorbed the scene. Kathy Kanon was on the bed, trying to get away, her face and shoulders red with welts. She was still wearing a pair of skimpy panties, and Pauli surmised quickly that perhaps she hadn't been penetrated. The rapist, long and thin, was about to climb the bed, or, more precisely, her. One hand was holding a small automatic pistol, the other his penis, which protruded mightily from his pants. It only took another split second for Pauli to realize he couldn't fire, for the arrangement of the bodies before him was such that Kathy would be hit if he pulled the trigger. Instead, with the shotgun tight to his shoulder, he rammed the barrel into the rapist's shoulder blade, knocking him to the floor. Kathy immediately crawled off the bed.

"Shoot him!" she screamed. Those were her last words as she collapsed into a fetal position, sobbing hysterically.

"Move, and I'll blow you to pieces," Pauli screamed.

The words didn't seem to register, as the rapist held his gun aloft with one hand, and calmly tucked himself into his pants with the other. He looked up.

_"The Negro would force his oppressor to commit his brutality openly_ ," said Smoky.

Pauli blinked to clear his vision, and moved closer, his finger tight on the trigger. The rapist was quoting Martin Luther King? He kept his eye on the shiny automatic. "Kathy, can you call 9-1-1?"

"Shoot... him," she sobbed, not moving.

That answered that. "Drop the gun!" Pauli ordered, taking a step back so that the barrel wasn't within the rapist's reach.

Smoky looked up and smiled, his eyes blazing with the effects of the various substances he'd ingested. " _Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I am not concerned about that now_."

Again with the Reverend King. Pauli took another step back, but unexpectedly the rapist moved toward him on his knees. "Stay where you are!" Pauli yelled, but it was no use. He tightened his grip. The eyes. Pauli had seen those eyes before: murderous eyes, pools of blazing red. "Hands up!" Pauli warned, but again it was no use. He bumped up against the door, his fingertips white with pressure. His eyes darted to the rapist's free hand, which was now fully inserted into his front pocket.

"Shoot him," Kathy blubbered from the other side of the bed.

The hand began coming out of the pocket, and Pauli tightened his stance, prepared to shoot if it came out with another weapon. Instead, it came out with a fistful of money. Where the hell was Ann-Marie?

_"I just want to do God's will_ ," Smoky slurred as he held the money out toward Pauli. " _He's allowed me to go up to the mountain_ .... _And I've looked over and I've seen the Promised Land_." Smoky kissed the money, and suddenly, curiously, he focused. "You's him, ain'tchu?"

Pauli backed up, but had nowhere to go. "Him who?"

"You're one more senseless death, motherfucker."

Clearly, he'd stopped quoting the Reverend King. Pauli held steady as Smoky inched toward him. The words registered: _one more senseless death_.

"I'm goin' to the Promised Land," said Smoky, and he threw the money into the air.

Pauli kept his eye on the pistol, not falling for the distraction.

Smoky inched forward, only a couple of feet away now, hands aloft, one hand still holding a single twenty-dollar bill.

This man was crazy. "Drop the gun... now," Pauli said calmly. It seemed clear, now, that one of them was going to die, and Pauli determined soberly that it shouldn't be him.

Smoky moved closer, until he was face-to-face with the shotgun. " _Oppressed people cannot remain oppressed forever_ —trash ass motherfucker. _Human salvation lies in the hands of the creatively maladjusted_."

"I don't think this is what the Reverend King had in mind when he said that," Pauli responded, surprised that the man could even pronounce the words.

Smoky's eyes brightened. "What would you know about it? You's white. You got it all. You's always had it all."

Pauli snickered. "Drop the gun," he commanded. "This is the last time I'm gonna say it."

"Or what?" Smoky snarled. "You gonna kill me ... just like you killed my brothers in Africa?" Ever so slowly, Smoky moved his left hand.

Pauli's eyes darted.

"I'll betcha this twen'y you ain't got the guts."

Pauli's finger wrapped the trigger.

"You ain't nothin' but a nigger-killer, trash motherfucker. His war will be a war of liberation. He was right to send me to kill you."

_"War is a poor chisel to carve out tomorrows_ ," Pauli said, surprised to find himself returning quotes of the Reverend King. Again, the rapist's words hit home: _He was right to send me to kill you_. "Who sent you?" he demanded.

"The savior of the world sent me to kill you, motherfucker."

The rapist looked up, and Pauli came back to the eyes. They were the camp master's eyes, and the memory of swinging machetes and rolling heads flashed like an odd film frame in his head. He recalled the smell of blood, and the inside of his nose tickled. The hatred of the world was in those eyes, just as the hatred of the world was in the eyes of the camp master. Pauli had seen it all in his dreams, and he felt as if he'd been there; and he had been there, as well as other places throughout history. His soul was present at Treblinka, and on the streets of Saigon. His soul, his eyes, had been present in the jungles of the Congo, where death was liberation, a way out, the prospect of hell more appealing than the alternative of life on Earth.

"And I know wha'chu thinkin', motherfucker." Pauli focused. "You thinkin': I need to get him before he gets me."

"Who sent you?" Pauli asked again.

"God sent me, motherfucker. And if you kill me, you kill God."

"So be it," said Pauli.

Smoky moved closer. "Go ahead, motherfucker. I'll make it easy for you. I'll make it so you can't miss." Unbelievably, still holding the shiny pistol aloft, Smoky moved in and put his mouth over the end of the barrel.

"Get back," Pauli commanded, to no avail. The eyes: they were the eyes of the camp master; they were the eyes of death, burning red with the fires of Hell. Pauli's eyes darted. The gun moved. Pauli pulled the trigger.

* * * * *

Twenty yards from the Kanons' house, Ann-Marie and the officer who'd finally consented to accompany her, heard the blast.

"Shots fired!" the officer called into his communicator. "We may have found our shooter."

From two blocks away, two police cars screeched toward them. "Inside," the officer said as he pulled his weapon. "Wasn't no pea shooter, either."

The three officers rushed into the house. "Police!" they called, but there was no need to yell. Clearly in shock, cut, bruised, and almost naked, Kathy Kanon stumbled down the stairs.

"Up there," she said weakly, while one of the officers put his arms around her.

"What's the situation?" he asked urgently, but she just slumped into his arms.

Guns drawn, the other officers bolted up the stairs. Pauli turned when the door banged into him.

"Freeze!" the officers screamed when they spotted the shotgun. "On the floor, now!" One of the officers twisted Pauli's arms behind him and cuffed him immediately. "Jesus Christ," he said as he surveyed the scene.

Ann-Marie rushed into the room and stopped in her tracks, turning away from the headless body and pieces of brain that adorned the far wall. Her eyes met Pauli's.

Pauli looked down, seeing that the upper half of his body was spattered with blood. "Bricker was right," he said. "I can never be president."

"Probably not now," said Ann-Marie.

Chapter 44. Out of Many, One

They were impervious. Heat, as hot as the heat from any sun, or cold, as cold as that from beyond the furthest reaches of the furthest heavens, didn't affect them. The feeling of such would be a human thing, a sense they had possessed once, for they had been human. They had passed beyond that now, to the next level of spatiotemporal existence, where feelings and thoughts not previously understood, were supposed to be part of a rational process. In reality, none of them understood what was happening.

The dollar bill that Klinger had left behind sat conspicuously at the edge of the untable, surrounded by a swishing, swirling, mini-aurora while it perused each move. It opened wide with surprise at some, squinting with disapproval at others. The unplayers had no choice but to tolerate its scrutiny, and the unboard had become a neat arrangement of armies while they suffered under the watchful _all-seeing eye of God_. As a result, the unGame took a distinct turn. The unplayers retreated, unbelievably, each to his dominant continent, each garnering only those extra armies his continent would bring at the beginning of each turn. Each of them cleaned up any competing armies that lingered on their turfs. Oddly, each bore a sense they hadn't felt since their days on Earth, but which seemed to blanket them in the presence of the eye. It was guilt, and they became reluctant to cross boundaries beyond their own continent, for they knew what that meant down where they'd come from. Perhaps they weren't as impervious as it seemed.

"Is there any way to turn that off?" Ready Teddy asked, nodding toward the shifting eyeball on the dollar bill. "That thing gives me the heebie-jeebies."

"I guess we could turn it over," said Chrome Dome.

"You do it."

"Uh-uh. I ain't touchin' it. You do it."

"No way. I ain't touchin' it." Ready Teddy looked over at Kid Zach. "Hey Kid, how 'bout you?"

The Kid shrugged. "How about this?" He stood and plucked a passing Trulchan asteroid from its course. No bigger than a football, he had some trouble carrying it to the untable.

Curiously, Ulysses asked, "What's that?"

"Stand back," The Kid warned. "This is so dense that not even light can escape its gravity." With some struggle, he placed the asteroid directly onto the dollar bill. "Good luck seeing through that," he said smartly.

"Let's get back to what we're here for," Abe-The-Hat called out. No one objected. It was time for one of them to make a move, for all the continents were dominated, and all the borders were fortified. "Whose turn is it?"

"Teddy's," said Chrome Dome.

Ready Teddy reviewed the unboard. The continents were covered with infantry, cavalry, and artillery, each territory apparently as strong as the next. "The Earth is full of empires," he said in an uncharacteristic, reflective moment. "That could be very good, or, it could be very bad." Somberly, he glanced at the dark area where the tiny Trulchan asteroid should have been visible, but the light rays around it were being condensed into its matter. "The eye.... It can still see me," he said. "I can feel it."

Abe reached over and covered the asteroid with one huge unhand. "There were plenty of times when I felt just like you're feeling right now. It seemed as if there was no way out. Looking back on it, I think that bullet in the head would have been a relief had it come sooner."

Abe's unhand enabled Ready Teddy to redirect his uneyes, his line of sight no longer being sucked into the asteroid. When he did, they came up moist, loaded with gloom and foreboding. "No matter what I do, millions will die down there."

Abe nodded, and donned his stovepipe hat. "Maybe billions. I've never seen the world so polarized. It'll be a nasty fight."

Ulysses stubbed out his stogie, and buttoned his tunic. "Hope to hell something comes of it."

Chrome Dome strapped a helmet to his unchin. "Might as well get on with it. The longer we wait up here, the worse it'll get down there when it finally breaks out."

As usual, Kid Zach had barely said a word, but there was no doubt he was taking it all in. Wordlessly, he stood and straightened the military sash slung across his unchest, pulling his gold-handled sword from its place on his unhip. With one lightning quick slash, the sword crashed into the asteroid with the force of a million nuclear thermoblasts, shattering it into an exploding cloud of light-sucking asteroid dust.

"Let the eye see," The Kid proclaimed. "Let the Big Guy, and everyone, see what this is doing to mankind. The eye blinked a couple of times, and settled into a freezing stare. "Get on with it," The Kid commanded, his uneyes never leaving the eye. "E pluribus unum."

"E pluribus unum?" Ready Teddy questioned.

"Out of many, one," said. "Those were the Big Guy's own words."

"Right," said Chrome Dome. "E pluribus unum."

"E pluribus unum," Ulysses repeated.

Ready Teddy looked each of the unplayers in the uneye, each of them looking him back. His gaze shifted to the _all-seeing eye of God_ , and it also was looking back, quivering as if fearful of something within its purview. Unexpectedly, it shifted its gaze to the unboard, moving from one continent to the next. The gaze came to rest on Ready Teddy's gray armies in North America.

Ready Teddy gathered the armies due him at the beginning of his turn—eight of them—and, with due care, he placed each strategically within the territories of North America, until he held the last army, his last infantry piece, in his unhand. This last piece, this last _army_ , Ready Teddy placed at the very edge of the continent, away from the rest of his armies. With the placement of this solitary piece, he adjusted his spectacles, tightened his bowtie, and said with uncharacteristic humbleness, "E pluribus unum—out of many, one. I'd like to attack now."

The _all-seeing eye of God_ closed itself as if in prayer.

Chapter 45. Duty Calls

Kusczak smiled as he reread the headline: _New Secretary of State Jailed in Shooting Death_. Finally, the little son of a bitch was out of the way, possibly forever. Kusczak visualized himself at the upcoming convention, riding to the podium like John Wayne to give his acceptance speech for his party's presidential nomination. He picked up one of three phones on his desk and placed a call into the bowels of the Pentagon. There was no need for a greeting.

"There's been a change," he began. "Move to full operational on GANGLAND."

There was a momentary silence on the other end of the line. Finally, "Code sequence, please, sir."

"Oscar, Kilo, Victor, Papa. Mary had a little lamb.... Her fleece was white as snow." Kusczak's voiceprint had just been taken. Again, momentary silence filled the receiver. "Sir, we'll need corroborating verification."

He'd forgotten about that. Everything was so fucking complicated. The measure had been instituted only recently, a move to guard against high-level treason, or someone going whacko. "You'll have it shortly," Kusczak said gruffly. He hung up, thinking: no sense in getting upset. The man was just doing his job. The _corroborating verification_ for such an order had to come from one of two people: the secretary of defense, or the president, the only two people who outranked him in the military food chain. Yeah, well, there'd be no choice for either of them now, and it was easier to beg forgiveness than ask permission. Quickly, he called an aide and told him to track down the chief of staff. It would be nice if the forgiveness he would soon ask for was prearranged. The phone rang; the chief of staff had been found.

"Hello...." Kusczak started to say _Harold_ , knowing the familiarity aggravated the chief to no end, but he thought better of it. He needed the little wimp right now. "... sir. I've just issued an order for full deployment on GANGLAND, and I need to inform the president."

"You did what?" the chief bellowed. "I don't recall...."

"It's done. I'll need corroborating verification from the president, or the secretary of defense. Your call."

"The president's policy is to negotiate for the release of Aviano peacefully. We're almost there. With a little help from Tohouri's camp—"

"To hell with Tohouri's camp. There are new developments, and I've already given the order to mobilize. Now, you can be with me on this and have the president meet with me immediately, or I'll show up at your doorstep with a reporter. You need to consider this carefully... Harold." Kusczak paused. "There'll be a new administration in town before long, and I'm sure a favor like this will be remembered at the appropriate time."

That did it. "Be here as soon as you can," the chief ordered. "I'll clear the president's agenda."

* * * * *

The president whirled angrily. "You had no right."

"It was my duty!"

"Your duty is to follow orders! I'm the commander in chief here, in case you've forgotten. When you become president, you can do it your way. Until then, you'll do as I say. Is that clear, Admiral?"

"What about our revenge!"

The president's eyes narrowed. He looked around slowly, seemingly noting the presence of the chief of staff, the secretary of defense, and the national security advisor for the first time. "Clear the room, gentlemen," he ordered, offering no further explanation. He took a seat behind the great oak desk of the Oval Office, and waited for a blanket of silence to settle before he spoke. "You are a conniving son of a bitch, Admiral."

Seething, Kusczak stepped to the front of the desk, towering over the seated president. He was about to speak when the president stood, going eye-to-eye with him and fisting his hands on the desk.

"When I agreed to a diplomatic solution to the Aviano situation, I did it because I didn't have the guts to lead this country, and the world, to the brink of World War III. I regret that decision, Admiral, and now, with only months left in my term, I realize that Undersecretary of State Campo was right: a diplomatic solution means we'd have to make a deal with a murderer."

Kusczak took a step back. He'd never seen the president like this. "We've made deals with murderers before," he said sternly, adding, "when it was to our advantage."

"Is there anything you won't do for a payoff?" the president blasted.

"Are you insinuating—"

"Don't take me for a fool! You can play holier-than-thou if you like, but you're as transparent as a glass of water. The only reason you're pushing the button on GANGLAND is to make yourself look good before the convention. You can already hear the words, can't you: _man of action, military genius, bold decision maker_."

"What's your point, Mister President?"

"My point, _Admiral_ , is that you walk in here with a bow, and you expect me to be the fiddle. I'm still the president, and I'll be the one that makes the call on GANGLAND, not you."

Kusczak's face flushed red. "I've already given the order to mobilize."

"And you'll give another order for our forces to sit on red alert until I personally give the corroborating order."

"So you can take the credit," Kusczak mumbled smartly.

The president whirled furiously. "You arrogant scoundrel! Aviano was an ultimate act of terrorism, and you're trying to use it for political advantage. We swallowed the notion that it was a runaway _faction_ of Tohouri's military that took the base; well, faction, my ass. The ultimate responsibility still traces back to him. Now, however, anything he does will make him look good. Whether he kills off his own _faction_ and relinquishes control of the base back to us, or whether he does nothing and lets us go forward with GANGLAND after we committed to a diplomatic solution, either way we've cleansed his image. He becomes the pretty boy, and we become the double-crossing imperialists."

Kusczak waited, seeing by the president's knitted brow that there was more on his mind.

"Campo was right," the president said again. "Tohouri is more cunning than any of us think."

"He's not that cunning," Kusczak blurted. "He's only using Aviano as a bargaining chip to get our backing for the formation of the Union of African States. By freeing Aviano, he thinks he'll get our support. Campo has no idea what's going on."

The president turned, his features frozen. "How do you know that?"

Momentarily paralyzed by his own words, Kusczak realized he'd said too much. He scrambled to redirect the president's focus. "When should I expect the corroborating order, Mister President?"

"How are you so sure about Tohouri's motives?" the president repeated. "Don't make me ask you again."

The seconds passed; a nervous twitch tugged at Kusczak's temple. Slowly, the president walked toward him, stopping only when they could smell each other's breath.

"Care for a drink, Admiral?" The president walked to an antique credenza and pulled a fresh bottle of Wild Turkey. He poured a healthy three fingers for each of them, glancing over his shoulder as if to keep Kusczak in sight. Handing Kusczak the drink, he said, "I'm willing to go along with your plan, Admiral. I'll break my oath of peace to the American people, and I'll double-cross Tohouri—which is what it amounts to—for one reason."

"Whatever it is, I'm sure it's a good one, Mister President." Kusczak sighed, thinking he'd somehow managed to convince the president to change his mind on GANGLAND.

"I'm only going forward in order to set the next president's agenda on the subject of Olu Tohouri." Again, the president's eyes burned into Kusczak's.

Kusczak waved his glass magnanimously. "I can handle it, sir."

"I didn't mean you," the president replied as he sipped his drink. "I'm backing Campo."

Kusczak bought himself a moment, and angrily shot back the rest of the bourbon. "I see. Are we finished, _Mister_ President?"

"Sit down," the president ordered. "I'll let you know when we're finished."

The silence was thunderous. Drink in hand, the president circled Kusczak like a wolf stalking prey. "It was me who strong-armed Campo's confirmation as secretary of state. I did it for a reason."

Kusczak blinked, not taking the revelation as bait. The president passed behind him.

"Well, now that you ask," the president added sarcastically, "I did it because I realized what I'd done to this country. We've become weak, Admiral, to the point where we're incapable of a sustained military effort. Oh, we still have enough money and technology to have impressive war toys, but even that aspect of our dominance is being challenged. When I leave this office, I will have left behind a legacy of eight years of do-nothing. If there were a big former president's club somewhere, my application would be a laugh. I allowed Tohouri to acquire his stranglehold in Africa. I allowed the attack on the Vatican. I allowed the death and destruction at Aviano. And I can't allow it any longer. Men like Tohouri have to be stopped."

The president stopped pacing. "Do you know _why_ I wanted Campo as my secretary of state, Admiral?"

Again, Kusczak failed to nibble.

"Because he doesn't know any better," the president answered for him. "He has few, if any, negotiating skills, he's stubborn as a mule, and he has the perfect typewriter face."

Kusczak looked up. "Typewriter face, sir?"

"Everything he's thinking is written all over it. He'd make a terrible poker player."

"And that's why you want him as secretary of state?"

"Precisely. There's no hidden agenda with him, no ulterior motive. It's: _you fuck with me, and I'm gonna fuck with you_. That's what we need right now, Admiral. Some say we brought him along too fast—and that's true. Others say that he doesn't have the necessary political savvy for this sort of thing—God knows that's true. And, there are still others who say he's not developed the capacity for executive oversight. I don't know if that's true or not, but I don't care. I want him at the negotiating table, and I don't care if he negotiates a goddamn thing. All I want is for him to deliver the message—to NATO, to the Russians, to the South American allies, to the Chinese—and to Tohouri." The president paused. "You see, Admiral, it's over."

"What's over, sir?"

"All the posturing, all the spinning. It's time to get rid of this maniacal bastard, or he'll split the world apart. It'll be far worse for all of us if we allow Tohouri to legitimize terrorism by forming the Union of African States. He has to be stopped now, and that's exactly what I intend to do."

Kusczak smirked and wagged his head in obvious contempt. "It's May," he said. "The election is in November. There isn't enough time."

"You're right," the president snapped. "However, there isn't enough time for you either. As I said, I intend to set the next president's agenda regarding Olu Tohouri, and I'm going to do everything I can to make sure you're not the next president."

"Yeah, well, your boy won't be either," Kusczak said smugly. "I'm sure you've read the paper."

"I know all about the incident, and I already have Director Bricker working with the Director of the FBI to find out exactly what happened." Circling again, the president stopped at Kusczak's back and whispered in his ear. "You can be sure that one of them will get to the bottom of it—the very bottom of it," he added as if there was more to tell. "In the meantime, perhaps the best place for our new secretary of state to be is right where he is now—under guard. I plan on making sure we know how many cockroaches go in and out of his jail cell."

Kusczak moved to stand. "Are we finished, sir?"

The president gave Kusczak a violent shove back into the chair. "I'll let you know when we're done—or, more specifically, Admiral, when you're done." The words were loaded. "You know Director Bricker, don't you, Admiral? Thorough man, don't you think?"

"I suppose so."

"Would you believe anything he told you?"

Kusczak considered the question carefully. "I suppose so. Where are you going with this, Mister President?"

The president began circling again. "I think you're right, Admiral. I tend to believe what Director Bricker tells me, as well. More to the point, I tend to believe what Director Bricker shows me." Kusczak's forehead crinkled. "He's had a lot to show me lately."

Kusczak stood suddenly. "I don't like being goaded, Mister President."

"And I don't like being manipulated!" The president faced off with Kusczak for the third time. "I will give the corroborating order on GANGLAND tomorrow, sometime after which I will call a joint session of Congress to request a declaration of war against Tohouri for the military invasion of Aviano. After that, you will step down as Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff for personal reasons." The president grabbed Kusczak by the arm. "Is there anything you don't understand about what I've just said, Admiral?"

Teeth gritted, "All perfectly clear," Kusczak snarled.

"Good. Let me show you the door."

* * * * *

The Black Ghost looked at the classified security envelope and methodically lit a cigarette before deciding whether he should carry the message to Tohouri, or just kill the cryptographer who'd decoded it and sit on the information pending his own verification. That could take some time however, and he didn't know how many copies, or versions, of the message had been sent, or to whom. It would be just like that idiot Kusczak to suddenly get brilliant and be redundant, and this wasn't the time to underestimate him. If what he'd just read was true, and if Tohouri somehow discovered the information had been kept from him.... Well, the consequences were obvious. No, it would be best to carry it forward and position himself at Tohouri's side. The beast couldn't have but months left at the rate he was deteriorating. If it took too long, the Black Ghost mused, there would be other ways to accelerate his own ascension to the office. He looked at his watch. It was 2:20 a.m., about seven hours ahead of Washington. He might as well get it over with.

The ride to the Royal Palace was pleasant, the air dry as it blew off the mountains of northern Chad. This palace was one of many that dotted the continent, each chosen according to the particular paranoia or infatuation of the moment. At the time this one was erected, Tohouri had become enamored with the _Wizard of Oz_ , envisioning himself as such after seeing the movie for the first time. So, he decided to build his own Emerald City, resplendent with its own yellow brick road, which meandered forth from the palace into the desolate scrubland of central Africa.

Tohouri was awake, naked from the waist up, waiting in a ridiculously gilded Louis XIV throne chair. The body odor from his now frail form inundated the room, and it was obvious that his time was limited. The man was but a shadow of his former self. Advanced syphilis, the Black Ghost figured, or perhaps AIDS. If the world only knew....

"I have urgent news, Supreme Commander." Tohouri turned, his eyes dull and hollow. "The Americans are going to launch a military invasion to take back Aviano."

"Isn't that what we expected," Tohouri asked.

"Not as expected," the Black Ghost countered. "The admiral is out. His own president has made this decision, along with the decision to ask for a declaration of war from his congress."

The dullness in Tohouri's eyes brightened as comprehension registered. "The admiral is no longer of use to us, I assume."

"None, Supreme Commander. There will be no American endorsement for the formation of the Union of African States."

Tohouri resumed his kingly pose. "You are aware of what needs to be done," he croaked. "The time has come."

The Black Ghost nodded. The plan had been discussed before, and he agreed: the time had come—to rain chaos on the United States of America.

Chapter 46. Mister Director

"I told you," Pauli said as he stared at the face on the other side of the Plexiglas. "I don't want to talk to anyone I don't know." He looked around to see any if anyone was watching. Somehow, pictures of him in his jail cell had gotten on every tattle-rag newspaper in the country.

Elaine fired back with some attitude of her own. "He's your lawyer."

"What lawyer? I don't recall hiring a—"

"Pauli, don't be an ass. He's just—" Elaine cut herself short when the stranger held up his hand.

"Perhaps it would be best if we were alone for a while," the stranger said.

Pauli didn't even see the man's lips move.

Elaine nodded grudgingly. "Don't be an ass!" she repeated, firing a parting salvo. "I'll be outside with Ann-Marie and Roinell."

"Who the hell are you?"

"Look close, Mister Secretary. It'll come to you."

Pauli did just that: small, beady eyes; thin, dry lips under a mustache that didn't match the reddish hair; skin, just this side of healthy-looking. "Shazzam," he said. "What are you doing here?"

Bricker held a finger to his lips. "Walls have ears," he whispered.

"So do phones." Pauli pointed at his handset. "What's with the disguise?"

"Never mind that. I need to ask you some questions about what happened."

Bricker waited patiently while Pauli played psychological dodgeball for a while. "Listen, I know you've had a rough time of it," said Bricker. "Just let me know when you're done being a shithead... Mister Secretary."

"I'm entitled."

"Maybe you are, but we need to get on with this." Pauli crossed his arms. "The charges won't stick," Bricker went on, "but there are a lot of political leeches who are trying to suck some life from this."

"It goes way beyond that. Someone wants me dead, and that someone is still out there. I wouldn't be a bit surprised if someone in your slimy organization was behind this whole thing."

"That could very well be."

Pauli stabbed the air with a fierce glare. "And you're here to do what? Kiss and make up?"

"I'm here to get you out."

"Sure you are."

Subtly, Bricker adjusted his wig. "They never found the Colt."

"What Colt?"

"The gun—it was a Colt automatic, .380-caliber, the gun you say was there when you...." Bricker made a motion with his thumb and forefinger.

"It _was_ there. Did anyone think of asking Kathy Kanon?"

"Don't worry, she verified your story."

"It's not a _story_. It's fact." Then, it registered. "How do you know what kind of gun it was?" Bricker didn't respond. "I see." Pauli was not doing well on attitude control. "What, are you here to finish the job yourself since your hired hand fucked it up?"

"Please, keep your voice down."

"Fuck you."

"Don't be so naive to think you're safe here. They can get to you anywhere."

"They? Why don't I save _them_ the trouble and just make an appointment."

Bricker folded his hands. "Assassinating the newly appointed secretary of state is not on our agenda, nor has it been."

"Then whose agenda is it on!"

Bricker did a quick scan of the surroundings. "We can't talk about it here. I'm going to leave now, and as soon as I'm gone I want you to get up as if everything were normal as pie, then casually walk past that guard over there...." Bricker motioned with his eyes. "And walk right out that door. That hallway will lead directly outside. You'll see a black Buick."

"Just like that." Bricker nodded. "What if I don't want—"

"Mister Secretary, it doesn't matter what you want. This goes deeper than you can possibly imagine, and there are only a handful of people on the planet who are in a position to affect the outcome of this chapter in history. Fortunately, or unfortunately—and believe me, it's hard to tell the difference—you're one of those people. Now, do what I tell you. I'll answer all your questions later over a good steak." Bricker hung up his handset.

* * * * *

"How's your steak?"

"Better than jail food."

"Tell me what you know about the shooting."

Pauli hesitated, trying to gauge Bricker's sincerity. "The guy...." He made the same motion with his thumb and forefinger Bricker had made earlier in the day. "He came there specifically for me. I think the rape was coincidental."

"It was," said Bricker.

Pauli felt his anger start to churn again. "Let's stop screwing around. Someone tried to have me killed, and I have a feeling you know who it was, and why."

"Maybe," Bricker responded. "But, it's not what you're intent on believing. It came from outside our government. It wasn't the Company."

Pauli leaned back in his chair. "Are you insinuating another _government_ did this?"

"We would have used better help. The shooter wasn't a pro."

"That's comforting."

"That's the truth. It was supposed to look like a robbery gone bad—which it would have, and after that, my guess is that no one would have ever set eyes on the shooter again. Anyone else would have figured that out real quick."

Pausing, Pauli said, "He said God sent him to kill me."

Bricker chuckled. "It was God, all right. At least he thinks he is."

Pauli shook his head. "Who does?"

"Olu Tohouri."

Suddenly chilled, Pauli put down his knife and fork. "Olu Tohouri sent an assassin after me? That makes no sense."

Bricker pushed his plate away. "Does it make sense that the director of the CIA is personally involved in this?"

Good point. "Why are you?"

"I can't trust anyone else to set this up."

"Set what up?"

Bricker's face went rigid. "Think about it."

Pauli found himself sitting there with his mouth open. Surely, this was all a nightmare, and he'd wake up any second now. He looked around curiously. There were no obvious signs of surveillance, but his skin grew clammy. "Are you talking about what I think you're talking about?"

"I might need your help," said Bricker. "For the good of the country."

The steak was a lead weight in his stomach. "Does anyone else know we're here?"

"As far as anyone is concerned, you're under twenty-four hour guard, and asleep in your cell."

"But...."

"You have a double, Mister Secretary, and he's in your bunk right now—with one eye open, no doubt."

"That's not what I meant."

Bricker took his meaning. "The reality is there aren't many people we can trust. The threat has spread that far."

Pauli fingered his silverware, and it tinkled tunelessly. "You're right, Mister Director, the secretary of state has no idea what's going on. You're gonna have to spell it out."

* * * * *

Pauli listened as the car's noise reflected off the passing guardrails. Musing, it was sort of like Bricker's job, he thought: hearing things, trying to see them in the darkness. After what he'd just heard, he knew that Director Bricker had been looking into the darkness for a long, long time. "Where are we going now?"

"Back to the detention center."

That was a prospect that sounded less comforting with every tick of the clock. It was all too fantastic. What Kusczak had done was out and out treason, but Pauli had to agree: revealing Kusczak's transgressions now would cause the administration too much distraction at a time when unity of purpose was of the utmost importance. He thought about what would have happened had Kusczak won the election. Kusczak would have flaunted his kingly demeanor before the American people, while privately he'd have groveled, by choice or otherwise, at Tohouri's feet. His endorsement of the Union of African States would have legitimized Tohouri's barbaric acts of terrorism, which eventually would have been covered up, forgotten, or recharacterized for the history books as noble struggles aimed at unification of a barbaric continent. And, with the president of the United States in his pocket, who knows what Tohouri could have gone on to do? "What's going to happen to Kusczak?"

"I suppose maybe one day after his, quote, retirement, he'll go fishing and drown in a boating accident." Bricker's voice carried no more emotion than if he were ordering a pizza. "It won't be our doing," he added, "but someone is going to make sure Kusczak will never have the chance to tell anyone what he knows."

Despite Bricker's denial, Pauli realized, the cold reality was that, in many ways, the United States was just as ruthless as any other regime on the planet. Again, Bricker was right. He, Pauli, was like Bambi, frolicking around in the political forest without a care in the world. Yeah, well, the forest was full of hunters, ready to kill you and put you on their dinner table. What was he thinking—running for president? The events of the past thirty months appeared differently now. Pauli glanced at Bricker, whose disguised face was bathed in the glow of the dashboard, thinking: Bricker would make a better president.

"I should withdraw from the race," Pauli blurted, "and I should resign as secretary of state immediately. I'm not ready for any of this."

Bricker glanced back. "Too late. You're in up to your eyeballs. As strange as it sounds, we need you right now."

"Wasn't it you who said I should be out of the race? I'm about to make your wish a reality."

Bricker checked the rearview. "That doesn't matter now, either. The president will be ordering Operation GANGLAND into full swing within twenty-four hours. You do know what that is, don't you?" Pauli nodded. "Sometime after that, he'll be asking for a declaration of war against Tohouri for the assault on Aviano. My fears that you would lead this country into war are all water under the bridge now. Our president has decided to do that himself."

Pauli took a moment to absorb what he'd just heard. "So, what do you need me for, seeing as I'm in jail for manslaughter?"

"Hold on," Bricker said unexpectedly, and he took an abrupt right turn. He eased down the side street, lights off, his eyes on the rearview the entire time. A black Glock came from inside his jacket. "Don't you worry about the charges," he said. "You'll be cleared of any wrongdoing as soon as possible. In the meantime, that jail cell could be the safest place you could be." Bricker's eyes narrowed as a car turned into the street and headed toward them. The headlights looked old and yellowed, bouncing along until the car passed harmlessly to their left.

"Then what?" Pauli asked, staring at the gun.

Bricker notched the car into drive. "I have no intention of letting this country waltz merrily into World War III. As far as I can see, there's only one way to avoid it."

* * * * *

The Black Ghost donned a pair of dark Ray-Ban sunglasses, and basked in the warmth of the late-spring Washington, D.C. sun. Washington was indeed a beautiful city, he thought while he admired a shapely young woman who happened to be passing by. This area was always well maintained—and well-guarded. He had to be careful of that. The young woman approached to within a few feet. He determined quickly that she was a tourist, for she had that look about her, as well as a compact camera dangling from her wrist. She'd be far away when it all happened. You are lucky, pretty woman. He smiled politely as she passed.

He was at the corner of Pennsylvania Avenue and 7th Street NW, trying to gauge the distance between him and the Capital dome, which sparkled in the morning sun. By his calculations, he needed to get a little closer in order to get the dome in the center of the _basket_ he was creating. That was risky. The closer he got, the more people there were—tourists, police, workers, legislators—which meant the odds of him being seen planting the beacons went up dramatically. He'd have to test his approach, on this side of the building as well as every other side, but that was all right. He had all day to enjoy the warmth and the sun. Maybe he'd come back and actually plant the beacons at night. He pulled some binoculars from his camera bag, and centered the dome in his view. The binoculars were outfitted with a range finder that indicated that he was about a quarter of a mile outside the ideal basket perimeter. He put the binoculars back into his bag, and adjusted the strap on his shoulder. It was time to take a little stroll. He wanted the beacons—four of them—exactly quarter of a mile from the dome on each side, putting the building squarely in the center. He spotted a street vendor as he strolled toward the Capital. Maybe he'd get some popcorn. He liked American popcorn.

Chapter 47. Another Day In Infamy

"My fellow legislators. I have come here bearing a great weight on my shoulders. It is the weight of decision....

"As your president, I vowed to maintain peace at all costs. Looking back, I believe that decision to have been shortsighted. I, and many other world leaders, have allowed a madman to conquer a continent, and threaten the freedom and the way of life of the entire planet....

"I can no longer shirk responsibility, or justify inaction, by using the politically expedient excuse that I only have a few months left in my term... I am coming before you, fellow leaders, fellow legislators, and the American people, to urge you to set the agenda for the next administration on the issue of Olu Tohouri... I am here today to ask you, the Congress, the representatives of the brave people of this country, to pass a Declaration of War against the African Axis powers, so that we may set in motion the taking back of what is rightfully ours....

"I never thought he'd do it," Pauli said, noting that the president had his game face on. The cameras held steady, and it seemed as if he was speaking to the hundreds of people before him individually. At the proper moment, he acknowledged the members of Congress, the supreme court, the cabinet, his chief of staff, the national security advisor, the joint chiefs of staff—Kusczak was right up front, Pauli noted—and, looking up and to his left, the president, with some grace, acknowledged his wife. They were all deeply absorbed in the moment. The guy was good at this, thought Pauli, better than he could ever be.

"We might as well pull out of the race now," he said, his attention glued to the battery-powered television Elaine had brought. "This shoots our platform all to hell."

"I think it strengthens it," she responded as she sipped a diet soda.

"The only consolation is that Kusczak isn't going to be president, either."

"How can you say that?" she said, looking at him oddly. "Without you in the race, the door will be wide open for him."

Pauli held her hand affectionately. "That's not what I meant." He wondered how much he should tell her of what he'd learned over the last forty-eight hours. Maybe none, but she deserved more than that. She'd been at his side through thick and thin—mostly thin, he determined quickly—and to suddenly dash all her effort from all those years wouldn't be less than fair, it would be miles below that. In his head, Pauli had already worked out a strategy for pulling out of the race, one that would position his running mate as heir apparent to the platform. He hadn't told Elaine, of course, or anyone, for he'd given Bricker his word that their discussion would remain secret. The military had been infiltrated at its highest echelon, and, according to Bricker, no one seemed to know exactly how far the disloyalty had spread.

"We'll talk later," said Pauli. "Let's listen to the rest of the president's address."

* * * * *

The address was carried worldwide via satellite, and it gave those against whom the declaration was being made a chance to view it live. The order was given.

* * * * *

In the spring of 2001, the governor of Arkhangelsk County, Russia, filed an official request with Moscow that he be allowed to export three nuclear-powered submarines. The fact that the exportation of vessels powered with nuclear reactors was against international law didn't seem to bother him much—the proceeds could be used to pay the Severodvinsk nuclear shipbuilding workers, who hadn't seen a decent paycheck in four months. Of course, all nuclear weapons on board would be dismantled prior to export, the governor had said, but the request was denied. It only required a few bribes to arrange for the subs to be retired and dismantled—which they weren't—and, he sold them anyway.

One of them surfaced now, years later, in international waters, nine hundred miles due east of Atlantic City. The specially selected crew had been thoroughly trained in preparation for this mission, and the sub had been operating covertly in forward position, free of logistics support, for the past three months.

As the Russian governor had promised, onboard nuclear weapons had been dismantled before the sale, but that didn't stop the new owners from procuring alternate weapons. The black market was alive, and profitable, and there were plenty of rogue governments who'd do anything for the money. This particular submarine had been outfitted with four hijacked _Trident II_ ballistic missiles, which had originally been sold to the United Kingdom for deployment on its _Vanguard_ Class submarines. The original shipment arrived short the four missiles, and after an extensive investigation both governments came to the conclusion that several bills of lading had gotten crossed up. There was no need for worry, it wouldn't happen again. Amazing. Only one of the missiles would be used, and it would be a decoy.

It was launched at exactly 2:15 p.m., Eastern Daylight Savings Time, seven minutes after the president began his address. As predicted, the missile was detected, and verified, by the U.S. military, within a minute of launch. However, having already reached the point of ignition of its second-stage motor, the rocket had already achieved an air speed of 1.7 miles per second, and the defenders would have even less time to react when the third-stage motor kicked in and the rocket would achieve its ultimate air speed of 3.7 miles per second. Such mind-boggling speed caused a mild panic, but the defenders were well trained. F-18A Hornets were already in the air, screaming toward the incoming missile at Mach 1.8 by the time anyone realized that the target was Washington, D.C. The F-18s had just minutes to find, launch their own anti-missile missiles, and shoot the invader out of the sky. As such, full concentration was on the task at hand by everyone involved, which was exactly what had been anticipated.

A second, much slower rocket was launched at the same time, this one from a second submarine, located a mere hundred miles from the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay. This second rocket was a version of the American _Tomahawk_ cruise missile—although it was literally the same rocket. It just happened to be made in North Korea, using the very same plans as the American version, those plans having been sent via DHL seventeen months earlier by the spy who'd procured them. The only difference was that this rocket was armed with a nuclear-tipped mini-warhead, which had been developed by the Pakistanis, and hijacked in a bloody raid by a terrorist group camped out inside the country. The North Koreans and the terrorists were happy to pocket the few million it cost for the equipment, and the buyer was happy to pay it. The going rate was the going rate.

This missile traveled at subsonic speed, plodding along at a relative snail's pace of only five hundred and fifty miles per hour. Despite its relatively slow speed, it remained undetected due to its Terrain Contour Matching (TERCOM) guidance system, and its extremely small radar cross-section. It weaved along above the treetops in full view of residents, eventually passing directly over Andrews Air Force Base before anyone realized what it was. By that time, it was too late. The Digital Scene Matching Area Correlation (DSMAC) portion of its guidance system had already centered on its target, which had been clearly identified by four homing beacons that surrounded it.

* * * * *

"... and so, my fellow Americans, I ask for your support, and your prayers. It is time for us to...."

The screen went blank, and Pauli and Elaine heard what sounded like the rumble of thunder. But, it wasn't thunder, because thunder didn't make the ground feel like it was going to crumble beneath you. Elaine grabbed Pauli's arm, looking around as if she expected the walls to collapse. "What the hell was that?"

"I don't know," said Pauli, looking about as well, "but if I had to make a guess, I'd guess it was a bomb."

"A bomb!"

"A big bomb."

Chapter 48. Elite Force of One

"You need at least two armies in a territory in order to attack."

"That means we'd have to wait for the dice to come around again," Ready Teddy replied. "I'm gonna do it with one. If any of you presidential bozos want to save mankind from what must be going on down there, have at it. Otherwise, make way, my way."

"What the hey," called Chrome Dome. "There's a new order coming. How 'bout it, boys? Should we let him go at it with one?" They all grumbled, but no one protested further. "How do you wanna come in?"

Ready Teddy examined the unboard. There were two choices. He could go south, and try to cut a hole through the black armies into Brazil. From there it was a direct route across the Atlantic to North Africa—but he had Kid Zach to contend with. The Kid was opportunistic and might try to overpower him at Venezuela. Teddy hesitated, and his uneyes darted about as he counted the armies occupying the territories around North America. There was a chance—a slight chance—at Iceland. There were only two armies occupying the territory.

"How many do you think this is gonna cost?" Chrome Dome asked.

Ready Teddy knew exactly what he meant. "Americans, or worldwide?"

"The way the board looks, it would be a world war," Chrome Dome responded. "I guess it has to be worldwide."

"With all the newfangled ways of killing people, I'd say it could be ten percent of the planet's population."

"How many are down there now?"

"Gotta be in the billions by now," someone said.

"As of nine seconds ago, it was seven billion, seven hundred and sixty-three million, nine hundred and twenty-eight-thousand, four hundred and seventy-two." It was The Kid who said it. Everyone looked at him, and no one thought he was wrong.

Ready Teddy calculated quickly. "Ten percent would be over 776 million dead."

The horror registered quickly. "I'll make room," said Chrome Dome. "I can fortify Southern Europe for you." The dice came around and he cleared a path by shifting his armies and amassing them on the Italian peninsula, leaving only token resistance in Great Britain and Western Europe. "Okay," he said, passing the dice. "Go ahead and attack."

Chapter 49. Bye, Bye Capital

The sirens seemed never ending, and Pauli could hear them clear through the walls of the Arlington County Detention Center, despite the fact that he was somewhere deep inside the building. The tension was thick, as sheriff deputies moved about clanging nightsticks and barking orders—to whom, he didn't know, exactly. All the commotion had to have something to do with what he and Elaine had heard, and felt, twenty minutes earlier. There was a tiny, barred window on his cell door, but someone was standing in front of it, a deputy it looked like.

"What's going on?" Pauli shouted, but the deputy, who was doing a lot of shouting of his own, ignored him. Suddenly, the deputy moved off, and for the briefest moment Pauli saw people being herded toward what he knew was the corridor. The deputy's face reappeared.

"Step away from the door, sir."

It wasn't a request. Pauli stepped back, surprised when the lawman's face was replaced by a wave of blonde hair—Elaine's hair, he knew instantly. She was whisked inside, looking a little more haggard than when she'd left only minutes earlier. A deputy was right behind.

"Just remain calm," he said, his face heavy with concern. "You'll be all right here." Quickly, he disappeared.

"What the hell is going on?"

"I have no idea. I never even got out of the building. I stepped out of the rest room, and one of the deputies asks if I'm Elaine Estes. Next thing I know, I being hustled back here like I'm some sort of freakin' spy. I thought the gorilla was gonna tear my arm off."

The clatter suddenly increased, and Pauli moved to the door. "If I didn't know better, I'd swear this was a military operation." He glanced at Elaine. "Where's the TV?"

She shrugged. "One of the deputies took it."

Moments later, he heard the sound of the cell door being unlatched. Two Marines barged through and positioned themselves, M16s at the ready. Andrew Bricker was right behind. There was no small talk. "Are you all right?"

"Why is everyone suddenly concerned with my well-being? Of course I'm all right. What's going on out there?"

"The Capital has just been destroyed—Mister President."

* * * * *

"All are assumed dead."

"What do you mean, all?"

"All," Bricker repeated. "The president, the vice president, the supreme court, the Congress, the joint chiefs... everyone. They were all there for the address." He waited. It would take a while for the reality to sink in. It did with him. "The destruction was complete." He watched as Pauli's eyes darted back and forth.

"There's no chance...."

"We don't think so," said Bricker. "The latest report says the building was almost vaporized."

"The speaker of the house?" Pauli asked, remembering that he'd seen the speaker on television, seated behind the president as he delivered his address.

"Assumed dead," Bricker said bluntly, and he cut to the core of the matter. "According to the Constitution, the secretary of state is fourth in line for the presidency in the event of a disaster such as this."

"Fourth?"

"There's the vice president, of course, the speaker of the house, and the president pro tempore of the senate. Next is the secretary of state." Bricker paused dramatically. "They were all there, sir. You weren't."

Pauli looked questioningly into Bricker's eyes.

"We have to assume they're all dead."

"Who's we?" Pauli asked.

"At this point—Mister President—it's whoever you want it to be."

Chapter 50. President Pauli

Bricker looked at the names. He recognized only a couple of them. "What's this?"

"That's a list of people I can trust," said the president.

"It's a short list." Bricker noticed his name was distinctly absent.

"Good. Then it shouldn't take long to locate them."

"Sir?"

"Find them, Mister Director. Have them here at Camp David by this time tomorrow."

"But...."

"No buts," said Pauli. "Make it happen."

* * * * *

"The Europeans are shifting forces into southern Europe." The general slashed the red dot of a laser pointer across the military map hanging in front of him.

"We can engage them here," another general insisted. "We can have 100,000 men and four armored divisions in position by the end of the month. They would never suspect a land attack."

"Ridiculous," yet a third general shouted. "Their satellites would detect our movements immediately."

In the soupy closeness of the battle room, the Black Ghost kept his eye on Tohouri while the generals feuded. What fools. The greatest power on Earth had just been thrown into chaos, and invasion plans hadn't even been formulated. The Europeans were cowering like rabbits; the Asians were formulating alternate treaties to present to whichever party gained the upper hand; the South Americans were united, but had already indicated neutrality in the guise of defense. No one else mattered, not even the Russians, who resembled a band of thieving gypsies. Without immediate decisive action, the bombing of the American Capital would be viewed as a gutless act of terror, rather than what it was meant to be: a strategic military blow that brought the enemy to its knees. The opportunity was at hand.

Tohouri stood, demanding attention. He straightened his feeble body, and waited until silence settled on the room. "You are the greatest group of military minds the world has ever seen," he began, seemingly unaware of the generals' arrogant smirks. Any semblance of respect from them had deteriorated into tolerance. "Yet somehow, you have forgotten the fundamentals that brought you to this position." The smirks disappeared, twisting into scowls of contempt.

It was brilliant. Tohouri was playing them into shame. Ten years ago, he would simply have had them replaced—or worse. His voice pealed powerfully, taking his smug generals by surprise. "One day, one of you will guide the Union of African States to new challenges...."

The carrot had been sufficiently dangled. The supreme commander had just provided the motivation, while at the same time paving a road for them to travel upon. If they simply followed it, they would declare themselves the engineers of that road before their own constituents. The Black Ghost wondered if he, himself, had been as well manipulated.

"It is your destiny to guide the world to its destiny, and to do that, you must conquer the nonbelievers and convert them. It is a quest that must not be launched without the full commitment of your people, for to enter into such a venture halfheartedly will cause them to endure the struggle, rather than perpetuate it. With their commitment, you can conquer all, and you can be the saviors of mankind."

The generals sat behind their Formica situation desks, basking under the buzz of fluorescent lights. Yes, the Black Ghost admitted to himself, it was quite a setting from which to write the most important chapter in the history of mankind.

* * * * *

Wearing black Levis and a denim shirt, Pauli couldn't help but note the senator's obvious distaste for his attire. He figured the senator's Brooks Brothers shirt and red club tie had probably cost as much as a small car. He rubbed his temples, feeling his patience slipping away.

"I have the right to dispute—"

"Yes, Senator, you have the right to dispute this plan, or any plan, to reconstruct the government, although, frankly, I sometimes think we'd be better off without it."

The senator's face went aghast at such a thought.

"And, I have the right to get you behind closed doors, and kick your ass."

The senator's face drained of any color that may have been left in it. "Why I...."

"There's no room for righteous indignation here, Senator. What we need now is cooperation. Let me break down the process, seeing as you don't seem to get it: I say something; you do it. Any questions?"

"This is a democracy!"

"Then you can impeach me!"

"What about freedom of speech?"

Pauli lowered his voice, but the tone was no less cutting. "You're certainly free to say anything you want, to whomever you want, Senator, and I'm free to make your life very, very difficult. Our nation is in its darkest hour. The police in our cities are on the verge of declaring martial law. Our military is on a hair trigger, ready to attack anyone, and anything, that so much as dips their big toe in our territorial waters—including our allies, as if we knew who they were—and you want to debate our course of action?" Pauli tapped the side of his head. "Think real hard, Senator. What's our main objective right now?"

Trying to retain some semblance of dignity, the senator took a moment too long to answer.

Pauli shook his head disgustedly. "You know, Senator, I think I made a mistake. I should never have used presidential decree to appoint all the congressional seconds-in-command to take charge in this crisis, another issue on which I'm being second-guessed six ways from Sunday. Maybe, I should have let time pass, and waited for a leaderless government to reconstruct itself by popular election. If I had, perhaps a political snake-in-the-grass like you would never have gained office!" Pauli's face was as red as the senator's tie. "Go ahead, leave if you like, but if I hear one more negative word from you, now, later, or through someone else, I'll find you, and we'll chat about your political future. I have the power, Senator, and I intend to use it. When this is over, I'll apologize for my arrogance, but right now, I need to know who is going to stand with me—and who won't." Unblinking, Pauli looked the new senator straight in the eye. "Your call, Senator. Are you with me, or not?"

The senator swallowed hard. "I want to think about it."

"No, Senator. I need to know now—before you leave this room. I intend to eliminate those standing in my way, and I want to make sure I have a clear picture of who they are."

A vein in the senator's head began throbbing. "What do you mean, eliminate? I don't like being bullied."

"Fine. What are you going to do?"

After some moments, "I.... I'm with you," the senator croaked weakly.

"Good," said President Pauli. "I'm sure you won't live to regret it."

The senator left abruptly, and Andrew Bricker entered the room. "You're quite the motivator," he said, somewhat amused. "It's a good thing you don't record your conversations." He dropped a manila folder on the desk.

"What's that?"

"Some background information on our recently departed guest—in case you need it sometime."

Pauli glanced at the folder. "I don't want it." Next, his eyes met Bricker's. "This is one nasty-assed job."

"Welcome aboard."

"I don't know if I'm going to like this ride."

"Too late. The best you can do now is close your eyes and hope you don't puke."

President Pauli stepped to the window of the presidential office at Camp David, and counted the number of armed Marines within his field of vision. If only the citizenry had as much protection. Despite it all, he felt as exposed as one of the towering pines surrounding the compound. Yes, he admitted to himself, it was quite a setting from which to write the most important chapter in the history of mankind.

* * * * *

The sun was climbing quickly in the hazy sky, and the back of his deeply tanned neck was beginning to sweat. Angel Menjivar looked out over the water and decided he had time for a few more casts. Pride dictated that he catch at least one before calling it quits. He flipped his rod underhand, watching his lure as it flew toward a line of tall grass like a giant, extraterrestrial bug. It landed perfectly, barely making a splash three inches inside the grass line, where hopefully the biggest bass in north Florida was wondering what was for breakfast. Suddenly, the line went taught, and he knew he had a good one.

It took a while, but Angel took his time, gently pulling the big fish from the water to gloat privately over his victory. It was then, in the background that he noticed the dark sedan parked on the shoreline alongside his Dodge pickup. There were two suits with the car, one of them pacing and kicking up dust as if there was some place he had to be. Not in this town, thought Angel. No doubt they were government suits, but what did they want with him? Squinting, he noticed the suit on the left waving to him. Had to be hot in that suit. Angel lowered his prize back into the water. "Go get your father and bring him back here tomorrow," he said playfully.

Slowly, he made his way in. As the boat struck sand, the suit on the right came forward and helped him from the boat. "Looked like you landed a nice one out there."

Angel's eyes narrowed as he took in the strangers. "It was decent." He paused as he pulled his cooler from the boat. "Haven't seen you boys around here before. You down here on vacation?"

"No, sir," the one on the right drawled. "We're here to see you."

"Figured that," said Angel. "Who sent ya?"

A pause. "The president, sir."

Angel looked up, his eyes even narrower. "The president."

"Yes, sir, the president. You do know who the president is, don't you? We have a new one, you know."

Angel unhooked the wench cable. "I used to know him, but that was a long time ago." He pulled a length of cable from the roller drum. "You boys got any ID?'

The suits came forward and opened wallets.

"CIA," Angel said. "Now, why would our new president send the CIA way the hell down here to find a sixty-six-year-old former drill instructor?"

Speaking for the first time, the suit on the left said, "The president said you'd ask that. He prefers to explain it to you in person. He also said you'd probably object to coming with us—"

"Which I am," Angel interjected.

"... and that—these are his words, sir, not mine—'you shouldn't fuck with him,' and, 'it was your turn to follow orders.'"

Angel smiled. "That sounds like him." He turned a switch and the old electric wench motor began grinding away. "He give you any idea where he's ordering me to go?"

"Camp David, sir."

"Camp David? Huh."

* * * * *

The doorbell wouldn't stop. Lorraine Bravo yanked the door open, making no attempt to hide her annoyance. If someone wasn't trying to sell something over the phone, it was someone else knocking on your door. They were wearing suits, she noticed. She hoped it wasn't Jehovah's Witnesses. She never liked to be rude, but....

"I'm sorry, you caught me at a bad time," she blurted, a cordless phone tucked under her ear. They weren't Jehovah's Witnesses, she determined immediately. She'd seen enough government messenger boys when Lucca was alive to know the difference. "I'll call you back," she said into the phone. She caught the eye of the blue suit on the left. "Can I help you?"

The suit tried to paste a friendly smile to his all-American face, but it came off smarmy. "Mrs. Bravo?" he asked, giving her a slow all-the-way-up and all-the-way-down.

"Who wants to know?" Schmuck.

IDs came out, and the pinstripe suit on the right elbowed the blue suit aside. "May we come in?"

Lorraine gave them the evil eye as they stepped past her. "What's this all about?"

"Are you Lorraine Bravo?"

"Like I said, who wants to know—and stop looking at my boobs."

_"Ahem!_ Sorry, ma'am. I didn't mean to...." The agent's face turned tomato red.

Again, the pinstripe suit stepped forward. "We're looking for Santo Bravo. He's your son, I believe."

"I'm gonna ask you one last time, before I throw your skinny butts outta here. Who _the hell_ wants to know?"

"We just showed you our IDs, ma'am."

"You're go-fers," she shot condescendingly. "Who sent you?"

"Where's your son?"

"Kiss my ass."

"This isn't going well."

"Ya think?"

The pinstripe suit paused. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Bravo. Have we done something to offend you?"

"Back at the office, I'll bet you're the one with the big desk, aren't you?"

"Can we start over?"

"Sure. What are you, thirty? Come back when you're sixty."

"I'm thirty-six."

"So am I," she snapped, pointing at her chest and snarling at the embarrassed agent in the blue suit. "Now you know everything about me there is to know, so if you'll excuse me...." She opened the front door with a flourish.

Santo was outside, keys in hand. "Hi, Mom," he said, giving her a peck on the cheek. "I was wondering whose car was in the driveway." He looked at the suits. "Is everything all right?"

"Fric and Frac were just leaving."

The pinstripe suit presented his ID.

"CIA?" said Santo. "Does this have to do with my father?" He shot a sidelong glance at Lorraine, who stood stone-faced.

"No, sir, it does not. We're here for you. May we?" the suit asked, nodding toward the living room.

"I guess," said Santo. He led the way.

"Damn," Lorraine muttered as she headed for the kitchen. "What the hell is it with the men in this family?"

"Mom, would you...."

"I know the drill," she called over her shoulder. "I'll make some coffee."

Santo smiled, and turned his attention back to the suits. "Who sent you?" he asked, his cheery demeanor suddenly turning south.

"The president, sir."

"What president?"

"Of the United States. _That_ president. He told us to make sure we said President _Pauli_."

"President Pauli," Santo whispered to himself. "What exactly did President Pauli want?"

The suit shook his head. "Like your mom said, we're just the go-fers. All he told us was that if we got any resistance from you, we were to remind you that you and he are brothers. I guess you know what that means."

Lorraine came in from the kitchen and set down a tray. No one was talking. She took one look at her son and said, "Oh, shit," before blasting the suits with another angry glare.

* * * * *

The air was crisp, fresh with the smell of daily newness, but it wouldn't be long before the morning gloss was smothered by the heaviness that was Washington in the summer. The women chatted pleasantly, as women do, bonded in that sisterhood of geniality that would be absent from any similar encounter composed of men.

Ann-Marie looked at a couple of snapshots. The two boys looked just like Roinell when he was that age: chunky, and jolly, with not a serious care in the world—except what time dinner would be ready.

"They _can_ eat," Whitney said lovingly. "I hope they grow out of it soon."

"They will," said Ann-Marie, passing the photos to Elaine. "They're just like Roinell was back in the day. He and Pauli were best friends, you know."

"So I've heard about a million times—and now, Pauli is president of the United States." Whitney shook her head. "I still can't believe it happened the way it did."

It was indeed hard to believe: Pauli, leader of the free world, at a juncture in history that would determine the planet's existence for the next century, perhaps longer. How _did_ it happen?

"I remember how Roinell started losing weight when he got interested in girls," Ann-Marie went on, not wanting to dwell on that right now.

Whitney chuckled. "Now, there's a scary thought. I don't know if I could take three of them scratching and pawing around here like lovesick fools." The women all smirked, but Whitney's smile tightened quickly. "Now, do you two pretty white Christian girls want to tell me why you're here, on a Sunday morning no less, looking for my husband?"

Suddenly, they heard the front door slam as Roinell returned from his morning run. It was only moments before he joined them on the screened deck. "I was wondering whose car that was in the driveway," he said, smiling a huge, pearly white smile and toweling his forehead. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

Elaine put down her coffee. "The president sent us."

"The president," he coughed, still winded. "You mean Pauli."

"Yes," said Elaine, standing up. "He wants to see you—right away, if possible."

Roinell's gregariousness vanished instantly. "This isn't a social call, is it?"

* * * * *

Pauli gazed high into the flying buttresses, feeling the spirits as he strolled among the memorial bays of the Washington Cathedral. The weight of the huge limestone blocks paled by comparison to the weight he felt on his shoulders, a weight that had already numbed him against the pain of presidential decision. He knew that's how it had to be to survive in the office, for every decision at that level caused discomfort—or worse—for someone, but he didn't have to like it. Maybe he was some kind of presidential wimp. "Am I?" he asked, looking up.

Deliberately, he moved along the south wall, coming to the memorial bay of General Robert Edward Lee. Instantly, a picture flashed in his mind, one that must have been reprinted a thousand times: that of the General atop his horse, Traveller. They were connected spirits in that picture, he stoic and noble atop his mount; Traveller, eyes downcast, seemingly aware of some great responsibility thrust upon him. An inscription was carved into the wall: _Robert Edward Lee: Servant of God, leader of men, General-in-Chief of the Confederate States whose compelling sense of duty, serene faith, and unfailing courtesy mark him for all ages as a Christian soldier without fear and without reproach._ Pauli considered the words. What about vengeance? He guessed Christian soldiers weren't motivated by vengeance, but he was, although he wasn't proud of it. What would Robert E. Lee have done in this situation? He turned away, spotting a wooden cross in the memorial bay of Andrew W. Mellon with _Father Forgive_ inscribed upon it.

"The words seem appropriate, don't they?"

Startled, Pauli swung around to face a somber Andrew Bricker. "They do," he replied. "I feel soiled for what I'm thinking, and I can't seem to get the thoughts out of my head." Bricker's gaze looked distant, and pained, like the one of Robert E. Lee he'd visualized moments earlier. "I told the Secret Service agents I wanted to be alone. How did you get in here?"

"You'll never be alone in this town," Bricker responded. "A fact I wrestle with every day of my life." Bricker took a moment. "Sir, may I speak candidly?"

"Shoot," said Pauli.

"It's not funny for a president to say that."

Pauli smiled weakly, watching the worry lines on Bricker's face deepen, a preview of the old man to come. "Out with it... Mister Bricker." He couldn't bring himself to say Andrew.

Bricker exhaled toward the spires. "I've been rethinking this operation. Perhaps it would be best if you backed out of it."

"I had a feeling you'd come to that sooner or later. Why?"

"We're crossing a new threshold here. This could have severe policy implications for the future, not to mention what could happen to you—legally, and otherwise."

"You said yourself it's the most foolproof plan we can come up with. Has that changed?"

Bricker sighed. "No, it hasn't." Pauli strode to the next bay as a puff of cool air and the scent of candle wax came from somewhere. Bricker dared to take his arm. "It will leave an indelible mark on the presidency. Is that the legacy you want to leave behind?"

Gently, Pauli removed Bricker's hand. "How many men died as a result of the Civil War?" he asked, nodding at the Robert E. Lee memorial bay, from which he'd just come.

Bricker was caught off guard. "I'm not sure. A lot."

"Over 600,000. How about World War II?"

"Somewhere around 400,000, I think."

"Very good. That's about a million." Pauli indicated the vault containing the body of Woodrow Wilson, whose final resting place was but a few steps away. "And how many died in World War I—you know, the war to end all wars?"

"How many, Mister President?"

"120,000... and 54,000 in Korea, and 58,000 in Vietnam, and 64,000 in the Congo ... and on, and on, and on. How many do you think will die in a war with Olu Tohouri?"

Bricker shrugged, knowing the answer was a breath away.

"Millions, Mister Bricker, of our own men, and millions more of theirs. Estimates are that a worldwide conflict will kill hundreds of millions, most of them innocent souls who were unfortunate enough to have been born when they were. It's a hell of a population control program, one I don't intend to let happen." Pauli wheeled, his dark mood blending with the shadows. "I don't give one fat shit about a mark on the presidency, and I'd rather leave the legacy that I did what I had to do to save half a billion people, rather than let my ego be satisfied with simply having achieved the office."

Bricker stood as motionless as any of the statues nearby.

"Do you have operatives in place that can affect a favorable decision for the summit meeting?"

"Anything can be arranged for the right price," Bricker answered, barely a croak.

"Have the people I requested to be in Washington, arrived?"

"Yes, I've been informed that all of them are here, and are ready and waiting."

"Good," said President Pauli. "Then, let's go forward with the plan. Understood?"

"Understood," Bricker replied, adding, "Glad to be with you, sir." He extended his hand.

Pauli took it. "We'll both go to hell for this."

Bricker said, "I remember when I was a kid, I was told I'd go to hell for eating a hamburger on a Friday. That didn't seem quite right either."

Chapter 51. The Initiation

There was a knock at the undoor.

"Not now," Ready Teddy called. "I'm about to launch a super sneaky, infiltrating, single army, pinpoint strike attack."

"You'll have to come back to it," said Klinger. "It's time to get your masks." It was all the explanation that was needed.

The unplayers froze. The unGame would have to wait. They rose in unison, straightening their varied attire in preparation of the ceremony to come. Abe-The-Hat donned his stovepipe. Ready Teddy redangled his watch fob. Chrome Dome gripped the 5-iron he used as a walking stick. One by one, they crossed through the undoor. Kid Zach went last, allowing Ulysses to go before him with a chivalrous display of military courtesy.

Outside, the resident galaxy took on a shimmering luminescence, and the presidential participants lined up in the same numerical order as they'd served in the office. As the first, Georgie Boy stepped down the line, handing out the masks, and inspecting his fellow presidents while they stood at some version of attention. He popped Mil _lard_ in the ungut as he stepped around him, lifted the unchin of the always-sulking Poor Andrew Johnson, and nudged _Big Lub_ Taft back into line. Moving all the way to **F** ix **O** r **R** epair **D** aily, Georgie Boy eyeballed the remainder of the presidential formation, satisfied that it was as good as it was going to get.

"Masks up!" he announced, and in perfect unison they all raised their masks to insertion level. "Read . . .y, _hut!"_ he barked, and masks were in place, each former president now a perfect likeness of Richard M. Nixon—except for Trickie Dickie himself, of course, who didn't need a Nixon mask.

"Let the neophyte come forth," Georgie Boy called, and, from behind a hovering Ragnamian quasar, the most recent former president of the United States emerged.

"Let the interrogations begin," Georgie Boy proclaimed.

The former President William Hamilton Byrd slowly stepped into the light circle of a blinding Ascanthric fireball.

"Name?" the first Nixon mask asked, pen in unhand.

The confused neophyte answered, "William Hamilton Byrd."

"Byrd Brain," the mask immediately noted, with some disdain. He jotted something down on a clipboard, and passed it to the next mask up the line.

"Are you newly departed, or newly arrived?" the next mask asked.

The neophyte examined the mask, as well as several others in line. "What's with the Nixon masks?" he asked.

"Answer the question. Newly departed, or newly arrived?"

Byrd Brain noted that several Nixons were staring him down. "I don't know.... Both, I guess."

"Uh-huh," the mask noted sourly, and the clipboard passed unhands.

"What are the circumstances by which mankind can perpetuate itself?"

Byrd Brain noted that several more Nixons craned forward to hear his answer, noting further that one of the masks wasn't a mask at all. Was that...? Naw, couldn't be. But it was. It was really, really him. The mask in front of him cleared its unthroat, and Byrd Brain snapped to attention. "By using conflict to spawn leaders, who teach other leaders the lessons learned from the conflict itself, sir!"

Several masks nodded.

"Uh-huh." The clipboard was passed again.

"How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?"

"What?"

"Just answer the question." The uneyes behind the Nixon mask were deathly still.

"I.... I don't know," said the neophyte.

"Uh-huh.... Unpretentious," said the mask, making a check mark and passing the clipboard.

The questions continued until Georgie Boy was the last mask to speak. "Who was the greatest president who ever lived?" he asked, smiling woodenly beneath the mask.

The neophyte paused before answering, noting that, once again, the Nixon masks were turned in his direction. He turned, catching Georgie Boy squarely in his gaze. "You're George Washington, aren't you?"

"Who was the greatest president who ever lived?" Georgie Boy repeated sternly.

Byrd Brain hesitated, his unbrow furrowed as if he was mentally weighing his time in the Oval Office. Unexpectedly, he snatched the Nixon mask off Georgie Boy's unhead. "I knew it," he exclaimed.

"Who was the greatest president who ever lived?" Georgie Boy bellowed.

"I was!" Byrd Brain declared.

Georgie Boy burst into laughter, as did several Nixon masks close by. He made a notation on the clipboard, struggling to keep it steady beneath his heaving unstomach. "Arrogance," he noted. "We like that up here." He held the clipboard before him, clearing his unthroat before reading the tally. "And the scores are...." he announced, "... Sympathy: 4; empathy: 6; compassion: 3; confidence: 8; humility: 2; modesty: 3; arrogance: 9; regret: 4." Lowering the clipboard, he turned to the neophyte, who was waiting for an explanation. "You're full of crap," Georgie Boy shot squarely, "and you always have been."

Byrd Brain hung his unhead.

"Hey, don't let that get you down. We're all full of it. We wouldn't have been in the Oval Office if we weren't." Georgie Boy turned to the assembled Nixons. "How vote ye?" he called. They all signaled with unthumbs up, none down, not that it would have mattered. It was like the Electoral College. "You're in," Georgie Boy declared. "Bend over."

"What for?"

Exasperation evident, "You ask too many questions," Georgie Boy huffed, and with the help of Fric—or was is Frac—Adams, and T.J., who were the next two in line, the three of them bent Byrd Brain at the unwaist, while the previous club rookie—in this case White Owl Willy from Little Rock—whacked him but good with his hand-carved presidential paddle.

"Ooowww!" Byrd Brain screeched. He straightened quickly, feeling the imprint of the presidential seal on his unbutt. "I'm in," he declared victoriously. "That's great. What am I in?"

"The game, if you've got the avocados for it."

"What game?"

"The unGame."

"Un... what?"

"This way." Georgie Boy flipped an unthumb toward the undoor, which was at the other end of the assembled Nixons.

One by one, the masks came off and unhands came out to welcome the newest member of their select little club. Many of them knew Byrd Brain, of course, he having been the career man that he was.

"How'd it happen?" Georgie Boy asked, making small talk.

"How'd what happen?"

"You know, you ending up here. What was it? Heart attack, cancer, bad meat.... What?"

"Blown up," Byrd Brain responded.

"No kidding? Blown up? Jesus!"

_"Yes_?" called the unvoice.

"Oh, sorry, Number Two. Just using your name in vain again."

"Who, or what, was that?" Byrd Brain asked, searching the constellations.

"You'll meet him later. Blown up, you say?"

"To smithereens. You know the Capital Building?"

"Of course."

"Gone."

"Gone?"

"Turned to dust. I was in it when it happened, along with the rest of the Congress."

"You mean...?"

"Yup. The whole bunch of 'em bought the farm—along with most of the supreme court and all of the joint chiefs."

"What are joint chiefs?"

"Oh, right. They didn't have those when you were there, did they?"

"Guess not. So, all of them took the pipe, as they say?"

"Every last one. It was a total governmental catastrophe."

Georgie Boy nodded solemnly as they reached the undoor. "That's one way to look at it."

Klinger put up an unhand. "Halt. Who goes there?"

"It's okay, Klinger. This is Byrd Brain, our new member."

"Oh. Right." Klinger's uneyes narrowed in recognition. "I remember now. Used to like the Pussycat Club back in the early '70s. Took a few private dances in the back, as I recall."

Byrd Brain stopped walking. "J. Edgar? Is that really you? How'd you know about...?"

"Don't worry," said Georgie Boy. "None of that matters now."

"It doesn't?"

"Not to us."

"Does it matter to anybody?"

"It might, but not right now. Right now we have other things to worry about."

"Really? Like what?"

They made their way to the untable where the unboard lay as it was before the ceremony.

Byrd Brain took one look and his unface flushed with anger. "It was you!" he bellowed.

"Trust me, it's not what you think."

"Trust you!" Byrd Brain looked back at the unboard. "My God, what are you doing?"

_"I would be happy to answer that_ ," the unvoice called.

"Perhaps this would be a good time for you to meet the Big Guy after all," Georgie Boy said.

Chapter 52. Getting Personal

The smell of diesel blanketed the usual perfume of the forest around Camp David. The sight of armed Humvees a stark contrast to the government limos one would expect to see here, the guests stepped from their rides amid an army of heavily armed Secret Service agents. Angel Menjivar was the first to alight. A thickly muscled Marine made a move for his bag.

"I've got it," Angel said, preferring to carry his own bag.

"No, I've got it," said Santo Bravo. "It would be an honor."

Angel acquiesced, but a second Marine insisted on putting the bags through an x-ray machine. "How much do you think we should tip these guys?" Santo quipped. Neither Angel, nor the Marines paid him any mind.

Their escort took an abrupt left. "This way to Aspen Lodge, gentlemen."

As the building came into view, Santo noticed another squad of heavily armed Marines dispersed strategically around its perimeter. "Jesus," he muttered. "There's enough firepower up here to start a small war."

They stopped and their escort pointed to a metal detector.

"That won't be necessary," a voice called. It belonged to the president.

A Secret Service agent beside the metal detector held up his hand. "Please, sir," he begged. "Regulations."

"It's okay," Angel called as he emptied his pockets. He stepped through and faced Pauli squarely while, behind him, Santo couldn't get through the detector without making it sing. The kid he'd tried to bury in the sand at Fort Jackson, wasn't a kid anymore, Angel observed, but he hadn't changed that much over the years. He looked fit, and his hair was still full and dark, for the most part. The lines around his eyes portended a brooding personality, however, and Angel could see by the man's hollow look that sleep hadn't been on the president's agenda lately. "You get more with sugar than you do with vinegar," he said as he shook Pauli's hand.

"Not in this case," the president responded, waiting for any hint of hesitation. There was none. So much for small talk. They went inside.

"Hey, what about me?" Santo called, his arms raised and on the verge of being strip-searched by a bulky Secret Service agent. He gave the agent a pouty little look and lisped, "You're a big one, aren't you?" The hand-held metal detector came down immediately, and Santo dashed through the door behind them.

By the time he stopped clowning and turned his attention to what was happening, Angel was already studying the others in the room as they were introduced. Roinell King: tall, sinewy, looks like a runner; means he has some discipline about him. Elaine Estes: smart, efficient, definitely a Yuppie; probably eats a lot of yogurt, and drives something trendy.

The analyzing stopped when Ann-Marie stepped forward and Santo stepped between her and Angel. " _Very_ pleased to meet _you_ ," he said, taking her hand.

"Down boy," she said, forcing him to let go. "I'm almost old enough to be your mother."

There was one person who didn't come forward, however, dark suit in the back, leaning against the mantel. There was a guy who could use a couple of laughs, Angel speculated. He waved, and said, "Angel Menjivar."

"Andrew Bricker," the man called back.

Spook, Angel surmised instantly, and then he did a double take on the name. Wasn't the head guy at the CIA named Bricker? This was getting interestinger, and interestinger.

* * * * *

They sat, all having been shown to their comfortable private rooms and now reconvened. Eye contact seemed off limits, and each busied himself or herself by examining the furnishings, or some equally inanimate object, while Secret Service agents, soldiers, and a whole lot of people who didn't look comfortable in casual clothes scurried about constantly. The job of running the country seemed chaotic, to say the least, with a tremendous amount of energy seemingly being spent on suppressing any sign of a sense of humor. Only an occasional cough or sniffle cut the silence until the president reappeared.

"I'd like to thank you again for coming," Pauli began indifferently.

"When are you going to tell us why we're here?" Roinell asked. Not having said much during the initial niceties, his attitude was surprisingly anything but soft and fuzzy.

Pauli noted the stark eyes, and mouths set in tight lines, thinking, perhaps he'd made a mistake calling them here. "I don't know any way of saying what I'm about to say, except to just say it," he said softly.

"So say it," Roinell called, speaking for the group.

So, Pauli did, taking a seat when finished to wait for the inevitable avalanche of objections. Taking in the various expressions, he noted reactions from mild amusement to total bewilderment. It looked like it was going to be a tough room.

"This is insane," Roinell said bluntly. He wheeled toward Bricker. "Is this your brilliant idea?"

Bricker remained calm, but it seemed to rub Roinell the wrong way. "I'd like you to watch something," he replied, pointing a remote at a TV.

"No!" Roinell objected. "I don't need to see any more executions, or beheadings, or other disgusting images to convince me—convince us—that this is a very bad man, but, there are other ways to take care of him." He looked around for support. "You can only carry friendship so far, Pauli."

"We'd go to hell for doing what you're asking," Elaine chimed in.

Pauli came up and took her hand, wondering now if he had the right to ask them to trade eternal bliss, or peace, or whatever the hell was up there, for eternal damnation. The answer came quickly that he did not. "This is entirely up to you," he said, "but I wouldn't have brought you here if I didn't think you were the right people for the job. I think God would understand."

"What you're asking us to do is gonna take a lot of guts," Santo called out.

"Guts?" Ann-Marie called sharply. "Is that what we're doing here? Playing chicken?" She looked at Pauli. "Surely, that's not what being president is all about?"

"Of course it is," Angel countered.

"You're going along with this?"

"I'm not going along with anything—so far," Angel defended. "But this is no different than any playground fight. The only way to take down a bully is face up to him, and any commander worth his salt had better be damned well capable of doing everything he's asking his men to do. Otherwise, you can just plain forget about it." He crossed his arms for punctuation.

"How about the fact that it's ethically and morally wrong?" Ann-Marie fired back.

Pauli put a hand on her shoulder. "Isn't it just as wrong to let millions of innocent people die without doing everything possible to save them?"

The room went silent. There was only one right answer, and it reverberated in everyone's head, unsaid.

Pauli waited until the ever-present scuffling outside Aspen Lodge was the loudest sound in the room. "He'll kill us all if we don't stop him. If not us, then our children."

"It'll never come to that."

"It already has. Right now our military has 1.3 million troops, two thousand aircraft, and over four hundred battleships and submarines deployed, waiting for a _go_ on Operation GANGLAND. The Europeans have almost as much. The Russians, 1.5 million men; the Israelis, the Saudis, the Syrians, the Palestinians, all of them on the same side, unbelievably, for fear of reprisal for siding with us—another 1.3 million. The Chinese are amassing forces, for fear this will inevitably spread to their soil, and our intelligence indicates we're talking more than three million troops. Half the troops I just mentioned will die in a global war within sixty days, and I haven't addressed the loss of life among the Africans themselves. Take the worst figure you can imagine, and triple it, and you might come close to the number of deaths that will occur there. It's mind-boggling, and it's our own fault. We let him grow, and maneuver, basically for the reason that we didn't want to soil ourselves any more than we already had in the Congo. Now, at minimum, we're looking at a rival army of ten million men, equipped with technologically advanced weapons, plenty of resources to draw from, and nuclear capability, which we know he'll use." Pauli took a breath, almost hearing their brains at work.

"It wasn't but six weeks ago that our Capital was destroyed and our entire government was brought to its knees. If Tohouri had launched an invasion in conjunction with that horrible act of terrorism, he could have actually blockaded portions of our coastline, and we would have been too disorganized to react. Can you imagine what could've happened had he landed troops near one of our major cities?" Pauli paused again, letting the realization settle. "He has to go, and there are two choices. One is to fulfill the late President Byrd's agenda and declare war against the African Axis powers. As soon as we do, it will be the most horrific war ever fought on the face of this Earth. The other choice is to take Tohouri out before it gets to that, the way I've just suggested."

"What if the next guy is worse?"

They still weren't convinced. Pauli nodded at Bricker.

Taking the cue, Bricker pushed a button on a small tape machine. Ten minutes later, he pushed it again, scrutinizing everyone's face to see if they understood what they'd just heard.

Santo tapped the side of his nose. "I smell a setup in here somewhere."

Not knowing what Santo meant, Bricker picked up the conversation. "I'm afraid we're the ones being set up. What you just heard was the late Admiral Kusczak accepting a bribe of one billion dollars from an agent in Tohouri's IID Corps."

"IID?"

"International Investigative Division—Tohouri's CIA."

With his hands turned over as if he was trying to hold down air, Santo said, "Wait a minute. Are you saying Kusczak was one of _them_?"

"Close enough. The money was a campaign contribution, of sorts—to help him buy his way through the upcoming presidential election, money he never got a chance to spend."

"Nobody gives away a billion smackaroos and doesn't want something in return."

"You're right. Once elected, the new President Kusczak was going to endorse the formation of the Union of African States."

"What the hell is that?"

"It's the name for Tohouri's continent—a federation comprised of the countries he controls."

Elaine finished Bricker's explanation. "Which would stand with the United States as the only other superpower on the planet, except that Kusczak would owe Tohouri in a big, big way." She looked at Bricker directly. "We'd become just another pawn in Tohouri's game of world domination."

"It gets worse," said Bricker. "I assume you all know the name _Smoky Injess_ , by now." Everyone acknowledged, of course, that they knew the name since the incident at Kathy Kanon's house. "Injess was no rapist as was reported," Bricker went on. Blank faces now, all around him. "He was blasted out of his mind on drugs that night, and the rape was just a little recreational activity. There was another reason for his being on North Irving Street. He'd been paid fifty thousand dollars by Tohouri's IID Corps to assassinate the president...." He nodded toward Pauli. "Who was, at that time, the newly appointed secretary of state, as well as a presidential candidate."

With perspiration dotting his forehead, Roinell's eyes danced between Pauli and Bricker. "You're saying he was a professional hit man?"

_"Professional_ is relative. We think he committed several other murders, but they were typical drug hits, nothing like what we're talking about here. That having been said, we think that's why he was chosen to do the deed. The president's—again, then secretary of state, but more importantly, candidate Campo's—assassination was supposed to look like an unfortunate robbery/homicide."

"Why, _more importantly_?" Roinell asked.

"Because it was the candidate they were looking to do away with—not the secretary of state. They were trying to maximize Kusczak's chances of becoming president. It became clear that candidate Campo had a significant chance of winning, and they couldn't take that risk."

After some pause, while the others gaped at one another, Roinell asked, "Are you saying Kusczak was in on it?"

Bricker measured his answer. "We think he was very much aware that it was going to happen. He had no choice but to go along."

"What if he didn't?" someone asked.

Santo provided the answer. "Then he would have been set up." His gaze settled on Pauli. "Just like we were set up in the Battle of Rome. Just like my father was set up." Suddenly, he framed Bricker with the same gaze, sharpened now, accusatory. "The admiral was behind it all, wasn't he? Please, tell me it was him. It would make doing this so worthwhile."

Bricker stared unyieldingly, neither confirming nor denying Santo's request.

"I understand now," said Roinell. "It's personal, isn't it, Pauli? Just like that night in the parking lot with Benny Cunningham: someone looking to take away something that belonged to you." He looked at Ann-Marie when he said it.

"Just like that day in the sand at Fort Jackson," Angel added.

"Just like that night under the obelisk," said Santo.

They looked unsure. Understandably so. Pauli motioned toward Bricker, who clicked the remote he'd been holding seemingly forever.

"Please watch," he instructed, and contrary to what Roinell had assumed earlier, a single image appeared. "One Muhab Talani," Bricker announced authoritatively, a.k.a. Eddie Okyanko, a.k.a. Salam Belizze, a.k.a. the Black Ghost. He's one of our targets."

_"One_ of our targets?" Elaine asked, her implication clear.

"Who, or what, the hell is a Black Ghost?" Roinell questioned.

"He is the IID's chief covert operative agent," Bricker replied. "And he has political ambitions. If Tohouri were gone, we believe that many viable successors would suddenly disappear, and this man would suddenly come to prominence."

Roinell said, "What does this have to do with anything?"

Bricker waited for Pauli's nod. "Just watch," he instructed, and he clicked the remote.

"That's my house!" Roinell exclaimed, and a similar image swept onto the screen. This time, however, someone was standing in front of the house. Several clicks of the remote brought the face closer until a grainy image filled the screen. Gasps escaped throughout the room.

Another picture appeared. "That's my kids' high school!" Elaine cried out. Again, another, similar picture filled the screen, but with an image on the left blown up: a dark form, inside a car. "Blow it up more," Elaine demanded, knowing intuitively what would come next. Her hand shot to her mouth. "Oh, my God."

Several more pictures swept on and off the screen, each with the Black Ghost as part of the landscape, each picture familiar to someone there. In the final one, in a Hawaiian shirt and looking very much the tourist, he was smiling at a young woman as she passed by. The Capital building was in the background.

"This was taken two days before the Capital bombing," Bricker continued. "We believe he had some part in the planning of the attack, but we haven't nailed that down yet." He turned off the TV. "We think it's clear that your association with the president has caused you to be subjects of the Black Ghost's attention, and there's not much speculation on whether or not such attention would be healthy for you—or your families."

Pauli walked across the room and stood in front of the TV. "You're right, Roinell, it's personal—for all of us."

Thinking he could have heard the proverbial pin drop, Santo said, "So, is there a plan for this, or what?"

Chapter 53. Second Thoughts

_It could never happen_. Bricker had heard the words over and over, from former presidents, to his wife, and they pained him. If he'd only done something when he'd first seen it coming. If he hadn't let Thomas Kusczak manipulate him the way he did. If he'd only.... The list of _if only_ s could go on forever. He should have stopped Kusczak early on, years ago when he'd discovered that Kusczak was betraying him, and the country, for the sake of satisfying his own ego. Tohouri should have been stopped then as well, taken out by an assassin's bullet. Instead, the man who'd been sent to do it was duped because of his own trusting nature. Trust did not serve a spy well, and Lucca Bravo had died because of it. Now, similarly, Lucca's son was putting his trust on the line. It must run in the family, Bricker surmised. If Santo only knew the truth, then, perhaps, it would be Santo that played the assassin, and, put him, Bricker, out of this misery. But then, Tohouri would be allowed to go on, just as he'd been allowed to go on in the past. No, the time had come. He, Andrew Bricker, Director of the CIA, had to do something. It was his responsibility.

"Honey, what are you doing?"

The background light of the adjoining room made his wife's body seem like a darkened spirit who'd finally come for him. If only he could be so lucky. He drained the last of his drink and reached for her. She came over and sat with him in the darkness, her scent a familiar reminder of their thirty years together.

"I'm waiting for the phone to ring."

"You're drinking again."

"I know," he said, knowing what would come next.

"It won't help whatever it is that's eating at you."

"I know," he repeated, tightening his arms around her.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

How many times had she asked that question in the last thirty years? And how many times had he answered it the same way he was going to answer it now? "Maybe later."

She pressed her face to his. "What's the phone call?" she whispered, wavering.

She never pursued. Bricker raised an eyebrow, unseen in the darkness. "Do you really want to know?"

"This time I think I should."

He pulled her close. A warm tear found its way to his lips, and he wasn't sure if it was his or hers. She had a right to know what was going on, yet he hesitated, his sense of confidentiality wrestling with his sense of honesty. He felt her breath coming in shallow waves.

"I'm waiting for word on the summit meeting," he said softly. She didn't respond. The phone rang, and he picked it up quickly.

"Fine," he said after some moments. "When?" He listened. "Fine," again, followed by, "Thank you." He put the phone down gently. All went according to plan, which meant that two of Tohouri's generals who had steadfastly opposed the summit meeting had met with some unfortunate circumstances. The others had been bribed easily after having become aware of their colleagues' coincidental deaths. It would be easy for them to justify their vote. The summit would be on African turf, after all, and at no time would the supreme commander be at risk. Talk was cheap, it was explained, but in this case, it would cost about a million per general. The operative also said that Tohouri himself thought it a marvelous idea, and nearly glowed at the notion of being at center-stage with the president of the United States.

"Was that Langley?" she asked when he didn't volunteer anything.

He nodded. "The summit meeting has been agreed to."

"When?"

"Two weeks." He sighed. Operation GANGLAND would have to simmer for a while; World War III had been put on hold.

* * * * *

"Tell the good secretary that my duty as chief of staff is to fulfill the president's agenda, and if he doesn't like it, he can just ..." Elaine fumbled for the right words. "... fuck off." The administrative aide chuckled and gave a thumbs up, only too happy to relay the message with exactly the same fervor. Elaine blew through the anteroom, not so much as glancing at the Secret Service agents who followed her every move.

"The summit has been arranged," she declared, not bothering to knock.

The president looked up. His eyes never left Elaine's as he said to the national security advisor, "Bob, give us moment, would you please?"

Seeing the expectant looks being exchanged between the president and the chief of staff, the national security advisor asked, "Should I call Mary to reschedule?"

"That would be fine," said Pauli.

The national security advisor nodded curtly and gathered his papers. Elaine fiddled with her suit until the door to the Oval Office closed firmly.

"Do we go through with it?" she asked after the president signaled that the recording devices were turned off.

"Is there a choice?"

Chapter 54. Presidential Risk

In awe, the Black Ghost took in energy from the scene before him. The man had been metamorphosed. His eyes were sharp, bereft of the dullness that had lived in them for years. He radiated in this newfound strength, and seemed to grow more potent with every breath. The once prominent pockmarks seemed to blend with the deep character lines that had developed on his face, a markedly different face from that of the rogue leader who had come to power thirty-two years ago in a country with no paved roads. It would take planning to bring him down, especially with this newfound vigor. Where had it come from?

A servant helped him button the tunic for which he was being fitted. Tohouri did a quick double-take as he heard his name come over a radiocast in the background. The piece ended quickly, the gist of it being that the new American president was going before the American people that evening to explain his reasons for seeking a summit conference. The American people were furious, and they wanted an explanation of why this new, previously tough-talking president didn't fulfill the late President Byrd's agenda and declare war on the African Axis powers.

"We have him," he said, looking at his reflection in the mirror. "War or no war, either way he dies."

"We've already tried eliminating him once, Supreme Commander."

"Do not worry," said Tohouri. "You can be assured I won't fail."

* * * * *

The sand and rock extended for miles over the undulating landscape, the vastness broken only by the craggy rock formations that jutted from the earth. As giant as these formations were, the winds of the great Sahara would win the battle between them—if they fought long enough. That was the key. It might take millions of years, but eventually even the huge formations would be ground flat.

Pauli turned from the window, feeling that, like the others aboard Air Force One, he should get some sleep. He took an empty seat, not his, for Elaine was in his all curled up and snoring lightly. He leaned back and closed his eyes, knowing that sleep wouldn't come. He thought some more about the wind and the rock: he might be the rock, but Tohouri was the wind. He'd been seeing and hearing Tohouri's name for thirty years, and for thirty years Tohouri had been blowing incessantly. How did one stop the wind?

Air Force One banked slightly. Pauli rubbed his eyes, focusing on the lights from the F-18 fighter squadron that was escorting them over the continent. The prospect of an aerial ambush was almost nonexistent, for not even Tohouri would resort to that—the world was watching—but those pilots would fight to the death if such ever happened. Pauli knew that. Their faith and training dictated it. Once again, he closed his eyes, hoping that the team he and Bricker were putting in place was as brave and determined as the pilots around him. They had better be. There was no other way to stop the wind.

* * * * *

Andrew Bricker reviewed the plan in his head for the hundredth time. It had as much a chance of failing as it did of working, not very good odds when one was dealing with the fate of the planet. He tried to console himself with the fact that if the plan failed, the only difference in the larger scheme of things would be that the president of the United States and a few others would be dead. The situation for the rest of humankind would be the same, and in that sense, the price of failure was small.

Yawning, he glanced at the clock on his desk. Air Force One would be landing in about an hour, and it would be time to put the rest of the team in place. With the attention the president would attract, it would be a bit easier to slip the others into location, himself included. He punched the speed dial on his phone.

"Hi honey.... Just wanted to let you know I'll be leaving in about an hour.... No, Andrews this time.... Honey...? I wanted to let you know I've decided.... Yes, I'll announce it publicly and meet with the DDO as soon as I get back. I think he's as ready as anyone to be the new director.... I knew you'd be happy.... Yes, I love you too.... No, I won't do anything stupid. The time for doing stupid things passed me by a long time ago."

* * * * *

The spires of the Emerald City stood gleaming in the brilliant sunlight, pillars of stone and steel rising out of a fertile, green oasis. Pauli donned a pair of dark glasses and sat back in his seat. Holding a copy of his opening speech, he'd reviewed no more than the first few sentences before his mind drifted, his thoughts menacingly anchored on the evil plan therein. He glanced at the secretary of state, who was busying himself with his cell phone. Elaine gazed absently through the window of the limo, her eyes catching one passing date palm after another as their motorcade cruised down the boulevard toward the Royal Palace. He cleared his throat, distracting her. Her eyes, like blue ball bearings, landed on his.

"Is everything all right?" he asked.

"Fine," she shot curtly, knowing exactly what he meant. "You?" Pauli nodded, and she jagged her head ever so slightly toward the secretary of state.

"He'll be busy," Pauli said lowly, glancing that way. The secretary was caught up in officialdom. "Any questions?"

"None," Elaine replied, to which the secretary looked up, only to be immediately distracted again as a voice came through his cell phone.

The woman had nerves of steel, thought Pauli.

The scene outside changed abruptly as they entered what must have been a viewing area. Suddenly, the lush green shoulders of the boulevard were littered with heavily armed tanks and other vehicles of destruction, between which thousands of dark-faced observers watched as they passed. "I feel like we're on a train to Auschwitz," Pauli said.

"If that was meant to be funny, it wasn't," Elaine responded.

Pauli noted the time, wondering if the others would arrive according to plan. "It wasn't. This isn't a funny place."

* * * * *

The Black Ghost fiddled with his headset, thrashing it down furiously. "Why is this equipment not working?"

"As best we can tell, sir, it is working." The agent dared to lift his eyes, but he felt secure in what he said.

The Black Ghost's eyes narrowed as he debated whether or not to have someone shot for such an egregious blunder. "How is it working?" he demanded further. "I hear nothing. What about the motion detectors?"

"They seem to be working normally, sir. We are picking up the usual vibrations."

"Are you telling me they are in there?"

"Yes, sir, we believe so."

The Black Ghost moved closer to the young surveillance agent. "It would be best for your future if you were substantially more convinced of that."

The agent swallowed hard. "We are sure, sir. It's just.... Well, they're not moving."

"Not moving? How can they not be moving?"

"I don't know, sir. But they are in there... and they are not."

The Black Ghost crossed his arms. Very interesting. Clearly, the American president was no one's fool. Not only had he insisted on traveling with no entourage, he'd also undoubtedly absorbed a briefing along the way as to the ways of a total surveillance state. "What about the pinhole cameras?"

"Blocked, sir. They seem to have been detected right away."

The Black Ghost headed for the door. "Let me know immediately if there is any change." Quickly, he took a cell phone from his pocket. "Where is the supreme commander now?" he barked as he walked.

* * * * *

Pauli put a finger to his lips, and pointed to another pinhole high above his head. He'd already found six such holes, where tiny pinhole-cameras with super wide-angle lenses recorded everything within their view in a voyeuristic crossfire. He located the TV—Japanese, he noted—and set the volume to an annoyingly high level. He pulled Elaine to the floor, figuring from his calculations that there were no other cameras focused on that particular spot.

"This is a total surveillance house," he whispered.

Elaine looked around nervously. "Oooh, how creepy."

"I'd suspect there are cameras in here powerful enough to tell if your fingernails are dirty, not to mention read the print on any documents we may have brought."

"Where? I don't see anything."

"And you won't. Devices could be anywhere: in clocks, imbedded in the furniture; who knows?"

"You think they can see us, or hear us, now?"

"Hard to tell, but if they can, I'm sure we look pretty stupid. They'd have to think we're up to something."

Elaine's eyes widened. "Do you think there are cameras in all the rooms?"

"I'm positive of it."

"So, when I take a shower... you mean...."

"You'll be making someone's day very special."

"Oh, gross!"

"Get over it. If you're lucky, the pictures won't make it to _The_ _Tattler_ until you're out of office."

"Very funny."

"There are probably miles of wires inside these walls. Some of them are probably false."

"What, the wires?"

"No, the walls."

"This is too weird." Elaine held herself, as if doing so would make her feel safer.

Pauli moved closer, until his lips touched her ear. "We're in an environment of total paranoia. We have to find a way to use it to our advantage."

"How'd you become such an expert on all this stuff?"

Pauli scanned the room meticulously. "Bricker."

"That man gives me the willies." She quickly changed the subject. "Don't you think we've already made them suspicious?"

"Probably. And they're probably wondering why we requested separate accommodations for the secretary of state. I say we give them something to talk about and make our pinhole-blocking exercise seem normal."

"How does anything we do now seem normal?"

Pauli looked into Elaine's eyes, asking her silently to go along. Suddenly, he stood and began unbuttoning his shirt. "Let's have sex," he announced, full-voiced.

Elaine absorbed the depth of his stare, thinking she understood. Still....

Already bare-chested, "We don't have much time," he called out, pulling her up from the floor. "Are you ready?"

Elaine looked into his eyes, trying to see some unspoken message as he unbuttoned her blouse. Nervously, she said, "I'm ready, Mister President," as he put his hands on her breasts.

"This way," he said, as he led her to a bedroom. "I've always wanted to do it like a jungle animal."

* * * * *

"This is good. This is very good," the Black Ghost said to no one in particular. He watched the bed covers flapping furiously. So, the American president was doing it with his own chief of staff. No wonder a separate suite had been requested for the secretary of state when all three of them could have shared this one suite quite easily. Unfortunately, the American president had missed a couple of cameras in attempting to shield his indiscretions. The Black Ghost turned from the monitor. "Let me know when he is finished," he smirked, "then send over some fruit. They'll probably be hungry."

* * * * *

"Jesus, you're dripping all over me!" Elaine wiped the sweat—not hers—off her face.

Gasping for air, "Keep your voice down," Pauli whispered. "It's hot under here."

"Don't you think we've been at it long enough?"

"I'm trying to make it look convincing."

"If you make it look any more convincing, they're gonna think you're the Ever-Ready bunny. It's time already." She was tempted to look at her watch.

"Okay," he wheezed, still thrusting his backside into the covers. "Why don't you let out some kind of moan or something?"

"Another moan, and they're gonna think I'm a cow."

"Then yell, scream, do _something_ to make them think it's over. And hurry up. I'm dying here."

"Shit," she said. "Oh, yes, yes, Mister President! That's it, right there, Mister President! Oh, oh, _oooooooooh!_ "

Pauli slowed his thrusting motion, and hovered in time with her cries. When she was done, he carefully slid to the side, keeping the bedcovers over them to hide the fact that they were still wearing their underwear.

"I need a goddamned shower."

"You're welcome," he replied, leaning over and snuggling close, trying to make it look natural. His eyes were rock steady. "We're gonna have to be naked when we get out of this bed." The words were soft, so soft it would have been impossible to overhear them unless there was a microphone in the pillow. The pillow! Suddenly, he reached up and fluffed his pillow. Feeling nothing out of the ordinary, he put his arm under hers, but felt nothing there either. She looked at him challengingly.

"I am not getting naked," she growled.

"You have to," he whispered back. "We've gone too far to blow this now."

"No."

"Elaine...."

"Absolutely not."

"You were fine with it before."

"I wasn't fine with it."

Her voice was beginning to elevate. "Okay, so you weren't fine with it. But what choice did you have? They were gonna see you naked as soon as you took a shower."

"I wasn't."

Pauli looked at her. "What? Gonna take a shower? You weren't gonna wash?"

"No."

Pauli propped himself on his elbow. "Everything we do has to look normal. Not taking a shower would not look normal."

"Right, like the president of the United States screwing his chief of staff is normal."

"That's different." Pauli pushed himself closer. "Think of the mission, Elaine. We have to keep the focus on us at all times. Now, it's not normal for two people who just made love to get out of the bed with their clothes on. Look at me." She did, and her eyes were like daggers. "What would be normal for two people who just made passionate love, would be that they look happy. Happy, Elaine. You don't look happy. Now, come over here, give your president a little peck on the cheek, then get out of this bed, sans underwear, and head for the bathroom. _That_ would be normal. And if we pull this off, it will be normal that we will be the topic of conversation, as opposed to any other topic. They'll have their guard down. Mission accomplished. Get it?"

"I get it, _Mister_ President." She wiggled beneath the covers. "You just better close those big, old owl-eyes of yours, you hear me?"

"I hear you," said Pauli, closing his eyes as he felt her scoot from the bed.

She leaned over to give him the happy, little peck on the cheek he'd just described. Whispering angrily, she said, "You owe me big time for this one, buster. You keep those eyes shut tight, or I'll make 'em swell up so bad you'll look like a puffy raccoon."

"Got 'em shut up tighter than a duck's ass," he lied as she walked to the bathroom.

* * * * *

Roinell stayed low inside the car, the cold of the desert surprising him. Fully dressed and suddenly serious, his driver finally stopped his incessant chattering and waited patiently with him. For what, Roinell wasn't quite sure. The tower of the Emerald City shimmered in the distance, rising out of the flatness as if it were the center of the universe. It stood at the center of the city, surrounded by blocks of pedestrian parks sprinkled with fruit trees and flower gardens. Vehicular traffic wasn't allowed within four blocks of the tower in any direction, a fact that should prove to his benefit, Roinell was told. However, there would be dozens of cameras trained across the landscape, and a sole runner would be noticeable no matter what the circumstances. He still wasn't sure what those two statements meant to him.

He glanced through the back windshield, his sixth sense indicating something was there, and there was. In full jog, a tall, sinewy black man was approaching quickly. It could have been his twin, Roinell noticed as the man got closer.

"Is everything all right?" the runner asked as he leaned through the driver's window.

The thick, Irish brogue wasn't what Roinell expected, but then again, he wasn't sure what he expected. This secret rendezvous thing was all quite new to him.

"Nothing unusual so far," the driver answered, his own Italian accent coming across distinctly.

A moment later, the runner was in the back seat next to Roinell. "Mister King, I presume. You can call me Patty."

Roinell nodded, thinking: an Irish black guy named Patty? This was all so James Bond-ish.

"If we are approached for any reason, you are to split off immediately and run for the Iranian embassy. I'll take care of the rest."

Roinell nodded, feeling intuitively that it would be better not to speak.

"Take this transmitter. If we have to split up, press the red button on the end. It will alert the appropriate people that something has gone awry, and that you are on your way to the embassy. The proper sequence will be put into effect at that point, including the distraction process."

Roinell took the black plastic box, half the size of a pack of cigarettes, thinking: why not just use a cell phone? He thought he remembered how to get to the Iranian embassy. It had been pointed out the previous day, although nothing further had been said about it. He saw, now, that he'd been expected to memorize its location. That was probably spy SOP, but he was no spy. Maybe these guys didn't know that.

"Are you familiar with the route?" Patty asked.

Roinell turned and stared, his eyes wide with instant dread as to what he was doing here. Abruptly, he felt Patty's powerful grip on his shoulder.

"Are you with us, friend?" Patty's voice was strong and insistent.

Roinell looked away while, inside, he struggled to control his thoughts.

"Can you do this?" Patty asked urgently. "The mission must go forward."

"Yes," Roinell croaked, having no idea if he could even walk.

Patty hesitated, and exchanged looks with the driver.

"Take the run," the driver said. "If he dies, he dies."

_If he dies, he dies_. Roinell almost bolted from the car, alarmed at how cheap his life seemed right then. Suddenly, he heard the _thunk_ of the trunk release and he followed Patty out of the car, his thin running clothes fluttering in the brisk night breeze. He watched as Patty lifted two large backpacks from the trunk and dropped them on the ground. "What are those?" he asked.

"Rocks," said Patty.

Roinell stooped and unzipped a pocket on one of the packs. There really were rocks inside.

Patty handed him an ID card. "You're in training," he said.

Roinell looked at the card. "For what?"

"The Olympics, if you like. It doesn't matter. If we get stopped, just follow my lead." Patty pointed to the shimmering tower. "Our job is to get these rocks to the other side of that tower in twenty-three minutes."

Roinell chuckled, a nervous release. "Then we might as well drive them there. That's got to be four miles away."

"Actually, it's exactly five-point-two miles."

Roinell did the math. "You want me to do that in twenty-three minutes...." He looked down. "... with this on my back?"

"Precisely." Patty hoisted one of the packs. "I've been running it for a week now, and it's almost doable."

Roinell jumped as the car started up suddenly and sped away, spitting gravel in its wake. He realized just as suddenly that he had no ID, no money, no cell phone, nothing. He could easily disappear off the face of the earth without a trace. What the hell had he gotten himself into? "I'm ready," he announced lamely, lifting the remaining pack. "This had better be worth it." He slipped his arms into the pack and sealed the Velcro strips across his chest. The fucking thing weighed a ton.

* * * * *

Santo scanned the acres of irrigated lawns and manicured flowerbeds surrounding the fantastic tower at the center of the Emerald City. Lowering his powerful night vision binoculars, he turned to Angel, who was visually strafing the area as well. "What, specifically, are we supposed to be doing?" he asked.

"Observing," Angel responded crisply. "This is an observation post. You're supposed to observe your ass off, and make notes, lots of notes."

"About what, exactly?"

"You don't have to worry about what, exactly. Someone else will make sense of it all. I'm sure we're not the only ones doing this."

Santo raised his binoculars again. "Can you believe that thing? What kind of warped psyche would build a monument like that to himself?"

"One that thinks he's the center of the universe," Angel replied. "This whole place is one big la-la land. Did you notice there's hardly any commerce in this whole place?"

Santo pointed to the ever-present crowd surrounding the building. "What do you think all those people are doing here?"

"They cheer, while they're here. This is a reward center."

"Reward center?"

"They're rotated in and out of here from all over the continent, free of charge. Their trips are based on points, or something."

"What, like frequent-flyer miles?"

"Something like that. If they're good little boys and girls back in their homelands, they earn a vacation here, and their main function is to cheer Tohouri whenever he comes out to make a speech—which is often, I found out." Angel lowered his binoculars. "They even have a schedule of events posted on the far side of the tower."

"And... what? Everyone is trotted out here to be an audience?"

"I guess. The whole thing is taped and broadcast via satellite. This is one big, flag-waving propaganda machine. It looks like something is happening now."

From the left edge of the landscape, Santo noticed a convoy of armored personnel carriers winding its way toward the tower, where, despite the late hour, several large throngs of political worshipers were being herded by groups of armed escorts. He watched as two of the supposed worshipers were separated, and, despite their apparent protests, were led off at gunpoint to parts unseen. No one else protested, Santo observed. Hmm, not surprising. He read acceptance in the surrounding faces, masking any lifeblood or sense of worthiness.

"Weird," he said. "How'd you find out about all this?"

"Watching, listening; it didn't take long. It started me thinking."

"That's scary."

"Not only about this fantasy land," Angel went on, ignoring the sarcasm, "but about this whole mission."

"Yeah? Spill, bro'."

"The more I thought about it, the more I thought our being recruited for this makes zero sense. I mean, we're not pros, not anymore anyway. Hell of a time to think about it now, I guess, but it all happened pretty fast, out of the blue."

Santo lowered his glasses. "I thought it was just me. All that stuff about, _you're the only six people on the planet I can trust_ —it was all bullshit, wasn't it?"

"Maybe, maybe not," Angel replied. "My opinion of the president is that he's not a very good liar, and I also think he'd do anything to avoid sending troops into battle. If our military and intelligence organizations were compromised as he says, I wouldn't trust anyone either. Hell, if the chairman of our Joint Chiefs was on the take, who knows what else was fucked up?"

Santo shook his head. "Yeah, but I still don't get it. Us, stumbling around here pretending to be reporters.... Talk about fucked up. We're not reporters. I don't see how making that our cover is going to help...." He picked his words carefully. "... complete this assignment."

Angel leaned in close. "Bricker," he said, low-voiced. "This operation has his name written all over it."

Santo wondered if any of the bad guys were listening, despite the fact that they'd been told otherwise. He figured he'd know soon.

"I'm sure that are a lot more people involved in this than we know," Angel continued, "but none of them know anything beyond their specific aspect of the operation. We're only a small part of it, like players in an orchestra—and Bricker is the conductor."

"So you're buying the, _we're the only six people he can trust_ , thing?"

"After what the president has been through, I think that's exactly what he believes. It's pretty clear that Bricker believes otherwise."

"Clear to who?"

"Whom," Angel corrected, clearly becoming annoyed with having to explain everything. "Have you seen, or met, any other Americans in the three days we've been here?"

Santo wrinkled his brow. "No, now that you mention it."

"Don't you think that's kind of strange? I mean, this is supposed to be a summit meeting. Wouldn't you figure there'd be Americans crawling all over the fucking place?"

"I thought the fact that the president only took a few key advisors along was to make sure other competent leadership stayed behind in case something went wrong."

"That might be true, but in the big picture I think that's bullshit."

"And the real reason?"

"To deflect responsibility away from the president should something happen to Tohouri and the president isn't able to get out of Dodge. Plausible deniability. Duh! Not that it would matter if the op went south. We'd all be dead, including the president, but it would save the integrity of the office. No one would think the president would be part of any attempt to do away with Tohouri while being in the line of fire himself."

Santo made a face. "Let's get back to what we're supposed to be doing." He looked at the spot where the two demonstrators had been hustled off, noting that a couple of dozen soldiers had alighted from the personnel carriers and were being deployed around the crowd. Most of them were clapping and cheering, urging others to do so as well. "The president wouldn't set us up like that," Santo said, not letting go of the conversation.

"You're not listening. This is Bricker's show, and he'd set us up in a heartbeat in order to take down Tohouri and not implicate the president."

Santo took a moment. "So, we're getting fucked from both sides."

"What do you mean?"

"Think about it," said Santo. "One: this fucker Tohouri has killed thousands of his own people, and who knows how many of his fellow African leaders. Two: he's ultimately responsible for the terrorist attack on the Vatican. Three: he killed off our entire legislature with a nuclear device. The guy will do anything. Stop me when you think I'm wrong, but are we stupid enough to believe he's gonna let us, and our beloved young president, waltz out of here when this cozy little gathering is over? Right. And I've got a foot-long dick." Santo took a breath. "You said it yourself: this is a total surveillance state. How did we get into this place so easily? Why have we been allowed to move around with no interference whatsoever? You think that's because of our covert operating skill? Get real. If this weren't so serious, it would be funny. It's too bad it took me this long to figure this out. We're up shit's creek without the proverbial paddle, and now it's too late to turn back."

Angel just scratched his head and said, "Fuck." He turned toward Santo. "We might never get out of here, no matter what happens."

"No shit."

Chapter 55. Global Realignment

His uneyes heavy as one of the lead moons around Mallikari, Byrd Brain stumbled from his orientation meeting with the Big Guy. Realization about what was what, and how up where he was related to down where he'd come from, was hard to fathom. "The Big Guy wants to know when you're going to end the unGame," he announced feebly.

No one at the untable paid him any mind. Ulysses in particular was deathly still, a thin line of smoke from his stogie curling past his right uneye. His flask of Zenian tea now empty, he shifted the stogie to the other side of his unmouth, waiting, waiting, waiting for the dice to come around one last time. His blue armies were fully deployed, every last infantry piece, every last cavalry piece, and every last artillery piece strategically placed so as to best defend his green territories, which stretched from Japan to the Middle East. That was the key word, he thought: _defend_. Just like at the siege at Petersburg in the winter of '64, he'd been biding his time far too long. He either needed to make an aggressive move, or he needed to defortify some of those borders and allow another unplayer to come in and take over his territories. If he didn't, he knew he'd be conquered. On Earth, it would be viewed as another strategic alliance, but he knew differently: it was a matter of survival. Sadly, having heard the story of how Byrd Brain had made it to the unGame, having seen the pain in the man's uneyes, Ulysses knew that things down there were on the verge of catastrophe. Normally for him, survival meant attack, but there was one sticky little detail that prevented him from going head-to-head with Abe-The-Hat: he didn't think he could win. Ulysses' territory was too large, much larger than the other continents, and he had to fortify and defend seven different fronts with the same number of armies as everyone else. It wasn't possible. Next time, he'd be sure to avoid the green territories altogether, but right now he needed to decide on a strategy. Who would he want to take command of his armies?

Studying the unboard, he'd already determined that Chrome Dome had come to the same conclusion. Chrome Dome had already redeployed his armies, allowing one of Ready Teddy's armies into southern Europe. It was an obvious alliance on Earth, and it could have been a strong one, but attacking with a single army? Who did that pompous chump Ready Teddy think he was? Ulysses shot him a quick glance, noting that he was foaming with anticipation. Having Ready Teddy as the new Big Guy? Ugh! The SOB's ego was already big; letting him move up would be unbearable. Ulysses contemplated that he might have to go with The Kid.

The Kid could be ruthless in battle, and Ulysses liked that in an unman. The alternative was to let Abe take an offensive strategy, and there would be hell to pay if Abe had any thoughts of pushing out of Africa to try and take the whole shebang. Up to now, Abe had only been nibbling on the other continents, he being sensitive to the needs of humankind and all, but the Big Guy's chair would soon be empty, and that put a whole new slant on winning.

"What do you fellas want me to tell the Big Guy?" Byrd Brain asked tentatively. The Big Guy liked using neophytes to communicate. They didn't know any better, and they always bugged the uncrap out of everyone until they figured things out. "He said to get this over with."

No one answered, and Ulysses looked down to see why. Abe was gathering up the dice. Ulysses took a seat. If he survived this turn, the dice would be his.

Chapter 56. The Andrew Bricker Show

Bricker looked up from the small television monitor, a look of sheer amazement on his face. "What the hell was he thinking?" he asked rhetorically.

A wiry, dark-skinned black man sat opposite him, his face disguised with a nappy beard so as to hide it even from Bricker. A deep-cover operative, only three other people on the planet knew of his existence. His code name was Moses, and he was an assistant supply manager inside Tohouri's Ministry of Mapping and Logistics, a low-level government grunt who'd been passing secrets to the west for the last six years. Shaking his head, he was just as flabbergasted as Bricker, and this was the third time he'd seen the tape. "Clearly, he wasn't thinking with this head," Moses said, tapping his temple. "Not that I blame him. The chief is a good lookin' woman. I'd do 'er."

"You'd do a goat," Bricker snapped back.

"So would you if you'd spent as much time in this shithole as I have. How long do you think our beloved president and the chief of staff have been gettin' it on?"

"They haven't," Bricker said sternly. "I'm having a hard time believing what I just saw."

The smirk on Moses's face said it all. "Looked pretty convincing to me. She certainly gives new meaning to the words _chief of staff_ —if you catch my drift."

"I'm not amused," said Bricker, pacing a tight circle. "When did you get this?"

"I got a copy of it this morning—one of many that are making the rounds, by the way." Bricker's eyes shot wide open. "From what I hear. A bootlegged copy can bring quite a price."

Just great, thought Bricker, but he had other things to worry about. Still, he couldn't shake the thought: what the hell could the president have been thinking? He thought he knew the man, and nothing hinted at what he'd just seen. On top of that, everything he knew about Elaine Estes indicated that boning the president was out of the question in normal circumstances, never mind in a total surveillance situation. It didn't make sense. It should have dawned on either, or both, of them to control their hormones until.... Wait. Maybe they knew exactly what they were doing. Could the president have been sending a message? By making out with his chief of staff? Impossible, unless the president wasn't really making out with his chief of staff, unless it was all faked. Bricker turned quickly. "Play that back again."

"Sure," said Moses. "I can't get enough of this either."

* * * * *

Alone, Pauli watched as, almost instantly, daylight turned to darkness. The huge, brilliantly yellow sun dipped below the perfectly straight horizon, and the desert cold was pushing in quickly. The smell of food suddenly grabbed his attention, not like from a restaurant, or a fancy kitchen, but from a cookout. Oddly, he recalled the afternoon of his thirteenth birthday, an afternoon he remembered as clearly as if he were looking into a mirror.

It was the first day his mother had actually made an attempt at returning to a normal life after his father had died. His birthday was to be a happy occasion, she'd said. He was a man now, and he should have a man's celebration, complete with greasy hamburgers, and potato salad, and anything else he wanted. It was the day he'd told his mother that someday he was going to be president of the United States. The thought had come during a quiet moment when they were talking about his father.

"The one mistake he made," his mom said lovingly, "is that he never figured out what he really wanted to do. He wanted you to be more defined, to have goals. It didn't matter what, as long as it was something you wanted." And so, Pauli said that someday he wanted to be president. She laughed, but only until she realized he didn't see the humor in the statement.

Inadvertently, the pressure had already started to build for him, and he remembered the panic of that afternoon. Outwardly, he tried to enjoy the day and revel in the laughter of his friends, some of whom were noticeably older, but nowhere near as old as he had become. Life had taken him and his mom in a rush recently. It had only been a few weeks earlier that they'd found the first round of cancer in one of her breasts, only a month after his father had died so unexpectedly, so tragically. He was the man of the house now, the protector of their little world, but he was dangling, not knowing what to do, or how to act. The sense of sudden and urgent responsibility overwhelmed him, making him afraid to step in any direction for fear that doing so would tighten the feeling of paralysis that gripped him. His mother had found him withdrawn, wide-eyed in front of the television while the rest of his friends were out playing with the presents they'd brought for him. It was Roinell who came inside that afternoon—at his mother's behest, Pauli thought now—to find out why he seemed so sad with such a great party going on.

"Just do your best," Roinell advised him, "and if that's not good enough, then fuck it." Roinell used a lot of bad words back then, probably because a lot of older people talked that way, and they were always trying to be older. "You don't have to save the world, do you?"

And, here he was, getting ready, in essence, to do just that. Pauli turned from the balcony of the dignitaries' palace, and reentered his suite. Elaine was busy going over his speech, the speech he was to give between the reception and the state dinner. Drafts of the speech had already been released, and the basic message had already been dissected, lauded upon, and criticized around the globe—a fruitless exercise, Pauli thought, for the speech was totally noncommittal. It was a brilliant concoction, composed by Elaine, which at its end would reveal no more about the position of the United States than a blank page would have. It was meant to keep them guessing, and force them into face-to-face negotiations if they were going have any clue as to the deal the United States would be willing to cut to avoid armed conflict. But it would never get to that. Tonight was the night that all the actors in Bricker's play were to be in place, the night that, if all went as planned, he, the president of the United States, would feel warm blood on his hands. Some would condemn him forever for what he was about to do, others would say he was a hero and would forgive him, albeit posthumously, perhaps, but the American people would have their revenge for the murder of their leaders. "Fuck it," he muttered to himself. He wondered how the others were holding up.

* * * * *

This would be the fourth time, and each time before they'd come up short. Going 5.2 miles in twenty-three minutes was almost an Olympic pace, _without_ the fifty-pound pack of rocks. With the sun gone, Roinell tried to keep himself limber, his thoughts centered on the day at Camp David when he'd heard with his own ears that this so-called Black Ghost had placed him, and anyone else associated with Pauli, on a special _associates list_. He remembered the look on Whitney's face when the talk of protection surfaced.

"We're just ordinary people," she sobbed.

It took two of Bricker's agents to convince her they were not. A white-haired, banker-looking type said to her, "Your husband is a close personal friend of the president."

"So? They grew up together. Is that a crime?"

"No," the agent replied. "It's a risk." The agent exchanged looks with his partner, who nodded. "This is why," he said as he handed her a stack of photographs.

"Where did you get these?" she asked, her anxiety replaced by a sudden and not-so-soft defiance. "These are my sons."

"Off a deep-cover operative—now deceased."

Whitney's chocolate skin paled as the blood drained from her face. "These pictures were in a shoe box, waiting to be put into an album." She looked up. "Someone was inside my house."

Ultimately, it was Andrew Bricker himself who convinced her that their lives were actually in danger. The Capital bombing was just the tip of the iceberg, he'd told her, unfortunately the one terrorist act that succeeded—thus far. Many others had been thwarted. "All the operatives in those threats had been blindly fanatical to their cause," he'd revealed.

"What, were they going to kill all the president's friends?" she'd asked emotionally.

"Worse," Bricker replied. "They were going to make their lives living nightmares." Whitney stared blankly, not asking the obvious question. "Your sons were going to be kidnapped, if only for the reason that they thought it would affect the president."

"Goddamn them," she cursed. It didn't take much after that to convince her that what the president was asking Roinell to do had worldwide importance. She couldn't have cared less about that, however. What she really wanted was revenge, hoping that somehow the president, this mysterious Bricker fellow, and her husband could find a way to hang these African terrorists up by their balls. That's what she really wanted. The rest of it sounded like crap.

Missing his family, Roinell wished that Whitney could have been there with him, wishing further that he could have revealed the true reason for his being in Africa. Then again, what was the true reason? He thought he'd known, as he recalled the Camp David meetings for the umpteenth time, but all he'd done was make these fucking runs. Speaking of which, where was Patty? His newfound running mate had indicated more than once that it wasn't good to be late.

He looked up and down the sparsely populated road from which he and Patty had begun each of the runs. There were nothing but dilapidated buildings in this area, warehouses mostly, like the one he was standing beside. A bus approached, no doubt carrying another instant audience for yet another staged event, and Roinell stepped into the shadows, nearly jumping out of his skin when a car engine fired to life not thirty feet away. How could he have missed it? The flash of a match glowed from inside the car, and the metallic _ca-thunk_ of the transmission sounded clearly before its tires began to crunch over dry gravel. The car inched forward, its grill coming into view as it cleared the shadows that had been hiding it. Roinell prepared himself for the worst: military police, he speculated, come to cart him off to parts unknown. Up to now, he'd been under Patty's wing, posing as an Olympic runner-in-training, one of many who were in the Emerald City at Tohouri's pleasure, getting ready to participate in the upcoming Pan African Games in Kenya. Catching a whiff of cigar smoke, Roinell held his breath as the window came down to reveal Andrew Bricker sitting in the passenger seat.

Bricker looked straight ahead. "In the trunk," he said without blinking an eye.

"Where's Patty?" Roinell asked, his heart pounding.

Bricker turned, the bags under his eyes visible even in the looming darkness. "He's not coming. This is now strictly a Company operation." He puffed on a thin cigar. "You have exactly thirty-seven minutes."

Roinell went to the trunk where the rusted lid had already been released. Inside was a backpack similar to the one he and Patty had been using for their _training_. It weighed a ton. Instinctively, he unzipped the main compartment, and, as he suspected, there were no rocks inside. Instead, he caught the glint of black steel as pieces of a small arsenal reflected the last rays of daylight. A dozen or so hand grenades and canisters of who-the-fuck-knew what they were completed the assortment. He came back to the window.

"You now have exactly thirty-five minutes to rendezvous," Bricker said. "I suggest you stretch your legs."

"Where's the little black box? What if I'm caught?"

Bricker turned away. "Then may God have mercy on us all."

* * * * *

Andrew Bricker stepped from the car a different man than the one who'd just possibly sent a naïve, but patriotic, man to his death. His skin had become darker, his hair white, his face wrinkled with age. His movements were those of the old African man he'd just become, now one of countless spectators heading for the tower of the Emerald City, inside of which Tohouri was putting the final touch on his own plan to completely destroy the government of the United States. The killing of the president was intended as a coup de grâce, Bricker had learned, Tohouri's final insult for the world's policeman. The president was making it easy, coming to meet his death on African soil.

The odds of Roinell King making it to the drop point were fifty/fifty at best, he figured. If King were caught, there would be enough focus on the discovered plot that he, Bricker, would be able to slip through the even tighter security net around Tohouri. All he needed was a distraction, and the plot itself could be it. The president had done a masterful job of creating one at his end. The moles close to Tohouri's inner circle indicated the president's tryst with his own chief of staff was a hot topic. It would be enough of a preoccupation to cause eyes and minds to focus on them, as opposed to anything else, even if it was only for a few moments. If King made it, all the better. If not, no problem, he'd adapt. He'd rehearsed it in his mind a million times.

Bricker moved easily among the milling throngs, bowing when images of Tohouri were splashed on the huge electronic billboards surrounding the tower. He checked his watch. King should be moving. Either he'd be dead soon, or Santo Bravo and Angel Menjivar would be shocked out of their shoes when he showed up with the weapons. So far, so good. The time line was right on. Ann-Marie Doherty was in place as well, having been secreted in the night before. Bricker moved deliberately through the crowd. He had to be in the proper position. If King didn't make it, he'd have to go to plan B. He'd know soon enough.

* * * * *

The eyes were swollen, the skin hot, but it wasn't sickness, not in the traditional sense. Tohouri looked as if he'd been metamorphosed yet again, now a bloodthirsty creature of the jungle from which he'd been spawned. The Black Ghost waited while his leader slipped into his new red tunic.

"When shall I give the order to mobilize, Supreme Commander?"

"As soon as I have torn his heart from his chest." Tohouri smiled. "Did this fool really think I would let him leave here alive? Did the world really think I would not use this opportunity to my advantage? Fools!" he howled. "All of them!"

The tirade would have to pass before intelligent conversation could be resumed. Everything was in place. As soon as the American president was dead, the counter-invasion would begin. GANGLAND would be stalled before it had a chance to catch its inertia, and the seas would be awash with red. After that, if all went according to plan, Tohouri would meet his own untimely death, and there would be no one to guide the huge African forces to victory—except him, the Black Ghost, the new leader of the world, and he would have a new red tunic of his own.

Eyes glazed with anticipation, "How do I look?" Tohouri asked.

"The color is most appropriate, Supreme Commander."

* * * * *

The first mile passed without incident, and he caught his stride. In the distance, the tower stood brilliantly illuminated, its entire edifice bathed by a thousand floodlights. The air was just as electric, and even from outside the city Roinell could feel its pulse. The main boulevards converged on the tower like the spokes of a wheel, and they were as bright as if it were high noon. At four-and-a-half miles out, he'd already broken a sweat, and he knew it would pour forth quickly as the pack's weight began to tell with each lunging stride.

He had no idea of his pace, but he knew from the burn in his hamstrings that it had to be fast. The first intersection was coming up, one of three through which he and Patty had crossed on successive nights. Approximately half-a-mile apart, each had its own unique characteristics, but each led to the tower. It dawned on him why the particular service road on which he was running was chosen. This seemingly nondescript stretch of broken asphalt ran diagonally across each of the boulevards, making the distance to the tower approximately the same no matter which route was taken. Also, he could get an idea of the congestion along each boulevard as he passed through each intersection. Now, it made sense.

He raced toward the first intersection, steering clear of the crowds that were herding slowly toward the looming tower. He decided to haul it to the next intersection, hoping the crowd there wouldn't be as thick. Suck it in, push it out: his lungs felt as if he was breathing razors. Again, people were everywhere. It would be difficult to maintain a pace, especially among the police barricades that had been erected. They hadn't been there before, and he suddenly became aware of the number of military police present. Buses pulled up behind emptying buses, and no one seemed to be paying attention to him, but he was still off in the distance, some hundred yards from the gathering throngs. With images bouncing in his eyes, he suddenly became aware of the clickety-clacking of his load, and, just as suddenly, he knew that the scene before him would be repeated on all the boulevards. At minimum, hundreds of thousands were gathering in front of the tower. Eyes began to turn his way, an occasional glance here and there, but he knew he'd attract more attention as he got closer. Impulsively, he took a hard right, skirting the line of buses that were puking their loads.

What was he thinking? Did he really think he could waltz through miles of militarily secured streets, and hand over a small arsenal to.... Whom? Bricker hadn't told him. He'd merely indicated that it was to be brought to the designated spot where he and Patty had considered their runs complete. That spot was in front of another statue, not of Tohouri, but of some old military leader named Rabih, located in a square that punctuated the end of one of the boulevards. Stride after stride, his feet barely touched the asphalt as the landscape whizzed past. Feeling the sweat pour off him, "Amateur," he said to himself aloud. A professional would never have gone off half-cocked like this. Then, he thought: Bricker. Bricker was a professional, and _he_ should have known better, as well. Then again, maybe Bricker did know. Maybe....

Roinell felt his stomach turn. "Fuck!" he screamed into the night, but the drone of a jeep that had suddenly settled in beside him, drowned out the sound. Head steady, he quickened his stride, feeling as if he was going to burst. The jeep lurched forward, and he looked over, thinking the soldiers looked like the same two who'd stopped him and Patty on their second practice run. The soldiers had insisted on examining their backpacks, smiled a couple of confused smiles upon discovering the rocks inside, and let them go on their merry way. They weren't smiling now.

Sweat stinging his eyes, Roinell pointed to his watch, hoping they'd understand that he didn't want to stop. No deal. A spotlight came on and the jeep lurched forward again, cutting him off. Roinell stopped in his tracks, spitting mucous from the sickness forming inside him.

"Straighten up and act normal," one of the soldiers commanded.

Surprised at what he'd just heard, Roinell wiped his mouth and stood straight in the blinding spotlight. His eyes drifted to the evil-looking automatic rifle leveled at his gut. He was right: it was definitely the same soldier who'd stopped him and Patty two days earlier.

"Pull that pack off your back and show me some ID. Make it look as normal as you can... Mister King."

"How do you know who I am?" Roinell asked, squinting back at the jeep.

"Don't worry about him. He's as dumb as an ox, and doesn't understand English. He'll be okay as long we go through the motions."

Roinell unzipped one of the small pockets, pulling out the same badge and papers he'd shown two days earlier with Patty.

"Now, step away from the pack and sit on the ground. Put your hands behind your head." The soldier in the jeep was busy chewing his nails, while the one in front of him made a show of going through the pack, not so much as blinking twice at what he saw. "You are to continue your journey, Mister King. More specific instructions are written on the piece of paper I'm handing you with your identification. The path has been cleared for you." The spotlight clicked off and he shouldered his weapon. "Have a nice night, Mister King. The director sends his regards."

_The director_ , Roinell thought as he watched the soldier walk back to the jeep. Goddamn.

* * * * *

"What's happening?"

Santo lowered his binoculars and made a notation, comparing the events he'd just observed to the timetable in front of him. "Nothing, but there's gonna be a whole lot of people out there. They're coming in from everywhere. What time is it?"

"Going on nine o'clock, which means the speech is only about an hour away. Why so late, I wonder."

"Probably has to do with TV coverage. It'll be the middle of the day back in the States."

"There could be a couple of hundred thousand people out there," Angel calculated.

Santo lifted his glasses again. "They aren't taking any chances, though. Looks like everyone is going through metal detectors at all the entrance points."

"That, and everything is lit up like a Christmas tree. There's probably plenty of plain-clothes security in the crowd, as well. There's no way a shot could come from down there. It would have to come from behind the podium."

"Or, from one of the buildings ringing the lawns."

There was a knock on the door. Angel paused as his muscles, still taut at sixty-six, tensed up. Slowly, his eyes gravitated to Santo, who seemed to capture the thought at the same time.

Santo took off his _Boston Globe_ baseball cap, and gazed vacantly through the window of the empty two-room office they'd used as an observation post for the last two nights. "Buildings like this one," he mumbled. He looked at Angel. "We're the fucking shooters, aren't we?"

* * * * *

"You look ravishing."

"Cut the crap. You sound like James Bond, only shorter."

"You still look nice. How's my tie?"

Elaine brushed some lint off Pauli's tux. "It's fine. How's my gown?"

"Like I said, you look ravishing. I never knew you had cleavage."

Elaine forced a smile. "I don't use it much. Are you nervous?"

Pauli looked into her eyes. "Are you?"

"Strangely, no, but I feel like I'm on a permanent caffeine buzz."

Pauli took Elaine's hands and faced her squarely. "What we're about to do," he began, realizing that someone, somewhere, was probably listening, "is for the good of the country—and your children," he added, knowing what she was thinking.

"I hope I get to see them again." She stifled a sniffle.

"You will." He took one last look into her eyes, searching for any hint of hesitation. "Any questions?"

"None," she said, dabbing some wet mascara. She offered her arm. "Shall we, Mister President?"

"We shall, Madam Chief of Staff. This is gonna be one hell of an entrance."

* * * * *

The opening chords of _Hail to the Chief_ rang clearly into the African night, and Olu Tohouri watched anxiously as the huge entrance doors opened. With his chief of staff at his side, the American president stepped slowly toward the reception line.

"All is in order?" he questioned, leaning toward the Black Ghost.

"All is in order," the Black Ghost verified. "The American president and his love interest will never see tomorrow's dawn."

Tohouri straightened, his eyes shooting daggers at the imperialistic demagogue making his way toward him. "Tomorrow will mark a new chapter in the history of mankind."

"Indeed it will," the Black Ghost concurred; unfortunately for you, one you won't get to read.

* * * * *

Angel squinted into the scope, shifting the perfectly balanced Finnish sniper rifle from side-to-side. In the background, Santo did a final once over on a second weapon, this one a laser-sighted, multifunction rifle, similar in look to the military M16, but lighter, and longer. He figured the gun came from another planet, for nothing that small should be accurate at five hundred yards, but he figured he could core an apple with it at twice that range if he had to.

"How's it feel?" Angel asked him.

"Like part of my body. This sighting apparatus is unbelievable. Talk about reach out and touch someone." He shouldered the weapon.

"I'll be damned," Angel said as he looked through his scope. "You can see right into the ballroom, through the big French doors."

Santo swung his sights across the landscape. "I see what you mean."

Standing across the room, shivering now that the sweat was cooling on his body, Roinell asked, "What's going on?"

Angel motioned for him to come to the window. Roinell stepped up, standing to the side despite the fact that the entire window was covered by a shade drawn to within inches of the windowsill. "Take a look," Angel said.

Roinell dropped down and put his eye to the scope. "I don't believe it," he said. With the gilded walls of the palace ballroom shimmering in the background, he saw Pauli and Elaine moving toward a reception line at the end of which stood Tohouri. The whole scene was taking place behind two sets of huge French doors that opened to an outdoor promenade. Suddenly, the doors began to swing open, and Roinell watched carefully as white-gloved soldiers locked them into place to prevent them from being pushed by the ever-present wind. The soldier on the far left was slower than the others, taking his time. When he was done, he gave the door a final shake, then turned. Roinell reeled back.

"What's the matter?" Angel asked.

"If I didn't know better, I'd swear the son of a bitch looked right at me."

"Lemme see." Roinell moved to the side. "Fuckin' A. The doors are open. How the hell did that happen?"

"Check out the soldier. Is he still there?"

"Looking right fucking at me," Angel replied, turning an adjustment on the scope. The soldier turned away, but not before giving a subtle nod.

Angel pulled back. "He knows we're here."

"We're screwed," Roinell said sharply. "We need to be the fuck outta here."

Angel put up a hand. "We're not going anywhere. Those doors being opened were no coincidence."

"But how—"

Angel stopped him again. "It's the Andrew Bricker show."

"Better be a damned good show," Santo said. He pulled the bolt back on his weapon. "Where's the ammunition?"

"I dunno," Roinell answered. "The backpack is empty."

"No ammo? What the fuck?"

"Chill," said Angel. "Let's think."

Santo wasn't that patient. "What's to think about? Either we got ammo, or we don't."

"Maybe it's already here. Now, if you were a box of high-velocity hollow-points, where would you be?"

Abruptly, but faintly, a low, bleeping noise sounded in the background.

Santo jumped, his adrenaline starting to flow. "What the fuck was that?"

"Sounded like a cell phone," Roinell answered.

Again, the bleep rang out, muffled, but obvious.

Angel pointed. "Sounds like it's coming from in there." He got up and moved quickly to what looked like a closet. Angel jerked the door open, ready for anything that might be inside. There was nothing inside, however, except a small, black cell phone, on a shelf, by itself.

Roinell snatched it off the shelf. "Hello?"

"Do you see the fancy crown molding, above the door that leads to the hallway?"

"I see it," said Roinell, realizing immediately who was on the line.

"Look behind it."

Angel and Santo moved in quickly when Roinell revealed the hidden boxes of ammunition. "We've got it," said Roinell. "Anything else?"

There was some hesitation. "You are now Operation SLAPSHOT. Think about it. It's important. There's one last thing."

"What?"

The words came quickly. "Look for the lady in red."

"Wait...." The phone went dead. Roinell looked up. "That was Bricker."

Chapter 57. Final Dice

They rolled, and one of Abe-The-Hat's armies disappeared. They rolled again, and another of Abe's armies left the unboard. After the fifth roll, Abe nodded at the single army that had just quietly taken a foothold on the continent he'd controlled since the beginning of the unGame. "Something tells me that's no ordinary army, Mister Roos'velt."

Ready Teddy adjusted his specs. "Something tells me you're right, Mister Lincoln."

"Klinger!" Abe called out.

A blur of lime-green chiffon, Klinger dashed over, temporarily leaving the undoor unguarded. "What's up?"

"Tell the Big Guy he can get ready for that New Order party now. We're about to end this thing."

Klinger's uneyes got real big. End the unGame! For real? Curious as to who might be winning, he shifted his attention the unboard for no more than a split second, and a huge, deep, " _Saaa..ya hallelujah, the end is upon us!"_ rang out immediately. It was The Shadow, seating himself next to Ross-The-Boss, Bobbie, and Fric and Frac Adams, who had already snuck through the unguarded undoor before him. What the hell, thought Klinger, let them be. Let them all be. It wasn't often they got to see the final moves of Presidential Risk.

Chapter 58. Operation SLAPSHOT

Pauli eased through the double doors with all the confidence of a prisoner of war being marched into the woods.

Elaine tightened her shoulder wrap, shielding herself from the penetrating eyes of the first uniformed mucky-muck who was staring at her chest. "I think they like yellow-haired women here," she whispered nervously.

Pauli fixed his eyes on the barrel-chested general whose hand was out, but whose attention was focused on anything but a handshake. "Probably medium rare," he whispered back.

"This is no time to be funny."

"Do you know a better time?"

"Do any of these guys understand English?" Elaine inquired as they approached the next general in the reception line.

"Don't really know."

"Guess it's time to find out." Elaine took the general's oily hand. "This is fucking disgusting," she said straight at him, nodding, smiling a gleaming, lipsticked smile. There was no reaction from the general except his traveling eyes.

Pauli chuckled as he took the general's huge hand next. "Eat shit, and die," he whispered cordially into the general's ear while squeezing his hand with all his might. Immediately, a scornful lip-curl replaced the general's arrogant smirk. Pauli smiled and nodded, and, oddly, the general smiled and nodded in return as he bounced glances between Pauli and Elaine.

"Ah. Evidently you've seen the surveillance tapes." The clueless general nodded again, and Pauli gave him a friendly tap on the arm. "Your mother smells like a pig," he said as they moved to up the line.

"That went well, don't you think?"

"Very well," Elaine replied. "What if one of them understands what we're saying?"

"That's okay. It'll just confuse them even more."

"So, is our goal to personally insult every last one of these swine?"

"Our goal is to continue the distraction we created in that bedroom yesterday. Just look at the leering bastards. I'm sure they've all seen the surveillance tapes by now."

Elaine glanced up the reception line. There were no women, of course, just generals, with medals pinned to their chests by the ton. In the background, below the din of conversation, was a low, steady rhythm, like the subsonic pulse of a signal drum pushing its vibrations through the jungle. Cloaked in his red tunic, Tohouri stood at the head of the line. Elaine leaned in, and said through a frozen smile, "Look at the way he's staring at us."

"Your sister has a face like a hyena," Pauli said, letting go of a general's hand and turning to catch Tohouri's glare. "He does look rather menacing."

"He looks downright maniacal. Why is he trembling like that?"

Pauli shook the next hand in line, never even acknowledging the general's presence. "He looks like he's on PCP. I'll bet his muscles are like ropes under his skin. Something's up."

"I don't know if I like the sound of that."

"Get closer."

"What?"

"C'mon, snuggle. We're supposed to be having a passionate love affair. Let's act like it."

Elaine took Pauli's hand and moved noticeably closer, abandoning any protocol. They moved up the reception line toward Tohouri—and the Black Ghost, Pauli noticed for the first time, recognizing him from his briefings with Bricker. Like the generals, he, too, was sneering arrogantly, silently belittling the American president.

"I hope to hell everyone is in place," Pauli whispered.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean," Elaine whispered back. "Don't you know?"

"This is a compartmentalized operation," Pauli answered, putting his arm around her waist and moving to the next general. "We're just one little piece of it."

* * * * *

Santo pulled away from his sights and glanced at Angel, who had just loaded his weapon.

"What?" Angel said, feeling his eyes.

"This room is starting to stink."

_"You_ , are a pain in the ass. Can't you just say what you're thinking?"

"Are we really gonna do this?"

Angel came completely off his weapon. "Listen soldier, you accepted the mission, you knew the consequences...." He stopped there.

Santo resumed his position. If he backed out now, he'd have Angel to contend with, and he had no doubt that Angel would have no trouble—as in zip, zilch, and zero—taking him out in order to not compromise the mission.

"Operation SLAPSHOT," Roinell mumbled in the background.

"Why did you agree to do this?" Santo asked.

"This is no time to be getting all fucking philosophical on me," Angel snapped back. "He asked me," he answered, a delayed reaction.

"That's it? He asked you? No reasons, no ideology?"

"Ideology? Listen, it's real fucking simple, as I see it: if this fucker lives, we go to war and a million of our boys die trying to kill him; if we take him out now, they don't, and he's just as fucking dead. Consider it a shortcut to the same end."

"SLAPSHOT... SLAPSHOT," Roinell mumbled as he paced. "The lady in red...."

"What the fuck is he talking about?" Santo asked.

"I don't know. Something Bricker said."

"So, you really think it's that simple."

"When it gets right down to it, yeah. Everything is simple when you get right down to it. All the other political stuff, it's all bullshit. I don't get it."

"Does our president?"

Angel chuckled, trying to keep his eye on what was happening on the other side of the French doors. "No, I don't think he does either. Maybe that's why I like him so much."

Taking his cue that their chat was over, Santo put his eye back to his sights. With the press of a button, he could put a red laser dot right in the middle of Tohouri's red tunic. It would be invisible. "I'll go for the heart," he said. "You take the head shot."

Angel already had Tohouri's image in the crosshairs. "All hell's gonna break loose when we fire. I hope the president knows what to do when that happens. Get ready."

"Wait! That's it!" Roinell shouted from across the room.

"What's it?" Angel asked. "And keep your fucking voice down."

"He said, 'look for the lady in red.'"

"Who said?"

"Bricker said, just before he hung up. That must be your cue to take the shot."

"What, were you going to keep that a secret?" said Santo. He shifted his attention back to Angel. "Couldn't that shithead Bricker just have told _us_ that?"

Roinell said, "Maybe Bricker thought I was one of you two clowns when I answered the phone."

Angel didn't even pull his eye off the scope. "Could be," he said. "Bricker has to assume someone is listening to his calls. That's why he didn't ask any names." He paused and looked around. "I hope to hell this place has been swept for bugs."

"How the fuck we gonna get outta here when this goes down?" Santo asked, changing the subject. "Anybody thought about that?"

Angel ignored him, and asked Roinell, "What else did he say?"

"Bricker?"

"No, Captain Kirk." Jesus, they were all gonna die for sure. This is the best the CIA, the NSA, MI-6, the KGB—any fucking spook agency with initials—could do?

"Only that we are now Operation SLAPSHOT. That has to mean something, right?"

"Like what?"

"I have no idea, but he said to think about it, okay? Do you get a hard-on over everything?"

"Okay, so it's important. But how?"

"Duh!" Santo called from his position. "Slap... shot? Get it? Slap... shot."

"When you see the slap, take the shot?" Angel said, thinking that's where Santo was leading.

"You're a fucking genius, you know that?"

* * * * *

Pauli glanced up the reception line. There were only six more generals between him and Tohouri, all of them scowling ominously in his direction. Inevitably, their eyes continued to settle on Elaine. "They can't keep their eyes off you," he said in a low-tone from the side of his mouth.

"So I've noticed," she replied. "The scumbags."

"I think it's time to lose the wrap."

Hesitantly, she let the tails of her shimmering wrap slide from her shoulders, revealing a dipping neckline that was just the wrong side of respectable for the event. The fact that the chief of staff for the president of the United States was a woman was even more the wrong side of respectable in the eyes of her beholders, but that didn't stop them from being fascinated by her skin, her hair, her....

"Keep smiling," Pauli ordered, nudging her closer to Tohouri with each step.

"I think I'm going to be sick," said Elaine.

* * * * *

Good move, thought Bricker, watching on the remote monitor mounted in the panel separating him and Ann-Marie from the two black agents in the front seat—agents posing as high-ranking officers in Tohouri's military. "The more distractions, the better." He checked himself in a small, hand-held mirror. His skin was a uniform chocolate color, and he made sure his military visor—that of a full general in what was the equivalent of the Marines in Tohouri's forces—was at the perfect angle. "And you, lovely lady in red, are to be the ultimate, and final, distraction. Any questions?"

Ann-Marie took a deep breath. "I don't think so. Just walk in there and do it, right?"

"Just walk in, and do it," he said as their limo pulled up to the massive gates of the Imperial Tower. They were about to become part of the scene they'd just been watching.

"What if I'm stopped?"

"You won't be," he said as he stepped from the limo and reached back for her.

Ann-Marie took his hand and looked him straight in the eye. "You don't sound very sure about that," she said skeptically. "Do you really think we'll all get out of this alive?"

"I don't know," he replied honestly.

* * * * *

"I don't fucking believe it!" Santo looked again, just to be sure. "Is that her?"

"I'll be damned," Angel exclaimed. He blinked, and put his eye back to the scope. "This has got to be it. You ready?"

"I'm ready," said Santo. "Who woulda' thunk it?"

"Who is _her_?" Roinell asked, picking up on this new level of tension.

"The president's girlfriend," said Angel. "What's-her-name."

"Ann-Marie?"

"Right. She's the lady in red."

Roinell bent down and tightened the laces on his running shoes. "Fuck," he said.

Angel threw him a quick glance. "Where do you think you're going?"

"You just take care of your end," Roinell spat back, "and I'll take care of mine."

* * * * *

There were only two generals left, then, a rustling at the head of the reception line. A new group of generals—how many fucking generals were there—was surrounding Tohouri. One of them whispered something to the Black Ghost, who, in turn, whispered it to Tohouri.

"What do you suppose that's about?" Elaine asked, picking up on the resulting wall-to-wall grins.

"Whatever it is, it seems to be making them very happy. Let's shake hands with General Schmuckface here, and mosey on over there." Pauli bought himself a few moments by turning and posing for the cameras before walking the remaining thirty feet. "I don't know if I like the looks of this."

Elaine said, "Too late, oh, great, supreme commander. Do you remember what we're supposed to do now?"

"No, what?"

"We're supposed to greet the Red Baron over there—and act like we're enjoying it, by the way—and then suffer through a toast welcoming us to where humankind began."

"Where human _kind_ began?"

"Correct. That's the theme for this shindig."

"There's a theme?"

"Didn't you read the protocol briefings?"

"Forgive me. I was busy planning how I could save the world. Fill me in."

"It's supposed to be a rebirth from the place where man was born, and evolved of the earth itself."

"With the two most prominent leaders on the planet uniting in cooperation, rather than resorting to another barbaric war."

"You did read the briefings."

"You should never doubt me. This is to be a new dawn for man; all of it live on TV, of course."

"The toast is to be followed by your respective speeches to the watching world."

"A speech which I have no intention of delivering," Pauli said. This was going to be an historic event, all right, but for a different reason.

Pauli turned to the group of generals who'd gathered around Tohouri as if to show superiority in numbers. Their eyes were narrow, and sharp, like those of stalking animals. They seemed to be looking past him, however. Elaine, he figured: they were more than taken with her; they were mesmerized. Then, he thought: _Where the hell was Bricker_? His energy was present, below the surface, like the native African drum beat that seemed to come from the center of the earth itself. He had to be somewhere close by, lurking, waiting for each segment of Operation SLAPSHOT to be executed so that the ultimate goal could be achieved. Pauli looked Tohouri straight in the eye, and then did the same with Black Ghost, noting both of them were still sporting what seemed to be permanent sneers. Instantly, his blood started to boil. You arrogant bastards. This was no meeting to plan for peace among nations. This was a showdown, and everything spoke to that conclusion: the body language, the cynical laughs, the sardonic facial expressions. "Look at them," he said to Elaine.

"I'd rather not."

"We're being played for fools."

"You can tell that just from the way they're standing?"

"I've known the feeling more often than I care to remember," Pauli replied. One by one, the episodes flashed in his mind's eye as if they were feature documentaries instead of bursts of memory only a millisecond in length. He saw the faces, faces of Benny Cunningham, Sergeant Menjivar, old-coot Snidely, Admiral Kusczak, others—and they were as vivid as Tohouri and his generals standing only a few feet away. They all held the same challenging expression, that stupid, fucking _let's see what'chu got_ look. Nothing ever changed.

"It's time," said Pauli, taking Elaine's hand. "Hold your head high, and hope it doesn't get shot off." Deliberately, he turned toward Tohouri as seemingly thousands of flashbulbs caught the moment. Noticing that the huge French doors at the far end of the ballroom were open to the night and thousands of cheering spectators beyond, he knew instantly that Angel and Santo were somewhere out there. "Smile pretty," he said.

"I'm smiling my ass off," Elaine replied.

"That's my girl," he said as he looked directly through the open doors and gave a thumbs-up.

* * * * *

Even from five hundred yards away, the look was unmistakable. "I might be crazy," said Santo, "but I swear that was meant for us. I've got the bastard in my sights right now."

"Not now," Angel responded. "I don't see any lady in red."

* * * * *

The photo-op over, several uniformed flunkies came out and herded the reporters back into the cordoned off area from which they'd spilled. Elaine was on Pauli's right. "What am I supposed to do next?" he asked as they stepped forward. Tohouri was as rigid as a telephone pole, with the exception of his fingers, which were vibrating like a tuning fork.

"This is where you both walk to the middle and shake hands. The toast is to follow immediately thereafter."

Pauli let go of Elaine's arm and stood squarely before the entourage, noticing for the first time that the scowls and arrogant sneers were gone. The faces were serious now, frozen into purposeful stares locked onto his every move. The generals came forward, each of them saluting him before taking a position a few feet away, where they waited for the historic handshake to take place. There was only one more person between him and Tohouri now, only one more hand to shake before he'd take that of the man who'd caused so much death, and so much misery, that doing the unthinkable was suddenly not only thinkable, but rational. It had happened before in the name of world peace, but not like this. Heads of state had always preferred to not get their hands dirty, hiding behind the facade of a supposed lack of knowledge of what was happening within their own government. Not this head of state. What if Tohouri were killed by a smart bomb? Would there be any difference in the eyes of God? The intent was the same, and the scar of sin would be just as black on his soul.

Standing there, Pauli admitted freely that he'd gained the presidency by a fluke to begin with, and, ironically, it was Olu Tohouri who'd made it possible. Now, he was going to pay him back for it. He stared into the face of the evil one, and wondered if Abraham Lincoln were faced with the same challenge, would he do the same thing? Or, if Franklin Roosevelt were face-to-face with Adolf Hitler, would he take the opportunity to personally remove him from the game of world domination?

Pauli moved away from Elaine and took a step closer to Tohouri, only a few yards separating them now. The edges of his consciousness melted away, his only focus being Tohouri's eyes. He stared into them, noting they were deep, determined, and disarmingly steady. The low, steady rhythm that had been a pulse beneath the surface of conscious noise seemed to grow louder now, drowning other sounds in subsonic vibrations. Alone, Pauli took another step forward. He had no entourage. He, little Pauli Campo, of Fairfax, Virginia, had come to slay the dragon by himself. Well, sort of. Bricker's force was with him, and he carried it like an invisible weapon. _Don't screw up, guys_ , he said to himself as he held Tohouri's eyes. _Whatever happens next, don't screw up_.

Shifting his gaze momentarily, he noticed the Black Ghost looked every bit as evil and mysterious as Tohouri. He'd expected the Black Ghost to stand to the side, with the rest of the puppet generals, but instead, he remained behind Tohouri, his eyes darting about as if he was searching for something. Suddenly, the eyes stopped moving. They seemed to look past him, but Elaine wasn't their focus this time. She was standing several yards away, in another direction, and Pauli had the sudden, dreadful feeling that someone on the team had been discovered. He didn't dare turn around. Tohouri also shifted his attention to whatever had preoccupied the Black Ghost, but unlike the Black Ghost, Tohouri smiled, seemingly amused by what the Black Ghost was whispering in his ear. Feeling his heartbeat in his fingertips now, the amusement did little to ease Pauli's feeling that something had gone terribly wrong. _Easy now_ , he said to himself. _You can do this. Adapt_. Finally—it seemed like an eternity—the Black Ghost came forward. Thinking the asshole's face was impossible to read, Pauli took his hand.

"Your secretary of state is already dead," the Black Ghost growled smugly. Pauli stared into the depths of his glare, giving no reaction. "If all goes according to plan, you will be joining him very soon," the Black Ghost added through a defiant sneer.

"Obviously, you don't agree with your supreme commander's wishes to negotiate our differences."

"Neither of you will have to worry about your differences for very long."

"Well, then," said Pauli, squeezing the Black Ghost's hand until he felt the bones crunch together. "Take your best shot."

* * * * *

From his vantage point, "What do you make of this?" Santo asked. "They look like two fighters staring each other down."

Angel shifted his field of vision. "Oh, shit," he called out. "It's happening."

"What's happening?"

_"It's_ happening—it's going down now. Our fearless leader is about ready to explode."

"Tell me you're sure about this—just to make me feel better."

Angel shifted quickly to his knees. "I've seen that look before. I don't remember how many years ago it was, but I remember it—and I remember what happened just after I saw it."

"What?" Santo asked.

Angel didn't answer the question. "Be ready," was all he said.

* * * * *

Dropping the handshake, Pauli took a half step into the Black Ghost's space. "It comforts me to know that you'll be dead before I will."

The Black Ghost's pompous look vanished instantly. Wordlessly, he retraced his steps and positioned himself behind Tohouri. Again, he whispered something to Tohouri, who, despite the Black Ghost's obvious ire, seemed amused. Tohouri tugged on the points of his tunic, clearly sending the signal that the handshake ceremony was about to start.

Pauli waited, wondering: when would it happen? It was all he could do to keep from bounding forward and wrapping his hands around Tohouri's throat. Then, when all the veins in Tohouri's skull had burst and the life had drained out of his ears, he'd go for this Black Ghost bastard, and he'd do the same to him. But, it couldn't happen that way. He had to follow the plan, whatever the hell that was, for he didn't know the entire plan, but only his part of it. _C'mon guys_ , he said to himself. _Don't hang me out here to dry._

Suddenly, two steps into his approach, Tohouri stopped, as did the low, rhythmic pulse that had been sounding out the entire evening. There was some sort of commotion, behind him, Pauli noted, coming from the same direction that had taken Tohouri's and the Black Ghost's attention before, and, as before, Pauli didn't turn around. He stayed focused on what was in front of him.

A low buzz circulated through the ballroom, and the Black Ghost quickly stepped up and murmured something into Tohouri's ear again. Unexpectedly, Tohouri let go with a deep, resonant belly laugh, causing everyone around him to titter nervously. He then retraced his steps of a moment earlier, his demeanor changing from amusement to sudden disdain for whatever was happening.

"Mister President," the Black Ghost began, speaking for Tohouri. "The supreme commander says the time has come for you to face the music—but, unfortunately for you, not from him. He feels you are in for a much worse time of it. The other woman has arrived."

The other woman? What the hell...? Pauli turned, soundly stunned by what he saw. There, off in the distance, scuffling with two soldiers who were guarding the door, was Ann-Marie. She was dressed in a red satin evening gown, and she was swinging a black evening bag at one of the soldiers. He turned back. They were screwed—ultimately and surely screwed.

Suddenly, sounding like a snap of lightning, Tohouri snapped his fingers. He motioned to one of the generals, who scurried across the floor and indicated to the guards that Ann-Marie should be allowed to pass. They quickly swept her with a metal detector and allowed her to compose herself, which she did with some indignation. Facing the room, she began to move forward while dignitaries and other uniformed personnel parted before her. Feeling her intensity even at that distance, Pauli looked away, his gaze rising to meet Elaine's. Silently, she answered his unasked question by wagging her head. She had no clue, either.

Head straight, chest out, Ann-Marie kept her eyes riveted to the elevated dais where Pauli was standing. Closer and closer she came, taking every eye in the room with her. Her eyes darted, spearing Elaine with a glare that could have cut glass. If it was an act, it was a damned good one, thought Pauli, and it had Andrew Bricker written all over it. He heard a couple of the generals chuckling. He looked over, his eyes moving quickly to the Black Ghost who crossed his index fingers and rubbed them together: _shame, shame, shame_. You arrogant son of a bitch, thought Pauli. Then, the arrogant son of a bitch's words came back to him: _the other woman._ That's it! The surveillance tapes! His ruse with Elaine was being played out! But, why here? Why now? Quickly, he directed his attention to Ann-Marie, as the situation demanded his attention.

Tuxedoed servers, unaware of what was happening, came out and began circulating with trays of champagne. The protocol already bashed to pieces, Tohouri took a glass and turned to watch the American president be publicly humiliated before a worldwide audience. It couldn't get any better.

Only a few yards away now, Ann-Marie moved steadily toward the elevated dais, and began pulling one of her red, elbow-length evening gloves from her arm. Calmly, she marched up the steps, her neck and the quivering swell of her breasts flushed with the emotion flowing inside her. Her eyes, rock steady and gray as glacier ice, never left Pauli's. Unexpectedly, she planted herself between Pauli and Tohouri so that Pauli had to turn to face her, while confused guests waited for whatever was about to happen. The Black Ghost was positioned a step behind Tohouri, as he'd been the entire evening, and they both held glasses of champagne now, raised in a welcoming toast for their newly-arrived guest. Her hand bare now, Ann-Marie shot Elaine another fiery glare just to make it perfectly clear that she wasn't there for a kiss on the cheek.

The Black Ghost raised his glass mockingly. "The supreme commander wishes to welcome the lady in red. Please accept our apologies for not having included you on the guest list."

Pauli's eyes were riveted as he tried desperately to gain some inkling of what Ann-Marie was going to do next. It was no use; her face was a mask. She said nothing, but her eyes darted to the open French doors. She took a half step to Pauli's right, her stare drawing him in so that he, too, stepped some inches in the same direction. Slowly, she pulled back her ungloved hand. The palm wide open, it became clear what she was about to do. Pauli held her eyes, making no attempt to stop her, or evade the strike. Seemingly every eye in the ballroom, as well as the television cameras, fixed on what was happening. The silence was deafening, save for the tinkling of champagne glasses. The sound of Ann-Marie's hand against Pauli's cheek would have been like a sonic boom inside the ballroom, but, in the split second before impact, the champagne glass in Olu Tohouri's hand exploded, while, behind him, so did the Black Ghost's skull. The bullet that entered the right side of his forehead exited in a messy crimson mist, anointing everyone in the immediate vicinity with pieces of what had been his brain a split second earlier.

* * * * *

"What the fuck happened?" Angel shouted as he tightened his grip on his rifle.

Santo ripped back the breach on his weapon. "I'll tell you what the fuck happened. Someone just parted Tohouri's hair with a high-velocity hollow-point, that's what."

Angel sat there blinking. "I don't fucking believe it."

"Believe it," said Santo. "I saw the whole thing. Tohouri moved his head to take a sip of his champagne and, _bam!_ the fucker's head behind him got blasted. Tohouri couldn't have moved more than an inch."

Angel immediately began wiping down his rifle. "Not that, shit-for-brains. We gotta get the fuck outta here. We took the bait, hook, line, and sinker. I wouldn't be surprised if there's a division of military police waiting for us outside."

"I just fucking _knew_ it!" Santo exclaimed. "It never did feel right." Quickly, he looked through his sights to the exact spot where Tohouri had been standing. Now, he lay collapsed on the floor, clutching his head from what had to be a real bad headache. "Damn!" he shouted. "They're covering him up, shielding him! What do we do? Do we take 'em all out, or what!"

Angel grabbed him by the sleeve. "Maybe you don't understand? Someone else took that shot, and we're gonna go down for it."

Santo lashed out, freeing himself from Angel's grip. "What about the mission?"

"The mission is over."

"Is it?" Santo went back to his sights. One of the generals acting as a human shield pulled a sidearm. There weren't supposed to be any weapons inside the ballroom. "Fuck!" Santo yelled. "Where's the president?" He slashed his sights from the dais, to the group of generals—they were no longer a group now—to the door where Ann-Marie had just come from. The door! The guards! They had automatic weapons, and they were leveled at... what? A fuzzy splash of red blew through his field of vision. Santo followed it, recognizing the red dress instantly. Behind the dress were the chief of staff's silver gown, and the president's black tuxedo. The guards.... It looked like they were aiming at.... There was no time to analyze further. Santo positioned his laser dot and let go with two perfectly placed rounds, each a mere hiccup from his weapon. Both guards went down within a second of each other. "They're going after the president!" he shouted.

Angel grabbed him. "Do you realize what you're doing? For the last time, I'm ordering you to stand down."

Santo pushed him away. "You're not ordering me to do anything. This isn't the Army, and you aren't in charge here. They're going after the president in there!"

"The president is part of this operation. He'd be the first to tell you that. The mission has been compromised, and we—you and me, not him—have to get the fuck out of here, and _now_!"

Santo paused. He needed to know what Angel was thinking. "Tell me why," he said.

"As of now, the shot that put down Tohouri could have come from anyone on the planet."

"So?"

"If we get caught, it will be the United States that starts World War III, and that's exactly what we were sent here to avoid. Someone is pulling our strings, and I, for one, don't intend to be the match that lights that fire."

Santo froze. "The president is part of this team, and I'm not hanging him out to dry," he said evenly. "Do what you have to do, but I'm going after the target like I was sent here to do." With that, he swung away from Angel and shouldered his weapon.

Angel weighed his options. One: he could leave; two: he could put a bullet in the back of Santo's head, and then leave; three: he could.... He never finished analyzing choice number three. The sound of sirens suddenly cut through the air. Soldiers were on the move, toward them, probably, but he fought the urge to bolt. Santo had a point. The president came here to do a job, knowing full well he might not live to know if he ever completed it, and he was in there—somewhere—making the ultimate sacrifice. "Damn it," he barked. "Are the doors still open?"

"Wide fucking open," Santo yelled back, his eye never leaving the scope. "I'm taking the shot as soon as I have a cunt hair of an opening. It sure would be nice if I had some backup."

"Consider yourself backed up," Angel said, resuming his position on the floor. "Where's the target?"

"I fucking lost him. There's people scrambling all over the fucking place."

"I hope you remember the escape plan. If those doors close, we gotta get the fuck outta here. Where's the president?"

Santo didn't answer. Instead, he peeled back and rubbed his eye, not believing what he was seeing through his sights. "Fuck!" he bellowed. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

"What?"

"On the right, under the third tree from the street, on the north lawn. Check it out."

Angel zeroed in on the area and spotted Roinell dodging in and out between the groups of people who'd gathered at the furthest edge of the viewing area. "Jesus H. Christ," he growled. "Where the fuck do you think he's going?"

"Looks to me like he's headed for the tower."

"To do what?"

"Beats me, but those are his friends in there. He'll never make it," Santo responded coolly.

"And he wouldn't last ten seconds with what they'd do to him afterwards." Angel shook his head. "We gotta stop him."

Santo reeled off his weapon. "He's one of us!"

"He was—now he's a liability."

Santo's glare said it all.

"You have two choices," Angel continued. "You can take him down—and if you don't, I will—and prevent this country from causing World War III, or you can look for the target for as long as those doors stay open. Pick one."

"You son of a bitch," Santo growled, and put his eye back to the scope. He needed to say nothing further for Angel to know which choice he'd made.

* * * * *

Slaloming between trees and loosely gathered groups of people, Roinell made his way along a long row of majestic date palms that separated the huge main lawn from the rest of the manicured grounds surrounding the Imperial Palace. Something was happening. Sirens were blaring and military vehicles with evil-looking machine guns on the back were pulling up at the far edge of the main lawn. Soldiers jumped into the street and, for reasons unclear, began firing into the air to disperse the crowd. Vehicle after vehicle arrived, jeep-like vehicles at first, followed by canvas-covered troop carriers.

People dove for the ground, the screams of the ones nearby drowning out the awful sound of machine-gun fire in the distance. People were running everywhere, and it was all he could do to avoid being trampled as hundreds, or thousands of people that had been gathered to hear Tohouri's speech stampeded in panic. They didn't know the soldiers were firing into the air. Something must have happened inside the tower, and Roinell surmised that Angel and Santo had done their work. Pressed against a trunk of a date palm, he held on for dear life as screaming people thundered past him. Suddenly, he felt a heavy thud as something impacted the tree trunk not two inches from his right thigh. Flinching, he felt another thud lower down. They were shooting into the crowd! "Fuck!" he screamed. Instinctively, he ducked down and began running, but unlike the thousands who were running away from the tower, he ran toward it. His friends were in there.

* * * * *

"Damn!" Angel yelled. "I couldn't get him to run the other way. He's gonna get himself killed for sure."

Santo smiled. "Tough break."

Angel got his meaning, but there was no time to think about that now. He pointed his weapon toward the French doors. They were still open, but the president was nowhere to be seen. "Where's the target?" he asked.

"I think—" That was as far as Santo got before a flurry of bullets blasted through the wall just above their heads. Both of them dove to the floor, trying to make themselves part of it. Another burst ripped through the windows where they'd been positioned only moments earlier, splintering the frames into wood shrapnel.

Angel rolled, working himself to the edge of the room where he spotted Santo crawling desperately toward the door. "Stay down!" he called through the choking dust that was suddenly everywhere. Another burst riddled the walls: huge, deadly slugs, exploding through wood and plaster.

Santo reached for the doorknob. "It won't turn!" he yelled out, seeing that the door latch mechanism had been smashed.

Angel squirmed along the wall, pushing his face into it when yet another deadly volley blasted through the windows. There was no doubt about it. They'd been set up to take the gas on this one, and he suddenly envisioned pictures of his bullet-riddled body on the front page of every newspaper in the world, describing him as the fanatical American terrorist who'd started World War III by trying to assassinate Olu Tohouri. Not in this lifetime. "Slide your weapon to me!" he shouted.

Santo pushed it across the floor. With the practiced hand of a man who'd handled weapons all his life, Angel emptied the entire magazine of 9mm slugs into the middle of the door. Anything on the other side of it was now hamburger. He then slammed in another magazine, and began shooting the doorknob, lock, latch, everything, right off the door.

Santo threw a glance at Angel, who didn't even blink. They had no choice. Santo grabbed the door at its very bottom, knowing that if he swung it open and there were soldiers outside, they'd be dead. If there weren't, they'd be gone. He swung it open—and they were gone.

* * * * *

Pauli pushed his way through the frantic mob of African dignitaries, who were running in every direction. Pushing Elaine and Ann-Marie along in front of him, they reached a far corner of the huge ballroom behind the elevated dais. He dropped to one knee to survey the scene as best he could, knowing intuitively that they had to take advantage of the chaos. Seconds passed like hours, and they had to use what few of them they had to determine a course of action. None of the others knew the secretary of state was dead, and the Black Ghost's chilling prediction of his own demise, as well as Elaine's, probably, was still echoing inside him. Strangely, given the situation, the thought popped into Pauli's head that the Black Ghost was a man with his own aspirations, the operative word being _was_. Still, the point had to be considered: what had the Black Ghost meant when he'd said _neither_ he, Pauli, nor Tohouri would have to worry about their differences? The thought vanished as Ann-Marie pulled him down.

"What do we do?" she shouted.

He suddenly realized that those were the first words she'd uttered the entire evening. "What are you doing here?" he shouted back, taking her by the shoulders.

Her gaze went right through him. "It was Bricker's plan."

"And you went along with it!"

"Hey!" Elaine shouted from behind them. "You two want to talk about that later!"

Pauli gave Ann-Marie a look that let her know the conversation was far from over. "We've got to find a way...." He was going to say, "out of here," but the thought suddenly surfaced that he hadn't done what he'd come there to do. He turned to Ann-Marie.

"The mission," she said, reading his mind.

"Are you with me?" he asked, looking deeply into her eyes.

"I've been with you in one way or another all my life," she replied, and she collapsed.

Panicked, Pauli cradled her, feeling the warmth of her blood as his hand came away soaked with it. Her breathing ragged, he suddenly had the overwhelming fear that he'd just heard her last words. This was it? All the years of on-and-off romance, all the years of unexpressed love for her, had come down to this? And now, just like he'd done his whole life, he was going to let her slip away, just like her blood was slipping through his fingers this very second? He looked up, the fear clear in his eyes. He was going to lose her!

Seeing what was happening, Elaine rushed to his side. "Mister President!" she called. "We've got to get out of here!"

Pauli looked at her, dumbfounded.

"Mister President! Do you hear me?" She pulled on his arm.

"Noooo...!" Pauli howled, and he hugged Ann-Marie to his chest. Tears burst down his cheeks in a river of emotion. "Dear God," he sobbed. "Take me instead. Not her!"

"Mister President!" Elaine pleaded.

"I can't leave her!" he shouted, pushing her hand away.

Elaine looked away, confused, angry, and frightened all at the same time.

"The mission," Pauli mumbled faintly.

"Forget the mission. We can come back to that another time. Right now we have to find safe haven."

"The mission," Pauli mumbled again, rocking Ann-Marie in his arms.

Elaine looked around. People were still thundering for the exits, while, outside, through the open French doors, the sound of automatic weapons rattled on ominously. "Mister President, we don't have much time. We have to find the secretary of state and find a way out of here."

Pauli shook his head. "He's dead."

"Who's dead?"

"The secretary. They killed him." A flare of temper cut through Pauli's pained look. "They were going to kill us all."

Elaine lurched back.

"We fell into their trap," he went on. "This whole summit meeting was bait to get me onto their turf." Pauli turned, and kissed Ann-Marie on the forehead. "It's going to be all right," he said to her softly, ignoring the chaos around him.

Then, suddenly, it happened: shots fired, inside the ballroom. Elaine looked up, craning to see above dais, behind which they were crouched. "Dear God," was all she could manage.

Noting a different edge to her voice, Pauli looked up and caught the object of her attention. On the other side of the dais, not far away, two of Tohouri's generals were holding a third general, this one struggling, by his arms. When he was sufficiently subdued, Olu Tohouri walked up and fired an automatic pistol into his forehead. Quick and ultimate punishment, evidently. Tohouri turned, his face a glistening crimson mask from the gash in his scalp. His focus was instant, and unmistakable.

"Mister President!" Elaine shrieked, but her warning was unneeded.

Pauli saw him coming, and gently but quickly transferred Ann-Marie into Elaine's arms. He rose, his white shirt and black tuxedo soaked in Ann-Marie's blood. His eyes locked on Tohouri's, the rage that had been percolating inside him for years suddenly burst to the surface. Finally, he was face-to-face with his nemesis. The vibes coming off him must have been as obvious as a warning light, for several steps into his approach Tohouri stopped, assessing Pauli despite the fact that he was armed, and Pauli was not.

Standing there, all five-foot-six-and-a-half inches of him, Pauli absorbed Tohouri's fury and reflected it back to him. He felt death's presence in the room. If this was the time and place the Big Guy had scheduled for it to happen, so be it, thought Pauli. Fear left him now, replaced by a quiet acceptance that whatever was going to happen, was going to happen. He smiled a cocky, arrogant little smile. "If it isn't Benny Cunningham all over again," he said. "What's the matter, Benny, didn't get enough the first time around?" With his hands covered in Ann-Marie's blood, he waved Tohouri forward.

His eyes narrowing, Tohouri raised his pistol, aiming it squarely at Pauli's face.

"What's up with the gun, Benny? You don't have what it takes to do this on your own?" Again, Pauli waved Tohouri forward. "C'mon stud, let's see what'chu got." Another wave.

Tohouri cocked his head curiously and grinned, his teeth stained with his own blood. They were two animals of the jungle now, fighting for territory, and he was the King of the Zambezi. Despite the fact that Tohouri supposedly didn't understand English very well, he lowered his pistol and tossed it aside. Behind him, several of the generals immediately produced side arms, but Tohouri waved them off. He turned back to Pauli, his grin gone now, replaced by the wild-eyed rage of a cornered lion fighting for its life.

"C'mon Benny," Pauli taunted once more.

Tohouri rushed, attempting to tackle Pauli like a linebacker. Pauli didn't move fast enough, staggering backward, while, just yards away, Elaine struggled to drag Ann-Marie to relative safety. Falling, Pauli righted himself, only to feel Tohouri jump on top of him. He struggled to keep Tohouri's huge, powerful hands away from his throat, but it was no use. Although older than Pauli, Tohouri was a much larger man, and he summoned strength from the depths of his soul, a strength that would abate only upon the death of his opponent—or his own. Struggling, Pauli felt Tohouri's fingers wrap themselves around his neck. Gasping, he grabbed Tohouri's wrists, but they were steel girders beneath the bloody red tunic. His head about to burst, he felt the pressure between his temples as Tohouri funneled every ounce of strength into his hands. Tohouri's lips moved, but Pauli had no idea what he was saying. He felt his windpipe fracturing beneath the tremendous crush. Tohouri's eyes bulged like huge, bloodshot marbles. He lunged, applying even more pressure, and Pauli felt the life beginning to drain from his body as white spots replaced Tohouri's image in his eyes.

"Pauli!"

The shriek penetrating what consciousness he had left, he recognized it as belonging to Ann-Marie. She was alive! He tried to avert his eyes while Tohouri's sweat and blood dripped onto his face. Balling his fist, with every ounce of energy left in his dying body, Pauli let go with a right hand to Tohouri's left eye. It landed solidly, causing but the slightest lapse in the chokehold, but it was enough. Being small was sometimes an advantage, and somehow Pauli managed to get a foot into Tohouri's chest. With a strength that came from he-didn't-know-where, Pauli grabbed Tohouri by the ears and pulled down on his head, while at the same time pushing upward with his foot. The result was an aerial flip, and Tohouri slammed onto his back, landing opposite Pauli, who came away with Tohouri's left ear.

The sound of automatic weapons fire rang out, and it was close. Instinctively, Pauli turned, expecting to see one, or a thousand, of Tohouri's soldiers coming at him with weapons blazing. Instead he saw the group of generals, who up to this point had been watching Tohouri trying to kill him, go down in a hail of bullets. Struggling to his feet, gasping for air, he became cognizant of the fact that he had Tohouri's bloody ear in his hand. There were voices everywhere, calling out in English, he realized, and he looked over to see a group of Marines scrambling up on the dais, their weapons drawn down on the now lifeless bodies of the generals. Behind them, Angel Menjivar and Santo Bravo came into view.

"Pauli! Look out!"

It sounded like Roinell's voice. Pauli turned. It was Roinell, and he caught Tohouri's lunging form out of the corner of his eye. Instinctively, he dodged to his left and Tohouri sailed by, stumbling and falling like a bag of sand. This time it was Pauli who pounced, landing full-force with his knee in the middle of Tohouri's chest, cracking ribs in the process. Tohouri let out with a vicious scream, and Pauli shoved the severed ear into Tohouri's mouth.

"You're going to hear yourself die," he growled, barely able to speak, and he pounded Tohouri in the face, feeling teeth crack beneath his knuckles. He followed that punch with another, then another, and another, blow after blow, pummeling Tohouri's head until it was a broken, bloody mass. Crazed on adrenaline, he kept going, striking down until both his hands were broken, and there was no more strength left in his arms. Still, he pulled back again, unable to stop until he was sure the man underneath him would breathe no more. As he did, someone grabbed his arm. Pauli pivoted to his right, his face contorted with rage and temporary insanity.

Andrew Bricker held on to Pauli's mangled hand, and reached down to help him up. "It's over, Mister President. It's finally over—for both of us. He's dead."

Pauli felt his legs give way as he tried to get up, but Roinell was there to catch him. Dazed and bloody, Pauli said, "I think you just saved my life."

Roinell smiled. "It's a dirty job, brother man, but someone had to do it."

Chapter 59. Pauli Pots 'n' Pans

Chrome Dome leaned over and whispered, "He should initiate a bilateral, perpendicular, reinforced flanking maneuver."

Ready Teddy disagreed. "Flanking maneuver, my ass. He should redeploy his armies, strengthen his main front... and attack! That's what he should do." He turned toward Ron-Ron, who happened to be spectating with them. "What do you think?"

"Well, I remember Granada."

"Oh, God, here we go again."

_"Yes, where do you want to go?"_ the unvoice boomed.

Pauli Pots 'n' Pans turned from the untable. "Do you mind? I'm trying to take a continent here."

"Oh, sorry," said Ready Teddy. He turned the other way, and sneered lowly, "With that strategy? Get real."

_"Where do you want to go?"_ the unvoice repeated, a trace of annoyance evident this time.

No one answered. They were busy watching Pauli Pots 'n' Pans, who was turning out to be quite the unplayer.

"Were you in the Oval Office for two terms?" Chrome Dome asked Pauli Pots 'n' Pans.

"Eight years, just like you," Pauli Pots 'n' Pans replied.

"Huh," said Chrome Dome. "You came in after Byrd Brain, right?"

"Uh-huh," Pauli Pots 'n' Pans replied curtly.

"Word is that you took out your enemy yourself, as in personally. That true?"

"It's not something I like to talk about," Pauli Pots 'n' Pans said reticently.

"Well, rip my winkle," said Chrome Dome. "So it is true. How'd you do it, exactly? Duel, sword fight, thumb-wrestling?"

"It was almost sixty years ago," said Pauli Pots 'n' Pans. "I'm not sure I remember."

"Stop being coy, boy," said Ready Teddy. "Sixty years is like yesterday up here. I heard you did it with your bare hands."

"Like I said, it's not something I like to talk about," Pauli Pots 'n' Pans said menacingly. "Got it?"

Ready Teddy recoiled and said, "Hey, ain't no sweat off me, but you need to talk to Ulysses and The Kid. They think you're a rock star, whatever that is."

_"Where do you want to go?"_ the unvoice boomed for the third time, really annoyed now. Still no one answered, as they were caught up in talking about Pauli Pots 'n' Pans' exploits while he was in the Oval Office.

Trying to ignore all the fuss, Pauli Pots 'n' Pans rolled the dice and moved easily into a neighboring territory. Ending his turn, he passed the dice, but they vanished instantly. "Where'd they go?" he asked.

_"I have them_ _,"_ said the unvoice.

"Who are you?"

"I'm him."

"Him, who?"

_"Him—the big kahuna, numero uno, the lead dog, you know, the Big Guy._ _"_

"You mean, like, God?"

_"God, Allah, whatever._ _"_

"Naw, no way."

_"Yes way_ _."_

"Prove it."

"What'dya mean, prove it. I don't have to prove it."

"Of course you have to prove it."

_"No way._ _"_

"Yes way."

_"I just took your dice. That should prove it._ _"_

"You think I'm gonna be impressed by that? I once saw a guy make the Statue of Liberty disappear."

"I'm liking this Pot 'n' Pans guy," Chrome Dome whispered.

_"I don't have to prove it. It's in the rules._ _"_

"No, it's not," Ready Teddy shouted. "We've been through that before."

_"The rules have changed_ _."_

"What'dya mean, the rules have changed? You can't do that."

_"Sure I can, if I want to. Any of you gonna stop me?_ _"_

Everything stopped. The presidents stirred as they all wondered what this new piece of information meant.

Pauli Pots 'n' Pans shot to the front of the pack. "Are you gonna prove it, or what?"

"I told you, I don't have to prove it."

"What're you, chicken?"

"Oooooooohhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!" they all said.

Suddenly, the roiling, boiling mass of apparent nothingness began to smoke and churn, and a solar wind began whipping them with asteroids. The apparition grew in distinctness. As it did, two more apparitions to either side of it began to smoke and churn, and the wind made planets sway in their orbits. The apparition grew bolder and more defined, a phenomenon none of them had ever seen before. Quaking nebulae were pulled in. Volcanic thermoblasts flashed from all angles. Incredible bolts of plasma-charged lightning, as long as the universe itself, cracked all around them. The presidents huddled, trying not to be frightened by what they saw. Most of them did a good job of faking it. The apparition began to coagulate into a recognizable form as uncountable billions, and trillions, and other 'illions of atoms were sucked into place. Finally, a human form began to appear, at least the unface of one. It was as huge as all the egos gathered there put together.

_"Appear before me!"_ it commanded.

Everyone stepped back to make it look as if Pauli Pots 'n' Pans stepped forward.

_"So, you think I'm chicken, eh?_ _"_

Pauli Pots 'n' Pans squinted through the strobing plasma explosions around him. The unface was still coagulating. "Yeah. I do."

"Ooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!"

Claps of cosmic thunder blasted above them; shards of razor light cut through the Altavian moons, making them like giant split peas.

"You don't scare me," said Pauli Pots 'n' Pans. "Not after being married to Hurricane Ann-Marie for forty years. Show yourself, and prove to me that you're the Big Guy—because we need to discuss how you're running things around here."

"Ooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!"

The roiling, boiling mass began to define itself further. Still squinting, Pauli Pots 'n' Pans focused on it, scouring his unmemory for whom, or what, was appearing before him. "Do I know you?" he asked.

"That doesn't matter, and you don't have to worry about how I'm running things around here anymore."

"Why not?"

_"The New Order is here, and we're going._ _"_

"Who's we?"

The apparitions on either side roiled and boiled, and they too seemed as if they were condensing into recognizability.

_"We, is us,_ _"_ the Big Guy said. _"_ _All three of us are moving to the next level of spatiotemporal existence—and we're taking the unGame with us._ _"_

"But it isn't _your_ unGame," Ready Teddy said, stepping up and taking a stand next to Pauli Pots 'n' Pans. "It's ours."

"Ooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!"

_"No it's not!_ _"_

"Is too!"

_"Is not!_ _"_

"Like I said, prove it," said Pauli Pots 'n' Pans.

"Ooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!"

Seeing that this was going nowhere, the Big Guy turned to the roiling, boiling apparitions, and commanded them to make themselves recognizable, and they did, instantly. The threesome looked down on the presidents with distinct disdain.

"What are you, like, Father, Son, Holy Ghost?" Pauli Pots 'n' Pans asked.

_"Nope_ _."_

"Does anybody know these guys?" he called over his unshoulder.

"I do," Abe-The-Hat said as he stepped forward and edged Ready Teddy aside. "The middle one started out as a printer, and did a picture of me once. Was that in '60, or '61?"

The apparition smiled. _"_ _It was a lithograph, and I don't remember what year, but it sold like hotcakes_ _till_ _you grew that beard. Had to grow that beard, didn't cha?_ _"_

"Who cares!" snapped Ready Teddy. "Who are you guys?"

_"These boys to either side_ _,"_ said the one in the middle, _"_ _are the Parker Brothers, and this is their unGame."_

"Ohhhhhhhhh!" they all said.

"And who the hell are you?"

_"Me? I'm Milton Bradley. I invented the Game of Life._ _"_

Everyone nodded. "Ohhhhhhhhh!" they all said.

Pauli Pots 'n' Pans nodded right along with them. Now it all made sense. "How'd you get to be the Big Guy?" he asked.

_"It's a long story_ _."_

"We got nowhere to go."

"Okay then, have a seat. This is gonna take a while."
