“How about artillery?” Diggs asked, as they drove past the assembled self-propelled 155-mm howitzers.
“Not a problem there, Mary. In fact, no problems anywhere. Your brigade commanders all were there in 1991, mainly as company commanders or battalion S-3s. Your battalion commanders were almost all platoon leaders or company XOs. They’re pretty well trained up. You’ll see,” Goodnight promised.
Diggs knew it would all be true. Sam Goodnight was a Major General (promotable), which meant he was going to get star number three as soon as the United States Senate got around to approving the next bill with all the flag officers on it, and that couldn’t be rushed. Even the President couldn’t do that. Diggs had screened for his second star six months earlier, just before leaving Fort Irwin, to spend a few months parked in the Pentagon— an abbreviated “jointness” tour, as it was called-before moving back to Germany. The division was slated to run a major exercise against the Bundeswehr in three weeks. First AD vs. four German brigades, two tanks, two mechanized infantry, and that promised to be major test of the division. Well, that was something for Colonel Masterman to worry about. It was his neck on the line. Duke had come to Germany a week early to meet with his also-outgoing predecessor as divisional operations officer and go over the exercise’s rules and assumptions. The German commander in the exercise was Generalmajor Siegfried Model. Siggy, as he was known to his colleagues, was descended from a pretty good Wehrmacht commander from the old-old days, and it was also said of him that he regretted the fall of the USSR, because part of him wanted to take the Russian Army on and rape it. Well, such things had been said about a lot of German, and a few American senior officers as well, and in nearly every case it was just that— talk, because nobody who’d seen one battlefield ever yearned to see another.
Of course, Diggs thought, there weren’t many Germans left who had ever seen a battlefield.
“They look good, Sam,” Diggs said, as they passed the last static display.
“It’s a hell of a tough job to leave, Marion. Damn.” The man was starting to fight back tears, which was one way of telling who the really tough ones were in this line of work, Diggs knew. Walking away from the command of soldiers was like leaving your kid in the hospital, or maybe even harder. They’d all been Sam’s kids, and now they would be his kids, Diggs thought. On first inspection, they looked healthy and smart enough.
Yeah, Arnie,” President Ryan said. His voice betrayed his emotions more than a growl or a shout could have.
“Nobody ever said the job was fun, Jack. Hell, I don’t know why you’re complaining. You don’t have to schmooze people to raise money for your reelection campaign, do you? You don’t have to kiss ass. All you have to do is your work, and that saves you a good hour— maybe an hour and a half— per day to watch TV and play with your kids.” If there was anything Arnie loved, Ryan thought, it was telling him (Ryan) how easy he had it in this fucking job.
“But I still spend half my day doing unproductive shit instead of doing what I’m paid to do.”
“Only half, and still he complains,” Arnie told the ceiling. “Jack, you’d better start liking this stuff, or it’ll eat you up. This is the fun part of being President. And, hell, man, you were a government employee for fifteen years before you came here. You should love being unproductive!”
Ryan nearly laughed, but managed to contain himself. If there was anything Arnie knew how to do, it was to soften his lessons with humor. That could be annoying as hell.
“Fine, but exactly what do I promise them?”
“You promise that you’ll support this dam and barge-canal scheme.”
“But it’s probably a waste of money.”
“No, it is not a waste of money. It provides employment in this two-state area, which is of interest to not one, not two, but three United States Senators, all of whom support you steadfastly on the Hill, and whom you, therefore, must support in turn. You reward them for helping you by helping them get reelected. And you help them get reelected by allowing them to generate about fifteen thousand construction jobs in the two states.”
“And screw with a perfectly good river for”— Ryan checked the briefing folder on his desk— “three and a quarter billion dollars… Jesus H. Christ,” he finished with a long breath.
“Since when have you been a tree-hugger? Cutthroat trout don’t vote, Jack. And even if the barge traffic up the river doesn’t develop, you’ll still have one hell of a recreation area for people to water-ski and fish, toss in a few new motels, maybe a golf course or two, fast-food places…”
“I don’t like saying things and doing things I don’t believe in,” the President tried next.
“For a politician, that is like colorblindness or a broken leg: a serious handicap,” van Damm noted. “That’s part of the job, too. Nikita Khrushchev said it: ‘Politicians are the same all over the world, we build bridges where there aren’t any rivers.’ ”
“So wasting money is something we’re supposed to do? Arnie, it isn’t our money! It’s the people’s money. It belongs to them, and we don’t have the right to piss it away!”
“Right? Who ever said this is about what’s right?” Arnie asked patiently. “Those three senators who’re”— he checked his watch— “on their way down here right now got you your defense appropriations bill a month ago, in case you didn’t remember, and you may need their votes again. Now, that appropriations bill was important, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, of course it was,” President Ryan responded with guarded eyes.
“And getting that bill through was the right thing for the country, wasn’t it?” van Damm asked next.
A long sigh. He could see where this was going. “Yes, Arnie, it was.
“And so, doing this little thing does help you to do the right thing for the country, doesn’t it?”
“I suppose.” Ryan hated conceding such things, but arguing with Arnie was like arguing with a Jesuit. You were almost always outgunned.
“Jack, we live in an imperfect world. You can’t expect to be doing the right thing all the time. The best you can expect to do is to make the right thing happen most of the time— actually, you will do well to have the right things outbalance the not-so-right things over the long term. Politics is the art of compromise, the art of getting the important things you want, while giving to others the less important things they want, and doing so in such a way that you’re the one doing the giving, not them doing the taking— because that’s what makes you the boss. You must understand that.” Arnie paused and took a sip of coffee. “Jack, you try hard, and you’re learning pretty well— for a fourth-grader in graduate school— but you have to learn this stuff to the point that you don’t even think about it. It has to become as natural as zipping your pants after you take a piss. You still have no idea how well you’re doing.” And maybe that’s a good thing, Arnie added to himself alone.
“Forty percent of the people don’t think I’m doing a good job.”
“Fifty-nine percent do, and some of those forty percent voted for you anyway!”
The election had been a remarkable session for write-in candidates, and Mickey Mouse had done especially well, Ryan reminded himself.
“What am I doing to offend those others?” Ryan demanded.
“Jack, if the Gallup Poll had been around in ancient Israel, Jesus would probably have gotten discouraged and gone back to carpentry”
Ryan punched a button on his desk phone. “Ellen, I need you.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” Mrs. Sumter replied to their not-so-secret code. Thirty seconds later, she appeared through the door with her hand at her side. Approaching the President’s desk, she extended her hand with a cigarette in it. Jack took it and lit it with a butane lighter, removing a glass ashtray from a desk drawer.
“Thanks, Ellen.”
“Surely.” She withdrew. Every other day Ryan would slip her a dollar bill to pay off his cigarette debt. He was getting better at this, mooching usually no more than three smokes on a stressful day.
“Just don’t let the media catch you doing that,” Arnie advised.
“Yeah, I know. I can get it on with a secretary right here in the Oval Office, but if I get caught smoking, that’s like goddamned child abuse.” Ryan took a long hit on the Virginia Slim, also knowing what his wife would say if she caught him doing this. “If I were king, then I’d make the goddamned rules!”
“But you’re not, and you don’t,” Arnie pointed out.