The Prince by Jerry Pournelle and S.M. Stirling

He leafed through papers on his desk. Most were reports with bright red security covers, and Grant closed his eyes for a moment. Harmon’s speech was important and would probably affect the upcoming elections. The man is getting to be a nuisance, Grant thought.

I should do something about him.

He put the thought aside with a shudder. Harmon had been a friend, once. Lord, what have we come to? He opened the first report.

There had been a riot at the International Federation of Labor convention. Three killed and the smooth plans for the reelection of Matt Brady thrown into confusion. Grant grimaced again and drank more milk. The Intelligence people had assured him this one would be easy.

He dug through the reports and found that three of Harvey Bertram’s child crusaders were responsible. They’d bugged Brady’s suite. The idiot hadn’t known better than to make deals in his room. Now Bertram’s people had enough evidence of sellouts to inflame floor sentiment in a dozen conventions.

The report ended with a recommendation that the government drop Brady and concentrate support on MacKnight, who had a good reputation and whose file in the CIA building bulged with information. MacKnight would be easy to control. Grant nodded to himself and scrawled his signature on the action form.

He threw it into the “Top Secret: Out” tray and watched it vanish. There was no point in wasting time. Then he wondered idly what would happen to Brady. Matt Brady had been a good United Party man; blast Bertram’s people anyway.

He took up the next file, but before he could open it his secretary came in. Grant looked up and smiled, glad of his decision to ignore the electronics. Some executives never saw their secretaries for weeks at a time.

“Your appointment, sir,” she said. “And it’s time for your nerve tonic.”

He grunted. “I’d rather die.” But he let her pour a shot glass of evil-tasting stuff, and he tossed it off and chased it with milk. Then he glanced at his watch, but that wasn’t necessary. Miss Ackridge knew the travel time to every Washington office. There’d be no time to start another report, which suited Grant fine.

He let her help him into his black coat and brush off a few silver hairs. He didn’t feel sixty-five, but he looked it now. It happened all at once. Five years ago he could pass for forty. John saw the girl in the mirror behind him and knew that she loved him, but it wouldn’t work.

And why the hell not? he wondered. It isn’t as if you’re pining away for Priscilla. By the time she died you were praying it would happen, and we married late to begin with. So why the hell do you act as if the great love of your life has gone out forever? All you’d have to do is turn around, say five words, and—and what? She wouldn’t be the perfect secretary any longer, and secretaries are harder to find than mistresses. Let it alone.

She stood there a moment longer, then moved away. “Your daughter wants to see you this evening,” she told him. “She’s driving down this afternoon and says it’s important.”

“Know why?” Grant asked. Ackridge knew more about Sharon than Grant did. Possibly a lot more.

“I can guess. I think her young man has asked her.”

John nodded. It wasn’t unexpected, but still it hurt. So soon, so soon. They grow so fast when you’re an old man. John Jr. was a commander in the CoDominium Navy, soon to be a captain with a ship of his own. Frederick was dead in the same accident as his mother. And now Sharon, the baby, had found another life . . . not that they’d been close since he’d taken this job.

“Run his name through CIA, Flora, I meant to do that months ago. They won’t find anything, but we’ll need it for the records.”

“Yes, sir. You’d better be on your way now. Your drivers are outside.”

He scooped up his briefcase. “I won’t be back tonight. Have my car sent around to the White House, will you? I’ll drive myself home tonight.”

He acknowledged the salutes of the driver and armed mechanic with a cheery wave and followed them to the elevator at the end of the long corridor. Paintings and photographs of ancient battles hung along both sides of the hall, and there was carpet on the floor, but otherwise it was like a cave. Blasted Pentagon, he thought for the hundredth time. Silliest building ever constructed. Nobody can find anything, and it can’t be guarded at any price. Why couldn’t someone have bombed it?

They took a surface car to the White House. A flight would have been another detail to worry about, and besides, this way he got to see the cherry trees and flower beds around the Jefferson. The Potomac was a sludgy brown mess. You could swim in it if you had a strong stomach, but the Army Engineers had “improved” it a few administrations back. They’d given it concrete banks. Now they were ripping them out, and it brought down mudslides.

They drove through rows of government buildings, some abandoned. Urban renewal had given Washington all the office space the Government would ever need, and more, so that there were these empty buildings as relics of the time when D.C. was the most crime-ridden city in the world. Sometime in Grant’s youth, though, they’d hustled everyone out of Washington who didn’t work there, with bulldozers quickly following to demolish the tenements. For political reasons the offices had gone in as quickly as the other buildings were torn down.

They passed the Population Control Bureau and drove around the Elipse and past Old State to the gate. The guard carefully checked his identity and made him put his palm on the little scanning plate. Then they entered the tunnel to the White House basement.

The President stood when Grant entered the Oval Office, and the others shot to their feet as if they had ejection charges under them. Grant shook hands around but looked closely at Lipscomb. The President was feeling the strain, no question about it. Well, they all were.

The Secretary of Defense wasn’t there, but then he never was. The Secretary was a political hack who controlled a bloc of Aerospace Guild votes and an even larger bloc of aerospace industry stocks. As long as government contracts kept his companies busy employing his men, he didn’t give a damn about policy. He could sit in on formal Cabinet sessions where nothing was ever said, and no one would know the difference. John Grant was Defense as much as he was CIA.

Few of the men in the Oval Office were well known to the public. Except for the President any one of them could have walked the streets of any city except Washington without fear of recognition. But the power they controlled, as assistants and deputies, was immense, and they all knew it. There was no need to pretend here.

The servitor brought drinks and Grant accepted Scotch. Some of the others didn’t trust a man who wouldn’t drink with them. His ulcer would give him hell, and his doctor more, but doctors and ulcers didn’t understand the realities of power. Neither, thought Grant, do I or any of us, but we’ve got it.

“Mr. Karins, would you begin?” the President asked. Heads swiveled to the west wall where Karins stood at the briefing screen. To his right a polar projection of Earth glowed with lights showing the status of the forces that the President ordered, but Grant controlled.

Karins stood confidently, his paunch spilling out over his belt. The fat was an obscenity in so young a man. Herman Karins was the second youngest man in the room, Assistant Director of the Office of Management and Budget, and said to be one of the most brilliant economists Yale had ever produced. He was also the best political technician in the country, but he hadn’t learned that at Yale.

He activated the screen to show a set of figures. “I have the latest poll results,” Karins said too loudly. “This is the real stuff, not the slop we give the press. It stinks.”

Grant nodded. It certainly did. The Unity Party was hovering around thirty-eight percent, just about evenly divided between the Republican and Democratic wings. Harmon’s Patriot Party had just over twenty-five. Millington’s violently left wing Liberation Party had its usual ten, but the real shocker was Bertram’s Freedom Party. Bertram’s popularity stood at an unbelievable twenty percent of the population.

“These are figures for those who have an opinion and might vote,” Karins said. “Of course there’s the usual gang that doesn’t give a damn, but we know how they split off. They go to whomever got to ’em last anyway. You see the bad news.”

“You’re sure of this?” the Assistant Postmaster General asked. He was the leader of the Republican wing of Unity, and it hadn’t been six months since he had told them they could forget Bertram.