“Hey, Billy!” Rodgers said.
He saluted, the boy, who saluted back. Then he bent down and they hugged.
“Good morning, General Rodgers,” Billy said. “WHOA stands for Whites Only Association. Jim said they want to stop everyone else. ‘Just say WHOA!’ ” “I see,” Rodgers said. He continued to squat in front of the boy. “How do you feel about that?” He rolled a shoulder. “I dunno.” “You don’t know?” Melissa asked.
“Well,” Billy said, “last night, when I saw the photo I thought about my dad being killed. Then I was upset.” “You understand,” said Rodgers, “that these people are really, really bad. And that most people don’t believe the terrible things they believe in.” “Jim said that people do but they just don’t admit it.” “That isn’t true,” Rodgers said. “Everybody’s got ‘pet peeves,’ little things that really annoy them like barking dogs or car alarms. And some people do hate one or two other people, like a boss or a neighbor or—” “My dad hated people who drank instant coffee,” Billy said. “He said they were Phyllis-somebodies.” “Philistines,” Melissa said. She looked away quickly and rolled her lips together.
Rodgers smiled at the boy. “I’m sure your dad didn’t really hate them. We use that word pretty freely when it’s not exactly what we mean. The point is, Jim is wrong. I know a lot of folks, and I don’t know anyone who hates whole bunches of people. Guys like Jim— it makes them feel good to put other people down. They have to hate, it’s like a disease. A mental disease. If they didn’t hate immigrants or people who followed a different religion, they’d hate people with different color hair, or people who were shorter, or people who liked hamburgers instead of hot dogs.” Billy chuckled.
“What I’m trying to say is, these people are evil and you shouldn’t believe what they tell you. I’ve got books and videotapes about people like Winston Churchill and Frederick Douglass and Mohandas Gandhi.” “That’s a funny name.” “It may sound a little strange to you,” Rodgers said, “but his ideas are really good. All of these men have wonderful things to say, and I’ll bring some of that stuff next time. We can read and listen to them together.” “Okay,” Billy said.
Rodgers stood and cocked a thumb toward the printer stand. All of a sudden, a long-haired Superman didn’t seem so bad.
“Meantime,” Rodgers said, “I brought some comic books for you. Batman. today, Gandhi next time.” “Thanks!” Billy said. He stole a look at his mother, who nodded once. Then he bolted over and grabbed the stack of magazines.
“You can read those after school,” Melissa told her son as he flipped through them.
“Right,” Rodgers said. “And if you finish getting ready, I’ll give you a lift to school. We can stop at the diner for Crations and maybe a video game, and you can be the first person to ride shotgun in my brand-new Blazer.” “A video game?” Billy said. “They have Blazing Combattle at the diner.” “Great,” Rodgers said.
Billy threw the General a snappy salute, thanked him again for the comic books, and ran off.
As the boy thumped up the stairs, Melissa gently put her hand around Rodgers’s wrist. “I owe you big time,” she said. She kissed him on the cheek.
Rodgers was caught off guard and blushed. He looked away and Melissa released his arm. He started after Billy.
“Mike,” Melissa said.
He stopped and looked back.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I feel very close to you too. What we’ve all been through— you can’t help it.” The flushing around his collar intensified. He wanted to say something about how he loved them all, including Charlie, but he didn’t. At that moment, he wasn’t sure what he felt.
“Thanks,” he said.
Rodgers smiled but said nothing more. Billy thundered back down the stairs and the General followed him, like straw caught in a whirlwind, as he raced across the living room, backpack in tow, carrying his young man’s morning appetite into the parking lot.
“No sugar, General!” Melissa shouted as the screen door slammed behind them. “And don’t let him get too excited on the video game!”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN Thursday, 8:02 A.M., Washington, D.C.
Senator Barbara Fox and her two aides arrived at Andrews Air Force Base in the Senator’s Mercedes. Senior aide Neil Lippes was sitting in the back, with the Senator.
Junior aide Bobby Winter was driving, a briefcase on the seat beside him.
They were early for their 8:30 meeting, as the guard politely informed them before admitting the car.
“On the contrary,” the white-haired Senator said through the window as they drove past. “We’re about twenty-five million dollars too late.” The trio drove toward a nondescript, two-story building located near the Naval Reserve flight line at Andrews Air Force Base. During the Cold War, the ivory-colored building had been a ready room, a staging area for flight crews. In the event of a nuclear attack, it would have been their job to evacuate key officials from Washington, D.C.
Now, after a hundred-million-dollar facelift, the building was the headquarters of Op-Center, the seat of the National Crisis Management Center. The seventy-eight full-time employees who worked there were crack tacticians, logisticians, soldiers, diplomats, intelligence analysts, computer specialists, psychologists, reconnaissance experts, environmentalists, attorneys, and media liaisons. The NCMC shared another forty-two support personnel with the Department of Defense and the CIA, and commanded the Striker tactical strike team.
As her budget-conscious peers were quick to remind her, Senator Fox had been one of the authors of the NCMC charter. And there was a time when she supported its efforts. Originally, Op-Center had been designed to interface with and serve as backup for the Central Intelligence Agency, National Security Agency, White House, State Department, Department of Defense, Defense Intelligence Agency, National Reconnaissance Office, and the Intelligence and Threat Analysis Center. But after handling a hostage situation in Philadelphia which the Waco-shy FBI dropped in their lap, and uncovering and defusing a sabotage attempt against the space shuttle, Op-Center had earned parity with those agencies— and then some. What had been chartered as an information clearinghouse with SWAT capabilities now had the singular capacity to monitor, initiate, and/ or manage operations worldwide.
And with those singular capacities came a new budget of sixty-one million dollars. That was forty-three percent higher than the second year, which had been only eight percent higher than the first. It was a budget the fifty-twoyear- old four-term Senator from California was not about to accommodate. Not with an election coming up. Not with friends at the CIA and FBI demanding parity. Paul Hood was a longtime friend, and she’d used her influence with the President to help get him the job of Director. But he and his uppity second-in-command, Mike Rodgers, were going to have to scale their operations back. Scale them back more than they were going to like.
Winter parked the car behind a concrete flowerpot, which doubled as a barricade against potential terrorist car bombers. The three got out and crossed the slate walkway set in the close-cut grass. When they reached the glass door, a video camera took their picture. A moment later a woman’s voice came from a loudspeaker beneath the camera, telling them to enter. There was a buzz and Winter pulled the door open.
Inside, they were greeted by two armed guards. One was standing in front of the security office, the other was behind the bulletproof glass. The guard on the outside checked their Congressional photo I.D.s, ran a portable metal detector over the briefcase, then sent them through the first-floor administration level. At the end of the hall was an elevator, where a third armed guard was standing.
“I see one place where we can prune the budget by about fifty thousand dollars,” Barbara said to Neil as the elevator door closed.
The aides chortled as the silver-walled elevator shot downstairs, to the underground area where the real business of Op-Center was conducted.
Another armed guard was stationed outside the elevator— “Seventy-five thousand,” Barbara said to her aides— and after they showed her their I.D.’s, the guard directed them to a waiting room.
Senator Fox glared at her. “We’re here to see General Rodgers, not await his pleasure.” “I’m sorry, Senator. But he’s not here.” “Not here?” The Senator looked at her watch. She exhaled through her nose. “My God, I thought that General Rodgers lived here.” She looked at the guard again. “Has he a car phone?” “Yes, ma’am.” “Call it, please.” “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I don’t have that number.
Mr. Abram does.” “Then call him,” the Senator said. “Tell Mr. Abram that we would like to see him. Tell him as well that we do not sit in waiting rooms.” The guard began to phone the Assistant Deputy Director. Although his shift officially ended at 6:00 A.M., he was empowered to act in the absence of a superior.