Directive 51 (43 page)

Weisbrod said, “Mr. President, may I ask a major favor? I haven’t been able to look in on Roger Pendano since his illness. If you could give me a lift to the White House, we could talk more about your ideas, and I’d have time to pay my old friend a visit, and still walk back here before dark.”

“Well, I’ve got quite a bit of work to do in the car, of course, but I’ll try to make some time to talk.” Shaunsen went out first, to the rhythmic clapping of the National Unity Guard; Graham followed with the Secret Service and Marines, who closed the door behind the party.

“Has anyone told him he’s the Acting President, not the acting emperor?” Heather asked.

Cam winced. “Don’t make my job harder. You know Weisbrod; what do you suppose your boss was up to?”

“Improvising and seeing if he can improve matters, plus he really is worried sick about Pendano.”

“Well, I wish him luck. When he comes back, if you see him before I do, send him to me; I’d like to hear what’s going on in the White House.” He sighed and looked around the room. “For the record, I am acting as the Chief of Staff for the Department of Homeland Security, and I have not—since Acting President Shaunsen took office—exercised any power as NCCC. If in any of your opinions that isn’t true—either now or in the future—tell me at once. In front of others if you feel it’s necessary, and don’t forget to copy KP-1 and the
Advertiser-Gazette
on that. We are going to come through this process with our Constitution intact, and so far we have bent it less than Andrew Jackson, Abraham Lincoln, or Franklin Roosevelt did, and I regret even as much as we’ve had to do. The Constitution stands. End of message, reply not expected, that’s all folks.”

Heather thought she’d never seen a harsher message greeted with more smiles.
Still, this would probably be a bad time to tell Cam he’d make a good dictator.

The guard at the main gate was nice and polite even before he saw
David Carlucci and Family
, and
Larry Mensche and Family
, on the guest list that Bambi had submitted. “You’ll be glad to know,” he said, “that Mr. Bolton’s family joined us earlier, and of course we’re glad to have all of you—let me just get full names and relationships for everyone—”

Carlucci nodded. “David Ignatius and Arlene Mather Carlucci, we’re married, and these are our son Track Palin Carlucci, and daughter Ann Coulter Carlucci.” The two teenagers looked embarrassed; the boy said, “My friends call me Paley,” and the guard added
(Paley)
after the entry.

“And they call me Acey,” Ann said, “like the initials but A-C-E-Y.”

“They do not, you made that up, you just
want
them to—”

“Here at Castle Castro, we will call you Acey,” the guard said, firmly, “since you want us to. And Mr. Mensche, is there just you?”

“Lorenzo Isaac Mensche,” Mensche said. “And call me Larry. Just me, my ex is someplace in Nevada and our grown daughter is up in Oregon. And—uh, excuse my asking, but what the hell do you suppose that is?”

The grinding and squealing sounds from the wheelchair itself were only part of the effect; the tires had been replaced with what looked like a wrapping of old socks, and behind it, a bicycle kid-trailer, with more sock-wrapped wheels, held bottles of beer and cans of Spam piled in a jumble on top of a sleeping bag. Both the wheelchair and trailer sported jaunty American flags, and the man in the wheelchair looked about as much as one can look like a biblical patriarch with a samurai sword on his lap and a shotgun hanging from a strap.

“Hi.” His grin was immense. “My name’s Patrick Lamont O’Grainne, and I believe I have a reservation.”

The guard glanced down, and said, “Another Bambi Castro guest. Of course. Even when she was in high school, Ms.Castro always brought in the most interesting people.” He drew his semaphore flags and began sending to the next station up the hill. “We’re very glad to have you all here.”

“I really appreciate the ride, and the chance to talk with you privately,” Graham Weisbrod said, pushing his glasses up his nose and peering intently at Shaunsen.

“Well, there’s so much to get done,” Shaunsen said. “We’ve got a crisis here, and if we play it right, it’ll be the New Deal all over again, with a Democratic majority for the next—”

“Mr. President, I’m as loyal a Democrat as you are, sir, and we are
not
going to win this election—”

Shaunsen shook his head. “Crises come and crises go, Secretary Weisbrod, but Americans always want hope, and we are the party of hope. That’s one of the problems with your whole Department of the Future; it’s unnecessary and trivial. Everything that really matters goes on forever. When things get smashed up, the country rebuilds, and the Democrats lead it. Sure, it’s bad right now. It was bad when the Depression hit, and after Pearl Harbor, and after the Federal Reserve bombings. But times like this are when we show the voters we can make the money move and get things done.”

All right, I’m going to hate myself if I don’t try, so here goes.
“Mr. President, do you realize that we can’t reliably deliver mail from here to Richmond, there are now fifteen states from which we have only had satellite photos in the last twenty-four hours, all communication is down with Ottawa and Mexico City, let alone Europe or Asia . . . and we have people going hungry ten blocks from the White House because
there isn’t any food
—”

“If Congress acts fast, we’ll have the money—”

“You can create the money, but they can’t eat it.”
Good God alive, I feel like his reality therapist. If the National Unity Guards there weren’t giving me the fish-eye I’d slap the son of a bitch, I swear to god I would.
“No one in the Northeast urban strip from Boston to Richmond can reach adequate shelter or food in time. Within a week, the first bad storm is going to kill tens of millions of Americans at a minimum. Right now, the best hope we’ve got is that there are little towns all over the country managing to organize things within a few miles of themselves, and we’re only hearing about them from ham radio operators who are just barely managing to keep their stations on the air—”

“Every one of those little towns will see a nice big grant, I guarantee it, for all the good work they’re doing.” Shaunsen reached out and touched his knee. “Graham, you are such a sad
worrier
, and the public always wants a happy
warrior
. We’ll make it all work, and the economy is going to take off like a rocket once we get these programs running. You’ll see. I’ve always said, you think about the future so much, you don’t see the long run.”

The limo zigged and zagged past the wrecks on the street; no one came out to look at it, perhaps intimidated by the Secret Service, perhaps just not caring about it anymore.

Forty minutes since Weisbrod arrived at the White House, and he’d spent all of it sitting in the Secret Service break room while the people dithered about allowing him in to see Roger Pendano. The Secret Service people were pleasant, polite, and much less formal than he’d ever seen them, but his thoughts were mostly on his old student.
What if he’s so far gone in madness, he can’t recognize anyone? What if—

One of the Secret Service returned to the room and said, “Secretary Weisbrod, I’m supposed to take you to see President Pendano now. The doctor wants you to know he’s not in the best shape. He said you should go as soon as the president starts to look tired or sick, because his health is precarious. Okay?”

“You’ve got it. He was my friend a long time before he was president, I won’t do anything to endanger or hurt him.”

“Just passing it along because the doctor told me to, sir. Right this way.” Two years ago Pendano had said he did not want to live in rooms where the First Lady had spent her last few months dying, and that any living space more than a comfortable minimum made him feel like he was “rattling around with no place to be.” He had moved up from the traditional Second Floor to the Third, into a bedroom with space for clothes and bed, with an adjoining sitting room for reading and watching television. They had put in a small kitchen so he could have food without bothering people, and a connecting door to a tiny guest bedroom for rare visits from his grown daughter. The mostly unoccupied floor below him gave him the quiet he craved.

The Secret Service agent escorting him upstairs had told Weisbrod that Shaunsen was already living in the traditional Presidential Quarters on the second floor, taking measurements and sketching. Weisbrod didn’t think he’d ever before heard a sarcastic tone from a Secret Service agent.

Weisbrod had been here a few times before Daybreak. Every so often, during the last couple of years, the president had invited Weisbrod; Peggy Albarado, the Secretary of Peace; Laura Pressman, the Secretary of Education; and Vice President Samuelson up to his sitting room to talk about “ideas and the long run and where everything really ought to go” while they killed a couple of bottles of good bourbon. He had called them his “Liquor Cabinet.”

The Secret Service man led Weisbrod to the door, nodded politely, and said, “Help him if you can, sir. We all want him to get better.”

“Thanks.” Weisbrod knocked. He interpreted the vague grunt from inside as “come in.”

The man who sat on the couch looked more like the mummified remains of Roger Pendano than anything else.
God, on Monday he was fine, and it’s only Thursday!

“Roger?” Weisbrod sat next to him, and turned on the lamp.

The president’s skin was a sick tone of gray, the lines of his face seemed to have deepened by a good ten years, and his eyes were half-closed; he hadn’t really even looked up to see that it was Weisbrod. Tentatively, Graham reached out and rubbed a shoulder; slowly, Pendano turned, and then jumped.

“You think I just appeared.”

“Yeah, yeah, I . . . Graham?”

“It’s me, Mr. President.”

“Am I . . .” Pendano looked deeply frustrated. “I’m supposed to make sure about my pills. I think that’s after you go. And I took the ones for when you’re here.” His eyes looked desperate.

Weisbrod stood, taking the president’s hand. He led him over to the pill bottles and pointed. The president nodded, and pointed to the bottle of little red pills. “Just had those a little bit ago.” He pointed to the big white ones. “All the time, and supposed to take one right after you go.” He was panting, and sweat beaded on his forehead from the effort of walking to the table.

Weisbrod pulled out his personal notepad and pen, and wrote:

 

→

The president nodded his head vigorously. Next to Graham’s arrow he scribbled,
Last EKG worse thn we told press, kidney failure 2 . . .

He stopped to catch his breath; sweat was actually dripping from his forehead. Weisbrod put a hand on his back and helped him stand straighter; bringing the pad along, he walked the president to the couch. Weisbrod cleaned Pendano’s face with a wet cloth from the bathroom, and loosened his belt and tie.

“I feel better,” Pendano said, softly, writing,
They started drugs rt after Shaunsen came.

Need to get off them?
Weisbrod wrote.

“I’m glad you’re feeling so much better. I’m pretty sure we can do something to help you get well; I’ll try to stop by more often.” He pointed at the note about DTs and nodded vigorously; Pendano extended his hand, and they shook.

They passed more notes, but Pendano was already exhausted. Weisbrod got him to drink as much water as he would hold.
So much crap to wash out of him, I don’t know what else we can do.

He made sure all the notes and the pad they’d been written on were in his pockets before he left, after scribbling one more. Firmly, he told Roger, “I’ll be back, tomorrow if I can, but at least every other day and as often as I can. We’re going to get you well, Roger.” He wrapped Roger up in his arms, pressed his mouth to the man’s ear, and barely breathed, “You were my best. You were always my best. We need you again, Roger, do this for us.”

There were tears in the president’s eyes, but he nodded vigorously and his handshake was surprisingly firm.

On his way out, Weisbrod showed the Secret Service man a note folded to leave the top line visible: ABOUT GETTING THE PRESIDENT WELL.

The man took the note and it vanished; Weisbrod just had to hope he had picked the right guy to pass it to.
Christ, Christ, it’s more like Imperial Rome than I could have imagined
.

At the door, they issued him a .38 police revolver, and made sure he knew how to use it.
Pity I didn’t have this, riding over with Shaunsen; I could have done the best thing I ever did for the United States.
He checked his watch and the sun; if he pushed himself and if his sneakers didn’t fall apart on the way (he had a spare pair of leather shoes, not as comfortable but more durable in the new world, in his bag), he might make it back to St. Elizabeth’s with daylight left; the worst would be crossing on the Capitol Street bridge, with nowhere to run if he were ambushed.

As he hurried past the Capitol, he saw a familiar figure from many dinner parties and interviews in a long public life. He waved and shouted, “Hi, Rusty! I like the paper!”

“Hey, Secretary Weisbrod! I see you’re using Washington public transit like we all are. I’ll be sure to report the gesture.” He had thought she was walking dogs, but saw she had three goats with her. Seeing his start, she said, “I live close, and laugh all you want, this is a fair bit of cheese right here.” She grinned. “Say something quotable.”