Sex and the High Command (7 page)

He steadied himself and looked up from his notes. “Mr. President, the cost of living is a travesty if it doesn’t include the cost of loving, and if you include the cost of loving, the cost of living is a tragedy. Ten-cent cotton and five-hundred-dollar meat, how in hell…” His voice broke, his eyes grew glazed.

“Labor, control yourself,” the President barked.

“… can a poor man eat?” Labor did not close the notebook. Leaving it open, he folded his arms across it, buried his head on his arms, and his body was racked by dry sobs. He stayed that way until Mr. Culpepper stepped out and summoned two Secret Service men, who came, lifted him to his feet, and led him from the room.

“Interior?” The President was outwardly unperturbed.

“No problems, Mr. President. No problem a-tall.” Dalton Lamar was grinning.

“Justice?”

Attorney General Axminister Farnsworth said, “Mr. President, gentlemen, rape cases are still increasing but false rape cases are coming in so fast that police departments in smaller towns can’t handle the load. Obviously, this is harassment, but I’m more concerned at the moment with a new activity of the underworld which Mr. Powers will describe.”

“Proceed, Mr. Powers.”

Hansen liked the cut of Mr. Powers’ jib. He stood, his jaw outthrust, hands clasped behind his back, leaning slightly forward as if to balance with his brow the problems on his mind. “Mr. President, narcotics and gambling are becoming minor operations of the underworld. With the increase in prices, prostitution is the heavy industry, and staffs are now being augmented by teams of virgin-hunters who go into the less accessible areas of the continent and recruit the girls forcibly. Through informal channels, the bureau has learned of an expansion program, here in Washington, and I don’t mind telling you, Mr. President, I’m counting on that expansion to take the pressure off some of my boys on State Department assignments.” Mr. Powers sat down.

“Gentlemen,” the President said, “this completes reports on developments. We are now open for countermeasures or solutions. May I explain to you. Captain Hansen and Chief McCormick, our brainstorming sessions are completely informal. Feel free to toss any idea you wish onto the table and let us take a punch at it. If it fights back, it may win. Under our ground rules, Captain, anyone can play. Care to kick off the session?”

Hansen started to demur when a weird electricity around him seemed to grasp him, and he heard his own voice saying, “Well, sir, we could draft unmarried females into the Waves and order them to breed.”

He was amazed by the spontaneity of the handclaps which greeted his suggestion, and felt somewhat contemptuous of the men around him for not having considered such an obvious solution. “Very good. Captain,” the President said. “Mr. Culpepper, file Captain Hansen’s remarks under ‘Possible Solutions.’ Chief McCormick, would you care to take a left jab at your captain’s idea?”

“Well, sir, to back up what the captain said, you wouldn’t have to give any orders to breed, sir. You line the Waves up on one side, the sailors on the other, order a short-arm inspection, and jump back.”

Laughter was mixed with the applause.

Not on my ship, Hansen thought, and suddenly he realized what he, himself, had said. Seated on the right hand of the Chief of Naval Operations, separated from the Secretary of Defense by one chair, he had offered a suggestion that would turn the fleet into a floating bordello. Moreover, he had impugned the honor of American womanhood. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the admiral scribbling a reprimand on his notepad, and he could read, “Frankly, I am stunned and…”

Hansen snapped his eyes forward, his face set, hardly hearing the President order Culpepper to enter the suggestions under “Feasible and Constitutional Solutions.” Now it mattered little what a President thought of him; he would never be promoted by a Navy selection board, but his discipline remained. With a cool glance he appraised the rough draft of the official reprimand which the admiral shoved under his nose, and read, “… and delighted that you have cast off the Annapolis anchor and think with originality. Well done!”

Each man approached the problem from his own field of interest.

With urbane sincerity, Dr. Drexel presented schematic drawings of a pair of stocks which, affixed to the foot of one’s bed, held the female immobile during entry. Stocks were rejected by the President as a violation of the Due Process clause of the Constitution and the idea was not even filed under “Possible Solutions.”

The Attorney General proposed that a wife’s refusal be considered a civil wrong, as a breach of the marriage contract, but the idea was hooted off the table by Oglethorpe Pickens, who called it a tart tort. However, the President’s former student bounced right back.

“You’re not through with the Justice Department, yet, Mr. President. May I yield to Mr. Powers?”

Standing for the second time, Mr. Powers was obviously prepared for a longer speech. He had a notebook open before him, and he shoved his right hand under his coat. “Mr. President, in my status report I spoke of the virgin-hunters—those boys with private initiative and enterprise are keeping the houses open. Now, I’ve gone on record as opposing this wheat deal—the Reds are going to furnish our boys with girls whose aim will be subversion, pure and simple. [Hansen was aghast at the implication in that remark.] Mr. President, what I propose is a countermeasure to substitute for the wheat-for-women exchange. I suggest I make a few phone calls. If we gave those houses protection, we could peg prices to put them in reach of the family man. In addition, the boys in State would be less prone to peddle our secrets to the girls in the Red consulates.”

As he sat down, Dalton Lamar shouted, “Mr. President, I recommend that convents be declared national reservations under the jurisdiction of the Department of Interior.”

“Sir,” Mr. Powers was ruffled, “I consider that suggestion sacrilegious.”

“Mr. Powers,” the President interposed, “the feasibility, not religiosity, of ideas is our concern here, but I will undertake no alliance with the underworld, overt or sub rosa. Insofar as the trade arrangement with the Soviets is concerned, the émigré females will be here under work visas, and their presence will be constitutional. As for the nunneries, Mr. Lamar, your proposal violates the Separation of Church and State clauses of the Bill of Rights… Now, gentlemen, I wish to clear the table for a heavyweight solution. Put your guard up.”

Suddenly, his listeners seemed to lean toward the President.

“We have all pondered this problem,” he said. “I have thumbed Gladstone until the pages curled, probed the Code Napoleon, the Koran, and the Talmud seeking a precedent to guide me, but wherever I sailed over the seas of law, my bottom eventually dragged on the shoals of the American Constitution. Since I have taken a solemn oath to protect that Constitution, I have decided not to run for reelection in November.”

Amazed groans of “No! No!” came from his cabinet appointees, but the President continued unperturbed. “Whatever happens, gentlemen, we must not lose our power base, the Presidency. Yet, with me as President, we are hampered by a strict observance of constitutional law. What we need, gentlemen, is a dynamic young candidate unfettered by tradition who will boldly carve new guidelines around the Constitution.

“The new plan proposes a single male candidate, endorsed by both the Republican and Democratic parties at one joint convention, to run against any possible combination of female candidates supported by the FEM Party. To explain the core of our new plan, I give you one of its chief engineers and architects. Admiral Meriweather Primrose.”

When the admiral rose to applause, Hansen felt a glow of pride in this five-foot six-inch man who cast a six-foot five-inch shadow. Primrose spoke tersely. “Gentlemen, in order to determine a suitable candidate for the new plan, I turned the President’s suggestions over to my Naval Plans and Operations under the code name Operation Chicken Pluck. The Secretary of Defense and I are so confident of success with Operation Chicken Pluck that we have set aside, at least temporarily. Operation Queen Swap.”

“What is Operation Queen Swap?” Mr. Powers asked.

“A military operation and closed to discussion… Operation Chicken Pluck, gentlemen, resolved itself into two phases: The first phase involved finding a candidate before the scheduled date of the joint convention. Finding a candidate demanded an analysis of the components of that capability designated ‘male sex appeal,’ a strategic objective hampered by a scarcity of intelligence in the area. From analysis of the written records of known great lovers, we arrived at Lothario X, a psychological profile of the Great Lover. Once we had found the living Lothario X, we knew we would have a candidate who could draw the votes of all uncommitted and uncontaminated females. With this man, we could win an election. With the election won, we could declare Vita-Lerp illegal and move out with our odorometers to jail everything but koala bears that smelled of eucalyptus. For the record, gentlemen, we have found Lothario X, and he has demonstrated his prowess by playing the cock to one of Mother Carey’s chickens.” Astonishment showed on the faces of his listeners as the admiral continued. “Gentlemen, that man is Chief Water Tender McCormick of the USS
Chattahoochee
.”

There was applause for the chief who reddened at the outburst.

“So, gentlemen.” the admiral continued, “the militant has successfully completed the first phase of Operation Chicken Pluck. Winning the election, the second phase, is now a matter for our statesmen.” The admiral sat down.

“Gentlemen,” the President said, “the admiral is commended. He has given us the man, and by ‘us’ I mean Senator Dubois and me. Senator, as a representative of the people and as Republican majority leader, are you willing to support us in November?”

Senator Dubois did not stand. He merely straightened in his seat, but the aura of wisdom and age around him claimed Hansen’s full attention. “Mr. President, gentlemen,” he said. “I have misgivings about any plan which attempts to overcome hostilities accumulated against us since the first arboreal creature swung down from the trees, lifted his knuckles from the ground, proclaimed himself man, turned, and cuffed his mate. I fear we are boarding a dreamboat to purgatory, and the next voice you hear will be the voice of God, saying, ‘
Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin
.’ Of all who have prophesied the way the world will end, there was the poet T. S. Eliot. Gentlemen, he called the shot!”

A titter, which Hansen did not understand, rustled through the room. He made a note on his pad. “Check with Helga. World’s end. T. S. Eliot.”

When the laughter died, the Senator resumed. “We have rolled our point, and snake eyes stare us in the face. The merry-go-round’s run down, little children. Plan? Let us plan for this Armageddon when we are already its veterans and its victims, for the tactics to defeat our tactics were extant before the struggle started, and all that we have left, gentlemen, are the cold stars and the priesthood. Support you? Indeed! Against their panzer divisions I’ll hurl the cavalry of Hannibal. There’s no use saving the elephants, boys, for Carthage shall not rise again.”

Suddenly he dropped the oratory and swept the assembly with eyes which seemed to pierce each man, individually, and his tone grew low and harsh. “In the parlance of our Navy friends, I’ll never give up the ship—until that moment comes when I can arise and address you all as ‘Brother Rats.’ Then, I warn you, gentlemen, I am the pluperfectest swimmer in the rodent kingdom, and the last sound your drowning ears shall hear will be squeals of delight from Honeysuckle Dubois, the last manchild on the merry-go-round.”

Hansen thrilled to the senator’s speech, although he had only a vague idea what the senator meant. To President Habersham, however, accustomed to political discourse, the senator’s words brought umbrage into his voice as he said, “Mr. Majority Leader, you can rest assured the Democrats will keep their promises, but remember you have a Republican majority on the nominating committee.”

“What do you think the female tactics would be?” the admiral asked the senator.

“Political counterattack with our weapons.”

“But, Senator,” the Defense Secretary interjected, “their only logical Presidential candidate is Dr. Carey herself, and she’s flat-chested.”

“She’ll have a Vice Presidential running mate,” the senator said.

“That’s a possibility,” the President interposed, speaking to the senator, “but with you running for Vice President, what we lose to the breast vote among men should be offset by the little old ladies with tennis shoes.”

Suddenly, the senator threw back his head and half snorted, “Why, Dem, if you had an ounce of br… excuse me. Mr. President, may I recommend that you rise above your constitutional principles, suspend habeas corpus, and outlaw Vita-Lerp.”

“I’ve got the historians to think of,” the President said.

“For us, there’ll be no historians,” the senator said.

“Nevertheless, I have my own integrity,” the President said, “and I have Alternate Plan B.”

“Mr. President,” the voice of Primrose cracked through the room, “may I remind you that we have not discussed Alternate Plan B!”

“What is Alternate Plan B?” Mr. Powers asked.

“Military! Closed!” the admiral snapped.

Surprisingly, the President turned to Mr. Powers with an almost gentle look. “Alternate Plan B, Mr. Powers, will be invoked only by me. I would not ask my advisers to share that responsibility.” The President fell back into his chair, as if recoiling from the thought of Alternate Plan B, but the chief drew his attention.

“Mr. President, y’all wanting
me
to run for President?”

“That’s the idea. Chief.”

“How long would I be electioneering?”

“Less than two months, after the convention which is roughly three weeks from now.”

“But, Mr. President, I’ll have to resign from the Navy, and, sir, I’d lose my pension.”

“Your pension as a former President will be more.”

“I never done no politicking. I could lose that election.”