The General's President (6 page)

"And Babe, I love you.... You do, eh? I kind of thought so. Talk to you tomorrow."

He hung up then, poured another drink, and leaned back thoughtfully in the chair. Controlling the violence, he thought, would be the easy part. If he took the job. It seemed to be pretty much controlled already. The hard part would be getting things running right again. If he couldn't do that, nothing else he might accomplish would matter.

SIX

The next morning at almost precisely 0700, Cromwell, in civvies again, knocked at Haugen's door, to be let in by Sergeant Kearney. Haugen had just finished knotting his tie—something he seldom wore.

"How'd you sleep last night?" Cromwell asked.

"Pretty well, actually."

They looked at one another for several seconds. "Well?" Cromwell said at last.

Haugen grinned. "The answer is yes; why the hell not? I'm bound to do as well as a lot of possible selectees would, and better than some. Present company excepted."

He laughed then, and Cromwell's eyebrows raised. "I'm remembering a conversation a few days ago," Haugen said. "An old friend of mine said I ought to run for president next time, 'if there is a next time.' He was joking, of course. I told him, 'No way. And if I did, people wouldn't have me.' I'm half a liar already, it looks like. We'll have to see about the other half."

Cromwell grunted. He wasn't up to having humor this morning. He felt like a man reprieved, but there was no joy in it; merely relief. The country was still in deep shit. Kearney picked up Haugen's larger bag, and in a few minutes they were in another plain gray GSA sedan, this one larger and better appointed than last night's. Haugen asked himself, not seriously, if Cromwell would have brought a limousine if he'd said yes the evening before.

There was more traffic than Haugen had expected—government employees going to work, he presumed—but for far less than there'd have been a year earlier. And no traces of past street fighting along the short route between airport and Pentagon; apparently neither mobs nor urban paras had reached this part of the city.

It was his first look at the Pentagon, a vast building reminding him of some mesa in New Mexico. They got out in front of a broad, colonnaded entrance and went in. An elevator and corridor took them to an outer office, where a female master sergeant with caramel complexion had them wait for a moment while she buzzed her boss.

"General Cromwell is here, with a gentleman," she said. She nodded at Cromwell then. "General Hanke says to go right in."

They did. Hanke was on his feet, waiting for them.

"General," said Cromwell, "I'd like you to meet Arne Haugen, of Duluth Technologies. Arne, this is General Fred Hanke, Army Chief of Staff." As the tall general shook hands with the broad older man, Hanke's pale blue eyes examined Haugen openly.

When they'd finished the courtesies, Cromwell said, "Hanke, Arne has given me a yes on my proposition. Now I'm taking him to see the president. If I'm not back in time, I'd like you to chair this morning's meeting."

"Fine. Anything you want me to tell them?"

"Tell them I got a 'yes' from Arne."

When they'd left, they paused at Cromwell's office for just a moment while Cromwell called the White House and spoke to someone named Charles; they'd be there in ten minutes, he told him.

In the corridor again, Cromwell said, "I wanted Hanke to meet you. It's good PR, and Hank's a hell of a good man. Best man on the JCS, in most ways; better than me, better than Carmody."

Which left two chiefs of staff unmentioned, Haugen noted. A small helicopter waited for them on a helipad outside; Cromwell had arranged for it in advance, he supposed. From the air, he saw what had not been apparent while driving to the Pentagon—the widespread damage and destruction north of the river. There was no smoke though; the evening's heavy rain had seen to that. Trucks were out, along with front-end loaders, clearing away the remains of dozed out barricades. That suggested that the sniping had ended, or nearly enough for whoever had made the decision.

Haugen had visited the White House once, nearly forty years earlier, as a tourist. Now there were no tourists, only marines, and he was met on the lawn by the president's military aide, General Hammaker, and Charles Milstead, chief of the White House staff. Cromwell made the introductions; then they walked together to the Oval Office, where President Kevin J. Donnelly met them seated, a full colonel standing behind him with a Medical Corps caduceus on his shirt collar.

The president looked terrible, like a long-term invalid, his flesh and complexion like bread dough.
Not drawn like yesterday
, Cromwell thought.
Fuffy.
The result of some drug, he supposed. Some medicine, and perhaps no sleep or too much sleep...
But he straightened when we came in; he's that much in control.

Haugen wondered if Donnelly was dying. Cromwell made the introduction, and the president stared at Haugen without extending his hand. Then, without preamble, Donnelly asked: "Mr. Haugen, are you willing to be vice president?"

Haugen's voice was unexpectedly husky. "Yes, Mr. President, I am."

Donnelly sat briefly silent, as if gathering himself. "Good. You are now the vice president of the United States of America."

Then he turned his eyes to Milstead, questioningly. "Is that it?" he asked.

"Yes, Mr. President, that's it."

Again a lag. "Then I resign," he murmured.

Milstead started to speak. His voice broke, and Haugen looked at him; tears had overbrimmed the man's eyes, and it seemed to Haugen that this man and Donnelly had had dreams together. Milstead gathered his control, sucked in his cheeks and started again.

"Yes Mr. President. We are witness to your appointment of Vice President Haugen, and of your resignation." He looked at Colonel Singleton; Singleton nodded.

"Gentlemen," Singleton said, "if you please." Milstead led the others out of the office. Donnelly's secretary turned away from the door as they came out, but a box of Kleenex was open on her desk. She knew. Haugen felt like an inheritance tax collector at a funeral. Milstead took them into his own office, next to the president's. They could have entered it directly from the Oval Office, but apparently, under the circumstances, Milstead thought their manner of departure was more appropriate.

"Mr. President," Milstead said to Haugen, "we've arranged to have President Donnelly taken at once to Bethesda Naval Hospital. An aerial ambulance should be arriving very shortly."

Milstead paused, seeking mentally for a moment, then took a notebook from his desk, seeming to gain poise and strength as he scanned it. "The first lady and I," he said, "organized the evacuation of the Donnelly's personal and household effects last night. I'll have the household staff notified next. Actual removal should begin tomorrow, and the White House will be yours by the end of the week, or sooner if necessary. Between now and then, a guest room has been prepared for your occupation."

Arne Haugen, President of the United States of America, began to feel a heavy mass settling on him.

"I appreciate that you've had no briefings, nor time to arrange for your own staff," Milstead went on. "I'm available to continue as White House chief of staff until you've selected a replacement, and I believe we can assume the same of most of the appointive staff, including the cabinet. Many of them, I'm sure, have anticipated something like this."

He turned a page in the notebook. "With your approval, sir, I'll call your press secretary, Mr. Okada, now. The nation needs to be informed..."

Abruptly a shock hit Haugen, and he interrupted. "Mr. Milstead," he said, "I have to make a phone call. Right now!"

The man looked startled. "Of course, Mr. President."

"How do I get long distance on your phone?"

"Dial nine."

Haugen leaned over the desk, picked up the privacy receiver, and rapped out his home phone number on the keypad. While he waited, he said, I can't have my wife learn about this on television!"

The ringing at the other end stopped, and Lois Haugen answered.

"Hi, Babe," Haugen said. "I took the job. It starts today.... Well, it's kind of hard to tell you, but—I'm the President of the United States.... I know that's not funny; it's true though. I was just appointed vice president a few minutes ago and then President Donnelly resigned.... No I'm not crazy either. It'll be on the news later today; I'm calling from the White House right now.... Lois? Are you there? ..."

He turned his face to Cromwell and rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, that's right. I'll have someone on the staff call later today and talk with you about what stuff we ought to ship out here.... I know. That's how it feels to me too." He smiled slightly. "It's like the old saying: It's dirty work, but somebody's got to do it.

"Look, I'll call again later. Right now I've got a ton of stuff to do. Okay?... Right.... If you watch the twelve o'clock news, you'll probably know more about it than I know now.... Thanks, sweetheart. You too."

He disconnected and turned to the others. The call seemed to have raised his spirits considerably. "Okay," he said, "let's call Okada in."

***

The penthouse office of Paul Willard Randolph Massey measured twenty-five by thirty feet, and the suite it was part of occupied the entire fifty-eighth floor penthouse of the Randolph Building in lower Manhattan. There was plenty of room on the adjacent landscaped roof for the private helipad. Massey had been informed that Manhattan was now safe, and he'd had himself flown down after breakfast.

The office furnishings could be described as expensively tasteful or quietly ostentatious, if you were connoisseur enough to realize how much they cost. The whole southwest wall of the office was a polarized thermal window. The drapes were drawn back, exposing a view across Upper Bay toward the Statue of Liberty, and in the farther distance, Staten Island.

The aesthetics of it didn't mean much to Massey, only the convenience. He was a gamesman, the game was power, and only some of the markers were money.

The late morning sun was angling in; it was just past noon, Eastern Daylight Time. His phone buzzed discreetly. A code flashed on its screen, telling him it was a direct line, scrambled, bypassing his receptionist. He touched a key, and a familiar face appeared on the screen. He touched another, activating a recording device that had no telltale. And a third, completing the connection.

Massey hadn't activated the camera at his end. He usually didn't; even in phone conversations with an employee, he liked to operate unseen. Instead he identified himself by his preferred name. "Willard," he said.

"Sir, this is Barron. There is something on the television news you should see. I have it on CBS."

Massey touched keys on a remote, and a picture, with sound, popped into being on his wall set.

"I have it, Barron," he said drily, then neither said anything more as they listened to Lester Okada, the White House press secretary.

"...per the Emergency Powers Act," Okada was saying. "President Donnelly therefore appointed a vice president and resigned. We now have a new president." Okada paused; the screen cut to a face-on close-up. "The new president's name is Arne Eino Haugen. President Haugen will be formally sworn in this afternoon at 2 P.M., before the cabinet, the Supreme Court, and leading members of the Congress."

After a moment of reportorial silence, Okada proceeded to choose individuals out of the clamor that arose, and answered about ten minutes of questions about Donnelly and Haugen and the legality of the process. When he was done and the network cut away to its commentators in New York, Massey lowered the volume nearly to nil and turned back to Barron Tallmon on the phone.

"Barron," he said, "contact Jaubert. Have him see what he can learn about this Haugen—his finances, his interests, his personal habits and idiosyncracies. Anything discreditable will be particularly appreciated."

He cut Tallmon off and sat quietly thinking for a few moments, then gave his attention to the report he'd been dictating.

SEVEN

Transcript from the evening news, NBC-TV, October 10. Read by Elliot Blanchard.

"Washington was startled, earlier today, by White House press secretary Lester Okada's announcement that President Donnelly had named a new vice president and then resigned. Our new president is Arne Eino Haugen of Duluth, Minnesota.

"The most common response has been 'Arne Who?'

"We have put together the following information about Arne Eino Haugen, and it provides a very unusual and interesting picture.

"Arne Haugen was born on April 3, 1924, reportedly in a log cabin, on a backwoods homestead in Koochiching County, Minnesota, only a few miles from the Canadian border. He was the third of four children, three boys and a girl. His parents were Karl Oskar Haugen, a Norwegian immigrant, and Eila Salminen, a Finnish immigrant, and the children grew up speaking both Norwegian and Finnish. The family had very little money.

"Arne Haugen grew up working for his father on the farm and in the forest, and a few days after his eighteenth birthday, entered the army in April 1942. There, following infantry training, he volunteered for the parachute infantry and was assigned to the Eleventh Airborne Division.

"On completion of parachute training, he went with his division to Australia for jungle training, later participating in the liberation of New Guinea from Japanese occupation. Later, as a platoon sergeant, he took part in the liberation of the Philippines, including the capture of the Los Baños prisoner of war camp on Luzon, behind the collapsing Japanese lines, rescuing the hundreds of American prisoners there before they could be removed or possibly killed by their Japanese guards.

"Both of Haugen's brothers, Kaarlo and Martin, were killed in World War Two, Kaarlo with the 101st Airborne in Normandy, and Martin with the marines on Okinawa, in the last great battle of the war.

"After the war, Haugen worked for a time at logging. Then, on the G.I. Bill, he attended the University of Minnesota, where he studied electrical engineering, participated in intramural wrestling, married Lois Hedstrom of Thief River Falls, Minnesota, and graduated
summa cum laude
—with high honors—in 1952.