A state of disobedience

Washington, DC

Rottemeyer sat at her desk in deep consultation. Around her, at a conference table perpendicular to the desk, sat her wheelchair-bound attorney general, Jesse Vega, and Caroline McCreavy—the President's lover and also the new Chairperson of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Likewise notable were Rottemeyer's surgeon general, the head of the Treasury Department, and the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigations, Louise Friedberg.

"I don't care about the kids," said Friedberg, furiously. "I don't care about any outmoded, patriarchal Catholic church. I don't care about the governor of some backwards state down by Mexico. They killed my people and I care about that. I care that they end up dead. I want their grandchildren to have nightmares about what comes from fucking with the FBI. I want these people's ghosts to be sorry and afraid."

Wilhelmina stared stonily. She could not, not quite, gainsay the director. After all, it was her Bureau that had uncovered (the irresponsible press said "fabricated" . . . well, they used to say "fabricated," the American press was brave only when they were not pressed) the charges of statutory rape against former Senator Goldsmith. Goldsmith's suicide, following his exposure, show-trial and conviction, had been icing on the cake. Fortunately, the senator had been old and only two federal agents had been required to hold him down and force a pistol into his mouth. Rottemeyer approved of certain necessary actions having as few witnesses as possible.

Goldsmith had only been the first. One by one the Republican members of Congress had been entrapped . . . or for the few—like Goldsmith—who truly were honest and upright . . . simply framed.

Nor had her own party been spared the needed correctional measures. It was to Friedberg and her Bureau that Rottemeyer owed the sudden conversion of Senator Feldman from slightly left of center supporter to ax wielder for the Oval Office. Amazing what the discovery of a previously unsuspected Panamanian bank account could do to political convictions. Or, if not a Panamanian bank account, then any of a number of other crimes could be discovered.

Of course, that was only half the story. In addition to using her Bureau to beat down the opposition it was also necessary, occasionally, to use it to protect the truly worthy . . . which is to say, the politically reliable. The senator from Massachusetts with his penchant for fat teenaged boys, for example; the other with his penchant for thin teenaged girls; for example. The congresswoman from Los Angeles with ties to the Mexican drug cartels, for example. The mayor of the City of Washington, for example, and potentially every one of the pushers, prostitutes and pimps who worked for him.

Yes, Friedberg's loyalty and diligence, as well as that of her Bureau under her direction, deserved special treatment.

"Caroline, can your people take out this damned priest?" asked the President.

McCreavy pondered. She shook her head. "Bad idea, Willi. Posse Comitatus"—the law which forbade using the military for civil law enforcement.

Vega snorted in derision. "Oh, that."

McCreavy never had liked Vega, there being a strong suspicion of a previous intimate connection with the President. Still, she was polite. "Not just 'Oh, that.' I can give the orders. I just can't guarantee they will be obeyed. And 'that' would make things potentially much worse."

Rottemeyer's face assumed a puzzled, perplexed look. "I don't understand, Caroline. You've been purging the officer corps for some time now. How many can be left who would not obey your orders?"

"Most," McCreavy admitted with a sigh. "You have to understand these people. The last seventy years have made them good at hiding their thoughts and feelings. Sure I got rid of the stupid ones easily enough; the ones who shot their mouths off once or twice. But most military people have merely kept silent. You might say that they damn our programs and policies by faint praise. I wouldn't trust them to break the law on this."

Rottemeyer felt a momentary flush of indignation—not at McCreavy, no never!—but at the narrow-minded, patriarchal men who ran her armed forces and failed to recognize their place in the world . . . and her own.

"Where do your loyalties lie?" Rottemeyer demanded. "Can't anyone here get rid of this fucking priest?"

Still, she was a practical politician. No sense in setting unfortunate precedents. She turned her attention to the Attorney General, Treasury, the Surgeon General and the Bureau. "Jesse, you take charge of this. I want that mission destroyed. BATF will provide some forces, likewise I want a force from the Presidential Guard"—Treasury nodded, both groups fell under his jurisdiction—"and the Hostage Rescue Team"—this set Friedberg to scribbling.

The surgeon general added, spontaneously, "I'll put my security police on alert in case this turns nasty . . ."

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