Blowback

TWENTY-THREE

You want me to what?” said Senator Carmichael as she accepted the crystal highball glass from Charles Anderson and set it on the table in front of her.

“Come on, Helen,” replied the president’s chief of staff. “You didn’t think I asked you over here so we could have a nice bipartisan bourbon and chat about the future of American democracy.”

“No, but I was expecting a little cordiality.”

“Well, you picked a bad week,” said Anderson as he sat down on the couch across from her. “We’re all out of cordiality.”

“You know what, Chuck? You’ve changed.”

“No, Helen, you have. You’re so obsessed with clinching the vice presidency that you’ll do anything to make it happen.”

“As any member of my party would,” countered Carmichael.

Anderson took a sip of his bourbon and said, “No. We’re not talking about party politics here, Helen, and you know it. We’re talking about you and your rabid desire to ultimately become president.”

“Me? What about you? Are you going to sit there and tell me that your boy’s desire is any less than mine?”

“First of all, we refer to him as the president of the United States in this office—”

“Don’t scold me, Chuck—”

“And secondly,” replied the chief of staff, plowing right ahead, “you damn well know the arm-twisting we’ve had to do to get him to run again.”

“If he doesn’t want to run,” said the senator as she lifted her drink, “then why is he?”

“Because the country needs him, and more importantly, it wants him.”

“This country doesn’t know what it wants.”

“Really? Look at any poll out there, Helen, and you’ll see it’s clear. America wants Jack Rutledge to stay for another term, and that’s what it’s going to get — four more years.”

“Not if the Democratic Party has got anything to say about it.”

Anderson leaned forward. “The Democratic Party already knows they’re beat. I had the chairman of the DNC in this office this morning, sitting right where you are, and he told me the very same thing.”

Carmichael was flabbergasted. “Russell Mercer never would have admitted that.”

“I’ll tell you, Helen, Russ is a smart guy. There are a lot of times I wish he were on our side. But with the president’s numbers the way they are, nothing short of a full-blown scandal in this administration is going to close the gap enough to give your party a shot at the Oval Office.”

“Well,” said the senator, a smug look on her face as she sat back and raised her bourbon to her lips, “you’d better mind the gap.”

“We’re minding it all right, but I want to tell you what else Russ Mercer said while he was here.”

“More nonsense, I’m sure, but go ahead. I’m all ears.”

“It’s no secret that the Democratic presidential nomination is going to go to Governor Bob Farnsworth of Minnesota. All things considered, I think it’s a pretty good choice. He’s got a good voting record, he’s a veteran, and to tell you the truth, in a nose-to-nose election race with him, I’d probably lose more than a little sleep at night, but this isn’t a nose-to-nose race.”

“What’s this have to do with what other drivel Mercer had to say?”

“They’re not going to put you on the ticket, Helen. Not this time.”

“What do you mean, they’re not going to put me on the ticket? How the hell would you know?”

“I know, because Russ told me so. You may be one of the party’s rising stars, but you don’t have the juice to make an election like this happen.”

“Well, I’m just going to have to—”

Anderson cut her off. “Russ also told me that you are on very shaky ground as far as the DNC is concerned. If you don’t watch your step, you might turn around and find that the party isn’t there for you anymore.”

He was playing her. He had to be. The self-righteous son of a bitch was trying to fluster her. Well, he had another think coming. She was a United States senator, and she did not fluster, not that easily. “I’m apparently going to have to have a chat with our beloved DNC chairman and get a few things straightened out with him,” said Carmichael.

“Helen, let’s cut the crap. You saw an opening, probably smelled what you thought was a little blood in the water, and took it upon yourself to get these hearings launched.”

“So what if I did?”

“If you did, and the hearings blow up in your face, nobody from your party is going to be there to help you pick your teeth up off the ground.”

“Chuck, let’s be clear here. Are you threatening me?”

“No. No threats, Senator. Just friendly advice.”

“From the incumbent Republican president’s chief of staff. You’ll pardon me if I take your advice with more than a grain of salt.”

“Take it with two grains if you like, but these hearings could end up ruining your political career.”

“Or yours,” replied Carmichael with a grin.

Anderson ignored her and pressed forward. “Have you even polled this, Helen?”

“What? The hearings? I don’t have to. People are outraged. The American people are deeply disturbed by what they have seen, and they want justice to be done.”

“No they don’t, and they’re not outraged. This is exactly why you should have run this by your party leadership before you kicked this whole thing off. The Abu Ghraib prison photos outraged people. One of our servicemen kicking the crap out of a suspected terrorist is something entirely different.”

“Did you poll it?” asked Carmichael.

Anderson was silent.

“Jesus, you did. Didn’t you? What kind of numbers did you get?”

“I’m not going to do your homework for you, Helen. If you want to float a poll, you go right ahead and see what you get back. But I will tell you this. Unless you’re polling in Ramallah, Tehran, or downtown Baghdad, you’re not going to find an overwhelming amount of support for your hearings. Nobody wants this soldier dragged out in front of the media and nailed to a cross, and they’ll want it even less when we release our side of the story.”

“And what exactly is your side of the story?”

“Press with the hearings and you’ll find out.”

“Now that sounds like a threat.”

“You know what, Helen? I’m tired of this,” said the chief of staff as he stood from the couch and walked back over behind his desk. “You take it however you want to, but I’m warning you — you’re biting off more than you can chew.”

“Why? Because Scot Harvath, the man seen beating that defenseless Iraqi, is some kind of American hero for all of the things he’s done? Do you think you’ll be able to wrap him in the flag and the public will just give him a pass? How about the president? Do you think he can parade out that same trite line that he’s got a tough job to do and sometimes that job involves doing things others might not have the stomach for in order to keep this country safe? If you think that crap is going to work, you are sorely mistaken.”

“What I think is that you’ve got no idea what it takes to run this country, Senator.”

“I know it doesn’t take things like the Apex Project,” replied Carmichael, pausing for Anderson’s reaction to her bombshell.

The chief of staff was ready for her, though. “I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about the president’s own special black ops team that funds its budget with monies approved by Congress for a wide variety of fiscal and social programs. Since you’re such an expert, Chuck, how do you think Americans would feel if they knew what the president was really up to? Running his own private assassination teams out of the White House? How do you think that would poll?”

“I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about, and I’d tell your committee the exact same thing under oath.”

“Good,” replied Carmichael as she threw two subpoenas down on his desk — one bearing his name and another with the president’s. “I’ll look forward to it. Consider yourselves served.”