Fires of War

1

Senator Gordon Tewilliger smiled for the television cameras as he entered the hallway, heading for the Red Room and the reception. He was only one of the crowd today, but it was a good day nonetheless. He had done well on the weekend talk shows, modestly pointing out that he had foreseen problems like those that had occurred in Korea, problems that necessitated a strong stance by the U.S., not a weasely inaction that couldn’t be backed by force. The president needed to negotiate a new arms treaty with teeth. If he didn’t, hinted Tewilliger, others would.

“Hey, Senator, you got a second?” said Fred Rosen, a reporter with the New York Times.

“For you Fred, anything,” said Tewilliger. He hated Rosen, of course, and wouldn’t have trusted anything he read in the Times. But flattering articles in the Times were money in the bank during fund-raising season. And it was always fund-raising season when you were planning to primary a sitting president.

“Just over here,” said Rosen, nudging him to the side, away from the others. “I can’t go in. Media’s barred.”

“A shame,” said Tewilliger. “Jonathon was never like that in the Senate. He was very open. He’s changed a great deal since he became president.”

“Yeah.” The reporter’s mustache twitched. “Listen, I’ve been hearing some things. Supposedly there was an e-mail that came from this guy named Park trying to throw American forces off.”

“What’s that?”

“Some sort of information that came through a roundabout source about the weapon that was confiscated,” said Rosen. “What I heard was that the target was going to be Japan.”

“Japan? Preposterous,” said Tewilliger.

“Yeah. I also heard… This sounds crazy, but I also heard that the weapon may have been made in South Korea, not North Korea like everybody thinks. The administration has been awful dodgy about that.”

“Dodgy. Yes.” Tewilliger felt sweat starting to run down his neck. “Oh, there is my colleague from Wisconsin,” he said, spotting Senator Segriff. “Excuse me, Fred. Senator? Larry?”

I’ve written the letter,” Dan Slott told Thomas Parnelles as they queued up to be congratulated by the president for the action in Korea. “I have it with me.”

“Now’s not the time, Dan. Think about it. Take a few more days.”

“I’ve made up my mind.”

“Special Demands is a very special situation. It really stands by itself.”

“It won’t forever. And even if it does, it’s the principle. I have to resign; the president doesn’t trust me.”

“I’m certain he does.”

“I’ve made up my mind,” said Slott. He reached into his jacket pocket and handed Parnelles his letter of resignation just as the president turned to shake his hand.

Thera found herself standing alone with Rankin, watching as the CIA and military people were congratulated for finding the weapon in North Korea. The reception was part of an elaborate game, half cover for the First Team and half celebration for the military and Agency personnel who could be acknowledged.

Thera, Rankin, and Ferguson had not been on the original guest list. Corrine Alston, however, had insisted that they be invited to attend, passing them off as nondescript aides to the White House chief of staff.

Rankin hadn’t wanted to go. Thera, though, was curious; she’d never been in the White House before, and she convinced him to go.

Ferguson, of course, was always ready to party. He flowed through the crowd as smoothly as if he were working a casino in the Middle East, trolling for information.

And maybe he was.

“Told you it’d be bullshit,” said Rankin bitterly. “Look at the stinkin’ big shots, getting their handshakes.”

“It’s not about handshakes, Stephen.”

Thera’s eyes followed Ferguson across the room as he walked to the bar. He was handsome, and smart and brave. He’d recovered remarkably in the past two weeks, though he still wore a bandage on his wrist. When she’d seen him on the Peleliu, he looked like a ghost; now he looked like his old handsome self.

His old handsome self.

I’m in love with him, she realized. How did that happen?

“I need another drink,” said Rankin. “Want one?”

Thera started to say that she would get it herself, but then she saw Corrine Alston going to Ferguson, touching his arm.

Something caught in Thera’s throat. She turned to Rankin.

“I’ll take one if you’re getting one,” she managed. “I’ll be right here.”

I know, Ferg.”

Ferguson looked at Corrine and smiled.

“You know what? The price of tea in China?”

“I know you’re very sick and that you don’t want anyone else to know.”

For a half of a second — no, less, a half of a half of a half of a second — Ferguson felt the shield he carried before him disintegrate. He was entirely naked, unprotected. Alone, too.

But then he was fine, smiling again as he always did.

“Yeah. In the mind.”

“It’s cancer, right?”

Ferguson scratched the side of his head and smiled. “Actually, it’s an empty hole where my brain once was.”

“You’re not going to talk about it, are you?”

“If I knew what you were talking about, then I probably wouldn’t. But I don’t.”

“Your secret’s safe with me.” Corrine tapped his elbow. “OK?”

Ferguson started to make a wisecrack but stopped. “Drink?” he asked instead.

“Sure.” Corrine took his arm and he led her to the bar.