The First Casualty

7

The president of the United States shifted the unlit cigar from one side of his mouth to the other, a good sign he was still indecisive on the issue. The damned doctors had sufficiently frightened him away from lighting up the things after a brief encounter with lip cancer ending in an operation his staff had somehow kept secret from the media. Denied his favorite vice, he was reduced to simply chewing them into stubs.

Oblivious to the seriousness of the occasion, his six-year-old twins, Ches and Wes, were noisily testing their balancing skills with a Wobble Deck in front of the Resolute desk. Ordinarily, the two would have been with their mother in the upstairs private apartments, but the First Lady was hosting a luncheon for some female poet whose verse was angry, rhymeless, and unintelligible. It was an argument even the president dared not renew: If a person couldn’t sell their (choose one) poetry, play, sculpture, or painting on the open market, why should the taxpayers pick up the slack for the poet, artist, or playwright whose talents would be better utilized in, say, a car wash? The First Lady, however, felt strongly about public support for the arts.

She felt equally strongly about the “self-expression” of her sons, whose unfettered exuberance with crayons, fingerpaint, and watercolor had necessitated serious restoration of the decor of both the Blue Room and the Lincoln Bedroom. Had the Secret Service not intercepted an anonymous gift of a twenty-five-piece Black & Decker Junior Tool Kit, it was quite possible the damage done to the building in 1814 by the British General Ross would have seemed minor in comparison. The Service volunteered to provide a babysitter, but the president was unwilling to subject some unfortunate agent to the twins’ unpredictable behavior, conduct that had earned them the service’s code names Rape and Pillage.

“One of these days, someone in the Press Corps is going to catch you with one of those things in your face,” warned the only other occupant in the room.

The president shifted the cigar again. Aware that today’s smokers had replaced yesterday’s lepers as pariahs, he had been careful to restrain his limited use when anywhere near a camera.

He replied to Hodges, his chief of staff, principal adviser, former campaign manager, and general dog robber. “So what? We’ve got two years before I’m up for reelection, and the average voter wouldn’t remember if I had dropped trou and mooned the TV cameras yesterday.”

There was no point in debating the electorate’s notoriously brief memory span. Hodges cleared his throat and raised his voice to be heard over the twins. “Back to the problem: The Froggie’s DGSE says, confidentially, that the Air France crash was no accident. The CIA and MI6 don’t dispute it.”

The president put elbows on the desk, leaning forward. “They don’t concur, either. I mean, let’s face it: Death rays and the like play out great in sci-fi, but this is real life. If I cancel out because of some Darth Vader — type threats… That, the voters will recall. If not, my next opponent will remind them.”

Hodges shrugged, he was a man who knew when he was beaten. “It’s your ass, Mr. President. At least reconsider in a couple of days.”

The president sat back in his chair. “Agreed. Think where we go if we even think of canceling a state visit because some camel-fucking sum’bitches make threats.”

“Not just any camel-fucking sum’bitches. We’re talking Al Qaeda here.”

“Al Qaeda or the Boy Fucking Scouts of America, I’m going to look like a coward if I don’t go.”