War of Eagles

SIXTY-FOUR

“Life sucks,” Herbert said into his glass.

Bob Herbert and Mike Rodgers were sitting at a small rectangular table in Off the Record when Paul Hood arrived. The tavern was located just below street level at the elegant Hay-Adams Hotel, a short distance across Lafayette Park from the White House. Hood walked over, enjoying the warm, clear late afternoon. It was remarkable how clean the air was compared to Beijing and even Xichang. Or maybe he was just happy to be back and intact. It was probably a lot of both. On the way he phoned the kids to see how they were doing. He also phoned Gloria Lynch-Hunt to make sure they still had a date for tomorrow night.

The kids were fine. The date was on.

Life was good.

After an unsteady start, Hood was actually fairly alert. The new executive crisis management adviser had slept until eleven. Yawning but alert, he went to his office at the White House where he had a brief meeting with President Debenport. Since Hood had already filed an overview report he had written on the plane — the Ben Affleck movie was not one he had been wanting to see — the Oval Office meeting was primarily a chance for the commander in chief to congratulate him. Even Chief of Staff Lorraine Sanders was complimentary.

It was easy to be gracious in victory, and Hood smiled a great deal. The big smiles also helped him to cover up the lingering yawns.

Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Raleigh Carew came by and offered a big handshake and a tight expression. He had come to see the president, not Hood. That marked the end of the Oval Office meeting.

Hood had intended to call the kids and go through his voice mail messages, then head to his new office. Even though his assistants would not be starting until Monday, he wanted to get a feel for the place. He was feeling good about his new position and wanted to be a participant in the process instead of a passenger. But then Bob Herbert called, asking to meet him at Off the Record. Herbert did not say what it was about, and Hood agreed to stop by.

Hood had not known that Rodgers was going to be there. He joined the men at the dimly lit table well away from the bar. It was strange to be together like this for the first time in months. It used to be a daily occurrence, usually strained by outside events or their own mismatched personalities. But it did not feel wrong. Whatever their differences, they had been through wars together. They had survived.

Bob Herbert made his comment about life and then fell silent. Herbert was often gloomy, so his pronouncement was not a surprise. What he said next, however, was very unexpected.

The Mississippi native looked up. “I got shit-canned, Paul.”

“What?”

“The general fired me.”

Hood was stunned. “No notice?”

“None.”

“Why?” Hood asked.

“For helping you guys,” Herbert said.

“I can’t believe that,” Hood said.

“I can,” Rodgers told him.

Hood regarded him.

“There’s a general in charge of Op-Center now,” Rodgers said. “Officers run things very differently than civilians. Bob went outside the chain of command. The general made an example of him.”

Rodgers’s tone was cold. Perhaps it was Hood’s imagination, but there seemed to be implicit criticism of the way he had run the NCMC.

“Do you agree with that?” Hood asked him.

“In theory, yes,” Rodgers said. “In practice, I would have given the individual a warning.”

“Gentlemen, can we not discuss whether my execution was an overreaction?” Herbert asked.

“Sorry,” Rodgers said.

“That’s okay,” Herbert said as he drained his glass. “What happened is not important. What matters is that I’ll know better next time. I won’t answer any ads that say, ‘Results matter less than the process.’ ”

Hood and Rodgers were silent.

The waiter came over. Herbert asked for a refill, and Hood ordered a cola.

“Pope Paul,” Herbert muttered. “Did you know we used to call you that?”

“Yeah,” Hood said.

“We all thought you were righteous and clean, above corruption.” Herbert nodded. “You did a good job setting a moral tone. That’s rare in government.”

Rodgers raised his beer. Hood acknowledged with a nod.

“So. Any thoughts about what is next?” Hood asked.

“Defection? Maybe Prime Minister Le Kwan Po will give me a job.”

“Don’t joke about that,” Rodgers said, looking around.

“Why? Is the military running the bar now?” Herbert asked.

Rodgers did not answer. Hood felt a chill. The drinks arrived, and Herbert sat back in his chair.

“No, Paul. I do not know what is next. I guess I’ll hit my network and try to find a job. Probably in private industry.”

“The regimentation is worse there,” Rodgers said. “Especially if there are stockholders. Why don’t you start your own think tank?”

“Ah, a consultancy,” Herbert said. “The face-saving fallback of the fired.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Hood told him. “You have an impressive CV. You could attract other independent thinkers. I would be able to bring you in on some of my projects.”

“Face-saving and a mercy fuck,” Herbert said. “Thanks for the offer, but that’s not what I need, guys.”

“What do you need?” Hood asked.

“For that bitch in green to put me back where I belong, where I’ve served hard and well and loyally,” Herbert replied.

The others were silent. They could not disagree with Herbert’s ambition or the sentiment.

“If you want, I’ll talk to the president,” Hood said.

“You couldn’t save your own ass from getting removed,” Rodgers said.

“That was different—”

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Herbert said. “I shouldn’t have asked you here. I’m gonna be pissing fire for a while.”

“That’s nothing new,” Hood said.

Rodgers smiled. Even Herbert chuckled.

For a moment, it was the old days again. Three men in stark disagreement but in concert about one thing: that their unwieldy, cranky, dissimilar, and theoretically unworkable parts somehow produced something unique and important.

The same could be said for Adams, Jefferson, and Franklin, Hood thought in a rare moment of uncritical indulgence. People could not have been much more different than the New England attorney, the Middle Atlantic diplomat, and the Southern farmer who had created a new nation.

The reference to the past got them talking about old times, about people who had come and gone, about missions and challenges, about victories and losses. Differences notwithstanding, they all had a lot to be proud of.

Hood took a long, mental drink of the moment. It would probably never get any better than this. But how many men were fortunate enough to have had this at all?

The hours passed. When it was time to go, there were handshakes all around and a strong sense of camaraderie.

As well as a big, big question mark about when and even if their paths might intercept again.

As he crossed the park, a line from a movie flashed through Hood’s mind. He could not remember which film it was. He had watched it with the kids one rainy afternoon years ago. A young woman was leaving her father to be with her fiancé in some remote place. As the train approached, the woman wept, “God only knows when we will see each other again.”

And her father replied with a catch in his voice, “Then we will leave it in His hands.”

Hood felt the same as he walked toward the White House and the future.