Drone Threat (9 page)

13

THE WHITE HOUSE BASEMENT

BENEATH THE NORTH PORTICO

Vice President Chandler dried his hands over the blower, waiting for his bowling ball to return, studying the pin reset.

“A seven-ten split, Mr. Vice President,” Tarkovsky said. “How will you negotiate that one?”

“I've seen worse,” Chandler replied. His tie was uncharacteristically loose and his French cuff sleeves rolled up. He'd draped his suit coat over one of the two chairs at the scoring station, where Tarkovsky was sitting.

“It's the hardest split in bowling. You don't have a chance.”

The sweeper arm cleared and the automatic pinsetter lifted. Chandler analyzed the bowling pins standing on either side of the rear of the pin deck. The dreaded 7-10.

“Actually, the four-six-seven-nine-ten Greek church is the hardest split in bowling. You only have a point-three percent chance of catching all of those. The seven-ten has a point-seven percent chance.”

“You take your bowling seriously!” Tarkovsky said.

Chandler's custom ball chunked into view out of the return. “I take everything seriously, Mr. Ambassador. Especially bowling.”

“Why bowling, if I may ask?”

“I was raised in the back of a six-lane alley in Devereux, Georgia, by my maternal grandmother. Started setting pins and frying hush puppies when I was nine years old.”

Chandler whipped a microfiber cloth out of his pocket and polished
the ball lightly before picking it back up. He stepped up to the approach dots in his custom-fitted bowling shoes and raised the ball with both hands to the front of his face like a prayer. Chandler's tailored shirt highlighted his narrow shoulders and back but couldn't hide the spare tire bulging just above his waistband. But when Chandler stepped into his throw, he lifted the ball far behind him and swung it down hard with a vicious curling spin. The ball exploded out of his hand and down the lane, hugging the right gutter until it smashed into the ten pin just right of center. The force of the strike was so strong it threw the ten pin crashing into the back wall at an oblique angle from whence it rocketed back out onto the pin deck and smashed into the seven pin.

“That's a spare, I believe,” Chandler said, grinning ear to ear.

Tarkovsky stood to his feet and slow-clapped his admiration. “And that's the game. Congratulations.” He added, “Again.”

Chandler fell back into his chair and grabbed up the can of Coke in the koozie marked with the vice presidential seal. He held it aloft. Tarkovsky raised a bottle of water and they toasted. “Cheers.” Chandler took a long, satisfying pull. He loved the burn.

The two of them were all alone in the little two-lane White House bowling alley Nixon had originally built in 1969. It was one of Chandler's favorite hangouts. It thrilled him to think that every president from Nixon to Greyhill had stood exactly where he was and bowled the same game he loved so dearly. It was a good omen.

Few people outside the White House knew about this place—most were familiar with the Truman bowling alley over in the EEOB—and even fewer had access to it. Thankfully, neither Lane nor his children cared for bowling, so Chandler had it all to himself. White House staff knew to stay clear of it no matter the day or time. It was Chandler's sanctum sanctorum.

Chandler liked to bring down very special guests to his secret sanctuary. It made them feel like insiders. It was also one of the rooms that he could keep his Secret Service detail out of when he was using it without arousing any kind of suspicion, and he was assured by the senior agent that the room was free of surveillance cameras and recording equipment.

“Next time you're in Moscow, I'll have to take you out on the ice for a little hockey. Bowling is too hard.”

“You'd wipe the ice with me like a Zamboni. But I appreciate the invitation.” Chandler took another sip, wondering if Tarkovsky had finally made his opening bid.

Tarkovsky pointed his water bottle at one of the muted TV monitors. CNN was showing footage of yet another village in the Middle East. Still more crying women and dead children in the midst of fire and ruin. “So tell me, Clay, how would you navigate something like this?”

Chandler rose and crossed over to Tarkovsky. “Are you asking me personally, or the American government?”

“The two aren't the same?” Tarkovsky smiled.

“I'm a loyal servant of this administration, no matter how misguided it can sometimes be.”

“Are you referring to the ‘no new boots on the ground' policy? The so-called Myers Doctrine?”

“It's a glorified form of isolationism. The world goes to hell without strong American leadership.”

Tarkovsky nodded thoughtfully. “Some would argue that ‘strong American leadership,' as you have put it, has caused just as many problems.”

“Strong American leadership means forming strong alliances with reliable partners to manage the world's problems. We haven't done that. The world is in chaos now because we've failed to bring order.”

“And out of that chaos comes the Four Horsemen, flying the black flag of ISIS.”

Chandler nodded. “We must first deal with ISIS and then with all of the other Islamic terror groups. The Europeans have proved to be largely worthless in that regard, especially in the Middle East. Only your country has proven it has the strength and determination to tackle the Islamic terrorism issue.”

Tarkovsky raised an eyebrow. “I'm surprised. I thought your country viewed mine as an international pariah.”

“President Titov has made a few strategic blunders of his own, and
the political class in my country has exploited those blunders for their personal political gain.”

“Your sanctions have crippled our economy. It would be hard to form a strong relationship without first removing them.”

Chandler sighed. “Unfortunately, the president has been advised that removing the sanctions would send the wrong signal to the rest of the world that we're weak on human rights and the rule of law.”

“A very strange idea, considering the fact you make alliances with governments that behead, whip, cripple, and imprison their own citizens for minor civil and religious infractions.”

“We aren't consistent in our moral umbrage, I'll grant you that.”

“You in the West don't play a very smart game. Israel funded Hamas to discredit the PLO when Arafat was preeminent, but now Hamas is built up and they are Israel's implacable enemy. The same with Bin Laden and the CIA. Over and over, you keep supporting religious terrorists as a weapon against your secular enemies, but you create worse enemies in the bargain.”

“We supported Bin Laden and the mujahideen in response to your invasion of Afghanistan.”

“We invaded to stop an Islamic uprising that was overthrowing the secular government. If we had been allowed to crush the rebellion and restore the government in Kabul, would you or the world be any worse off? Would there have been a Bin Laden or 9/11?”

“Perhaps not. But the way you brutalized the Afghan people—”

Tarkovsky raised a hand. “I was speaking only in geopolitical terms. I make no excuses for the brutality of Brezhnev and the Communists. Good riddance to all of them. But from our perspective—you and me, here, just friends speaking in a friendly way—I think we can both acknowledge that mistakes were made on both sides. The fact we have been and still are competing at the tactical level causes our respective governments to make strategic errors. By not cooperating with each other on the grand strategic issues, we become desperate to find weaker allies to achieve our goals. In my country, the scoundrels invoke historic paranoia to justify their irrationality. In yours, selective humanitarian concerns.”

Chandler nodded. “The purpose of national security is to protect the nation from its enemies, period. We need statesmen at the helm, not Sunday-school teachers.”

“You are one of America's most articulate leaders. If I may be so bold, I'm not sure why you made common cause with President Lane, who so clearly does not favor Realpolitik.”

“I'm just a soldier, Aleksandr. I serve my country any way I can. I hope to serve her even more effectively once I'm president.”

Tarkovsky's eyes widened. “You intend on challenging Lane in the next election?”

“Not at all. He's a very popular president, and while I might not agree with many of his policies, he possesses one priceless talent above all others.”

“You mean his military background?”

“No. His luck. And like Napoleon said in regard to his generals, it's better to be lucky than clever, and Lane is the luckiest politician I've ever known.”

“And you are hoping his luck will rub off on you?”

“I make my own luck. I agreed to run as his VP only because the party assured me that Lane would endorse me after his eight years, but I'm no fool. I need to lay my own firm foundation in the interim. President Lane is about to conduct the Asia security initiative with China as his partner. My intention is to launch a European security initiative with Russia as a partner. A true partner. It's time we bring stability to the European continent, not to mention the Middle East.”

Tarkovsky smiled. He knew that it was actually Vicki Grafton that had planted the idea in Chandler's head, part of the plan the two of them had engineered. “What you are proposing is quite brilliant, actually.”

“Do you think Titov would be supportive of a mutual alliance between our governments?”

“Yes, wholeheartedly. I have even heard him mention the possibility. But not until the sanctions are lifted.”

“That's unfortunate.”

“It seems we're at an impasse.”

“I'm sure we can figure something out.” Chandler crossed over to a replica vintage vending machine. “Another water?”

“I'm still working on this one, thank you.”

Chandler swiped a White House debit card and selected another Coke. “If we can't put our boots on the ground, perhaps our Russian allies will do it for us. I have several friends in the Senate who would support a quid pro quo like that.”

“Our forces have trained for just such an eventuality. No one has a longer history of fighting these cockroaches than we do, with the possible exception of your own government.”

“It won't be easy to pull it off. The moralists and the isolationists don't understand what's at stake.”

“A war between civilizations,” Tarkovsky said. “A war between modernity and brutality.”

“Exactly.”

“How shall we proceed?”

“Let's start by having a chat with the president. Feel him out. Maybe we can tie our proposal into his Asia security initiative. Part of a new, comprehensive, global strategy.”

“But if the president disagrees with our assessment?”

Chandler sighed. “Then we must do whatever it takes to get both of our governments moving in the right direction.”

Tarkovsky nodded. “I couldn't agree more.”

14

WASHINGTON, D.C.

It was Pearce's turn to cook tonight. He fried a couple of steaks in olive oil and pepper and whipped up a mess of cauliflower mash, trying to keep the carb count down for both of them. He finished out the meal with a spinach salad dressed in a light balsamic vinaigrette and a 19 Crimes cab sauv for her. He was never great in the kitchen, but he was learning to enjoy cooking for the woman he adored. He'd been accused of many things in his life, but domesticity wasn't one of them.

Pearce and Myers were halfway through the meal, the bottle of wine, and their usual chitchat before she turned the conversation in another direction.

“How was your meeting with Chandler?”

“He's a piece of work.” Pearce cut into his steak. It bled onto his plate, just the way he liked it.

“He's very smart and a skilled politician.”

“So was Stalin.”

Myers nearly snorted wine out of her nose. “Please.”

“You like that guy?”

“No, but I respect him. Chandler was one of the few Democrats who supported my budget freeze. He's never lost an election and never received less than sixty percent of the vote when he ran four times for Congress and twice for the Senate.”

“Chandler's nothing but ambition and self-interest,” Pearce said. He'd never told Myers about his experience with Chandler in Iraq.

“Like most politicians. But he was the best-looking horse at the glue
factory and Lane was in a tough spot. The DNC threatened to run a third-party candidate unless he agreed to put Chandler on the ticket.”

“Sounds familiar.” Pearce knew that Myers had gone through a similar meat grinder when she won her presidential primary as a libertarian Republican.

“Sometimes arranged marriages work out. Sometimes they don't. But Chandler isn't stupid, and he knows if he bides his time and plays the game he'll probably be the next POTUS.”

“That sailboat is sounding better and better. Have you picked out a color yet?”

“Don't get your hopes up yet, Popeye. You're about to head up the federal government's newest and most exciting agency.”

“Maybe.” Pearce took a thoughtful sip of ice water.

“What's the hesitation?” Myers tried to hide her concern. Pearce had begun seeing a counselor for his anger issues, which she still believed to be symptoms of PTSD or at least exacerbated by it. Myers knew that his road to full recovery would be long and hard. Pearce was born a warrior and built to serve his country. But that service had involved killing many people, and despite what the genre movies and novels suggested, killing was an unnatural thing for a well-adjusted person to do, and killing the nation's enemies—even for the right reasons—exacted a terrible psychic cost.

She also knew that the loss of his father and the needless deaths of people closest to him in the War on Terror caused Pearce to feel betrayed by the politicians who ran the country he loved so dearly. It was only through the trust he placed in her as president, and later in President Lane, that Pearce felt he could serve again. She feared he would slide back into his black hole of self-recrimination and bitterness if he stepped away from this appointment. She would never abandon him, but she couldn't stop him from withdrawing from the world and from her.

“I know what the job entails,” Pearce said. “It means we'll see even less of each other. And I'm not crazy about that idea.”

“You like having me around, do you?”

“Yeah. Something like that.”

“I might have a solution waiting for me in Germany.”

“Was ist das?”

“You speak German?”

“A little. And poorly. What's waiting for you in Deutschland?”

“I got a very interesting call today. Someone in Frankfurt interested in buying my company. If the price is right, well, I'm open.”

“Really?” Pearce couldn't believe it. She was as proud of her company as he was of Pearce Systems.

“How else are we going to pay for that sailboat? You're only going to be making government wages.”

“When do you leave?”

“Day after tomorrow. The buyer insists on a face-to-face.”

“I'll go with you.”

“No way, José. Your Senate hearing tomorrow is just the beginning. I'll be back by the end of the week.”

“I don't like it.”

“You mean traveling by myself? I've done it for decades.”

“Security?” Pearce respected the fact that Myers had turned down taxpayer-funded Secret Service protection, which she was entitled to as a former president. But absent formal security, he liked to keep close.

“It's Germany, not Uganda. I'll be fine.”

Pearce sighed. He knew that when Myers dug in her heels, there was no way to get her to budge. “Fine. But we're going to stay in touch. Understood?”

Myers was a strong, independent woman. But it thrilled her to know someone in the world cared for her so deeply and wanted to protect her, even at the cost of his own life. She threw a mock salute. “Yessir.” She took another sip of wine. “Any other hesitations?”

Pearce stabbed his salad with a fork. “The last time I offered to help Lane, a lot of people died.”

“If it wasn't for you, there would have been a lot of dead American sailors.”

Pearce held up his hands. “There are a lot of dead Chinese on the ocean floor, thanks to these.”

“That wasn't your fault. You didn't launch the missile. They started the war. You ended it. That makes you more than qualified for the job. But there's an even better reason.”

“What's that?”

“Lane has surrounded himself with several people who would dearly love to go back to the Middle East and ramp up the war all over again. He needs at least one voice of reason to keep that from happening.”

Pearce cut another slice of steak. “I'm not against going to war. It's just that we can't do another half-assed job of it. If Lane isn't willing to ask for a declaration of war and commit every resource to winning it as fast as possible, then he needs to stay the hell out, no matter where he wants to fight. And I know you're against it, but I still think we need a national draft. Every family needs to feel the pain of war, and every son and daughter needs to be at risk. If these chicken-hawk politicians have to send their own kids into the meat grinder, they might think twice before pulling the trigger.”

“If you really feel that strongly about it, having virtually unlimited access to the Oval Office might give you the chance to make your case.”

Pearce pointed a fork at her. “Why do I get the feeling you're gaming me?”

“I'm not. But I want you to remember that not only can you do good for the country as Lane's advisor, but you can also keep bad policies from happening. I trust you more than anyone else I know to do the right thing. Even Lane. Believe me, that office changes you, and this town is full of people whose only job is to turn his head around.”

“You really want me to do this? Or are you just trying to get me out of your apartment?”

“I think your doing this is what's best for the nation, and for you.”

“Even though I'm a broken man?”

“Because you're broken. And you have your counselor to help you.”

Pearce forked the last piece of steak into his mouth and chewed.

“You are still seeing your counselor, aren't you?”

Pearce chewed some more. Swallowed. “Wasn't helping.”

“Maybe we can find you another one.”

“I'm dealing with it, in my own way.” Pearce's jaw set.

“Okay.” Myers knew when to back off, too.

“And I'm not doing the drugs anymore. It messes with my head.”

“I understand.”

She poured herself another glass of wine. “You all set for tomorrow?”

“Ready as I'll ever be.”

“Was Vicki Grafton helpful?”

“She was trying to get my mind right.”

“And how did that work out for her?”

“Give her an E for effort.”

“Keep your eyes on her.”

“That won't take much effort.” Pearce winked.

Myers punched him playfully. “Yeah, I get it. She's gorgeous. But Grafton's playing a bigger game than just trying to get a mention on
Page Six
. She was trouble when she was just a Senate staffer. I don't like her being that close to Lane.”

“Chandler's got her on a pretty tight leash.”

“I'd be willing to bet it was the other way around. Either way, watch your six, buster.”

Pearce laughed. “You've read too many Tom Clancy novels.”

“Not possible. You feel ready for tomorrow?”

“I think what you're really asking me is if I still plan to attend the Senate hearing tomorrow.”

“The former CIA analyst doesn't miss a trick.”

“I can read you pretty well, Madam President.”

“Seriously, do you feel prepared?”

“That's like asking me if I'm ready to get shot.”

“Are you ready to get shot?”

“Depends on where they aim.”

“You remember that old saw about flies and vinegar?”

“I won't bullshit them, but I won't go out of my way to piss them off, either. Lane knows that.”

“Are you sure you don't want me there with you?”

“No, Mom. I can cross the street by myself. But thanks.” He stood
with his empty plate and kissed her on the head. He didn't really give a shit what the senators might think of him. He just didn't want to embarrass her or hurt Lane in any way. But then again, they both knew he was damaged goods.

They just didn't realize how damaged he really was.