Oberheim (Voices) Part 26

Your Servant,

Charles William Hayes Secretary of State

P.S.- I have spoken with the Joints Chiefs of Staff. They stand behind me.

And so the President, who was not fond of making difficult decisions ---Hayes had been quite right in this a.s.sertion---was faced with the most difficult choice of his political career, if not his life. Though far from a genius, he clearly saw (and this in itself was unusual) that a true, life and death dilemma lay before him, and that his decision would directly affect the lives of millions of people. Did he give in to political blackmail, and condone self-righteous slaughter---a genuine war? Or did he call Hayes' bluff, and find out just how powerful the man had become? Either path presented equally grim scenarios. And for the first time in his ill.u.s.trious presidency, Edgar J. Stone found himself in a position where advice was useless, and compromise impossible.

His political forte' to this point had been to make no rash decisions or statements to the press, and to defer to his advisers on the more serious matters of state. And through a combination of conservative dogma and hard-nosed pragmatism, he had heretofore been extraordinarily successful, getting most of his programs through Congress, avoiding embarra.s.sment, and heading off political difficulty before it gained impetus. No matter what the circ.u.mstance, he always managed to appear calm and well informed, with just enough below-the-surface anger to let everyone know, especially the Soviets, that the Commonwealth was not to be made sport of or taken lightly (which of course appealed to the current patriotic mood of his countrymen).

He was neither smarter, shrewder, nor more capable than his recent predecessors. If anything, he was less qualified than most. But he did have one skill they lacked. He knew how to play the game, and he lied (to no one more than to himself) with great conviction.

Because in the Commonwealth politicians were judged not so much by what they did, as by the way they appeared to be doing it. Lincoln, Kennedy and Reagan were remembered as the greatest of men, though they seriously mishandled important matters of state, largely because, as the poetic put it, "They captured the spirit of their countrymen."

More cynically, they gave good speeches. Edgar Stone, though considerably less moral than any but the third, understood this (or something like it), and with the aid of the power groups he represented, had modeled his administration accordingly.

He did this by surrounding himself with strong and intelligent men who understood the inner workings of government, economy and diplomacy, concentrating his own energies---with the help of various acting coaches and speech writers---on the subtleties of image and appearances. His was the mask worn by those who had elected him, and those who held real power. Not only did he fail to question the morality of the policies they had him put forward, but in truth, was not particularly interested. He had for nearly twenty years made his living as a front-man for conservative causes, knew his job and stuck to it. And having for so long been immersed in right wing-propaganda (it also appealed to his ego and warped sense of patriotism), he really did, or certainly appeared, to believe it himself. Thus the last and most important element of the facade fell into place: 'sincerity'.

Any seasoned political observer (who cared to look with his eyes) could see this, and yet few with any authority chose to attack the graven image. Why? Because he SEEMED to be doing a good job, and was (in the persona that had so been carefully been constructed) a pleasant, hard-working and respectable family man. The fact that he had changed professions (a former salesman), parties (a former Democrat), and wives (a divorcee), was routinely shouted down as liberal mud-slinging. The press was cowed by his popularity, the opposition by the power it gave him. The middle cla.s.s LIKED Edgar Stone, and big business stood behind him. It was a formidable combination. No c.h.i.n.k had yet been found in his armor, and the political sharks that arise within any system, democratic or otherwise, could not yet smell blood in the water.

But all that careful work and planning was now being swept away by a single, unforeseeable mistake. Over the years Stone had acc.u.mulated numerous political debts, especially to those who had kept him going during the lean years of 'progressive humanism', one of which he had repaid by appointing a pompous, self-indulging and wholly unqualified 'hero' of the Nibian Wars (like Ulysses S. Grant, he had sent tens of thousands to their graves without blinking), and a man he personally disliked, as his Secretary of State. Charles William Hayes.

Like Douglas Macarthur before him, Hayes had given innumerable signs of the obsession he now sought to enact. But like so many other men of history who are not taken at their word (Adolph Hitler being perhaps the clearest, and most horrific example), people had always a.s.sumed that he took such a hard line against socialism (as. .h.i.tler had done against the Jews) simply to encourage those who could elevate him to power, and to tap into the volatile anger and frustration of his countrymen.

But the truly frightening thing about such men, Hayes included, was that THEY MEANT EVERY WORD THEY SAID. "Better dead than Red," an expression borrowed from the Cold War days of the mid twentieth century, was not just a slogan to him, but unwritten Holy Scripture, handed down to him by the righteous G.o.d who ruled the Universe and called men of courage and action to his service, in the unending war against this modern day Satan. Etc. In his mind, too simple or too stubborn to possess any clear sense of perspective, this same G.o.d directed his every footstep, living within him and guiding his thoughts. And anyone who stood in his way, or questioned his narrow vision, was either weak, blind, or the enemy. As he had intimated in his letter to Stone, so far as he was concerned, there was no 'middle ground' in anything.

And in cla.s.sic Shakespearean form, the inevitably tragic events of his life had only served to bear out his convictions, and reinforce his Messianic image of himself. Indeed, given the power of his obsession and the unyielding pursuit of an aggressive, self-chosen destiny, they could hardly have done otherwise.

So Edgar Stone brooded, and listened to his advisers argue, and tried to think. While the winds of war swirled around him.

II

On the three socialist planets now occupied by the Belgians and Swiss, the process of political arrest, judgment and exile had already begun.

The process was especially swift and unyielding on Athena, where nearly eighty percent of the inhabitants, considered either dangerous or unnecessary to the occupation, were to be transported to the newly constructed facilities of the Belgian prison planet, Dracus IIa.

True to their word, the arrests were made without violence. Families were kept together whenever possible (except where a father, husband or wife was needed to operate high-tech equipment, thought-controlled machinery or the like), and all were given suitable quarters while awaiting the transport s.h.i.+ps that would take them to Dracus. They were told that upon arrival they would be given the resources to feed, clothe, and govern themselves, and that no harm would come to those who cooperated. The Alliance had no intention of turning public opinion against itself, or calling to anyone's mind (especially their own) the barbarities and prison-camp horrors of previous wars.

Their plan was simple. Send all undesirables and non-essential personnel to secretly located prison planets deep within their boundaries, give them the tools they needed to survive, cut off all communication, and simply leave them there. When the war was over there would be time to consider a more permanent solution.

And at the moment there were more pressing matters at hand. First they had to ascertain exactly who it was they were fighting, and why---since clearly they didn't share Hayes' obsession, and intended to act wholly independent of him.

Here were the facts as they saw them.

The Dutch Provinces, long coveted, were now in their possession, along with the Athena colonies. Their strength, especially monetary, had grown because of it. There was no substantial inter-galactic outcry against them, their own activities being largely overshadowed by the possibility of a full-scale offensive push by the Commonwealth. And their losses to date, though somewhat more substantial than they had hoped, could not outweigh their ambition. Except for the German-made carrier, which they had not expected to lose, the fleet sent against Dubcek had been manned by robot crews only, the idea being to exchange hardware, which could be replaced, for the bounty of Athena. They had even taken a new, bi-national symbol, the pouncing leopard, and had it emblazoned on their s.h.i.+ps, and on the sleeves of all their flyers.

But what they should have known, what every leopard does know, is that they were not the only, nor indeed the most powerful predator in the bush. The stir created by a kill may be tolerated once by the pride of lions living nearby. But soon both predator and prey are aware of their existence, ready to act upon it, and even the distraction of a rogue elephant, cras.h.i.+ng blindly through the brush, can't hide its presence for long.

Their fight had only just begun.

III

The morning of June 17, on the eve of his scheduled press conference to address the issue, Edgar Stone sat behind his desk in the Oval Office, staring blankly at his fourth attempt to draft a reply to General Hayes. Dark circles pulled at his eyes and sinuses; his head felt like a warm stone that wouldn't think. Half an hour earlier, after listening to his top advisers swear at each other with the same arguments they had been postulating for months, he had done something he would not have dreamed of in other circ.u.mstances. He had told them all to "Shut up," and unceremoniously shown them the door.

For the first time in his presidency he was taking matters into his own hands, with more than a few regrets and second thoughts. He had slept badly or not at all for three nights running, and felt neither brave, nor n.o.ble, nor even competent to make such a choice. In his current frame of mind he was incapable of realizing the human or historical significance of the crisis that lay before him, and at the moment this was not what mattered. Unlike Hayes, he didn't give a d.a.m.n what people thought once he was dead, or even out of office. What mattered now was that his tolerance for bulls.h.i.+t had been long since used up---that he was furious at being put in such a position.

And somewhere, very deep inside himself he knew, though he shrank from the knowledge, that something very wrong had happened, that the damage was far from over, and that he was partly to blame. And he knew one more thing, despite the rhetoric that he had spouted for two decades: offensive war, unduly considered, was the basest and most shameful of human endeavors, never justifiable, and rarely, in the end, accomplis.h.i.+ng anything.

Because for all his faults, and these he possessed in abundance, Edgar Stone was not insane.

He bowed very low, crumpling the paper before him in both hands. Shook his head mournfully. He pushed the com-b.u.t.ton on his desk and summoned a secretary, to whom he dictated his answer to Hayes.

The press conference was postponed without a future date being set, on the pretext that new information had just come to light, which must be relayed to the Secretary of State before further action could be taken.

But even the impa.s.sable Bill Miller, Stone's Press Secretary, could not pull off this announcement without incurring a barrage of stupefied questions and dissatisfied remarks.

And when news of the postponement spread, along with the undercurrent of confusion and subdued alarm which accompanied it, even the dullest Americans began to sense that something was amiss---that real life had somehow crept onto the peaceful sh.o.r.es of their island. And nearly all were aware of a strange thrill of fear as their President finally stepped before the cameras on July 15, looking not at all like himself.

On June 24, the day that Hayes received the President's reply, the Third Fleet was once again preparing to go into action. The coordinates (and victim) of their next attack had already been decided upon, known only to the General Staff, and to the scientists in charge of constructing the star gate. All the myriad s.h.i.+ps---destroyer groups, flotillas and task forces, still intact---were once more huddled within the ma.s.sive body of the Supercarrier 'Dreadnought', itself nearly forty kilometers from stem to stern.

The mother vessel, with all its destructive children tucked up inside, and therefore vulnerable (relatively speaking) to sudden attack, had been positioned by her masters in the place that this was least likely to occur---a distant orbit around the sea planet Goethe, where Alliance s.h.i.+ps moved constantly, ready to repel any attempt at a counter-stroke by the Coalition. The entrance to the star gate was being constructed outside the extremities of the system, far beyond the considerable pull of the ma.s.sive star, Athena.

Though the two capitalist fleets remained in constant contact, it was understood that there would be no mutual effort or coordinated defense once the Dreadnought left the system. The two sides had gotten what they wanted: the Belgians and Swiss the riches of the colonies, as well as the threat of a powerful ally, and the Commonwealth, an easy victory with a minimum of casualties. Thus the thief and the bully would part.

Both sides, meanwhile, were concerned (at least Hayes pretended to be) by the external calm and relative inaction on the part of the Coalition, and the still more ominous silence of Soviet s.p.a.ce. In his more lucid moments the Secretary realized the strength of his ultimate foe: that a great bear waited for him deep in the woods, and that killing it, even with the full weight of the Commonwealth behind him, would be no easy task. But for now he feared nothing and no one.

ONE STEP AT A TIME, he told himself. One step at a time.