Code 13 (8 page)

Patterson leaned back on the sofa. “Well, they've got to get over something called
posse comitatus
first.”

“
Posse
what?”

“
Posse comitatus
.” He took a sip of his drink, then loosened his tie. “A federal law passed after the Civil War, signed by President Rutherford B. Hayes. It prohibits the military from being used for law enforcement inside the borders of the United States. It originally just applied to the Army.

“But they later amended it to include the Navy. So they're waiting on this legal opinion from some Navy lawyer at the Pentagon, saying that the proposed use of the drones complies with the law. That's part of the contingency they need to make this happen to get the funding cut loose.”

Richardson steepled his fingers together and thought. “Let me see if I can get this straight. We have an opportunity to begin a production project that will make AirFlite one of the top three defense contractors in the world, will pump millions into the Georgia economy when the production lines start rolling for these Blue Jay drones, and will pump billions in profits into the corporate treasury, and all that is being hung up by some penny-ante legal opinion from some low-level, no-name Navy lawyer in the Pentagon?”

“I'm sure it's just a formality, Richardson. I'm sure the Navy wants this project as bad as we do. I hear an internal war broke out at the Pentagon over whether the Navy or the Air Force would control
Operation Blue Jay. The Secretary of Defense decided on the Navy because of the argument that the Navy should be in control of the coastal areas.”

“Yes, I know all about that,” Richardson said, “which is why I want us to pitch the Air Force for the interior continental United States drone project after we get this one rolling. But all that's beside the point. It's already been three weeks since we sent our final revision to the contract to Washington. This is taking way too long, Jack.”

“I'm sure it's going to work itself out. Our firm has handled government contracts for years. We've delivered on projects at the Savannah River Plant, at Fort Benning, and at the Kings Bay Naval Station. We're the best in the business, remember? That's why you hired us.” He emptied his glass and set it down. “Patience, Richardson, patience. These things take time.”

“I know your record. But this is taking too long. I've never been one to sit around and leave matters to chance.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Watch me.” He picked up the phone. “Ivana?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want you to get Senator Talmadge's Washington office on the line. Tell them I want to speak with him—now!”

“Yes, sir.”

“You're making a mistake, Richardson.”

“We'll see about that.”

CHAPTER 5

DIRKSEN SENATE OFFICE BUILDING

UNITED STATES CAPITOL

OFFICE OF ROBERT TALMADGE (R-GA)

WASHINGTON, DC

MONDAY AFTERNOON

In the world of politics in the great state of Georgia during the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries, only a handful of surnames commanded instant recognition, instant attention, and, in some cases, instant respect.

Any Georgian who knew anything about politics could rattle off the names: Nunn. Carter. Chambliss. Cobb. Lewis.

Anyone who bore names such as these, even if they were not first generation, could always turn heads by the slightest hint of a dalliance into the political world in the Peach State.

One such iconic surname, capable of such political head-turning, even in the early twenty-first century, was Talmadge.

The original bearer of the name had been the late, powerful senator and governor Herman Talmadge, who served as the seventieth governor of Georgia from 1947 to 1955, then went on to serve in the United States Senate from 1957 to 1981.

But Herman Talmadge, whose daddy was the longtime governor of Georgia before the son began his long career of governor and
senator, remained too powerful and too ingrained in the consciousness of state politics to yield way to the negative aspects of the iconic senator's career, like his censure and his segregationist past.

None of this was lost on former state senator Robert O. “Bobby” Talmadge, who understood that campaigning with the last name Talmadge in Georgia was like campaigning as a Kennedy in Massachusetts or any of the liberal northeastern states.

Of course, the dirty little secret was that Bobby Talmadge was not related to the long-standing father-son political dynasty that cast a looming shadow over the landscape of the Peach State for the better part of a half century.

When, as a Georgia state senator representing Atlanta's ultra-wealthy, upscale Buckhead district, Bobby learned through the political grapevine that Georgia's long-standing senior U.S. Senator, Mack Coble, was stepping down, he hired a private political pollster to gauge his chances.

The results of the poll confirmed Bobby's hunch. His last name would provide a big leg up on his opponents in the primary, even without a real blood tie to the legendary Georgia dynasty. So he jumped into the race, and his campaign team crafted a theme subtly suggesting a connection without actually saying there was. They purchased billboards all over the state proclaiming:

TALMADGE
HISTORY, TRADITION, COURAGE, CONVICTION

No, Bobby Talmadge was no political dummy. If someone asked if he was related to the epochal Talmadge dynasty, he would answer truthfully, “We're not directly related, as far as I know.”

But most people didn't ask. Most assumed. Low-information voters were easily manipulated. And he capitalized on the name all the way to the U.S. Senate.

To confuse the matter even more, Bobby had ordered his staff to hang on the walls of his office the portraits of several former U.S. senators from Georgia, both Democrat and Republican: Sam Nunn. Mack
Mattingly. Paul Coverdell. Zell Miller. Saxby Chambliss. Johnny Isakson . . . and, of course, Herman Talmadge.

Above the collection of portraits, he had his staff place a plaque in gold, engraved in black, titled “The Great Peach State—The Wall of Bipartisanship.”

Bobby's portrait hung right beside that of his famous predecessor with the same last name for the benefit of those Georgia school groups, civic groups, and Chamber of Commerce types who came up for office tours. They would return to the Peach State and vote, and persuade others to vote.

Every potential vote had to be accounted for. No stones uncovered.

Hopefully, by the end of this first term, he wouldn't have to piggyback on the Talmadge name of the past, but instead would achieve reelection based on his own accomplishments.

He sat in his Washington office, his leather cowboy boots propped on his desk, going round and round on the phone with a young political reporter from the
Atlanta Constitution
who undoubtedly, given the young pup's liberal political bias, champed at the bit for some out-of-context quote to benefit the Democrats in next year's election.

Clearly an environmental wacko, the reporter opposed all forms of energy exploration, and not just worthwhile projects like the Keystone Pipeline or projects on Alaska's North Slope, but those of more immediate relevance. Like Exxon's request for federal approval to begin drilling off the Georgia coastline.

The proposal had generated fiery opinions from all corners. Bobby, who favored the project along with anything else that brought jobs to Georgia, measured his words to avoid any foot-in-mouth slip-ups that could be blown out of proportion.

“Yes, Johnny. Of course we must be environmentally sensitive. But we also need jobs in Savannah and along the Georgia coast. And if those rigs don't get built off the Georgia coast, Exxon will move them a few miles to the north, off the South Carolina coast, where their senators are lobbying for the project. If there's a spill, it could float down to our beaches anyway, and Savannah wouldn't have gotten the same
economic benefit that Beaufort or Charleston would have gotten . . . Yeah . . . yeah . . . of course I respect their opinions.

“But I've also got to respect the Georgians who are still unemployed down on our coast from the last recession. They need jobs for their families to put food on the table . . . No . . . Yes, of course I remember the BP disaster off Louisiana . . . What do I think of it? Well, I think it's a rare occurrence for one thing, and we've got a ton of improved safety measures . . . Right . . . right . . .” He shook his head. “But, Johnny . . . with respect, you're missing the point . . .”

The cub reporter railed on and on. Was there a question in there somewhere? This kid should resign his job as a political reporter and just go ahead and seek the Democrat nomination for something or other.

Bobby checked his watch.
Atlanta Constitution
or not, he needed to cut this off.

“Hey, Johnny, I've got a meeting coming up with the Augusta Chamber of Commerce. I'm gonna have to—”

No luck.

His office door opened. Tommy Mandela, Bobby's wily chief of staff and an Emory law grad who never practiced anything except politics, stood there, decked out in his blue pinstripe suit. Mandela may have coincidentally borne the same last name as the great South African Nobel Prize winner, but in ethnicity, in political philosophy, and in shrewd cunning, he was opposite in every way. Bobby read Mandela's lips. “I need to see you.”

“Johnny, hang on a second.” Bobby punched the Hold button on his phone. “Find somebody else to talk to this guy.”

“They all want you, boss.”

“Tell me about it. Whatcha got, Tommy?”

“Sir, I'm sorry to interrupt, but Richardson DeKlerk's on the phone from AirFlite.”

“DeKlerk? What's he want?”

“To talk about the drone project, sir.”

“I'll be right with him.” He punched the Talk button, reengaging the energetic reporter, mockingly known around Georgia political
circles as Little Johnny White. “Johnny, I apologize, but something's come up. I'm gonna let you talk to my secretary, and she'll set a time for us to finish this. That okay?”

Without waiting for Little Johnny to respond, Bobby punched the line for his secretary. “Maryanne, pick up on two. Schedule a time for me to finish this interview
.
Find a way to tell him diplomatically that he's got ten minutes to wrap this up.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What line is Richardson DeKlerk on?”

“Mr. DeKlerk is on three, sir.”

“Thanks.” He punched line three. “Richardson. How ya doing this afternoon?”

“As well as can be expected.” The business magnate spoke in his trademark South African accent. “How about you?”

“Doing fine. Hey, listen. You're on speaker so I can jot down some notes. That okay?”

“Bobby, I don't care if I'm on a bullhorn, as long as you do what we need you to do.”

Bobby chuckled. “You always drive a hard bargain.” He looked up as Tommy Mandela walked back into the office and DeKlerk kept talking.

“That's why I'm a multimillionaire, soon a billionaire, if we get this drone project through the worthless bureaucrats up in DC whose sole job is to single-handedly wreck the American economy. You know,” DeKlerk added before Bobby could squeeze in a word, “if this project goes through, it won't be a bad thing for the Georgia Political Victory Fund.”

Tommy grimaced.

“Now, Richardson, we'll do everything we can to help. But the GPVF is an independent political action committee. I've got nothing to do with them.”

Bobby heard laughing from the other end of the phone. “You're hilarious, Senator. I've got my lawyer, Jack Patterson, with me, and he's in stitches at the notion that the Fund isn't your political ace in the hole. Heck, they even send the glossy flyers here to my office, reminding all
dutiful Georgians of what a fabulous job-creating record you've built for the Peach State. You know we gave a hundred thousand to the Fund when you were first elected.”

“Well, we're grateful for what they do,” Bobby said.

“I know. I know. These political action committees that allow unlimited contributions to support candidates that are technically—quote—‘independent from the candidates.' I'd give you a big wink if you were here in Savannah, Bobby. Anyway, there's more coming to the Fund if this drone deal goes through.”

Bobby's mouth salivated. DeKlerk touched on all the hot buttons before even making whatever request he had. The Georgia Political Victory Fund was pro-Talmadge, had spent hundreds of thousands already on public relations maintenance during the off years to keep the senator's image positive, and would spend millions on attack ads against his opponent as the election approached. AirFlite could bankroll a huge portion of GPVF's budget.

But Bobby had to be careful. He knew the right things to say.
They're separate. We have nothing to do with them. We can't control what they put out or who they support or what they say.