Empire (44 page)

So Cole and Cat stood at the podium, with the President and Vice President looking on. The questions were what you'd expect. Sure, they were heroes. But the press was still the press.

“How many Americans did you kill on this mission?”

“As many as necessary to protect myself and my men, and to accomplish our mission,” said Cole. “And not one more.”

“Why did you obey an order to enter a state that had closed its borders to military operations?”

“With all due respect, sir,” said Cat, “all our operations took place inside the United States of America, under orders from the President of the United States. We did not cross any international boundaries.”

“Weren't you afraid that your attack would lead to more bloodshed within the United States?”

Cole took that one, forcing himself to stay completely calm. “I was in New York City when this rebellion began. I saw the dead bodies of policemen and firemen and one uniformed doorman on the streets of that city, before I fired a single shot in this war. I believe our actions today put an end to the bloodshed that the rebels started.”

“Do you feel you have avenged the deaths of the President and Vice President on Friday the Thirteenth?”

“We're not in the vengeance business,” said Cat. “We're in the business of defeating those who wage war against America.”

Cole added, “We know these people were behind the attack on New York, because that secret factory in Washington State was where the weapons they used were manufactured. But whether they had anything to do with the prior assassinations remains to be seen.” Cole could see the President's staff visibly relax. They didn't want anything that could be used by Verus's lawyers to claim he had already been tried in the media.

“Some reports say that you shot Aldo Verus after he was arrested.”

Cole smiled at the reporter. “After I told Mr. Verus that he was under arrest, he attempted to flee. We overtook him. He then drew a weapon. I did not shoot when he pointed it at me. I shot Mr. Verus in the hand only when he pointed the pistol at his own head. I wanted him alive for his treason trial. Since I was fifteen feet away, a bullet to the hand was the only way I could prevent him from taking irrevocable action.”

Cat added, “We didn't believe we had time to negotiate the surrender of his handgun.”

A lot of people laughed. A lot of them were reporters.

After the press conference, Cecily came up to Cole. “I can't get over the questions they asked you. Like you were criminals.”

“It was a game,” said Cole. “Didn't you notice? The guy who asked me about shooting Verus after he was arrested—he was from Fox. He was setting me up for the answer I gave. Bet you that'll be the sound bite that runs everywhere tonight on the evening news.”

“And
not
a headline saying, ‘Soldier accuses Verus of assassinations.' Okay, I see.” She took his hand in both of hers. “Cole, have you called your mother yet?”

“No, ma'am,” said Cole.

“So she's going to learn about all this by watching the news?”

“Probably not,” said Cole. “She doesn't watch the news.”

“So you can still call her.”

He nodded.

“You can use my phone.” She led him out of the room.

Her office—which she shared with four other staffers—was empty. She led him to the desk and he sat down to make the call.

“Before you dial,” she said. “And before I leave you alone to talk to her, I just want to ask you. Will you come see me—soon? There's something I want to talk to you about.”

“What is it?” She looked worried. What could be wrong
now?
They had the rebel arsenal. They had New York City back.

“When you come visit me,” she said. “Call your mom.” Then she left.

But when he called for an appointment the next day, she wasn't
in. And the day after, she called him and said, “Look, I was probably wrong. It was just stupid. Come see me and the kids anyway—at home. And I mean really home—the President is moving into the White House now, and I'm taking my kids back home to Virginia.”

Cole could imagine how it might be for her to enter the house she had shared with Rube. “Would you like company when you go back home for the first time?”

“I've already been back,” she said. “I'm okay. But thanks for offering.”

He figured that was that. They'd worked well together, even liked each other, but whatever confidence she was going to share, she had changed her mind. And that was fine. Her privilege.

Verus had asked to see Torrent, and Torrent accepted. They did not notify the press. Verus was being held under guard at Andrews Air Force Base; Torrent arrived in a limo and was hustled directly to Verus's room.

Verus's arm was in a sling, his hand thickly bandaged.

Torrent sat down without waiting to be asked. “How is your hand?” asked Torrent.

“My own doctor got to examine it and approved of the work they did. As a starting point. There'll be more surgeries. I'll probably never get full use of it, but people have suffered worse than that in wars.”

“I thought you hated war.”

“I hate wars that are fought to advance fascism,” said Verus. “I didn't invite you here to argue with you.”

“Really? Then why am I here?”

“Because you're the reason I fought this war,” said Verus.

“I didn't realize I had made you so angry with me. In fact, I thought you enjoyed my seminar.”

“Your lectures spurred me to action,” said Verus. “I realized that it wasn't enough to lobby against fascists. Bayonets could only be stopped by bayonets.”

“But Aldo,” said Torrent. “If you really believed that, you and General Alton wouldn't have had to fake up a right-wing coup attempt.”

Verus smiled thinly. “You think I don't know what you are?”

“We
know you're
a traitor, and definitely
not
a pacifist. What am I?”

“You're the devil, Torrent,” said Verus. “And we all do your work.”

Torrent rose to his feet. “You could have faxed me that message.”

“I wanted to say it to your face. I just want you to know. This war isn't over. Even if you kill me or keep me in chains, your side will be brought down in the end.”

“My side?” said Torrent. “I don't have a side.”

With that, he left the room.

Cecily moved her children home. Aunt Margaret stayed with them for a while, and when she went home to New Jersey, Cecily came home from the White House. “I was just transitional,” she told LaMonte. “My children lost their father. They need me. But I needed the work you gave me to do. So I thank you for that.”

It was hard, especially because many of her friends—
most
of her friends—seemed to regard the death of her husband as something that made her too sacred to actually talk to. She got notes. There were flowers. A few visits, with the standard words, “Well, if there's anything we can do.”

But no calls from girlfriends inviting her to dinner or the movies.

Then, about a week after she moved home, Cat and Drew came by right after dinner, bringing ice cream. They sat around the kitchen table with Cecily and the kids, and told stories about Reuben. What he did in the war. What he did in training. What he did when he was on leave with them.

A week later, it was Mingo and Benny. Same thing, with pictures this time. They'd made a scrapbook and they left it with them.

Babe came alone a few days later. He had made a DVD of a slide show about Reuben. It was really funny. And sweet. At the door, as he was leaving, she asked him, “Did you guys draw lots? Take turns?”

“Oh, did the other guys already come? Have we been pestering you?”

“No, no,” she said. “I love you guys for this. Reuben never talked about his work, not with the children.”

“Before he was a martyr,” said Babe, “he was already a hero many times over. I think when kids have lost their dad, they need to know who he was and why it's important that he did the things that made it so he can't come home anymore.” He smiled a little. “I
know
. My dad died in the Gulf War.”

Eventually they all came. And came back. Along with other friends of Reuben's from the military. And she began to get visits from military wives that she'd known on various assignments.

But Cole didn't come.

At first she wondered why—was a little hurt, even.

Then she realized that Cole might have fought with these guys, but he didn't really feel like part of the group. He had been added in.

And then she remembered telling him she wanted to talk to him, and then changing her mind. Maybe he interpreted that as my having changed my mind about wanting to see him.

Or maybe he's busy.

I'll call him.

But she knew that he
was
different from the other guys. Because he had been with Reuben those last three days. When the President died. In New York. And in the Pentagon, when DeeNee shot Reuben down. If he came over, she would tell him. Even though she couldn't prove anything. She'd tell him because she had to tell somebody.

But not yet.

She watched the news assiduously, as she always had.

All the movements to recognize the Progressive Restoration died with the arrest of Aldo Verus. Vermont's legislature didn't bother rescinding their resolution because, as their attorney general assured everybody, it had no binding legal force anyway.

America watched with Cecily and her children as the Progressive Restoration forces in New York surrendered peacefully after two days of dithering—and after the city council voted unanimously
to declare them to be traitors and request them to leave their territory.

And more and more evidence came out, exposing Aldo Verus's network of influence and financial control. Many organizations dissolved themselves; others repudiated the financing they had received from Verus and pretended they hadn't known where it came from and that it certainly shouldn't be taken as any link between them and Verus's abortive revolt.

Verus himself waited in a special prison as his hand underwent repeated reconstructive surgeries and he was kept on continuous suicide watch.

The children lost interest. The war was over.

But Cecily kept watching, with special interest in Averell Torrent.

She wasn't all that unusual. Torrent was enormously popular. Almost movie-star popular. And he was handling it all so brilliantly. There had been talk right from the start about giving the Republican presidential nomination to Torrent, though there were also grumblings about how nobody even knew where he stood on abortion, on marriage, on taxes, on immigration, on
anything
except defense.

But whenever reporters asked him if he was seeking the Republican nomination, he'd answer, “I'm not a member of any party. I'm not seeking any nomination.” And then he'd walk away.

Then, in an interview on Fox News, O'Reilly said, “All right, Mr. Vice President, I'm going to ask you point-blank. Remember, this is the no-spin zone.”

“I never forget that, Mr. O'Reilly.”

“If the Republicans nominate you, will you accept the nomination and run for President?”

“No spin,” said Torrent.

“And no evasions, please.”

“Here's the thing. I believe in democracy. Hard-fought elections. But right now—this country's been on the brink of war. No, we were over the brink. Shooting had begun. And what was it about? The same divisive, vicious, hate-filled rhetoric that has dominated
our elections for the past—what, fifteen, twenty years? I'm sick of it. I don't want to be part of it.”

“I hear that, Mr. Vice President. But you still haven't answered my question. Am I being spun, sir?”

“I'm being as clear as I know how,” said Torrent. “The only way I'd run for President is if I were nominated by
both
parties.”

O'Reilly laughed. “So the only way you'll run is if you run against yourself?”

“I know I wouldn't smear my opponent and he wouldn't smear me,” said Torrent.

“So are you asking the Democrats to nominate you, too?” asked O'Reilly.

“I'm asking people to leave me out of all the hatred and bitterness, all the lies and all the spin. I accepted the office I hold now in order to end the impasse in Congress and help return this country to some kind of normality. I expect to step down when my successor is sworn in in January. After that, I'll see if some university will take me onto the faculty.”

O'Reilly smiled and said, “The gauntlet is down, Democrats. It happened before, back in 1952, when nobody was sure whether Eisenhower was a Democrat or a Republican. Both parties wanted to nominate him. He picked one of them. But Vice President Torrent refuses to choose between them. The Democrats have the first convention. Will they stay with their current front-runner, who just happens to have the highest negatives of any candidate who ran this year? Divisiveness? Or healing? But I give you the last word, Mr. Vice President.”

Torrent smiled gravely. “I miss the classroom. I look forward to teaching again.”

“In other words, you think there's no chance you'll be nominated.”

Torrent only laughed and shook his head, as if the idea was ridiculous.

But he didn't say no.

And despite the front-runner's most desperate efforts, she couldn't block Averell Torrent's name from being presented at the Democratic convention. Too many delegates were announcing that they would switch to him on the first ballot, regardless of what they had pledged back in the primaries.

As one of the delegates said on camera, “A lot has happened since the primaries. If we didn't have a responsibility to think for ourselves, there'd be no reason to have living delegates come to a convention, they could just tally the primary votes and make the announcement.”