Wallis rolled one of the general’s Havana cheroots from one end of his mouth to the other, spat, and heaved again on the oars. Little whirlpools spun away from the boat and it lurched erratically forwards.
Wallis thought he might as well be rowing a corpse. The CJCS lay back, motionless, a hand trailing in the water. His small mouth gaped open and a strip of hairy stomach lay exposed between his Hawaiian tunic and the top of his trousers.
The corpse was calculating. From time to time Wallis thought he saw the fat man’s eyes briefly studying him from behind the reflecting sunglasses. They were about half a mile out from the shore, the general’s jeep a little splodge of fawn next to the jetty.
The lake, set in a ring of wooded hills, was like the caldera of some ancient volcano. A flock of snow geese flew in formation, honking high overhead, preferring the winter in Baja California to the one in Siberia: voting with their wings.
He needs an opening, Wallis decided. He said: “Quite a place you’ve got here, as they say in old movies.”
The corpse stirred. “Margaret’s,” said Hooper. The comment was unnecessary: his marriage into one of the wealthiest families in America, with both showbiz and dubious New York family connections, had long been a staple of tabloid gossip. “This particular land was bought on some killing with Pepsi futures. You’re practically rowing on the stuff. Foggy, feather your oars and stow your barnacles or whatever it is
matelots do. Now we’re going to drink a little beer, catch a coupla fish and have ourselves a friendly little talk.”
The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff sat up and opened the lid of the wicker picnic basket. He moved aside a six-pack of Red Stripe and the small black briefcase which never left his side. He struggled with some fishing tackle; it looked new and the general gave the impression of a man who couldn’t tell a fly from a spinnaker. A little white worm wriggled in silent agony as a hook was thrust through it, and then it was whipped through the air into the water. The geese vanished behind Jacob’s Mountain and the honking faded away.
“Margaret likes her barbecues, good chance to meet people. Probably Teddy, the Clinton people and a few of her showbiz friends, maybe the Newmans. Oh, and some Mexican band. You may not want to come after you’ve heard me out.”
“General, I’ve long since deduced that I’m not here for the fishing.”
“Son, what you are here for will blow your mind apart. First I want to ask you a few questions. All on a hypothetical level, none of it’s for real, if you get my drift.”
“I get your drift.”
Hooper gave a half-smile. “Sure you do, you’re a bright boy. How come they call you Foggy?”
“It goes back to Parrot Island, sir. I guess I go around in a kind of haze.”
“Which haze doesn’t fool me. You’re bright enough to know that if you report this conversation I will deny that it ever took place. Talking about boys, how’s your one getting on? He’s on some sort of camping trip in Allegheny, ain’t he?”
Wallis’s heart gave a jump. It was a distinct thump in the chest. “Didn’t know you knew about it, sir,” he said casually. His son had arranged it with a teenage friend only the week before.
Nobody
outside the family circle had known about it.
“Real mountain man country up there. Straight out of
Deliverance
. You got balls letting your boy go out there. Still,
I reckon they’ve got to find their own feet some time.” Below the sunglasses, Hooper’s mouth had formed into a prim smile, and the incredible fact dawned on Wallis that his commanding officer had issued a threat.
“General, why are we here?” Wallis threw his half-smoked cigar in the water with a nervous gesture. The atmosphere was suddenly tense.
“Nemesis.”
“The Martian scenario.”
“A tiny handful of people in America know about it. You’re one of them.”
“No doubt for good reason, sir.” Wallis waited, an unformed sense of dread washing over him.
“Colonel, in what circumstances would you commit treason?”
Wallis stared, aghast, but all he got was his own distorted image, bulbous in the fly’s eyes of his commanding officer’s sunglasses.
“Sir, the question is an insult. I don’t want this conversation to continue.”
“The honour of your country is at stake.”
“If you put it that way.” Wallis retreated into his shell, slipping into a formal, military-style tone. “As you well know, sir, my oath of allegiance calls on me to serve my country, and to obey the orders of my superior officers to the limits of my conscience. If there’s something in the book about treason I guess I missed it.”
Hooper’s eyes showed approval. “Sinews of an army, son. Without loyalty and discipline and obedience, sometimes even blind obedience, you don’t have an army, you have a rampaging horde. Trouble is, obedience is morally neutral—it serves all sorts of masters. But this man’s army is based on values. Cripes, the lettuce Margaret puts on my sandwiches. ’Kay, let’s start easy. Suppose your superior officer was under some incredible strain, to the point where he was cracking up, couldn’t think straight? If he gives some wacky
order, or even worse, if he fails to act when he should, what would you do about it?”
“It’s in the book, sir. I’d go over his head.”
“Uhuh. And if said superior officer was right at the top?” Hooper opened a Red Stripe; he tossed the ring into the water, and it glinted as it spiralled down to oblivion. He held out a sandwich to Wallis but the colonel shook his head.
“Excuse me, but the man at the top is the President.”
Hooper didn’t reply. He sipped froth off the top of the can. Wallis said, quietly, “I advise you to proceed with extreme caution, General. You’re on a minefield.”
“Who isn’t these days? I repeat my question.”
“I get the drift, General, but we serve a democracy, not some banana republic. If the man at the top gets it wrong the people throw him out, not the Army.”
“Sure.” The general re-cast the line. It whipped through the air, and fresh ripples spread over the smooth lake surface. “A hypothetical, like I said. Suppose Eagle One has cracked under the strain. Gone pacifist, can’t fulfil his duties, whatever. So he has to be removed. But say the act of removing him leads to a nuclear strike against America?”
“How could that situation arise?”
“Simple. What do you impeach the President with? Failing to counterstrike against the Russians? Do we go public with Nemesis? And what would our Kremlin friends do then? Wait for us to zap them? Fact is, they would—”
“Now hold it there, sir. The only thing you go public with is that the President is unfit for office because he’s ill.”
“Get real, Wallis, there are intelligent men in the Kremlin. They would read the signs. They would have to pre-empt our strike. You want to gamble America on the Russians being dumb? That’s some chip to put on the table.”
“The fact remains that the National Command Authority rests with the President, not with traitors.”
“Colonel, your head is stuffed with mush. Remember your school history? Remember how the good guys always won,
eventually? How can this be? It’s not God, it happens by definition. The winners shape what later generations believe to be good.
By definition
, retrospective definition, the patriots are the guys who win and the traitors are the guys who lose. Maybe it’s okay for Eagle One to let our country be attacked and do nothing. Maybe he can waive his Oath of Office. Maybe our Peacemakers and our B52s and our entire defence posture, they were always a big bluff, we never intended to retaliate when the nukes were pouring down on our frigging cities. Is that your line, Colonel? Who’s the patriot—the guy who supports his country or the one who brings it down by supporting faulty constitutional structures?”
“General, I would like for us to go back now.”
“They’ll bite, Foggy, give them time. Deal with the facts. Fact One, Nemesis is coming in: we’re under attack now. Fact Two, the Chief is psychologically paralysed: he’s unable to discharge his duty to defend America. Fact Three, any appeal to the people by way of Senate or Supreme Court or any constitutional mechanism alerts the Russians and exposes us to nuclear annihilation. That’s why you’re here, that’s the problem, and I still haven’t heard your solution.”
“Are you asking me to join a conspiracy?”
Hooper paused, then he grinned slyly and said: “Hell no, Foggy, this is a purely hypothetical discussion, remember? You’re being asked to think. For the first time in your life, to judge by your performance so far.”
“Sure. Hypothetical like the man from Mars.”
Hooper forced the point relentlessly. “What we have here is a flaw built into the Constitution. Say your Commander in Chief is abandoning his responsibilities, betraying his Oath of Office. Now say that public impeachment of said Chief would alert the enemy and bring forth the Day of Judgement. What I need from you is an answer: what would you do about it?”
“Not my problem.”
“On the contrary, Foggy, for reasons which will emerge this evening, you’re the key. Answer my question.”
Wallis felt as if doors were closing all around him. He said, “I’ll have that beer now.”
Hooper tried another tack. He wedged the fishing rod between his knees and reached for a can, tossing it to the soldier; water lapped against the underside of the boat with the slight movement. He opened his briefcase and pulled out a sheet of paper. “Typed it out this morning. Listen:
“A strict observance of the written laws is doubtless one of the high duties of a good citizen, but it is not the highest. The laws of necessity, of self-preservation, of saving our country when in danger, are of a higher obligation.
“Okay so far? Now listen to this:
“To lose our country by a scrupulous adherence to written law would be to lose the law itself, with life, liberty, property and all those who are enjoying them with us; thus absurdly sacrificing the end to the means.
“Straight from the horse’s mouth, boy, from Thomas Jefferson. The guy who
wrote
the frigging Constitution. You know, reading this, Jefferson practically anticipated Nemesis.”
“I know what you’re asking me. I need time.”
“Time, laddie, is the one commodity we do not have. Hey!” The line went taut. Hooper began to pull at the rod, reeling it in. “Hell, Foggy,” the CJCS went on in a more conciliatory tone, “we’ve all been programmed with particular values and these work for us nearly all the time, but democracy is only a tool. It has limits like any other tool and sometimes you have to do things for the public good that the public would lynch you for if . . . damn you, I’m trying to
talk to this guy . . . look, this is a new game and you need new rules . . . stop wriggling . . .” Hooper stood up and the boat rocked dangerously as he reached out for a writhing fish.
“Steelhead, General, it’s a beauty.”
“Time’s running out, Colonel, and we need to know where you stand.”
“We?”
“Party starts about eight o’clock. We’ll be looking for answers.” Hooper, grimacing horribly, held up the squirming fish. “Now what the hell’s bells do I do with this?”
[Extract from testimony before the Defense Appropriations Sub-Committee of the House of Representatives in relation to USAF budget. John Chalfont, Utah Democrat, presiding.]
Chalfont:
Well, what I’m asking is, say the President has a heart attack or something and he doesn’t relinquish authority, who then can make the decision to launch if the situation requires it?
Hooper:
Sir, that is not an area we like to talk about much.
Chalfont:
But the word has to come from someone, is what I’m getting at. We can’t just be a headless chicken.
Hooper:
No sir, it has to come from the Vice-President. We are at all times available to respond.
Chalfont:
Well, say SecDef walks into your office and tells you to launch your missiles, you don’t need codes or stuff like that and he has the authority because the President is sick. Do you do it?
Hooper:
The policy is that the President makes that decision.
Chalfont:
But he’s sick.
Hooper:
I don’t believe I can answer that.
Hamilton:
What my colleague is getting at is, with the new Russian threat, we can’t afford another Haig fiasco, we have to get the right finger on the button. Who has the authority to press the button if the Commander-in-Chief is out of it? Say the national interest suddenly required a launch.
Hooper:
The Vice-President has the authority.
Chalfont:
General, I don’t want to sound as if I disagree with that, but is it not still the case that the CJCS needs to be consulted?
Hooper:
He’s subordinate but yes, he has, that hasn’t changed from the First Cold War days.
Hamilton:
He holds the appropriate codes?
Hooper:
A lot of us hold the codes, down to the Brigadier-General on the Cover All plane.
Hamilton:
A hypothetical, General. Say the President and the Vice-President are killed in a plane crash and Zhirinovsky sees his chance . . .
Hooper:
We could respond.
Hamilton:
Are you then telling us that a military authority exists for launching nukes separate from the civilian one?
Hooper:
I did not say that, sir.
Hamilton:
What does that mean? Is that a denial?
Hooper:
Well, there’s no actual military authority as such but look, the Situation Room is soft and Raven Rock is hard. Say Washington is wiped out and nukes are pouring down on our country. What would you expect military commanders to do in that situation?
Hamilton:
So authority to launch passes from the President to the Vice-President, with CJCS in consultation, and what we’re trying to get at is, what does the decision handbook say if they’re both incapacitated? What is the civilian authority?