The Threat

Dan didn’t like this question. He wondered if the appointees Knight was talking about included Blair. She couldn’t drive a tank or assemble a bomb. But he didn’t know anyone in uniform, from flag rank down, who could drill as deep into a manpower issue as she could. He cleared his throat and shifted on the sofa. “If you mean, is this a military-oriented administration, I guess the answer’s ‘not very.’ But it’s still early.”

“I’ve been over there twice talking to Garn Sebold and what’s her name, the Asian woman. I understand campaign promises. But once the election’s over, you expect some movement toward reality. The fact of the matter: We have defensive boundaries around the world. A lot of guys, some I knew, gave their lives to put them there. We keep backpedaling like this … it’s like you live in the projects and you put a sign on your door, ‘Break in my house, rape my wife, and steal my shit.’”

Dan didn’t believe a three-star couldn’t remember the name of the national security adviser. It was a put-down, though subtle enough it couldn’t be quoted against him. “Well, sir, like everywhere, I’d say some are professional, others less so.”

Knight shook his head, scowling. “I’d rather have them over there than over here. But cutting our readiness, manning, the procurement accounts — that’s a no-go. Let me tell you a little story.

“Back in ’32, ’33, this country was in a worse depression than anyone remembers now. FDR wanted to cut the Army budget to practically zero. Douglas MacArthur was the chief of staff back then. He went to Roosevelt’s office and put his resignation on the table. He said that when we lost the next war, and an American boy was dying in the mud with a bayonet in his belly, he wanted him to die cursing Franklin Roosevelt, not Douglas MacArthur.”

Dan wasn’t sure whether this was a historical reflection, a message he was supposed to take back, or just the general blowing off steam. As far as he could see, he was pointing the finger in the wrong direction. “General, I know this administration’s committed to reductions in defense. It was in their platform from the start. But what actually gets appropriated isn’t an executive branch call. Congress sizes the accounts.”

Knight picked something off his lip. He examined it, then put it carefully in the ashtray. “We’ve been talking to our friends on the Hill. Sonny doesn’t think any further reduction’s wise. Neither does Strom or Mike.”

Dan rubbed his eyes. The cigar smoke stung at close range. “Then it seems like the appropriate steps are being taken, sir. Maybe I’m oversimplifying here, but that’s my understanding of the process.”

The dull green irises came to rest on him like twenty-pound weights. “I don’t need you to tell me the process, Commander.”

Dan said, “Sir, nobody over here, or over there, can stop the president from putting in whatever budget he comes up with. If he thinks it’s what the country needs.”

Knight watched cigar smoke rise, silent. He seemed on the cusp of saying something else. But got up abruptly instead and walked Dan to the door. A handshake, briefer than the first, and he was on his way.

* * *

The car idled, crept forward, idled again. A Metro cop stood with hat pushed back and hands in his pockets. A marine guard bent to glance inside the Bentley ahead, then straightened and waved them on. Dan saw it had diplomatic plates.

He was in blues, and it felt good to be back in them, but the marine still wanted to see his ID. He also managed an appreciative glance at Blair’s legs. Dan couldn’t blame him. She looked great in a short black cocktail dress. She knew what her legs looked like, and occasionally used a strategic glimpse of thigh to fluster and confuse.

The vice president’s residence was a white Victorian with mansards. Dan thought it looked like a battleship, with its porch as a prow and the cupolaed turret as the bridge. More marines directed them where to park on a clipped lawn. Dan held Blair’s door. It wasn’t Halloween yet, but mist eddied from the porch as they approached, and creepy music. A skeleton twinkled with electric lights.

“Good evening, how are you, thanks for coming … Oh, Blair, thanks for coming. And who’s this? Mr. Titus?”

“Dan, meet Geraldo B. Edwards. And Mrs. Edwards. Dan Lenson, Mr. Vice, currently serving on the NSC staff.”