World War III

“So what do I do? I meet with the Speaker and majority leader. What does it accomplish. Wayne?

What?”

“What’s the matter, reading editorials again?”

McKenna stared at the pile of newspapers. “They are the voices of the people, and the people aren’t very happy.”

“Sounds like you’ve been reading the vitriolic bitch’s column.”

“And others.”

“Well, you know what I think—”

“Yes, I do.” The president nodded impatiently at the appointment book. “Let’s get on with it.”

“Today is Gorny’s birthday. You said you wanted to be reminded.”

“Gomy?”

“Dimitri Gorny. Chairman Gorny. USSR Gorny. Horny-Gorny. The red-headed Ruskie with the eight-year-old kid.”

“His son is ten, by the way. Let’s send him a birthday greeting. I’ll write out something after breakfast.”

“I know what I’d like to send him.”

“So do I.”

“A twenty-five-megaton candle right up his—”

“Thank you, Wayne, but I have enough washroom warriors as it is.” McKenna moved toward the door.

“I may get slaughtered next November, but I do not intend to leave the next president of the United States a pile of hot ashes in lieu of a country.” He stopped at the door. “Rescue me in about ten minutes.

I don’t think I can take too much of Dick Hickman this morning. Right?”

“You got it, boss.” He glanced at his watch. “Go.” Richard Hickman was sixty, bald as an eagle, with the complexion of a boozer though he seldom drank.

He was a huge man; he took up every inch of space in the delicate Queen Anne chair in the study. The sight of him sitting at the small breakfast table reminded McKenna of a character he’d seen in a children’s storybook — Mr. Hippopotamus caught in the jaws of a whale, his big round eyes wide with terror.

McKenna walked briskly to the table. “Morning, Dick. Don’t get up.” Hickman stuffed a slice of toast past his lips, nodding. “Morning, Mr. President,” he managed to mumble.

McKenna sat down. He surveyed the damage his campaign manager had wrought on the breakfast meal. “You ate all the toast, you gluttonous bastard. You owe me two pieces of toast.” He smiled in response to Hickman’s startled look. Hickman never knew when he was being kidded. “Sorry I’m late, Dick. I keep letting Kimball schedule me to death. And before breakfast. Still, he does his job, which is why I keep him in gray suits. Everyone screaming crisis. So. I assume you’re here to tell me to announce.”

“I am.” Hickman helped himself to more coffee.

“Why?”

“For the good of the country… the world.”

“The universe,” McKenna added with a warm smile. “C’mon, Dick.”

“You have to declare now, Mr. President. People think you’re losing your nerve. Some think you never stopped being vice-president. We need to make it emphatically clear that you intend to stay right here.

right here in this historic house. Announce, Mr. President. Let me get to it.”

“Ah, now the real reason is out. You’re just looking for work.”

“I have had other offers.”

“Maybe you should take them up. The polls haven’t been kind around here lately.” Now Hickman smiled. “I like a challenge.”

“Acceptance polls bottom out at twenty-six percent? Anybody who enjoys odds like that is a masochist.”

“I — we can turn that around. Just don’t play an elusive game with the folks out there. Kennedy did that and you remember what happened to him. You’ve got to get out there and say—”

“I’m the best.”

“You are.”

McKenna leaned forward slightly. “You know. Dick, I might not even win the party’s nomination.”

“Pardon me, Mr. President, but that’s horseshit. An incumbent president of the United States does not lose the bid for renomination.”

“Ever heard of Chester Alan Arthur?”

“The twenty-first president? Are you quoting history now? That’s my territory.”

“I’m facing facts.”

“Big deal. So it happened once. So what? You’re not Chester Arthur and you’re not being challenged by James Elaine. This isn’t 1884, you know. 1984 has enough stigma attached to it already. Don’t look for more trouble.” McKenna shrugged. “You think Milt Weston has your appreciation of history?”

“If you’ll excuse my saying so,’ Mr. President, but Senator Milton F. Weston hasn’t got the brains God gave spiders. He’s not going to run against you. He’s not that stupid. It’d wreck the party, a fight like that. Oh, he’ll make noises, he’s good at that. But he’ll stay in the Senate where he belongs. The ungrateful bastard. You’re the one who put him there. You treated him like a kid brother.”

“Well, now he’s acting like one.”

“What he needs is a swift kick in the ass.”

“I can’t really blame him, Dick,” McKenna said, glancing at his watch. “I believe he believes that I’m wrong for the country.”