David's Sling (14 page)

Sounds like the kind of subjective decision-making that we should be able to manipulate."

Kira sighed again. "I don't know. They take their certification pretty seriously."

"I see. Perhaps a bit of outright bribery will do the trick."

The idea of bribery shocked her, but only for a moment. The shock faded into a look similar to the look of awe she had had earlier, pondering the Institute's immunity to media attack. "Of course. Surely some of them can be bought." She looked at Daniel with bemusement. "I have trouble remembering the sizes and kinds of resources available to the Wilcox-Morris Corporation."

Kiras attitude toward unethical maneuvers matched his own quite nicely. Interesting. "I understand your problem. Wilcox-Morris has so many resources that even I lose track at times. But you'd better get comfortable with all of them, Kira. Were in a fight for our lives with the people who hate us, and we need to fight with every resource available."

He started to rise, to terminate the meeting, but Kira held up her hand. "What should we do with the media blitz? Cancel it?"

"Not at all. It can't hurt, after all, as long as we're discreet." He rubbed his hands together. "I almost wish I could face off against Nathan Pilstrom myself, in public. It would be great to pit my world view against his in a showdown. I've read some of his writings; there are a lot of inconsistencies in his philosophy. I just know I could take him apart if I had the chance."

"Really?" Kira studied his face cautiously. "Are you sure?"

His heart leaped into his throat for just a moment before answering, "Quite sure."

"I might be able to arrange it."

"Excellent!" he cried. "We wouldn't want to try this undertaking just yet, of course; that would
certainly
increase his national visibility, as well as mine, and that's dangerous to us from both directions." A good tobacco baron needed to keep himself invisible if at all possible; he wanted his opposition to stay the same way. "But if the Institute keeps on growing, despite our sabotaging the net, it may be an appropriate risk."

"I'll start laying the groundwork," Kira promised. With that she left.

Daniel crushed out his cigarette as he looked across the landscape. A jet wobbled down its landing path toward National Airport. This airplane, like so many others that had traveled the same path, seemed to scrape its belly against the pointed tip of the Washington Monument. Of course, this was just an illusion of the angle and the distance; in reality, the plane never came near the monument.

The Institute's dependency on networking raised several inspirational opportunities. Jobnet was the lynchpin. As the controller of Jobnet, the Institute was eminently qualified for quickly assembling teams of people with diverse specialties. Those specialists could be scattered all over the country, or they could all live in the same condo complex. It didn't make any difference; they could
telecommute
, in any case.

With succulent joy, Daniel realized that the entire Zetetic organization was built around telecommuting. This information gave him the power to totally destroy the Institute.

The unions had been lobbying for years to ban telecommuting; it made it damn difficult to unionize workers. Until now, the tobacco companies had fought in favor of telecommuting, more because the unions opposed it than for any other reason. If it weakened the unions, it was fine with Wilcox-Morris.

Daniel returned to his desk and ran his hand across the smooth teak finish of the plaque hanging there. "I came, I saw, I conquered," the plaque played back his motto. Daniel had swallowed whole corporations that held to this same belief. Could the Zetetic philosophy stop him?

Ah, how surprised the unions would be when the entire tobacco industry tossed its support behind the ban on telecommuting. Many organizations would fight them, of course, not just the Institute. Other people telecommuted as well. But the telecommuters had not formed the kind of potent power blocks that the unions and tobacco industry History would repeat. The unions had succeeded in outlawing the sale of homemade clothing decades earlier, when the invention of the personal sewing machine threatened the textile factories. Now, with Daniel's help, the unions should be able to crush personal computer owners the way they had crushed personal sewing machine owners in that earlier era. Daniel could not imagine the unions and the tobacco corporations failing in a joint political enterprise.

How stunned the Institute would be when drawn and quartered by the collaboration! How sweet.

President Mayfield could not focus his attention on any one part of the nightmare. He winced every time his heart started racing too hard. Sometimes the thumping ended in a twisting spasm that made him want to clutch his chest. He looked down at the Presidential Seal woven into the carpet, but even that inspirational sight did not help calm him. They faced the greatest crisis of public confidence in his career.

His eyes shifted to Nell Carson, sitting in her usual position in the far corner, wearing her usual look of distant concern. She seemed relieved, almost happy, now that she knew what form the Soviet deception would take. He'd desperately wanted to exclude her from this meeting, this moment of terrible embarrassment, but he couldn't. Not only would she not let herself be excluded, but in some sense, her rigid strength of character gave him a secure feeling. She always disagreed with him, but she never stabbed him in the back.

His eyes flickered to the television. He'd never before let televisions into the Oval Office, but now he couldn't bear to see the news without the reassurance this room gave him. On the television his nightmare became vividly real, yet manageable and bearable, because the terror remained confined to the tiny screen. He thought about the millions of other viewers watching this broadcast and shuddered at the opinions they were certainly forming.

CUT. The scene shifts to a lone town on a wide, rolling plain. Wheat grows in fields tended by men and women wearing oddly assorted garments. The clothing is typical of the styles of Iranian farmers.

Mayfield looked back at Nell, who continued to watch the screen impassively. Desperate to see an expression he understood, he turned next to Earl Semmens, seated near the window with the pinched look of a poker player whose bluff has been called. At least Earl showed the proper level of shock and dismay. At least Earl shared the president's outrage and indignation.

ZOOM. The camera soars over the fields to view gray metal boxes against the horizon. Zooming still closer, the gray boxes resolve into battle tanks: Russian T70s. In their wake, mashed pulp that was once wheat twists through the tortured soil. Bill Hardie's voice speaks with studied anger. "This is the most blatant use of brute force ever made in our time. Despite all his long speeches about peace, Soviet leader Sipyagin has once again shown us his lust for war."

Nell looked over at Mayfield for the first time. The corners of her mouth curled in a sad smile. "Now we know what they planned to gain from mutual force reduction."

CUT. FOCUS. Hardie's eyes seem to leap from the camera, to look directly at Mayfield." But not all the fault for this new aggression should be placed at the doorstep of Sipyagin. It was our leadership that made it easy for the Soviet army to amass sufficient forces for this attack." He paused for effect, and his anger grew more apparent. "Our sources tell us that this invasion is being carried out with the divisions released from Europe by the recent Mutual Force Reduction Agreement. If we had not rushed so foolishly into that agreement, this invasion could never have taken place."

Mayfield clenched his teeth to keep from crying out at the distant announcer. Still, he could not help trying to defend himself. "Liar," he growled, "it's not true. I am
not
responsible for that invasion." He turned to look at the other people in the room. "How can he say that? A month ago he thought the agreement was the best treaty we'd ever made." Another image came to Mayfield: the image of the Nobel Peace Prize that should have been his. The image evaporated as he clung to it wistfully.

SOFTEN. The camera remains in the news room, fixed on Bill Hardies sober expression. "The Russian justification for the attack is Irans support for terrorists and rebels in the southwestern provinces of the Soviet Union. The Soviet invasion at dawn today started with the destruction of rebel bases within Iran. A Soviet spokesman has assured the president officially that this is just a minor police action, and the advance will terminate as soon as Iran has been purged of militant anti-Soviet groups. Since making the announcement, the fighting has spread rapidly." Hardie purses his lips. It would seem that the longer the Soviets fight, the more anti-Soviet groups they encounter."

Nell spoke softly, almost gently, as if she were on Mayfield's side. He looked at her with startled eyes. "I'm sorry I didn't see it coming. I should have. You know, we could have learned this from history. This is exactly how they prepared for their Afghanistan invasion decades ago. They made a big fanfare about pulling their troops out of Europe—just to move them into position for an invasion." The president shook his head helplessly. "What can we say to the people?"

Nell sat very still for a moment, then nodded her head as she said, "I don't know what to say, but I know what to do. We should stop."

"Stop what?"

"Stop making dangerous treaties."

Mayfield's voice rose defensively. "That wasn't a dangerous treaty. We needed to reduce the number of soldiers pointing guns at each other in Europe. It was a good idea. It still is!" He leaned forward with a shrewd look. "And besides, they didn't violate the treaty, did they? The treaty worked. People should keep that in mind."

With an exhausted sigh, Nell agreed. "Yes, your treaty worked. Frankly, I imagine they would have invaded Iran even without the treaty. But, Jim, even though your treaty worked,
it didn't work the way you wanted it to
. It didn't make the world any safer. Did it?" Her mouth twisted in distaste. "More to the point, it didn't make us any more popular, either."

Mayfield shook his head. "I don't get it. I know you don't care about the next election. I don't understand that, but I know it's true. All you care about is whether we set them up to attack Iran. Yet, if you think they would have attacked Iran anyway, why complain about our treaty?"

Nell blinked. "I'm not complaining about
that
treaty, Jim. I'm worried about the next one."

The president's heart skipped again. He saw Earl looking at Nell with the same shock he felt. "What do you know about the next treaty?"

Nell laughed. "Only that you're working on one, Jim. You're an addict." Her frustration came to the fore, spotlighted. "But don't you see that we have to be careful about what we sign?"

"Of course we have to be careful. But we don't have to be paranoid!"

Nell slumped back in her chair. Only the motion of her foot swaying rhythmically suggested the energy still waiting inside for a chance to act. "No, Jim, we don't dare be paranoid either. That would be as bad as being naive."

"What do you want me to do?" Mayfield almost screamed.

Her foot stopped moving. "I d like you to let Senator Hilan Forstil review your next treaty before you sign it."

"What? That man's a warmonger!"

Nell leaned forward, speaking with carefully controlled anger. "No, Jim. Hilan is not a warmonger. He's a hawk."

"What's the difference?"

"A warmonger is someone who wants to start wars. A hawk is someone who hates war, who will avoid war with fierce energy—but if forced into a war despite his best efforts, knows that he has to win."

Mayfield felt his stomach tighten with revulsion. "That's just what we don't need working our negotiations—someone who has a vested interest in wrecking the treaty process. Forstil would give the media the biggest leaks since Arken published the radar signatures for Stealth bombers." He rolled his eyes. "One little leak, and he turned billions of dollars of airplanes into museum pieces. That was an important factor in our getting into office in the first glace. We can't let our treaty process be handled that way."

Nell stared at him in disbelief. "Jim, Hilan is on your side. Believe me."

He couldn't believe her. Forstil made him feel as uncomfortable as Nell Carson did. He had no intention of letting them gang up on him. "Let me think about it," he said to put her off. He shifted in his leather chair, unsticking himself. He'd been sweating, despite the cool air that bathed him from the air ducts behind his desk.

"I thought you might say that." Nell rose from her chair. For a moment her shoulders drooped, but with another effort, she stood straight, a radiant wee president. "Think about Hilan, Jim. He can help you." She departed.

Mayfield buried his face in his hands. Why couldn't he have been president during a simpler time? He had completed a longstanding presidential task during his second year of office, yet no one had noticed: he had the collection of portraits of president's wives. This task had been underway since the days of Kennedy. That could have been his crowning achievement, if he'd lived in a reasonable world.

Well, just as he'd gotten the news media to love him yesterday, he'd get them to love him again tomorrow. A few more treaties, and he'd see that Peace Prize once more on the horizon.

A sonic boom and a crashing explosion made him open his eyes; it was just the sound from the television.

The muggy July heat faded slowly in the twilight as Kira bicycled down South Lakes Drive toward home. Only the heat faded, however; the muggy humidity remained. It did not help her think, and she had some thinking to do. Uncle Nathan was coming to dinner. They would surely play the game of wonders, and
this
time Kira intended to win. It was about time she won: today was her twenty-second birthday.

She shook her head to throw the stinging perspiration away from her eyes, regretting her choice of the bicycle for the day's commute to the Institute. At last she turned left on Cabot and plunged downhill.