Ryne Pearson - Capitol Punishment

“That’s an understatement,” Stanley commented, looking over the layout of the area and the entire system. Simple in some respects, but for his purposes there was still the nagging problem of getting to this point without sounding any alarms in those workers who were bound to see something. Whoever was going to actually place the stuff couldn’t just ask Harback to… or could they? “Ray, this is absolutely what I think my clients in Thailand are going to need. Your setup fits the bill as far as I can see. You know, what would really help is if I could get some pictures of this level and the main system. Stills and video so I could ship them over to the architects and engineers in Bangkok to convince them. Is there any way I could send a couple of my guys up next week sometime to take some shots?”

“Sure. No problem. I’d be glad to point out what they should be shooting.”

Stanley patted the bigger man appreciatively on the shoulder. “You may have just saved my clients a hefty refit.”

“No problem at all.”

“Well, there will be a very generous consulting services fee coming your way.”

Harback chuckled, the joviality drowned out by the constant noise. “I appreciate that.”

“Is Wednesday all right with you?”

“The day before Thanksgiving?” Harback asked, mentally checking his schedule. Most in the building would be heading out early that day. The load on the systems would be minimal. “Morning okay?”

“Eight would be good,” Stanley said.

“Perfect.”

Stanley reached his hand out, shaking Harback’s firmly. “Perfect.”

Harback escorted his guest back to the ground floor and noted the appointment. Stanley thanked the man one final time, sincere in his appreciation. If only he knew, Stanley thought with a smile as he crossed the lobby, his eyes squinting at the glare from the front—

“Damn,” Anne Preston said, her armful of books now at her feet after the collision.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” Stanley apologized, squatting to help the lady pick up her books. “I didn’t see you. The glare kinda blinded me.”

“It was an accident,” Anne said. “I should have seen you.”

“No, I was…” Stanley looked up from the floor, seeing the lady’s face for the first time. She’s African . He hadn’t been this close to an African in years. In fact he couldn’t remember touching an African woman, even accidentally like this. “I… I’m sorry. I… I’ve gotta go.”

Anne gathered the books as the young man handed them to her with haste. She stood from a crouch and watched him hurry from the building as if he’d just seen a ghost, then let the strange incident fade as she continued on to her twelfth-floor office.

The forty-hour week, legislated many years before for the benefit of American workers, was but a long-forgotten dream for those gathered in the Oval Office this Saturday morning. There was coffee in a shining server, which rested on a silver tray at the center of a low table. Two platters, one of fruit slices and the other stacked with croissants, were on either side of the tray, and from the two couches and the single highback chair that framed the arrangement hands would occasionally reach in and partake of the light morning meal.

The president, sitting straight in the highback, held a saucer on his lap and sipped at the cup of Colombian blend as the man who would run his campaign for reelection, once the bid officially got under way the week after Thanksgiving, ran through a thumbnail sketch of the strategy developed over the summer months. Listening with the president were the secretary of state, the White House chief of staff, and National Security Adviser Bud DiContino, three men he saw as a troika of wisdom and honesty that could be relied upon without fail.

The outline of the route the campaign would take through the electoral minefield, presented by Earl Casey, the presidential campaign general chairman, was given as a courtesy to those men closest to the chief executive.

It was laid out for their perusal, comment, or criticism, and, as expected, it focused heavily on domestic issues. The voters, burned by promises of such in the past, as well as a still sluggish economy that refused to rebound to prerecession levels, were as skeptical as they had ever been, Casey told the group. As a political operator Casey was the best, saying what needed to be said, seeing what warranted attention, and spinning what required finessing. This was his first presidential campaign, but seven sitting governors owed their positions to the man, and the Democratic strategists had convinced the president that Casey and the team he could assemble were the ones who could keep the party in the White House for four more years.

Bud DiContino, however, saw some wrinkles in the carefully crafted plan.

“What about the unexpected?” The NSA asked. He saw Jim Coventry’s head move slightly in agreement.

“In what form?” Casey responded.

“Well, take what’s going on now for example,” Bud said. “Say that a week before New Hampshire we find out that this Kostin fellow is actually a Russian spy sent here to supply homegrown terrorist groups with nerve gas.”

“I hope that’s not a suggestion of what’s possible, Bud,” Casey said.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s ludicrous,” Casey answered.

“Then pick another possibility,” Bud challenged the thirty-eight-year-old political wunderkind. “Iraq. Iran. Mexico. The IRA. Hezbollah. South Africa. Israel. Which one? You know, it doesn’t matter, which is my point. The unexpected, the thing that you would not have predicted with all the best intelligence, will rear up and slap you across the face just like this incident has.”

“And like now it will be controlled by the proper part of the government,” Casey said.

Bud would have loved to let Casey know what was still facing the country, but he had no need to be privy to that information. “The voice of the president is sometimes the only sound some people hear when things get dicey. If the Iranians ‘accidentally’ loose a missile at one of our ships in the Gulf, Drew Meyerson is not going to be the one the American people will want to hear from, and he is not the one the Iranians will need to hear from. That’s nothing against the secretary of defense, it is simply a statement of fact that it is somewhat disingenuous to believe you can cast the president as a domestic manager who can delegate responsibility for the crises of tomorrow to his advisers simply because an election is looming. It’s disingenuous, and it’s dangerous.”

“I tend to agree with Bud, sir,” Coventry said. “Thinking in purely political terms, I believe the strategy Earl’s laid out could backfire.”

“How so?” the president inquired.

“For the same reasons Bud just presented,” Coventry answered. “If you are set up as focused entirely on the domestic agenda and reality rears its head and draws your attention away, you become a target for your opponents.”

The president considered the statements of his national security adviser and secretary of state while sipping his coffee. “Ellis?”

The chief of staff, his white shirt only three hours in use and already wrinkled, looked to the leader of his country, the man he had grown up with in the Golden State. “If you want pragmatism, Mr. President, then I agree wholeheartedly with Bud and Jim. But a campaign is not about pragmatism, like that or not. It’s about ideology and image. A segment of the electorate buys ideology, another buys image. And it’s the image factor that is going to be the challenge for you.”

“Ellis, things are getting better,” Coventry said. He wasn’t an economist, but he understood enough to be able to intelligently analyze the numbers coming from various agencies.