Mike Maden - Drone Threat

Tarkovsky smiled. He knew that it was actually Vicki Grafton that had planted the idea in Chandler’s head, part of the plan the two of them had engineered. “What you are proposing is quite brilliant, actually.”

“Do you think Titov would be supportive of a mutual alliance between our governments?”

“Yes, wholeheartedly. I have even heard him mention the possibility. But not until the sanctions are lifted.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“It seems we’re at an impasse.”

“I’m sure we can figure something out.” Chandler crossed over to a replica vintage vending machine. “Another water?”

“I’m still working on this one, thank you.”

Chandler swiped a White House debit card and selected another Coke. “If we can’t put our boots on the ground, perhaps our Russian allies will do it for us. I have several friends in the Senate who would support a quid pro quo like that.”

“Our forces have trained for just such an eventuality. No one has a longer history of fighting these cockroaches than we do, with the possible exception of your own government.”

“It won’t be easy to pull it off. The moralists and the isolationists don’t understand what’s at stake.”

“A war between civilizations,” Tarkovsky said. “A war between modernity and brutality.”

“Exactly.”

“How shall we proceed?”

“Let’s start by having a chat with the president. Feel him out. Maybe we can tie our proposal into his Asia security initiative. Part of a new, comprehensive, global strategy.”

“But if the president disagrees with our assessment?”

Chandler sighed. “Then we must do whatever it takes to get both of our governments moving in the right direction.”

Tarkovsky nodded. “I couldn’t agree more.”

It was Pearce’s turn to cook tonight. He fried a couple of steaks in olive oil and pepper and whipped up a mess of cauliflower mash, trying to keep the carb count down for both of them. He finished out the meal with a spinach salad dressed in a light balsamic vinaigrette and a 19 Crimes cab sauv for her. He was never great in the kitchen, but he was learning to enjoy cooking for the woman he adored. He’d been accused of many things in his life, but domesticity wasn’t one of them.

Pearce and Myers were halfway through the meal, the bottle of wine, and their usual chitchat before she turned the conversation in another direction.

“How was your meeting with Chandler?”

“He’s a piece of work.” Pearce cut into his steak. It bled onto his plate, just the way he liked it.

“He’s very smart and a skilled politician.”

“So was Stalin.”

Myers nearly snorted wine out of her nose. “Please.”

“You like that guy?”

“No, but I respect him. Chandler was one of the few Democrats who supported my budget freeze. He’s never lost an election and never received less than sixty percent of the vote when he ran four times for Congress and twice for the Senate.”

“Chandler’s nothing but ambition and self-interest,” Pearce said. He’d never told Myers about his experience with Chandler in Iraq.

“Like most politicians. But he was the best-looking horse at the glue factory and Lane was in a tough spot. The DNC threatened to run a third-party candidate unless he agreed to put Chandler on the ticket.”

“Sounds familiar.” Pearce knew that Myers had gone through a similar meat grinder when she won her presidential primary as a libertarian Republican.

“Sometimes arranged marriages work out. Sometimes they don’t. But Chandler isn’t stupid, and he knows if he bides his time and plays the game he’ll probably be the next POTUS.”

“That sailboat is sounding better and better. Have you picked out a color yet?”

“Don’t get your hopes up yet, Popeye. You’re about to head up the federal government’s newest and most exciting agency.”

“Maybe.” Pearce took a thoughtful sip of ice water.

“What’s the hesitation?” Myers tried to hide her concern. Pearce had begun seeing a counselor for his anger issues, which she still believed to be symptoms of PTSD or at least exacerbated by it. Myers knew that his road to full recovery would be long and hard. Pearce was born a warrior and built to serve his country. But that service had involved killing many people, and despite what the genre movies and novels suggested, killing was an unnatural thing for a well-adjusted person to do, and killing the nation’s enemies — even for the right reasons — exacted a terrible psychic cost.

She also knew that the loss of his father and the needless deaths of people closest to him in the War on Terror caused Pearce to feel betrayed by the politicians who ran the country he loved so dearly. It was only through the trust he placed in her as president, and later in President Lane, that Pearce felt he could serve again. She feared he would slide back into his black hole of self-recrimination and bitterness if he stepped away from this appointment. She would never abandon him, but she couldn’t stop him from withdrawing from the world and from her.

“I know what the job entails,” Pearce said. “It means we’ll see even less of each other. And I’m not crazy about that idea.”

“You like having me around, do you?”

“Yeah. Something like that.”

“I might have a solution waiting for me in Germany.”

“Was ist das?”

“You speak German?”

“A little. And poorly. What’s waiting for you in Deutschland?”

“I got a very interesting call today. Someone in Frankfurt interested in buying my company. If the price is right, well, I’m open.”

“Really?” Pearce couldn’t believe it. She was as proud of her company as he was of Pearce Systems.

“How else are we going to pay for that sailboat? You’re only going to be making government wages.”

“When do you leave?”

“Day after tomorrow. The buyer insists on a face-to-face.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“No way, José. Your Senate hearing tomorrow is just the beginning. I’ll be back by the end of the week.”

“I don’t like it.”

“You mean traveling by myself? I’ve done it for decades.”

“Security?” Pearce respected the fact that Myers had turned down taxpayer-funded Secret Service protection, which she was entitled to as a former president. But absent formal security, he liked to keep close.

“It’s Germany, not Uganda. I’ll be fine.”

Pearce sighed. He knew that when Myers dug in her heels, there was no way to get her to budge. “Fine. But we’re going to stay in touch. Understood?”

Myers was a strong, independent woman. But it thrilled her to know someone in the world cared for her so deeply and wanted to protect her, even at the cost of his own life. She threw a mock salute. “Yessir.” She took another sip of wine. “Any other hesitations?”

Pearce stabbed his salad with a fork. “The last time I offered to help Lane, a lot of people died.”

“If it wasn’t for you, there would have been a lot of dead American sailors.”

Pearce held up his hands. “There are a lot of dead Chinese on the ocean floor, thanks to these.”

“That wasn’t your fault. You didn’t launch the missile. They started the war. You ended it. That makes you more than qualified for the job. But there’s an even better reason.”

“What’s that?”

“Lane has surrounded himself with several people who would dearly love to go back to the Middle East and ramp up the war all over again. He needs at least one voice of reason to keep that from happening.”

Pearce cut another slice of steak. “I’m not against going to war. It’s just that we can’t do another half-assed job of it. If Lane isn’t willing to ask for a declaration of war and commit every resource to winning it as fast as possible, then he needs to stay the hell out, no matter where he wants to fight. And I know you’re against it, but I still think we need a national draft. Every family needs to feel the pain of war, and every son and daughter needs to be at risk. If these chicken-hawk politicians have to send their own kids into the meat grinder, they might think twice before pulling the trigger.”