Warren Murphy: Scorched Earth

"I drink to unity," said the President.

Flashbulbs popped in his face. The President looked into the cup. The previous day, after lighting the green unity candle, the fluid had been clear. Water. Now it was red.

"What's this?" he hissed through his own fixed smile.

"Goat blood or something," the First Lady said vaguely.

"I can't drink goat's blood!"

"If you don't, you'll insult our Afro-constituents."

"Let one of them drink goat blood."

And overhearing that, the Reverend Juniper Jackman stepped out of the backdrop of Afro-American dignitaries, wearing a gigantic smile and saying, "Allow me to instruct our President on the ways of my people."

The First Lady hissed like a cat. This was mistaken for the hissing of a steam radiator and unnoticed for what it was, while Black national leader and intermittent failed presidential candidate Juniper Jackman brought the cup to his lips and gulped it right down.

When he smiled again, his teeth were as red as melting Chiclets.

"What did I just drink?" he hissed through his own version of the fixed political smile.

"Goat blood," the President and First Lady whispered in chorus.

"We don't use goat blood in our Kwanzaa," Jackman said, still smiling his scarlet-and-ivory smile.

"I improvised," the First Lady said.

And the President clapped his hand on Jackman's back as the flashbulbs popped, stunning their unprotected retinas.

The questions started as the popping subsided.

"Mr. President. How do you feel about celebrating your first Kwanzaa?"

"It's really fun!"

"What is the significance of the red candle?" asked another.

Jackman answered that while the President looked to the First Lady for guidance.

"The red candle stands for the blood of the African people shed by the oppressive white man," he said.

Again the low hissing of the First Lady was mistaken for a leaky radiator valve.

"The green candle stands for our black youth and their future," Jackman continued. "While the middle black candle represents African-Americans as a people."

"I agree with everything Reverend Jackman just said," the President added brightly, happy to be off the hook.

"Mr. President, does it concern you that Kwanzaa has no traditional basis?" a reporter asked.

"What do you mean?"

"It was started in the sixties by a California political-science student who cobbled it together from African harvest feasts he observed during a field trip."

The President looked to the First Lady with an expression that all but said, Is this true?

The First Lady, looking blank despite her pearly, professional politician's smile, passed the ball to the Reverend Jackman.

The good reverend looked as blank as anyone in the room as he stared expectantly at the President, who made one of the few snap decisions of his political career. He simply winged an answer.

"Hell, a lot of things started back then that are cultural icons now. Look at Elvis. And the Beatles. Would you ask me the same question if we were celebrating Beatles Day in the White House?"

Since the media never quoted reporters, only their questions, the President hadn't bothered to answer. Another reporter took up the bouncing ball.

"Mr. President, what can you tell us about the event at the BioBubble?"

"Gosh. You got me there," the President said in his best aw-shucks voice. "Are those folks celebrating Kwanzaa, too?"

"No, Mr. President. The BioBubble ecosystem has been destroyed along with all aboard. It just came over the wire."

The President's normally red face went flat deadfish-belly white. "Oh, my God," he said in a tiny, tight voice.

"Let's get back to Kwanzaa," the Reverend Jackman said quickly, sensing the political spotlight about to shift away from him.

"You do that," the President countered. "I need to look into this."

And he left the First Lady and the Reverend Juniper Jackman to carry the Kwanzaa ball. At the door, he paused to shoot a reassuring wave to the White House press corps-and noticed the First Lady digging two fingernails into Jackman's backside with such pinching force it brought the opportunistic reverend up on his toes in pain. Additional redness came to his welded-on smile-probably from biting his tongue to repress the exquisite agony the First Lady was gleefully inflicting.

All of this was unnoticed by the press.

In the corridor, the President was met by his chief of staff.

"What's this about the BioBubble?" he asked.

"First reports are sketchy," said the chief of staff, following the President into the Oval Office.

"They always are," growled the Chief Executive.

"At an unknown hour this evening, the BioBubble was melted into slag, entombing everyone inside."

"Sabotage?"

"Too early to tell."

"Accident?"

"Think of the BioBubble as a gigantic Habitrail only with people and other animals inside. They don't use gas heat or electricity or anything that isn't natural. Unless the methane inside became combustible, we have to rule an accident out."

"What's NASA saying?"

"Nothing. This isn't their project."

The President looked surprised. "I thought this was a NASA research station."

"A common misconception. The BioBubble is privately funded. They talk up the experimental-Martian-colony angle for the publicity value. So far, NASA has shown no serious interest. Especially with all the gaffes and screwups surrounding the project."

A full-dress Marine guard opened the door to the Oval Office, and the President strode in, his face concerned.

"I gotta call around."

THE DIRECTOR OF THE FBI was at first very helpful. "What can I do for you, Mr. President?"

"The BioBubble just went bust. I want you people to look into it."

"Do you have intelligence pointing to a militia group or interstate or foreign conspiracy?"

"No, I don't," the President admitted.

"Then this is out of our jurisdiction."

"I'm asking you to look into this," the President pressed.

The FBI director's voice became very hushed and anxious. "Mr. President. Sir. Think just a moment. It's a troubled project with communelike factors. It's very controversial. It's in a western state known as an antigovernment hotbed. And something burned it flat. Do you really want federal agents in blue FBI windbreakers traipsing about the smoldering ruins for national media consumption?"

"I take your point," the President said unhappily.

"I knew you would," responded the FBI director, who was polite enough to let the President say goodbye before hanging up in his slack-muscled face.

Next the Chief Executive called the director of the Central Intelligence Agency.

"I have a preliminary report on my desk, Mr. President," the CIA director said crisply.

"That was damn fast. What does it say?"

"BioBubble burned to a crisp. Further details to follow."

"That's no different than what I have!"

"Then we're on the same page, as it were," the director said proudly.

"What's your assessment?"

"I have calls out. We're in touch with our assets in this area."

"What area is that?"

"I like to call it the cosmic area."

"The CIA has a cosmic department?"

"Yes, sir. We do. And as soon as we have something concrete to share, we'll get back to you."

The President allowed his gratitude to shine through his worry. "Let me know soonest."

Hanging up, he turned to his chief of staff. "At least somebody out there is on the ball."

The chief of staff made a face. "I wouldn't believe that bullcrap about a cosmic department. They're so eager over at CIA to justify their post-Cold War existence they'll tell you they have a Kwanzaa department if you wanted it investigated."

"Was that stuff about Kwanzaa being a sixties thing true?"