John Barnes - Directive 51

“Mr. President,” Cameron said, quietly, with just enough force to stop Shaunsen. “Radio Blue and Gold is a government outlet, the Advertiser-Gazette is printing every announcement we ask them to even though they don’t have the ad revenue to remotely cover the added printing, and KP-1 runs our announcements constantly. And the First Amendment—”

“Of course we’ll have full First Amendment rights for every licensed media outlet,” Shaunsen said, nodding. “You’re right, that’s very important.”

“What I’m saying, sir, is that Constitutionally—”

“That’s what I have a Solicitor General for. He’s figuring out what I can and can’t do, and if I’ve been breaking the rules, he’ll get back to me in a few weeks. Now, here’s the other big issue I’m worried about. I’m getting concerned about how much power the military is accumulating. Over one of your ham radio links just today, the governor of Alabama, can you imagine that, actually asking for Federal troops to take over Birmingham—”

“Satellite photos show a double row of barricades zigzagging across the city, and bodies lying unburied between them, Mr. President. The governor can’t move the Alabama Guard anywhere even if he could call them out. He was probably just hoping that you could give him some options—”

“Oh, the Pentagon would just love to hear that. They’ve always really wanted to run the country—”

“Nonsense, sir.” Cam, Heather, and everyone else in the room turned to stare at Weisbrod. “DoD like being big. They like expensive toys. They like being busy. They want to feel that they’re the most important thing going. They tend to think everyone and everything else is secondary or unnecessary. But as for running the country, they clearly don’t want the job. In that regard, they’re no different from the Department of Education.”

“Or the Department of the Future?” Shaunsen plainly intended that as a shot.

“Well, except we’ve never been big.”

“But your new buddy here”—Shaunsen pointed at Cameron as if he were a bad dog—“is fixing that, isn’t he?”

Cam said, “Sir, the Department of the Future has been exceptionally helpful and done an exemplary job, so yes, I’ve tended to use them. We’ve got a situation that is way too big, right now. Anyone who can help, helps, and like everybody else, where the armed forces have been able to help, they’ve been great but hopelessly inadequate—just like the post office or anyone else in what’s left of the Federal government.”

“You know,” Shaunsen said, “I had the impression that the job of the NCCC is to hand over the White House to the correct President or Acting President, then get out of the way. That’s what Directive 51 says. And it’s a presidential directive; I don’t need Congress, I can issue a new one any time. I wonder if you haven’t been using a lot of your NCCC powers even though now we have an Acting President.”

Cam stood as stiffly as if he’d been given an electric shock. “I assure you, Mr. President, everything I am doing— everything —is in my role as chief of staff to DHS, and with the full authorization and knowledge of Secretary Ferein.”

“Good. Then let me assure you , I have lawyers, and we’ll make sure it all stays Constitutional.” He looked like he was trying to fix Cameron with a stern, warning glare, but Cameron just stood there, not responding at all, and after a moment it was Shaunsen who turned away. “So Cameron, Graham—and the rest of you—give some serious thought to what the responsibilities for our new Secretary of Information ought to be, and what we need to do to de-involve the military in the post-Daybreak emergency.” He turned to go.

Weisbrod said, “Mr. President, may I ask a major favor? I haven’t been able to look in on Roger Pendano since his illness. If you could give me a lift to the White House, we could talk more about your ideas, and I’d have time to pay my old friend a visit, and still walk back here before dark.”

“Well, I’ve got quite a bit of work to do in the car, of course, but I’ll try to make some time to talk.” Shaunsen went out first, to the rhythmic clapping of the National Unity Guard; Graham followed with the Secret Service and Marines, who closed the door behind the party.

“Has anyone told him he’s the Acting President, not the acting emperor?” Heather asked.

Cam winced. “Don’t make my job harder. You know Weisbrod; what do you suppose your boss was up to?”

“Improvising and seeing if he can improve matters, plus he really is worried sick about Pendano.”

“Well, I wish him luck. When he comes back, if you see him before I do, send him to me; I’d like to hear what’s going on in the White House.” He sighed and looked around the room. “For the record, I am acting as the Chief of Staff for the Department of Homeland Security, and I have not—since Acting President Shaunsen took office—exercised any power as NCCC. If in any of your opinions that isn’t true—either now or in the future—tell me at once. In front of others if you feel it’s necessary, and don’t forget to copy KP-1 and the Advertiser-Gazette on that. We are going to come through this process with our Constitution intact, and so far we have bent it less than Andrew Jackson, Abraham Lincoln, or Franklin Roosevelt did, and I regret even as much as we’ve had to do. The Constitution stands. End of message, reply not expected, that’s all folks.”

Heather thought she’d never seen a harsher message greeted with more smiles. Still, this would probably be a bad time to tell Cam he’d make a good dictator.

The guard at the main gate was nice and polite even before he saw David Carlucci and Family , and Larry Mensche and Family , on the guest list that Bambi had submitted. “You’ll be glad to know,” he said, “that Mr. Bolton’s family joined us earlier, and of course we’re glad to have all of you—let me just get full names and relationships for everyone—”

Carlucci nodded. “David Ignatius and Arlene Mather Carlucci, we’re married, and these are our son Track Palin Carlucci, and daughter Ann Coulter Carlucci.” The two teenagers looked embarrassed; the boy said, “My friends call me Paley,” and the guard added (Paley) after the entry.

“And they call me Acey,” Ann said, “like the initials but A-C-E-Y.”

“They do not, you made that up, you just want them to—”

“Here at Castle Castro, we will call you Acey,” the guard said, firmly, “since you want us to. And Mr. Mensche, is there just you?”

“Lorenzo Isaac Mensche,” Mensche said. “And call me Larry. Just me, my ex is someplace in Nevada and our grown daughter is up in Oregon. And—uh, excuse my asking, but what the hell do you suppose that is?”

The grinding and squealing sounds from the wheelchair itself were only part of the effect; the tires had been replaced with what looked like a wrapping of old socks, and behind it, a bicycle kid-trailer, with more sock-wrapped wheels, held bottles of beer and cans of Spam piled in a jumble on top of a sleeping bag. Both the wheelchair and trailer sported jaunty American flags, and the man in the wheelchair looked about as much as one can look like a biblical patriarch with a samurai sword on his lap and a shotgun hanging from a strap.

“Hi.” His grin was immense. “My name’s Patrick Lamont O’Grainne, and I believe I have a reservation.”

The guard glanced down, and said, “Another Bambi Castro guest. Of course. Even when she was in high school, Ms.Castro always brought in the most interesting people.” He drew his semaphore flags and began sending to the next station up the hill. “We’re very glad to have you all here.”