Christopher Buckley - Boomsday

Four years later, after a rocky start or two, Randolph K. Jepperson had been elected to a seat in Congress. Some might say he had bought himself a seat. The sniggers of his colleagues soon began, and he found himself saddled with a new nickname: Randolph “He’s No Jefferson” Jepperson IV. But he was determined that they would not be laughing for long.

Corporal Cohane stood at semiattention as the Air Force C-21A taxied to a stop. She’d done some more reading up on Rep. R. K. Jepperson. The Almanac of American Politics noted his distinguished DNA, his focus on foreign policy-domestic policy being pretty dull stuff. He’d used his connections to finagle a seat on the House Armed Forces Overseas Projection Oversight Committee, dubbed the “Committee on Imperial Overstretch.” This would be the reason for his visit to the Beautiful Balkans.

She doubted he’d come for the PX goodies on the return flight. According to Forbes, he was one of the richest men in Congress, with a personal fortune “in excess of $100 million.” (Addie had relented in the matter of the allowance after what the family called Randy’s “Great Awakening.”) This and his striking good looks made him the most eligible bachelor in Washington. More than one glossy magazine had run a profile of him with the title “The Next JFK?” He had a huge house in Georgetown and, indeed, as Captain Drimpilski had noted, “dated movie stars.” He’d had a two-year-long “thing” with the Tegucigalpa Tamale. His mother was quoted in Vanity Fair calling her a “Honduran tramp.” That must have made for a lively Thanksgiving dinner, Cass thought.

She studied the photos of him. He looked like the sort of person whose great-great-whatever had signed the Declaration of Independence. He was six feet two, trim, broad in the shoulders, a bit storklike, which gave him a needed touch of vulnerability, as if he might blow over in a strong wind. He had pale blue eyes, a nose that had been handed down since the Mayflower, and creased cheeks. He looked like a flesh-and-blood bust done by a distinguished sculptor. It could have a cruel face, but the eyes twinkled and suggested self-awareness and bemusement at his abundant good fortune. And now here he was, approaching her. She had to shout above the high-pitched whine of the jet turbines even as they spiraled slowly to a stop.

“Congressman Jepperson? Corporal Cohane, sir. Army Public Affairs. Welcome to-”

“Well named, isn’t it?”

“Sir?”

“Turd-je!”

“Yes, sir. If you’ll follow me…our vehicle is this way.”

Cass climbed into the driver’s seat of the Humvee, the congressman the passenger seat. His elegant frame and aristocratic bearing seemed somewhat out of context in such a spare, utilitarian space.

He smiled and took her in.

“Cohane, is it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Lovely name. Irish? Surely.”

“So I’m told, sir.”

“Do you know, I have one of these at home in Washington,” he said. “Civilian version, of course. Hummer. Sounds almost indecent, doesn’t it? Hummer. I’ll pick you up in my… Hummer .” He chuckled to himself.

Strange duck , Cass thought. This information that he drove a car that got about fifty yards to the gallon hardly squared with the Almanac ’s description of him as a “staunch environmentalist.”

As if reading Cass’s mind, he added, “I don’t drive it. Just keep it at home. You know. In the event.”

“Event, sir?”

“I’m sorry. What’s your first name?”

“Cassandra?”

He smiled. “You don’t sound very sure. Do you have your baptismal certificate on you? We could check.”

“Cass. Sir.” She smiled back.

“Tell you what, Cass, sir…if you’ll stop calling me ‘sir,’ which makes me feel a hundred years old, I’ll start calling you Cass. Deal?”

“Okay.”

“Pleased to meet you, Cass.” He looked out the window. “I’d forgotten how dreary it is here.”

Cass said, “I’m sorry it’s just me, but the VIPVIS-the Pentagon-indicated that you didn’t want a large escort. The captain would gladly have-”

“No, no, no, this is fine. Hate entourages.” He pronounced it in a French way, en-tour-ahhh-ges . “It’s gotten so out of hand. My God, did you see about the president’s motorcade in Beijing last week? Fifty-four cars long? Imperial overstretch limousine, I call that. I mean, please . What is it coming to?”

He looked over, saw Cass’s uncertain expression, and said, “I’m sorry, Cass. I really wasn’t trying to trick you into criticizing the commander in chief. There’s often no filter between what passes from my brain to my mouth. I suppose it’s not his fault. Security being what it is and all. Still, what kind of message does it send to the world when the American president goes about that way? Couldn’t they make do with- fifty cars? Jimmy Carter overdid it-he was president before you were born-but I must say I like the idea of an American president carrying his own garment bag. Humility! Quite my favorite virtue. Not that I possess it in overabundance. No one in Washington seems to, these days. Dear, dear. Harry Truman used to take walks, practically by himself. Those were the days. Can you imagine an American president popping out for a stroll in the park? O щ sont les neiges d’antan? ”

“Villon?”

“Very good, Corporal.” He said it without condescension. “I’ll have to stop quoting French, you know, if I run for president. In America these days, a knowledge of the most beautiful, civilized language on earth is considered a disqualification for high office. Much better to say, Ў Buenos d н as! and be photographed biting into some revolting burrito. Well, Corporal Cass, shall we commence fact-finding?”

“Where would the congressman like to fact-find?”

“I thought we might just poke about. I hate the planned itineraries. Oh, gosh, Congressman, we had no idea you were coming . Then you step into the tent and there’s a banner saying WELCOME, CONGRESSMAN JEPPERSON, and you practically gag on the smell of boot and brass polish. The poor people have been up since dawn getting ready for you. It’s tough enough out here without a bunch of Washington assholes sticking their faces in. There’s a Special Forces camp near here, isn’t there? Camp December…”

“November.”

“The very one. Let’s see what’s cooking in Camp November. I like the special ops people. They give it to you with the bark off.”

Cass drove. The congressman observed the landscape in silence. After a while he said, “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“Preventing World War One from breaking out again.”

“Good answer.”

“Not original. I heard a colonel say it.”

“Well, we don’t have quite as much to worry about this time from Austro-Hungary. But Russia ’s always a question mark. You know, I got drunk with Boris Yeltsin once. Remember him? God, that man could put it away. We sang ‘Home on the Range’ in the Kremlin. Took me a week to recover. Can’t stand even the smell of vodka now. And vodka doesn’t even smell.”

Cass kept her eyes on the muddy road, feeling his eyes on her, not in a lecherous way.

“So?” he said.

“So?” she said.

“What are you doing here? Aside from keeping World War One from breaking out again.”

“Boring story.” Cass smiled.

“You’ve got me trapped inside a Humvee in Bosnia,” Randy said. “Go on. Bore me to death. Give it your best shot.”

She boiled it down, nervous to find herself confiding a family saga to a United States congressman. She left out her mother’s sarcastic comments at the dinner table about the Cessna but included the detail that her father had secretly taken out a second mortgage on their home to finance his start-up, which continued to founder. After that, her mother took the kids and walked out. That part Cass had learned in a letter received halfway through basic training.