“He’s agreed to let SUBFOR and SUBRON Twelve handle the search, at least for now.” Commander Russ Chatham was on the CNO’s intelligence staff. He leaned back in his chair, visibly relieved.
Rear Admiral Mike Sanders, Chatham’s boss, smiled. “How was your first time briefing the president?”
Chatham just shook his head. “A typical nuke. He wanted to know everything. Thanks for warning me.”
Sanders’s smile widened. “Bitter experience, Rusty. You don’t get a pass from Hardy because you’re an aviator.”
“He knows as much about Toledo’s status, and Tensor, as anyone in the Navy right now. I could tell he wanted to ask more questions, or tell us to do something else, but he knew there was nothing else to learn, and we were already doing everything we could.”
“With any other politician, you would have lost an hour explaining why adding more searchers wouldn’t help, or why we haven’t already announced her as overdue.”
Rusty countered, “But he still wants updates twice a day, and immediate word if something new pops up.”
Admiral Sanders replied, “And hopefully it’ll be good news. In which case this just becomes part of Toledo’s patrol report, and no fuss. If we do declare her overdue, with the search area right next to Russian waters, too many questions will be asked about why we were there. It’s not a normal patrol zone. The last thing we want to do is draw anyone’s attention to Tensor.” Even in a very secure space, Sanders used the code word for the intelligence target, rather than its name.
“Since the location of our patrol zones are classified, we could just say it was a routine patrol zone, and only the Navy’s head shed would know we were lying.”
“The Russians have at least a general idea of where we normally operate. They would know,” Sanders argued. “And nothing we say will prevent them from raising a very public fuss about operating so close to their waters.”
“A lot of good it will do them.” Rusty grinned. “Hardy doesn’t put up with that crap.”
Sanders nodded and returned the grin. “I voted for him, too.”
“Let it go, dear.”
Senator Lowell Hardy (D-CT) looked up from his newspaper. His wife, Joanna, lay next to him. They made a habit of reading together each night before they slept. For both of them, spending quiet time next to the most important person in their life was more than beneficial.
“I could hear your teeth grinding,” she explained. “It’s not worth the aggravation.”
“I do not grind my teeth,” Hardy protested firmly.
“No you don’t. Well, at least not physically anyway,” she said, smiling, “but you mutter and grumble any time you’re reading something that upsets you, and we’re supposed to be unwinding.” She leaned over to look at the page. “I knew it! Another article on the primaries.”
Hardy held the paper up in one hand, as if displaying evidence. “Walters is a moron. I learned more about economics at the academy than he did heading that committee. And that ‘White Paper’ on the military he’s released is a piece of bovine excrement!”
“He’s got to get his name out there, after all, dear. It’s how the system works.”
“Is this really the best the Democratic Party can do? And Walters is the favorite! The others are even worse! Would you divorce me if I voted Republican this time around?”
She shook head but smiled. “No, but you might want to buy a comfortable couch.”
“I hear what passes for thoughtful policy in this town and I’m appalled. Reality doesn’t stand a chance against ideology and political convenience. If I thought I had an ice cube’s chance in a blast furnace…”
“… I’d run myself,” she completed. She leaned over and kissed him. “You’ve been saying that a lot lately. Be careful what you wish for.” Turning around, she leaned over and opened the drawer on the nightstand by the bed. After some rustling, she pulled out a manila folder. “I’ve done a little research, and called a few friends.” She opened the folder and withdrew a handwritten note. “Here, read this.”
Hardy put the newspaper aside and fiddled with the reading light before focusing on the single half-sized sheet of paper. The letterhead leapt off the page. It read simply, “The White House,” with the presidential seal embossed in gold over the letters.
Joanna,
I think your idea is an excellent one, and if Lowell ever decides to run, tell him he will have my full support. Better yet, see if you can bring him around to that idea. I know he will do a great job sitting in my chair.
It didn’t take long to read, and Hardy read it at least twice more before noting the date. “This is over a year ago!” he exclaimed.
“Here’s another one, it’s a little more recent,” she said smoothly, “from President Huber.”
He started to speak, but she cut him off. “I waited until you’d made your feelings clear. I feel the same way — in fact, I think you’d make a great president, and I’ve thought so for some time.”
“But these notes…” he protested.
“Only three people know about each of these notes, and two of them are in this room. I’ve also sounded out other friends in the party and outside, always privately: ‘What if?’ Their universal reaction was ‘Yes!’ and ‘What’s holding him back?’”
She pointed to the folder. “I’ve sketched out a rough campaign organization.” Then grabbing his hand firmly said, “Lowell, you have more than just a chance. You could win. Seriously.”
“I feel a little like I’m being railroaded,” he mused.
She made a dismissive gesture. “You’re too damn sensible, too practical to ever say, ‘I want to be president.’ It’s my job as the objective observer in this household to point out the opportunity.”
Hardy laughed. “You’re not very objective, or unbiased in this case, my love.”
“No, I’m not,” she acknowledged, smiling, “but I’ve got thirty-plus years experience in this town, and I’ve worked directly for two presidents. You’ve made a lot of friends here, and more importantly, you’re highly respected — even by those who disagree with you. And you’re right. Walters is too focused on jobs, Mendoza’s too inexperienced, and nobody can figure out why Pickering is running.”
She laid a hand on his arm, reassuring him. “You can stop the train and get off any time you like. I can put this folder back in the drawer. It will still be good four or eight years from now, but you can run — and win—right now.”
She watched his expression, or rather expressions, as he considered what might be the most important decision of his life. She knew what he would do, though. Lowell had never turned away from a job that needed to be done, regardless of how long it took or tough it might be.
He held out his hand. “Let me see what you’ve got in there.”
“And that was really the last challenge to Senator Hardy’s chances of winning the nomination. Waiting until this late date to choose a running mate was risky, but my sources tell me that the deal that allowed Mendoza to accept the VP slot was not finalized until very late last night.”