“He’s Jewish, for God’s—”
“Exactly. And he has an outspoken atheist in his cabinet. And General McIntyre.”
“Norman McIntyre is the highest-ranking surviving American officer and a decorated combat vet, and—”
“And he should never have been allowed to be either. The only reason he was allowed to defile an American uniform is that Obama allowed perverts—”
“Defile? So now the uniform is like the cross or the flag?” Cam’s tone apparently froze Whilmire. “This doesn’t sound conciliatory; it’s more like your manifesto before another armed uprising.”
“Armed uprising? Those were merely vigorous demonstrations. When there’s an armed uprising, you’ll know the difference.” Whilmire let that hang in the air before ostentatiously switching to a smooth, flattering tone. “You know why you can never be a real ally to us. But it doesn’t matter what you call the people’s protests, really it doesn’t, because Reverend Peet prayed on it, and we’re committed to a peaceful election—which we will win, no matter what it takes. Reverend Peet believes a peaceful, uncorrupt, trouble-free election is the only way to guarantee the special position for the Post Raptural Church. We have to have a legitimate Constitutional government in place to amend the Constitution.”
“So, you’ll back Grayson because you think he’ll play ball with you,” Cameron said. “I’ll back him because he’s conservative and after working with him I know he’ll do a decent job, maybe out of pure ambition, but he won’t let himself be a bad president. But what really matters is what the people think, and to give them their chance to think, and make this a real election with real debate, next week I’m going to void all orders against blasphemy, obscenity, sedition, and disrespect for the armed forces and the flag.”
“We want you to go ahead with that.” Whilmire leaned forward, his red scalp showing through his iron-gray curly hair. His finger stabbed at Cam like a feinting copperhead. “Of course we’ll protest, we can’t be seen endorsing it, but it’s what we want. Let Weisbrod run against God, and the flag, and the Bible, and the Army—and remind people about how things were before Daybreak and the Rapture. It will pull them together for the Tribulation, and clobber Weisbrod at the polls.” He grinned at Cam’s discomfiture. “Besides, Weisbrod has already given us the presidency, and you’ve ratified it. Before Daybreak, the United States had about twenty-five conservative states, about fifteen liberal states, and about ten toss-ups. Now out of thirty-two states that are still calling in, twenty-three are conservative. And Graham Weisbrod has combined three liberal states into the New State of Superior, and three toss-up states into the New State of Wabash.” He leaned forward, his face almost in Cam’s, relishing the moment. “So here’s the précis: You, out. Grayson, in. Reunification, on. New States, definitely. Your opinions, irrelevant.”
After the door closed behind Whilmire, Cam reached into his bag and dug out the paperback Thucydides that he’d started reading at Lyndon Phat’s suggestion, but he found he had no better ideas than Pericles had. After a while a soldier came in to tell him that they had received a report of tribal activity in the area, so they were shuttering the windows and manning the turrets.
3 DAYS LATER. ATHENS, TNG DISTRICT. 2 PM EST. FRIDAY, OCTOBER 24, 2025.
Lyndon Phat’s face was bent down into the chessboard to make it hard to read his lips, and he barely murmured, “So no more than a month at most. I’ll miss these chess games.”
“I’m hoping to come with you.”
“If we both make it out, we’ll both be busy. Neither history nor Heather will let us sit on the sidelines.” Phat sighed. “Yes, the answer to your question is yes. Find a way, and I’ll go along, and I’ll run for the office. I don’t see how I can possibly be the popular guy that you say I am, out there. Not considering how I screwed the pooch when I had the chance. But if I am, I’ll run, and if I win, I’ll do my damnedest.” He finally moved his rook, still staring down at the board. “The minute you said Graham wasn’t fit to be president because he didn’t agree with us, I should have stuck to my oath like glue and said, like hell, he’s the only lawful successor.”
“That was my mistake. You just went along with it.”
“And Norm’s mistake too—he should’ve kept his job and made you do the right thing, not gone off to jail with Weisbrod. The only person whose mistake it wasn’t was Grayson. He doesn’t have either the brains or the balls to make a real mistake.”
“He did all right up in the Yough.”
“Grayson’ll do all right most of the time. Hell, nearly every time, he’ll do fine. He’s got talent, charisma, energy, and medium-good humility about his own limitations. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, he’ll do a good-to-exceptional job. He knows that the best way to succeed is to help others succeed and he has the smarts to see how to help them. Many people who have served with him adore the man.”
“I hear a big hanging but waiting to crash down.”
Phat shrugged. “It’s the thing that there’s bad blood about, between us. It was a long time ago. I found out, back when we were both absolute nobodies, that Grayson’s only got two problems. One, his definition of ‘success’ is much too close to his definition of ‘what Grayson wants,’ regardless of whether it’s what it would be good for him to have. Two, although he knows what the best way to succeed is, and usually does it that way—which is why there are so many people who’ve had a good experience with him—well, he knows what the best way to succeed is, but if he can’t succeed the best way, he’s willing to succeed in ways that are… not the best. Which is why there’s also some human wreckage, here and there, near his trail.”
“You don’t want to tell me what it was, I guess.”
“I promised people I respected that I would not talk about it. I shouldn’t have. But not talking about it got to be a habit. I guess if I start to think he might make it to president, I’ll have to talk about it, because there’s a level where you can’t have a man with a…” His hand waved as if seeking the word in the air in front of his face. “Moral crack? Defect of the soul? Can you call it a character flaw if it only comes out a few times in decades, under the worst kind of pressure?” Giving up on the question, he said, “Well, whatever you call it, an officer shouldn’t have it and a president can’t. There’s a Buddhist proverb I like—or at least the guy I heard it from, when I was little, was Buddhist. ‘If you want something bad for you in the worst way, that’s exactly how you’ll get it.’”
“So… uh, if we’re talking flaws here, why should two guys like us, who already made huge mistakes—”
“A mistake is not what I’m talking about. Mistakes happen to everybody. And there’s no reason it shouldn’t be us; Graham has made about as many mistakes, about as big. The voters can decide which mistakes they like better. But Grayson has a rotten core to him, and the one thing a big job always finds is the core. And what he does when that happens won’t be a mistake; he’ll mean to do it, no matter what it does to everyone else, or even to himself. So here’s to honest blundering.” He raised his wineglass; Cam tapped his against it. “By the way, you’re in check.”
1 HOUR LATER. ATHENS, TNG DISTRICT. 4:30 PM EST. FRIDAY, OCTOBER 24, 2025.
Crossing the lawn to Terrell Hall, Cam saw Billy Ray Salazar, and waved; the colonel waved back and came over, loudly saying, “Sir, just wanted to thank you for the weekend, I think it’s the best thing you’ve reinvented.”