That left Ridley, the Director of the Office of Special Projects (OSP), and Walker himself to man opposite ends of the table, where their flanks were open to attack. Or that was the way Walker thought about it as he took his seat.
As was his habit, Grace said a prayer once everyone was seated. But if God had been listening during the last eight-plus years, there weren’t any signs of it.
Secretary of the Interior Farnsworth was the first to give a report. Walker had a hard time taking him seriously, since he wore carefully brushed shoulder-length hair at a time when most men cut theirs short. His prow-shaped nose extended out over a handlebar mustache so prominent it was impossible to see his lips. His department was responsible for the Protection Camps that thousands of displaced Americans had been forced to enter after being driven from their homes by Chimeran forces.
Yet despite the relative safety of the camps, many people who entered them rebelled against the highly regimented lives they were forced to live within the fenced enclaves. In fact many were leaving to take up residence in the sprawling shacklands that were growing up around the larger cities. Slums really, which Farnsworth described as “breeding grounds for crime and disease.”
“So,” Grace responded once the report was complete, “what would you suggest?”
“We need armed security guards, Mr. President,” Farnsworth said. “And we need to require all displaced persons to demonstrate a verifiable need before they can leave the camps. For God’s sake, the United States is under attack! We can’t have people running around like lunatics.”
Grace nodded thoughtfully.
“What you say makes sense. Homer, do you see any problem with Larry’s suggestion?”
The Attorney General’s head was covered by an explosion of frizzy white hair and he had eyebrows to match. His mustache was unexpectedly dark, however, and it bobbed up and down as he spoke.
“You have the necessary authority, Mr. President. It’s implicit in the Executive Protection Act of 1950. Should you wish to create the sort of security force that Larry mentioned, you could tuck the new organization in under the Domestic Security Agency. That would lay the groundwork to use the Protection Camps as a place to house agitators, dissidents, and anarchists until the cessation of hostilities.”
“Which is just a fancy way of saying that people who attempt to exercise their civil liberties—including the right of free speech—will be imprisoned,” Walker put in cynically. Walker had a countenance that one wag had likened to Mr. Potato Head, which was a reference to the toy that enabled children to create funny faces by attaching plastic ears, noses, and lips to an Idaho spud. Now, as blood suffused his already homely features, he became even less attractive. “Or, put another way,” the Secretary of War growled, “I think Larry’s full of shit.”
A pained expression appeared on Grace’s face, and he sighed audibly.
“I know the Secretary is accustomed to rough language—but I would appreciate a semblance of civility here in the White House. And, while I applaud the Secretary’s love of liberty, I feel it necessary to remind him that our freedoms extend from the rule of law. Not protest, not chaos, but law. We will have order in this country—or we will have nothing at all.
“So,” Grace continued as his eyes shifted to the Attorney General, “Larry’s proposal is approved. Homer… please prepare the necessary paperwork for my signature.” Then, having turned his attention to Seymore, Grace spoke again.
“George?” Grace inquired. “How’s the Department of Agriculture doing?”
Seymore was a long-faced man with a receding hairline and the demeanor of an undertaker. And for good reason. Crops had begun to fail due to changes in the weather, food shortages were becoming alarmingly common, and the price of even the most basic foodstuffs was spiking. Seymore noted that while the Victory Garden program had met with some success, it wasn’t going to be enough.
For the moment, however, there was one glimmer of hope. The administration’s decision to stop shipping food abroad was helping to ameliorate the shortfall.
And so it went as the Secretaries of Commerce, Transportation, and State all weighed in with reports that were unrelentingly grim. Ironically, the only person with anything even remotely positive to say was Walker, who gave a report regarding a successful commando raid into Chimera-occupied Britain, and a high-altitude fly-over of enemy headquarters in Iceland. Where, based on aerial photography, it was clear that some sort of construction program was underway. But, in spite of a few isolated victories, Walker had to admit that the future looked bleak.
Grace nodded somberly. “That brings us to the last item on today’s agenda,” he said. “A contingency plan I don’t believe we’ll have reason to use—but which I feel obligated to put in place. I call it Project Omega. Simply put, it would be a process by which to conduct negotiations with the Chimera.”
After a moment of stunned silence, Walker opened his mouth to object, but Vice President McCullen beat him to it.
“Surely you can’t be serious, Mr. President… Why, just last month you gave a speech in which you swore that the United States would fight to the last man, woman, and child! Were the news of such a plan to get out, there would be political hell to pay.”
Thanks to the efforts of SRPA, knowledge gleaned from the Chimera had been applied to all sorts of things over the last few years, including audio technology. And as Secretary of War, Walker had access to all the latest products, including the pocket-sized wire recorder he used for taking notes. Walker reached into a pocket to turn the device on as Grace formed a steeple with his fingertips. The recorder made a soft whirring noise, but thanks to Walker’s position at the end of the table, no one else could hear it.
“I hear you, Harvey,” Grace said tolerantly. “And, as I said before, I continue to believe that we will win a military victory. But I think you’ll agree that the government has a responsibility to examine every alternative, no matter how unpleasant.
“Furthermore,” Grace added, as his eyes swept those around him, “if there is to be any chance of a successful negotiation with the Chimera, it would have to take place while the country is in a position of strength, or the enemy won’t have a reason to enter into talks with us.”
Another long moment of silence followed the last statement.
Walker was tempted to speak but wanted to get all of the traitors on the record before he told them what assholes they were.
The Director of the OSP spoke. Because Ridley’s famously large head sat atop a relatively small body, his detractors sometimes referred to him as “the troll.” He was also known for the colorful bow ties he wore, a surprisingly beautiful wife, and his ability to play pool. His voice was smooth and cultured.
“I agree with the notion that all of the possible alternatives should be explored… But I would like to share some observations about the Chimera.”
He was famous for his mini-lectures, and Farnsworth rolled his eyes. Ridley continued, undeterred.
“As all of you know, the Chimeran forms have one thing in common,” he said. “They are constructs—tools, if you will, created by an alien virus that arrived on our planet in June of 1908. As such, the Chimera don’t have a government, military, or culture as we think of such things. In fact, as far as our experts can tell, they have no formal hierarchy whatsoever. Everything they do flows from common instincts, shared desires, and biological imperatives.
“So,” Ridley continued carefully, “taking those realities into account, it’s difficult to know who we would talk to… And more importantly, to what end? It would be like trying to negotiate hurricane season with the wind. Besides they already have most of Europe and Asia. There isn’t much incentive for them to negotiate at all.”