His mind began to steady a bit. He could feel the tightness in his back and he remembered being shot. Having been shot before, he knew the feeling of a bullet slapping him in the back. He remembered falling into his brother’s arms and how good it felt to be held by him, if only for a moment. He could see in Matt’s face the anguish, the hope, and the love of a brother who had probably not accepted his disappearance. For all he knew, Matt and the rest of his family had considered him dead and would have had a funeral service for him.
Zachary sat up, the drugs wearing off enough that he was able to steady himself. He studied his new environs, trying to make sense of the white walls and bars, like an animal cage. He found himself laughing inside, wondering whether he could possibly be in a zoo, but somehow he knew that was not right. He had so many conflicting thoughts and emotions that he was having a hard time making sense of anything.
He couldn’t hear anyone and saw nothing but a sterile hallway beyond his cell. He continued to feel a bit groggy, lightheaded. He slid onto his knees and slowly crawled over to the edge of the cage. Now he really did feel like an exhibit at the zoo, crawling around, dragging his heavy legs, limping on his left arm as he tried to maneuver himself.
Reaching the edge of the cage, Zachary stuck his face between two bars, pressing against them until he could go no further without getting his head stuck. He shifted his eyes to the right and then the left without noticing anything of significance.
He began to pull back, then wedged his face in again, this time until it hurt. He turned his head just a bit to the right to try to understand what he thought he had seen.
A fire hose and axe were encased in glass on the opposite wall about twenty feet away. While that was unusual, the most interesting part of his discovery was that Chinese or Japanese characters were inscribed beneath the casing.
Zachary pulled his head from between the bars and slid back to the far wall. He looked around again. There was nothing.
A cage. A fire hose and axe. Chinese writing. Where the hell am I?
CHAPTER 46
Vice President Hellerman paced the grand living room of his estate, the plush carpet sinking beneath his feet with every step. It was Tuesday afternoon. He had taken a break from the alternate command post across the lawn, the incessant activity of attacks, reports, analysis, and meetings all proving to be a stimulant. He needed to step away from the operations center before he became too excited.
As he stood in his living room, he could feel the eyes of James Madison and Thomas Jefferson upon him as they peered down from their portraits. He thought about the paintings that hung in his official mansion in the Naval Observatory in Bethesda. So many vice presidents, forgotten men who did so little. He could hardly name five of them, and he was a history buff. The thought put a fine accent on the moment, this moment in time.
Yes, the people would remember him as the one who had reunited the country for generations to come. But, frankly, it was not so much the recognition that would rightfully fall his way, but the resurgence of an ideal borne out of repression and tyranny over 230 years ago. They would begin to mix his name with the likes of Revere, Madison, Monroe, Jefferson, and Hamilton — all great statesmen willing to risk everything for a greater good.
Who could argue with the need? The country was polarized, he mused as he stared at a fifteenth-century Chinese Ming vase. He didn’t think it was anything special, nothing a third-year art student couldn’t do with some practice.
He stared at James Madison’s portrait. Looking like so many of the others from that era, he had the white wig and the pale, angular face that the artist touched with a hue of pink. A white ruffled shirt protruded from beneath his top coat. Madison had a hand placed lightly on a chair.
“Mr. Madison,” Hellerman said, smiling as he spoke to the portrait, “the violence of factions, as you accurately predicted, have begun to undo us. You founded our government very wisely upon the very principle that factions at both ends of the spectrum would undermine the majority mainstream. These factions, you predicted, would try to morph the government into something that best looked after their respective interests.”
He stepped away to take the picture in, almost waiting for Madison to nod, as if to say, Go on.
Hellerman continued. “As you so eloquently commented, it was the creation of government institutions that provided for the channeling of the very violence that those factions propagated. That’s what made the American form of government work, the diffusing of anger, the outrage, and discontent through representatives at the local, state, and federal level. Any American has multiple people with whom he can express his disgust on any given topic.”
He was enjoying himself now. He visualized Madison there, taking him in, pondering his genius and his ability to connect it all.
“But all of that was predicated on a firm center. That firm center, in my view, has eroded and given way to a polarized nation, like the heavy weights at either end of a barbell. And what has done that, Mr. Madison, is the media. In your time, it would take days for the word to get around. Legends were built upon myths that, as they circulated, became even more adrift from reality. Today, the television is reporting news as it happens and manipulates the public opinion instantly. People are bombarded with spinners that constantly lie in order to push across their agendas. They are the very factions you envisioned. It is a tangent that wants to become the primary.”
He swirled his drink in his hand, then placed it atop a felt coaster on the antique sofa table that ran behind the leather davenport. Maker’s Mark bourbon and Coke. He’d been drinking it since he had sneaked flasks into college football games to watch his jock buddies play.
“Your institutions have done their job well. This is the greatest nation on earth. We are the beacon of democracy and hope for so many, yet few understand our genius. Your genius, my genius. They don’t understand the essence of what makes this country great, and now we are under assault by a decaying moral spirit. We are retreating from our foundation. And what is filling the void in the wake of our retreat is cynicism and opportunism.”
He shook his fist at the portrait, his emotions overtaking him.
“What is it that we must do as a nation to return to our foundation?” Hellerman asked Madison, his voice filled with rage. “What is it that people cannot see? There is no shared sacrifice! There is no attachment to the idea of democracy, only an assault on its principles in its own name! There are those in this country who have put under siege the very courts that you, sir, created. They are using those courts to manipulate and pervert the very Constitution that you framed. All in the name of contemporary expediency!”
His arms were outstretched, fingers spread in tense anger.
“How do we reunite the country and create that common center? What would you do?”
And he knew precisely what Madison and the others had done. They had revolted and, in the process, changed the world. They had seen the wrong, and they righted it. He was doing nothing less.
Hellerman heard a noise behind him, snapping him from his soliloquy.
He saw her standing in the foyer, and it was clear she had been there for some time. Something seemed odd about her appearance. It was spring time and not overly cool, yet she was wearing a long, black overcoat that hung just above her bare ankles. Studying her, he saw she had on black heels, two inches high. Her hair was combed back and out, framing her face the way a cobra’s neck flares when it is ready to strike. In one hand, she was holding a bottle of Dom Perignon. In the other she was holding a small bag.