The Guardsmen were restless. They wouldn’t like his sermon either. One Chicano local was arguing with the Philly veterans. He shoved away a restraining arm, twisted, pushed to his feet. That bulge at his shoulder, glimpse of dark leather—Damn! Why the hell was he armed?
Siemens felt his blood surge. He slid forward on the seat, weight on the balls of his feet, ready to jump. Caesars, kings—how many leaders had bo,en killed by their own guards?
He caught the eye of a sergeant from Philadelphia, and nodded for him to follow the kid. Gesture with the palm of the hand: slow and easy, don’t rush the boy.
Siemens braced to dive for the floor. Undignified, but it would save his life. The kid wouldn’t have a clear shot, and the sergeant wouldn’t give time for more than one.
There! The Chicano was turning, reaching for his holster.
Half out of the chair, his legs tensed to jump, Siemens realized his mistake.
The kid was looking the wrong way. He wasn’t aiming at Siemens, but at Davis.
Siemens lurched, jumped forward instead of down. He hit Davis like a linebacker blindsiding a quarterback. A sharp crack: the report of a gun. Siemens twisted as he carried Davis to the floor; didn’t want to break Davis’s neck.
A searing agony pierced his shoulder. Damn, had he hit the floor that hard? Only when he saw the hole in his jacket, and the spreading stain, did he realize he’d been hit.
Davis shook free, rolled over and looked up. “What in Heaven’s name…?” He stopped, squinted at Siemens’s shoulder. “You’re hurt! What happened?”
A Guardsman pushed through the crowd around them. “Sergeant Novae got him, sir.” He stopped, shocked. “You’re hit!”
“Oh, hell, it’s nothing,” said Siemens. “Through the muscle, maybe creased a rib—it’s hardly bleeding. What possessed that bastard?”
“He was snarling about the, uh, blacks tearing down the Guard. He was hot as a griddle after you talked, and then when the Reverend spoke about forgiveness and tolerance he snapped, said the blacks had no place talking forgiveness when it was their fault.”
Siemens nodded. “Reverend, this was a crime, not a Guard matter and not politics. I want to go on as if this hadn’t happened.”
“Hardly, General,” said Davis. “You took a bullet meant for me. We can’t forget that.”
Johnson insisted that Siemens stay in the hospital for a week, until the day after the primary. She said the photos of Rev. Davis next to his hospital bed were worth a hundred thousand votes. The victory margin was a lot more than that, but they’d need all the momentum they could get for the general election.
Siemens didn’t have any trouble reading her expression, now. He’d seen it often enough before, on the faces of soldiers who’d given their heart and soul to a Cause. Lee to the rear, Pickett’s men had shouted, more afraid for their leader than themselves; General Lee to the rear.
“The incumbent sneers at our proposals, and says you can’t solve problems by throwing money at them.” Siemens grinned at the crowd—they were hanging on his words. “You know, he’s right. These crises require new ideas, hard work, and strong leadership. But it will take a little money along the way. And let me tell you something. Senator Pryor—you sure as hell can’t solve problems by throwing empty words at them, and that’s all you’ve ever done.”
“General, any comment on the annexation of Saudi Arabia?”
“Not that’s printable.” Siemens scowled. Ann and Martell were always badgering him about sticking to the script, but there were limits. “Screw that; put this as deep background, so deep it chaps my hemorrhoids. I didn’t cry when Saigon fell, I’d wept long before for all the young men and women chewed up by that fiasco. I cried tears of rage at the news this morning.
“I know, the Islamic Federation is more than Iraq, and the Caliph isn’t Saddam Hussein, but we won that war, and then we gave it away. If we’d finished him off, not left so much hardware for the Caliph to inherit—hell, if we’d kept any presence in the area, this wouldn’t have happened…”
“Jesus, Stan, are your folks running polls all the time?”
“That’s voter ID.” Martell looked past Siemens’s shoulder, down into the Ops Room, then turned to sit at the conference table. “We want the name of every voter in the state who’s for you so our E-day crew can make sure the bastards vote. For the undecided, they try to get enough info to pick a version of the roll-your-own TV ad.” Krishna knows, we need every edge.
“You do have a new poll, don’t you?” asked Ann Johnson.
“It’s looking damn close.” Martell handed an ash tray to Johnson; she didn’t seem too concerned about her cigar. “We’re swinging the undecided, but not making much dent in Pryor’s support. The Monday night ad and the E-day drill should add a few points, but it may not be enough. Pryor can count on a big graveyard vote from East Texas.”
“So what do we do?” asked Siemens.
“We do the best we can.” Martell shrugged, and a sharp pain pierced his stomach. Ulcers? “We’ve got friends in South Texas who’ll play the same game.”
“What about intelligence?”
“Our polls, and Medea’s analysis, are the best there are.”
“Hell, Stan, I’m not talking about that. Have you got anyone in their camp? Phone taps, that sort of thing?”
Martell scowled. “That went out with Watergate.”
“We’re playing this for keeps,” Siemens said. Ann Johnson looked like she wanted to spit, but she kept quiet. “If the other side is playing dirty, we better keep on top of what’s happening. I’ve got friends in the business, you two won’t have to be involved…”
Siemens hesitated in the door of the Dog & Duck, annoyed to find several reporters there. He’d hoped they would have stuck to the hotel, or at least stayed around Sixth Street. He was in dire need of a drink after the latest grim briefing from Johnson. The D & D had a fine selection of single malt whiskey, as well as the best lineup of British ales and stouts in Austin.
The ABC reporter walked up as he ordered a Laguvalin. “I hear you’ve picked your staff advisors, Generaclass="underline" Goebbels and Goering.”
Siemens grimaced wearily. “That’s not very funny, Carlson. Not original, either. It’s a rip-off of the old line about Governor Moonbeam picking Jean Dixon and the Amazing Kreskin for his White House advisors.”
“Touchy, aren’t we?” Carlson smirked. “You don’t have any sense of humor about yourself.”
“Maybe I’ve just got higher standards than that.” One slip, one unguarded comment, and look what it got you. Hell, the whole bar was listening. “The problem is that Nazis aren’t funny. It works as an insult, but not as a joke.”
“Oh, and I’m sure you could do much better.”
“Probably.” Can’t back off now, have to ram it down his throat. Siemens swirled the dark whiskey in his glass, savored the sharp smell against the background of pipe smoke. “OK, Richard Siemens has picked his staff advisors: Mussolini and Lyndon LaRouche.” That brought a chuckle from the listeners.
Carlson shook his head. “That’s the same joke.”
“They let you cover the news?” No point in politeness now. If Siemens won this duel, the other jackals of the press would love him, no matter how much blood spattered the elegant paneled walls. “The difference is, my version’s funny. Mussolini couldn’t beat Ethiopia, and nobody takes LaRouche seriously.”