Secretary of Defense Goff shook his head, not knowing exactly how to respond to his friend. He was either a true visionary, he thought, or he was going insane. “So you’re going to let Russia and Germany march into the Balkans unopposed,” he said after a long, frustrating pause. “You’re going to let them carve up the Balkans, followed shortly by Eastern Europe, then perhaps by Western Europe. We lose all our trading partners and allies in Europe. Then a spark ignites a third world war, and we either sit on the sidelines and watch Europe go up in flames, or we have to send another thirty-five million men and women into combat to restore the peace, like we did in World War Two.”
“When the combined Russian and German tanks roll through Buckingham Palace, Robert, you can tell me you told me so,” the President said. “I don’t think it’s going to happen, at least not on my watch.”
“You’re betting the peace and security of the entire world on this, Thomas.”
“If the world wants peace or the world wants war, Robert, they’ll get whichever they choose,” Thorn said. “My job is to protect and defend the United States. I’m going to make America the shining example of a strong, peaceful, democratic nation, and invite others to join us. I’m not going to send our armies out to enforce our ideas of what kind of society or government they should live under.”
Robert Goff shook his head and looked down, and looked at his hands, then at papers on the President’s desk — anywhere but into his friend’s eyes. He was not convinced one bit that the President was right, but he knew that arguing with him was not going to help or change his mind. That’s why he was surprised when the President clasped him on the shoulder. “You okay, Bob?” he asked softly.
Only then did Goff look into the President’s eyes. He responded, “Yes, Mr. President.”
Thorn’s face clouded a bit in disappointment when he heard those words — Goff did not use them very often when they were alone — but he still smiled warmly. “You still with me?” he asked.
“I’m with you, Thomas,” Goff responded. “Even if it’s there to help pick up the pieces.” And he turned and departed the Oval Office without saying another word.
Thomas Thorn returned to his desk and shuffled some paperwork around without really noticing what they were, then retreated to his study. He fielded several phone calls and visits from his secretary, then hit the DND (Do Not Disturb) button on his phone, settled into his chair, closed his eyes, and began his deep-breathing exercises, commanding his muscles one by one to relax, and then letting his mantra echo quietly through his head until, gradually, all conscious thoughts raced away over the horizon.
Many casual practitioners called it a very intense “nap,” but meditation was much more than just a period of relaxation. The transcendental state was a span of time, in which the subconscious mind was exposed, and at the same time the conscious mind was free to expand — to roam the vast areas that were generally closed to it. It was far different from a nap — in fact, meditation was never meant to be a substitute for sleep. Quite the opposite: the transcendental process was an energizing, invigorating process, because letting the conscious mind race about in the wide-open energy field of the subconscious mind filled both the mind and the body with incredible power. It was akin to a racehorse, tied to an exercise trundle: it was fine going around in a twenty-foot circle. It was even better when allowed to run on a mile-and-a-quarter racetrack during practice or on race day. But let it out into an open field, and the horse becomes a different animal, random and tireless and almost wild. The human mind worked the very same way.
It was also a two-way exchange. Many thoughts, experiences, even realities existed in the subconscious mind, and the transcendental state allowed those waves of energy to emerge. In that sense, meditation was an educational experience, a way of reliving, preliving, or even creating a whole new lifetime in just an instant.
But like any exercise, the human mind can grow weary if left to roam too long, and through years of training and discipline, Thorn called his mind back to the conscious world and let the doorway to his subconscious mind close. It was not a sad or reluctant event at all. He knew the doorway was always there, to summon when needed, and he knew that the potential energy available to him there was limitless.
But the subconscious realm was an alternate reality he had created to explore the universe that was himself — the person, the being, the energy that was all of his pasts and all of his futures right there, in one instant, available for him to see and study and experience. He had created other realities — this one, of him as president of the United States, in the beginning of the twenty-first century, on the planet called Earth. It was time to play that role, immerse himself in that universe, and act out his part in that performance. But he could do so armed with the knowledge and experience that he had gained from his other realities, because to him they were all his realities, all pertinent, all interconnected.
He picked up his phone and punched a button. “Yes, Mr. President?” his vice president, Les Busick, responded.
“Your friend, the one you mentioned the other day? Is he in town?”
“Yes. “I’d like to talk with him. Today. Right now.”
Busick hesitated for a moment. Ever since he had learned his “friend” was coming to town with a radical, dangerous proposal, he knew the President should meet with him. Every time he had brought it up, the President had turned him down. He might have been tempted to give him an “I told you so,” but Busick knew that things had to be pretty serious for the President to want to talk with him now. “Where?”
“In the residence.” Every place in the entire building — in the entire District, for that matter — was open to dozens of prying eyes, except for the residence itself; and as many presidents soon learned, there were many very discreet ways of getting inside the President’s private residence without half of Washington finding out. “As soon as possible.”
“Would you like me there, too?”
“It might be better if you weren’t.”
“I see.” English translation: I might be doing something you might have to deny. Finally, Busick thought, Thomas Thorn is doing something like a real president. “I’ll buzz you when they arrive.”
“This place is so neat and organized,” the visitor said, with a smile. “Was I that big of a slob?”
President Thomas Thorn watched his visitor with a mixture of apprehension and irritation. They were seated in the President’s study in the private residence in the White House, far from the prying eyes of the media, Congress — and, he hated to admit, some members of his own Cabinet. But now he had this gentleman to contend with. Somehow he had the feeling he was in the process of making a deal with the devil, and he hated the prospect of doing so. “Let’s get down to business, shall we?” President Thorn prompted.
“Whatever you say, Tom,” former president Kevin Martindale responded, casually concluding his distracted little tour of the residence and returning to the seat offered him. Since losing the White House to Thomas Thorn in the last election, Martindale seemed much thinner and had let his hair grow longer. It was just as wavy as before, with the “photographer’s dream”—the two long curly silver locks that seemed to drop down across his forehead whenever he got mad or excited — still present, but now the rest of his mane was very nearly the same shade of silver. He wore a short, thin, partially gray beard, too.
“This is a different look for you, isn’t it?” Thorn asked.