Song of the Red-Legged Birds: Chapter 32: Not on my watch
Don't mess with President Chavez
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With gratitude, Bill
Last week, in chapter 31, Wake delivered revealed details and a plan
Chapter 32: Not on my watch
“Your guy couldn’t off that twenty-something girl? Isn’t that child’s play for a professional?” Christo yelled and paced his office. He didn’t like getting chewed out by suits any more than suits liked getting chewed out by more expensive suits. This time he’d do some chewing of his own.
“He neutralizes Seamus without getting any intel. Who does that? An idiot, that’s who.” Christo flipped through screens on his computer. “And now what, they’re missing? On the run? These aren’t undercover double agents. It’s a pizza guy and a firefighter chick!” He hovered over the speakerphone on the conference table, arms surrounding it like a fresh kill.
“WELL?” he growled.
An exceedingly calm voice with a slight Russian accent spoke through the static-filled connection. It echoed against the animated waves on the office walls.
“Yes, yes, quite unfortunate–man was made. Situation delicate, yes? Losing an asset in the field is… how you say, tragic?”
Christo sat down at the table. “Now I have to clean up your mess. Two targets, alert and on the run. A friend of theirs, a witness, turns up dead the next day. Maybe they won’t put anything together; maybe they will. In any event, it’s a matter of time before that info somehow finds its way onto the mother fucking Red Foot Network.” At times like these, Christo wished he’d taken up smoking.
“Quite sure team do wonderful job squashing if pops up, like always do,” the voice said.
Christo had a hard time dissecting sarcasm through the accent.
“Well, you’ve left us no choice but to treat the symptoms when I’d like a cure. What are you going to do about it now?” He slapped his hand on the desk too hard, then rubbed it with the other.
“We’ve sent... care...” The connection distorted, dropped, and hissed.
“What? Losing you, say again.” Christo leaned closer to the phone.
More static came through, then cleared, “We’ve sent another to take care,” the voice said.
“Sent? Sent where?”
“Where? Cannot say,” the voice said.
Christo closed his eyes in a long and purposeful blink. Just before he was about to explode, the voice broke in again.
“To acquire targets, yes? Top man. All will be,” static sizzled and faded, “…right as rain?”
Christo relaxed, pushed off the desk, and stood rubbing his chin. “When?”
“Tomorrow, I should think. Is priority, my friend. You worry, I understand of course, of course.” There was a sound like a wooden chair dragged across a floor underneath the crackling connection and a sob.
Christo squinted at that and walked to the digital wall. He watched the playback of the frothing curling waves. “I want them brought in, not extinguished. I need to know what they’ve been doing since you fucked this up.”
More distorted static emanated from the connection. Underneath it, a different voice yelled, or cried.
The Russian man cleared his throat. “Is more complicated. But I make arrangements. Brought to you?”
“No. Not here. Find a place where we can work them. Somewhere quiet and remote. I’ll need a Replay device.”
“I have place in mind. You have a device for shipping?”
“Yeah,” Christo said, unconvinced that this would happen.
“I send address.”
“Don’t fuck me on this. This shit goes right to the top. Clear?”
“Of course, of course. Plan your interrogation. It will be done.”
“I’m waiting.” Christo disconnected the call and saw that his hands were shaking. He rubbed them together as if to hide the tremor. To not look vulnerable. He knew he was playing out of his depth when he took this job but thought he’d grow into it. It occurred to him that maybe that wasn’t possible, and he’d have to keep pretending to be a hardass, something he hated. The day’s events made it clear that he’d better learn to toughen up. The whole thing was escalating when he’d hoped it would go away. But it wasn’t. He resisted the urge for another drink and made himself a coffee instead. Contingencies, time to plan, he thought.
President Ernesto Chavez sat behind the Resolute desk when Tom returned. The Commander-in-Chief was alone, which was unusual compared with other invitations to the Oval.
“Tom, thank you for coming back.” The President reached to shake his hand. “I’d like to apologize for my outburst earlier.” Tom recoiled at the sound of his name. The President had a habit of repeating names out loud as if to remind the other person that they were not the leader of the free world.
President Chavez was an imposing figure at six foot four, with rugged movie star looks, a broad smile, and a crushing handshake. His tailored suits looked like he’d been sewn into them by a stylist for a photo shoot. In fact, he’d been on set yesterday shooting an action movie in Thailand. Not On My Watch was set to release before Labor Day this year. As usual for one of the President’s flicks, it was over budget with an awful script that would make triple its outlay regardless. Implementing a tax deduction for attending a movie the President was in really helped beef up the numbers. You only needed to keep your stub.
“Thank you, but no need, sir. I should have been more prepared. I wasn’t. I am now.”
The President sat down in a dark leather chair that creaked with history and offered a seat on the couch opposite him. He called out, “Cheryl, can I get some coffee, please? Tom, coffee?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Make it two, Cheryl.”
President Chavez leaned forward and interlaced his fingers. Several of them were wrapped in fresh-looking bandages.
“Accident on the set, sir?” Tom nodded to the injury.
He looked down as if having forgotten about the wounded hand. “Oh yes, these, hah! A few minor burns. You know weapons get very hot when you fire them, even when they’re shooting blanks.” He aimed a finger gun at Tom, then readjusted to fire at the wall over his shoulder.
“I didn’t know that, sir,” Tom confessed with a bit of shame. He’d always wished he’d done some time in the military. The President hadn’t either, but somehow his movies had given the impression he had.
The door to the office opened, and coffee was brought in. “Thank you, Cheryl. How’s your son doing at Stanford this semester?”
“Quite well, sir. Thank you for asking. It looks like he might get some playing time on special teams as a walk-on.”
“Wonderful! I hope to catch a few games this year. The First Lady and I will be cheering him on,” he said with a broad smile. Tom wondered if the small talk was for her or a show for him.
“That’s so nice. Thank you, sir!” She set the coffee pot down and poured two cups, then left the office with a skip in her step and closed the door.
Tom watched President Chavez add cream and sugar. He stirred it twice with precision and a tap on the gilded edge before returning the spoon to the saucer. Tom reached for his cup. He took it black.
The President took a couple of sips, set the cup down, and fixed Tom with a look that had its intended consequence. Tom felt his insides squirm. He tried not to let it show but could tell it was noticeable. With that accomplished, the President stood up and started to pace.
“I’m going to tell you a story. You’ve noticed there’s no one else in this office. That’s because this conversation is off the record.”
“Yes, sir.” Tom swallowed hard.
“It’s taken the country a long time to accept a Mexican in the White House. According to the polls and social media, I’ve been doing quite a good job. The economy is stable, and we’re on a path to recovery. All without the barest hint of personal scandal or corruption throughout one and a half terms.” He smiled and sat back. “None of that is by accident. I’ve worked hard, and so have my wife and children. Since day one, it was unspoken but heard loud and clear that the first Mexican to occupy this office better not fuck up. I have to pretend that race doesn’t matter, but it still does. And that still sucks.”
“Yes, it does, sir.” Tom nodded and sipped.
“Why am I telling you this?” he asked with palms raised. He got up and strolled about the office taking time to examine the portraits of Washington, Lincoln, and Obama. “My great, great, great grandfather was the first to share stories of his UFO sightings in the Yucatan. He was a believer, if you will, as were his children and their children. Our family has saved videos, photos, and writings that attest to this… let’s call it an obsession. And, as you know, I’ve publicly stated that to the best of all our species’ combined knowledge, there is no one out there. We are alone.”
Tom met the President’s gaze, “Yes, sir.”
President Chavez sat down, leaned forward, and lowered his voice.
“Tom, I won’t be humiliated out of this office or made into a joke. But privately, I believe the same things my family has for all these years. And I mean all of it. I don’t think we’re alone, I know there’s something out there, and I want to know what it is.”
“I see, sir.” Tom fidgeted with his wedding ring.
“I’m not sure that you do, yet. Here’s what I’m saying. Publicly, I’m not supporting your efforts or the PDCO’s side projects which don’t involve making sure big rocks don’t wipe out humanity. In fact, I’ll advocate for slashing your budget or getting rid of the agency altogether when pressed. Times are tough, and every expenditure is scrutinized. The bell will soon toll for the PDCO, and I won’t be holding the bag when the choice is the defense against little green men or the Russians and North Koreans. We both know that’s how it will play in the media.”
Tom smoothed his tie. “Yes, sir.”
“Don’t give me that yes sir crap. I’m leading up to something. Privately, I want you to continue the mission at a fever pitch. I need evidence for our National Security Agencies. If there’s intelligent life out there, I want the United States to lead in defense of the planet. President Ernesto Chavez at the forefront. For my family who’s been ridiculed for their beliefs and my ego and legacy.”
A beep sounded from the speaker on the coffee table. “Sir, your agent is on the line. He says it’s urgent. Shall I put him through?”
“Please do, Cheryl. Hold that thought, Tom.”
The phone chimed and echoed.
“Mr. Dancer, you’re on with the President.”
A too-loud crackling connection began.
“Ernie, when can you get back here?”
“Are you joking, Rob? I just got home. And watch your mouth. I have someone in the Oval.”
“Ah, sorry… Mr. President,” Rob Dancer said, changing his tone. “It seems we lost a full day’s footage; we’re fuc.., uh, we’re in a tight spot. Can’t work around this. We need you to come back, sir, if you could?” His tone sounded like he was being held hostage.
The President rolled his eyes and threw a thumb toward the phone for Tom’s benefit. “Rob, you know this isn’t a part-time job here in Washington.”
“Yes, sir, of course, and we couldn’t be more proud.” There was a long pause. “But, we’re burning about 2.5 mill per day. If you could help stop the hemorrhaging, I’d be, the studio would be..., we’d all be very grateful.”
“Let me see what I can work out. I’ll have to set other meetings in the area so I don’t look like an entitled actor spending the taxpayer’s money frivolously.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The President disconnected the call.
“Excuse me, Tom, the First Lady will not be pleased.” He mashed the speaker button again. “Cheryl, can you call my wife? Let her know I’m returning to the set, and she might want to accompany me.”
“Right away, Mr. President.”
“Hopefully, that’ll help a little.” The President stepped to a small mahogany table next to a globe resting on a floor stand. “Can I pour you something stronger?”
“No, thank you.”
He poured three fingers of scotch from a crystal decanter and sat down.
“Where was I? Oh yes. I’m aware that I’m putting you in a challenging position. But I’m hoping you’ll come through for me and the country. If things get financially constrained, and there are... issues, I want to hear that from you. I may have avenues to deal with those things. Understood?”
“I think so, sir.”
“Great. This is the last time we’ll talk so freely. From here on out, you and I know the rules.” The President took a sip of scotch. “How’s Maryanne? She still at the firm downtown?”
“Yes, thank you for asking. She’s on track to make partner.”
“That’s great, good for her! I hope she gets it. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help. And your son, is he getting proper care? I know that autism can be rough on a family.”
“He is, sir. Our healthcare plan does a great job of providing the resources we need. We’re all doing well. He might even be able to live on his own someday.”
“I’m glad. I know it can be a strain, but luckily you’ve got access to the best treatment possible.”
The President finished his drink in a swallow, then changed his tone again.
“Now, what did you bring me?”
“Sir, as you know, the Grid, we also refer to it as the Bubble, alerts us to threats from space, known or unknown. From time to time, the whole Grid will, what we call pulse, meaning that it completely lights up. We’ve yet to nail down the reason this happens, but a working theory is that it may have some intelligent origin.”
“Tom, I’m aware of this. That information doesn’t appear on my daily briefing, but keeping up with these things is a bit of a hobby. As I mentioned, it runs in the family. Tell me something I don’t know.”
Tom leaned forward and adjusted his tie. “An update to the software that all satellites use to power the Bubble revealed that the Grid has been pulsing daily for more than a year.”
President Chavez nodded. “Hmm, interesting. What else?”
“That’s the main detail. You’ve heard backlash because the upgrade was done without international authorization. We felt there wasn’t time for that. Although to be candid, we wanted to uncover it first.” Tom made up the last part seeing a chance to score points.
“Acceptable. I don’t want to make a habit of pissing off our allies, but I understand and approve of your explanation. I expect a sense of urgency to figure out why the Grid does this daily.”
“It’s our top priority.”
“There are many in my administration, in my party, hell, in both parties that think all this Grid business is nonsense. Seeing is believing, and since they can’t see what’s protecting them or what that’s protecting them from, skepticism is rampant. A good deal of that is political fuckery; a larger swath is ignorance. For some reason, it’s much easier to believe the magic that delivers movies to your phone.”
The President was pacing now with his hands clasped behind his back. Tom had seen the movie Patton and thought he was channeling George C. Scott’s performance. As if hearing his thoughts, President Chavez stopped.
“Keep me updated. Book time with Cheryl as needed and find a bullshit excuse to put on the books. Bring me tangible things, not micro-updates. It goes without saying if it’s a goddamn emergency, then normal channels and visibility are fine.”
“Understood.”
“Anything else? I’ve got a tee time with some donors that I wish I could avoid. You know how much it sucks to be terrible at golf when you’re the President?” He mimed putting and missing.
“We’re tracking down one more thing, sir. It may be related to the grid, but we can’t be sure yet. As you said, it’s not solid, so I won’t bore you with the details unless you want them.”
“Great. Thank you, Tom. We’ll talk soon.”
They got up at the same time and shook hands.
Tom left the office and listened as the door clicked shut. He tried to rewind what happened. A lot of variables had come up. His mind drifted to comments the President made about his family. They were benign enough, weren’t they? But President Chavez was a smooth talker. He shook his head, unwilling to believe they were anything but ordinary. Tom glanced at the portraits that lined the hallway as he walked. He wondered how these great men would handle a threat from another species. He thought President Adams almost looked to be from another world. Perhaps Adams would say the same of him.
Next week in Chapter 33, “ I couldn't get away,” Meet Ira, the cable guy