Man O' War, стр. 6
Apologetically, as if she had some power to change things, the woman told him, "Sorry, Ambassador. The word is it's going to be a rough trip the rest of the way in."
"That's all right, Major," he assured her.
As he fumbled with his scattered papers, she went down on one knee to pick up his tumbler, which had rolled almost all the way to the door. She stretched out and snagged it from under the table, then crossed the room again to return it. As Hawkes accepted it, she asked, "I know it's late, Ambassador . . . but if I could just say one thing?"
With over thirty years of training there to keep him from showing how he truly felt, he answered, "Of course . . . ," looking as charming as always, as if he had just awakened from a full night's rest and could not think of anything he wanted more than to hear what she had to tell him.
"Sir, there're a lot of people who were awfully surprised at how the conference went."
"Yes," he said, keeping all but a hint of irony out of his smile. "I imagine there were."
"I mean, most people really thought the country was going to sack the Aussies. The press, the White House, everything you saw on the vid or in the nets—private ones, public . . . it didn't matter—it just looked as if everyone was on the side of the damn chocolate Nazis . . ."
"Chocolate Nazis?" Hawkes interjected with amusement.
"Oh, I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize," he told her honestly. "If I don't hear what people really think, then . . . well, then I don't know what they're really thinking, do I?"
"No, sir." The major, feeling as if she had overstepped her bounds, took several backward steps toward the door. As her hand hovered above the green release panel, she found the courage to intrude upon the great man for a moment longer and said, "It's just . . . I wanted to say how grateful so many people are that you didn't just play the game down there."
And then, before he could comment, she had indexed the panel and slipped out the door. It slid shut as soon as she was through, sealing itself quietly. Hawkes set the papers back down on the table. Then he returned to his vanity with the tumbler in hand.
As he rinsed it out, he looked up at a photo he had wedged in place in the upper corner of the mirror. It was a picture of his dog, Disraeli, a large, black Labrador he had not seen in almost eight months.
"You know, Dizzy," he said to the picture, and his own reflection, "ten years ago, an attractive blond telling me my honesty was necessary to the world might have been enough to get me to change my mind."
The thunder came again. It banged against the outer walls of the jet in a blasting series of explosions that promised more would be following. Hawkes washed away the residue of his drink, dumped the cloudy water, then rinsed his glass again, saying, "Hell—five years ago. Five months ago, even. But, no . . . not now."
His mind reviewed the constant barrage of screaming communications between himself and Carri over the past eight months—the insulting orders, the veiled threats— all of it working to force him to side with Deutcher. Hitting the proper panel, he dropped the water's temperature down to near freezing. Then, filling his glass, he lifted it in a toast toward the picture of his dog and said, "Not now. I'm coming home, Disraeli, old boy. This time I'm coming home for good."
Nodding his head to the dog, he tilted it back and took a long drink, the intensely chilled water washing the taste of his last drink from his mouth.
Outside, lightning flew unabated, lighting the sky and blasting the land below. At the same time, the thunder lived up to its promise, violently rocking the jet as it blew the heavens apart.
2
"HE'S IN TOWN? HERE IN TWENTY MINUTES?" THE large man behind the desk confirmed what he had heard. "Thank you. No, no—no stalls—no. I'll be ready for him."
Damn, he thought. Who in hell shows up early for anything in this town? Let alone a ball-ripping ass-chewing?
Someone trying to catch you off guard, a separate voice in his head told him. Someone who isn't a part of this town's establishment.
Yes, he thought. And that would certainly describe Hawkes, all right.
He cradled the phone receiver, distracted for a moment by the information he had just received. Hoping to pull him back on track, one of the people waiting in his office asked, "Senator Carri, could we pick up where we left off this morning . . . your approach to the debate the opposition has scheduled for this afternoon? When the contents of the package bill are revealed to the public . . ."
"What?" asked Carri, slightly stunned. Caught off guard, he answered in a louder-than-normal voice, "The public? What's the public care about anything?"
The senator's voice was as large as his frame. When he wanted to use it to his own advantage, he could make grown men wince with its power.
"Sir, you're looking to have the Tenth Amendment to the Constitution repealed. That's sure to draw some attention."
"Peterson, get with the program. "The people' didn't have anything but praise for us when we struck down the Second Amendment eight years ago. "The people' are a passel of gutless cattle. As long as we keep enough of them on the federal payroll, they'll moo just the way we tell them to."
The younger man moved uneasily in his chair. He began moving his hand as a prelude to giving a verbal answer. Before he could, however, the senator leaned forward over his desk. Giving his chief of office operations a