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“So, we’re all political geniuses here,” said Cat. “Anybody else figure that this is only Step A?”
“I think,” said Cole, “that Step B is Major Malich, here. I think that the people who gave the info to the terrorists didn’t care if the assassinations worked or not—the fact that Al Qaeda or whoever it was succeeded might even appall them. The purpose was to set up Major Malich.”
“Reuben,” Reuben corrected him.
“Rube.” Mingo corrected his correction.
“I think to find out who did this, we need to look at Rube,” said Cole—it was clearly painful to break protocol like that—“and see who would benefit from having him put on trial for betraying his country and conspiring to assassinate the President and Vice President.”
“You mean Rube, specifically, or Special Ops war hero Major Reuben Malich, symbolically?” said Arty.
“It’ll be Rube, specifically, who goes to jail,” said Cat.
“So if Rube takes off running,” said Benny. “Or hides. Anything that makes him look guilty. They win. From that moment on they don’t need him alive, because he’s guilty in the public mind. In fact, he’s more useful to them dead. Because nobody will feel much urgency about clearing the name of a dead man.”
“Assume that’s the plan,” said Drew. “Rube is painted as part of the conspiracy and then he’s dead. Excuse me for the hypothetical fatality, Rube.”
“I’m checking my pulse,” said Reuben.
Drew went on. “What, exactly, could anyone do with Rube’s death?”
“Discredit the right wing?” offered Mingo.
“I’m not that right-wing,” said Reuben. “My wife’s a Democrat, for pete’s sake.”
“You don’t have to be an extremist to be called one,” said Mingo. “Hell, you’re a soldier, man. Look at you. The poster child for the anti-war image of the mighty Aryan warrior.”
“I can’t help being an incredibly good-looking Serb in perfect shape,” said Reuben.
“For an old fart in his forties,” said Benny.
“I’m thirty-seven,” said Reuben.
“An old thirty-seven, though.”
“Look,” said Cole, “we still aren’t there yet. What can you do with the image of a red-state warrior who planned the assassination of the President? You can’t win an election with it—the President was a red-stater and his successor is too. Who’s in favor of presidential assassinations? How can you win elections on the basis of being anti-assassin? Who’s your opponent?”
Only now did Reuben put it together. “Who said anything about winning elections?”
“Well, what else?” said Mingo.
“Maybe it’s not my being a red-stater. Maybe it’s about my being Special Ops. The elite of the Army. Maybe it’s an attack on the military.”
“The p.c. crowd attacks the Army all the time,” said Load dismissively. “They’ve never let go of the Vietnam-era baby-killer slogan.”
“Yes, but sane people ignore them. Not now,” said Reuben.
“This still isn’t it,” said Drew. “Nothing in this justifies such a monstrous act.”
“Al Qaeda—” began Cat.
“They’re in the monstrous-act business,” said Load. “It’s the other guys. The American guys. Why would they go after Reuben, the Symbol of Militariness? Why discredit the Army in such a drastic way?”
Babe slumped farther down in his chair. That meant that he was about to say something he thought was important. Sometimes it even was. “I don’t think we’re going to find out what they mean to do with Rube until they do it.”
“But then he’ll be dead,” said Arty.
“Since we won’t let anybody kill him,” said Babe, “what I mean is this: We have to see how the story is spun, and who does the spinning. Then we’ll know what they set him up for.”
