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King placed a hand on Baxter’s shoulder and said in a whisper, “It’s just like I thought. Over sixty percent of the people want to see a peaceful resolution to this mess, and almost eighty percent think we should lift the economic embargo against Iraq, just so long as the military embargo is kept in place.”
Baxter nodded and said, “So we’re safe if we push for the UN to raise the sanctions?”
“I think so,” said King with confidence. “Besides, if we can get him to release another third of the hostages, we’ll be in a really good position to get some mileage out of this.”
Baxter pointed down the hall toward the direction of the room they’d be meeting in. “They aren’t going to like this.”
King shrugged. “They’re not going to like anything short of storming the place with a battalion of commandos. You have to prevent that from happening. You have to take the higher moral ground. You have to protect the lives of those innocent hostages.”
“What about policy? What about precedence?” Baxter shook his head. “We think the American people are behind it, but what about the Hill? There’re going to be some hard-liners up there who are going to scream bloody murder over this. Hell, some of them are already pissed that we gave them the Iranian money.”
“Fuck ’em,” snarled King. “They’re gonna hate you no matter what you do, and if you do what they want and send in the troops, you’re gonna have a group of hard-liners from the left trying to crucify you.” King shook his head. “You can’t please both groups. You have to stay with the majority of public opinion and stick with your base. That’s where your protection is.”
It was Baxter’s turn to shake his head. “That’s comforting. Public opinion, which you are so infatuated with, is about as predictable as the weather.” Baxter continued shaking his head. “Public opinion is like a mob. It’s fine just so long as you can predict where it’s going, but the second you screw up and they turn on you . . . you’re screwed.”
King looked at his boss, his eyes sagging. He had been working nonstop for the last three days, he was tired, he was sick of hearing his boss whine, and he had bigger problems of his own. “Sherman”—King’s face twisted into an expression of contempt—“maybe you should just quit. If you can’t see that we have a golden opportunity here to build you up as a great statesman, as the man who saved the day, as the politician who stepped in and brokered the peace during the biggest crisis this nation has faced in possibly”—King paused while shaking his head—“its entire history? Then maybe you really should just let General Flood and Director Stansfield and the rest of the warmongers storm the place, destroy that great building, and kill all of the people in it, and then you can go down in the history books as the butcher who sent fifty Americans to their death because he was afraid to step up to the plate.”
Baxter stood silently and looked at his chief of staff. He was not used to being spoken to in such a manner by anyone, not even a peer. This was probably the principal reason why King’s words sank in. It was true, Baxter thought to himself. If he wanted to be president someday, which he did badly, more than anything in the world, he would have to stand up and be a leader. Slowly, he started to nod in an affirmation of King’s words.
31
GENERAL FLOOD, GENERAL Campbell, Director Stansfield, and Irene Kennedy were all sitting next to each other at one end of the long table of the Joint Chiefs briefing room. Across from them sat the secretary of defense and the secretary of state, both with one aide. When Vice President Baxter entered, he and Dallas King sat at the head of the table with the other members to their immediate left and right, leaving over twothirds of the massive table’s seats unoccupied. The crisis was wearing on everyone. Eyes were bloodshot, and hands were a little shaky from either a lack of sleep or too much coffee or both.
Vice President Baxter folded his unsteady hands and placed them on the table. His kick in the pants from King had given him a newfound sense of focus and determination. Instead of asking for opinions, Baxter looked to the secretary of state and said, “Charles, I want you to light a fire under the UN’s ass and get this vote taken care of before the end of the day.”
Secretary of State Charles Midleton bowed his head and asked, “How much pressure may I use?”
“As much as you want. Threaten to veto every resolution midway into the next century, threaten to pull all funding—just do whatever it takes to get the vote passed by the end of the day. Once we get the hostages released, we can always go back later and pass a reversing resolution.”
“It might not be that easy,” warned Midleton as he adjusted his glasses.
“I don’t care. Get it done, and we’ll worry about the rest of it later.”
Director Stansfield cleared his throat. “Excuse me. Aren’t we getting a bit ahead of ourselves?”
Baxter’s head snapped to his left. He wasn’t in the mood to debate anything. He was only in the mood to give orders and have them followed. But now, as he looked across the table at the cool and grandfatherly Thomas Stansfield, his newfound confidence wavered just a touch. Stansfield was quite possibly the most harmless-looking individual that Baxter had ever met, but the rumors about the old spymaster caused one to think twice before
locking horns with him.
Baxter eased back several inches and asked, “How do you mean, Thomas?”
“I think it would be prudent if we analyzed what was said and then decided on a course of action.”
“I feel that I have all the information I need to make this decision. Aziz is willing to deal . . . deal for American lives, and in return we will have to give in and do something that, as humanitarians, we should probably do anyway.”
“And what would that be?” asked General Flood in an uneasy tone.
“Stop starving the Iraqi people.”
“We,” started an irritated General Flood, “are not starving the Iraqi people. Saddam Hussein is starving his own people by refusing to comply with the terms of surrender for a war that, I’d like to remind everybody, he started.” Flood stabbed his thick forefinger at the surface of the table. “We have confirmed intelligence reports that Saddam has funded Aziz with the express purpose of carrying out a terrorist attack on U.S. soil. With that information how can we even consider asking the UN to lift the sanctions?”
“We don’t know for sure if those reports are accurate,” retorted the vice president.
Thomas Stansfield looked the vice president squarely in the eye and said, “I would stake my entire career and reputation on the validity of that information.”
Baxter felt himself losing ground. Leaning all the way back in his chair, he brought his hands up and said, “I’m not going to sit here and defend Saddam Hussein. I hate the man. I find him despicable, but what I want to do is free as many hostages as we can, and then we can go back later and fix things.”
“‘Fix things.’” Flood was getting angrier. “What if we can’t go back and ‘fix things’?”
