Twilight's Last Gleaming Page 25

  “G'day,” McGaffney said helpfully.

  “He wants you to tell him about the economy,” the young man went on.

  The woman finished feeding the fire, sat up. “Do we still have one of those?” she asked. “I haven't seen it for a while.”

  “I think it's gone walkabout,” McGaffney suggested.

  That got a smile from her, and she climbed up onto the faux-stone bench around the fire pit, sat down, and motioned for him to sit nearby, which he did. The young man sat on his heels nearby. “My editors back home,” McGaffney said, “want to hear about how Americans are getting on these days, and I want to make sure they hear from the people who aren't getting on too well. I'm not going to tell anybody which mall this is, or even which town it's in, and I don't need your real name. All I'm interested in is your story.”

  That was all it took. The woman told him about the job she'd had waitressing until the bank failures shut off the restaurant's line of credit and closed it down right before the holidays, about how hard she'd tried to cover the rent but the money just wasn't there, about the friend of a friend of a friend who knew someone who'd already squatted in that mall, how they'd found ways to barter work for what they needed, and gotten used to the taste of pigeon meat. As she talked, a few others came out from the former boutiques and sat around the fountain.

  McGaffney glanced at them, gauging his chances of getting more story material from them, and turned back to the woman he'd been interviewing. “Your son doesn't get anything from the Army?” he asked.

  The young man answered, with a look on his face as though he'd just eaten something spoiled. “Sure. Took ’em a while, but these days I get the same pay I got before the war, when it was still worth something. Now? With the inflation and all, it buys a little food for Mom and my kid brother and me, and that's about it.” He shrugged. “We put our asses on the line for this country, and look at what we get for it.”

  4 March 2030: The Capitol, Washington DC

  “The F-35 isn't a bad plane,” the Air Force general insisted. He was visibly sweating under the bright lights in the committee room. “In retrospect, I think it was probably unwise to try to make one plane try to fill so many different missions, but you know, hindsight's always twenty-twenty. At the time, it looked like a gamble worth taking.”

  “Understood,” Senator Rosemary Muller said. With her iron-gray hair done up in a bun and bifocals perched on her nose, she looked like a well-dressed schoolteacher. “To the best of your recollection, General, at what point in the procurement process did the first doubts about the F-35 get brought up?”

  “We're proud of the open nature of our procurement process,” the general said. “We solicited criticism from across the defense community, here and in our allies, and used that as input for project development. The answer to your question is that doubts were raised right from the beginning, and we did our best to respond to them.”

  “And would you agree at this point that the doubts were justified and the responses inadequate?”

  “There was no way we could have known that at the time,” the general said.

  Muller nodded once, as though that settled something. “And how much, all told, did this gamble worth taking cost the American taxpayer? Counting everything together—not just the airframe cost, but all the upgrades, retrofits, and modifications that had to be done to make the F-35 fit for combat duty—how much did we spend for this plane?”

  “Just over $490 billion for the whole program.”

  “Half a trillion dollars.”

  “Yes.”

  “And how much did it cost, let's say, the People's Republic of China for an equivalent number of the J-20 and J-31 fighters they fielded in East Africa?”

  He was sweating hard by that point. “I don't happen to know that figure.”

  “Would you say that it was a fraction of the cost of the F-35?”

  “Most likely, yes.”

  “Perhaps a fairly modest fraction?” Then, before he could answer: “Forgive me. You've already said that you don't know the figure.” Muller turned to the other members of the committee. “Does anyone else have any questions?”

  By that afternoon, every detail of the testimony was splashed over news websites across the nation and the world. There had been military-procurement scandals before, some of them far more colorful, but few of those earlier controversies had taken place in the midst of a massive economic crisis and none had come in the wake of military defeat. In response, the mood of the nation shifted further into unfamiliar territory.

  10 March 2030: The White House, Washington DC

  By the time the New American Prosperity Act got out of Congress, it was thicker than the Los Angeles phone book, loaded with giveaways to a galaxy of pet causes and special interests as the price of its passage: business as usual in Washington. Gurney looked at the bound copy on the Oval Office desk, flipped through a few pages without much interest, trying to remember exactly what the bill was about.

  His mind was elsewhere. Half the news websites on the internet were yelling about the latest tidbits from the Muller Committee hearings. Admiral Deckmann had been on the stand for the last two days, describing exactly what happened at the Battle of Kilindini, and word was that the next witnesses would be Pentagon wonks testifying about just how many times, over how many years, that precise outcome had resulted from any attempt to model a massed cruise missile attack against a carrier group. That was bad enough—but rumors were flying that Stedman had agreed to testify, and Gurney didn't want to think about what might be made public if that happened.

  The new law's Byzantine prose failed to offer Gurney any distraction, and he closed the volume again. “Okay, let's get it over with,” he said to the aide who'd brought it. “Is everyone here? Bring ’em in.”

  “Yes, sir.” The aide left.

  The signing had originally been planned for the Rose Garden, but the warming climate had done nothing to tame Washington's unpredictable March weather, and rain beating hard against the windows of the Oval Office forced a change in plans. Gurney sat back in his chair, aimed an irritable glance at the rain; he'd had to cancel a round of golf scheduled for the afternoon, and wasn't pleased with that fact.

  After a few minutes, other members of the White House staff brought in a bevy of senators and representatives, followed by camera crews from the media and an official White House photographer. Once everyone was in place, Gurney scrawled his name in all the right places, then got up and shook hands with the majority and minority leaders of both Houses of Congress: photo ops for everyone, a few words about how the bill showed that both parties were working hard to restore prosperity to the country, the common currency of political theater in Washington since time out of mind.

  Within the hour, news stories dutifully praising the new legislation appeared on all the major news websites—and each story, as it was posted, was instantly dogpiled by swarms of hostile comments. Most of the sites closed their comments pages within minutes and deleted anything negative, but by that time political blogs and forums picked up the story and ran with it. By the time the evening news carried the story, half a dozen state governors had already held press conferences announcing that they would refuse to implement the new law.

  It was the next day, though, that the real challenge began to take shape.

  11 March 2030: Arkansas State House, Little Rock, Arkansas

  “Mr. Speaker.”

  The Speaker of the Arkansas House of Representatives peered down through his glasses, identified the source of the words, and a deer-in-the-headlights look showed on his face. “The chair recognizes Representative Bickerstaff.”

  That got a sudden hush across the chamber. Deanna Bickerstaff was an Arkansas original, “five foot high and four wide” by her own cheerful testimony, afraid of no man and precious little else this side of Heaven. When the voters down in swampy Chicot County first sent her to Little Rock, few of the state's less eccentric politicians had any idea w
hat to make of her, and four years of experience had left most of them none the wiser. When she got the floor, it was anybody's guess what would happen.

  “Mr. Speaker,” she said, “ladies and gentlemen. We've just spent the last three hours yapping about this nonsense from Washington. On the off chance that y'all are interested in doing something about it, instead of just exercising your lungs, I'd like to ask if this body is willing to consider a motion from the floor.”

  “Are there any objections?” said the Speaker, and glanced around the chamber. There were none. “You have the floor, Deanna.”

  “Thank you.” She took a piece of paper off the desk in front of her. “By my count, and I may have missed one or two, this is the thirty-fourth unfunded mandate Washington's loaded onto us. Thirty-four laws that they pass and we get to pay for, whether we can afford it or not. I can't say for sure that we'd have no trouble balancing the state budget if not for those, but I reckon it's pretty close one way or the other.

  “So it's not just this latest thing. They've been doing it to us for years, and they're just going to keep on doing it unless something stops ’em for good. That's why I move, Mr. Speaker, distinguished colleagues, that this body vote to have the great state of Arkansas exercise its right to call for a constitutional convention, to amend the Constitution of the United States so that Congress don't have the right to impose unfunded mandates on the states.” Over the sudden murmur of voices: “And I further move that this resolution go to the state Senate on passage. Mr. Speaker, I yield the floor.”

  It took the speaker more than two minutes and repeated blows of his gavel to get the chamber to quiet down. “The chair recognizes Representative Haskell,” he said then.

  Bayard Haskell was the House majority leader that term, a Louisianan who'd married into one of Little Rock's old-money families, and looked it. “Mr. Speaker,” he drawled, “I would like to second Miss Bickerstaff's motion, if I may.”

  The Speaker regained his deer-in-the-headlights look for a moment, and recovered. “The floor is open for debate, and the chair recognizes Representative Angerson.” Then, as Phil Angerson launched into what promised to be a speech of some length and little content, the Speaker shot a significant look at Haskell, House minority leader Mary Brice, and a few others, and they converged on the Speaker's station.

  The Speaker turned off his microphone, and as Haskell arrived, said, “Are you serious? That's got to be the craziest thing Deanna's popped out yet.”

  “Crazy like a fox,” Haskell told him. “You know and I know that it's not going to go anywhere, but if a couple of other states back it, that might be enough to get Washington to back off on NAPA.”

  “Maybe. Depends on who supports it.”

  “Tell me this,” said Haskell. “Can you see Terry McCracken missing a chance like this?”

  The Speaker smothered a laugh; he'd gone hunting with McCracken more than once, and knew exactly how the irascible Texas governor would react.

  “We have to do something,” said Brice. “If this thing takes effect it's going to break us.”

  The Speaker nodded slowly. “Do you think the Senate will go for it?”

  “We can talk to ’em at lunch,” Haskell said.

  They went back to their places as Angerson wound down, sat through three other speeches before Mary Brice got the floor. “The chair recognizes Representative Brice,” the Speaker said.

  “Mr. Speaker, distinguished colleagues,” she said, “I think we all agree that something has to be done. With that in mind, I'd like to move that we close debate on the motion on the floor, put it to a vote, and go back to the more general discussion.”

  Haskell seconded the motion. “We have a motion to suspend debate,” the Speaker said. “All in favor? All opposed? The motion passes.

  “We now have a motion to call for a constitutional convention to amend the Federal Constitution, to bar Congress from imposing unfunded mandates on the states. All in favor? All opposed? The motion passes.” The Speaker brought down his gavel.

  TWENTY-THREE

  13 March 2030: The Capitol, Washington DC

  “Mind if I join you?” said Mike Kamanoff.

  Bridgeport looked up from his sandwich, waved the Senate majority leader to a seat. Around them, the Senate lunchroom buzzed with talk.

  “What do you think of this Arkansas business?”

  Bridgeport finished swallowing his mouthful. “They've got the legal right,” he said. “If two-thirds of the state legislatures vote for it, they'll get their convention, too.”

  “Theoretically, yeah.”

  “Not just theoretically.” He set down the sandwich. “Did you talk to the governors when they were here lobbying against NAPA?”

  “Didn't have time.” Kamanoff flagged down a waiter, placed his order, turned back to Bridgeport. “I heard they were pretty pissed.”

  “That's an understatement. I don't think more than a dozen senators took the time to hear them out. When I met them, they were talking about Beltway syndrome.”

  Kamanoff grinned. “Speaking of that, did you hear Julie Blau last night?”

  “No, I missed it.”

  “Oh, man, it was funny—the Constitution as rewritten in Little Rock. ‘We-all the folks of these hyar Yew-nited States, reck'nin ta make ’em a darn sight better than they been since time out o’ mind,’ and so on. I don't think I've laughed so hard in weeks.”

  Another senator—it was Nancy Liebkuhn from Indiana, the majority whip—was walking past the table, and turned toward Bridgeport and Kamanoff. “Don't laugh too hard,” she said. “Did you hear about New Hampshire?”

  “No,” Kamanoff said. “What's up?”

  “The state legislature—both Houses—just passed a copy of the Arkansas resolution.”

  The grin vanished from Kamanoff's face. “They're crazy!”

  “Mike,” said Bridgeport, “they can do it. They really can. Calling them crazy isn't going to change that. If you don't want a constitutional convention, you're going to have to cut a deal with the states, and they're not going to settle for handwaving.”

  “Bullshit,” said Kamanoff. “We can fight this. Calling a convention would take, what, thirty-three states on board?”

  “Thirty-four,” Bridgeport said.

  “No way are they going to get that many. I promise you that.”

  Kamanoff's meal arrived, and he grabbed his sandwich in both hands and attacked it. Bridgeport glanced past him at Liebkuhn, who rolled her eyes and went off to another table.

  16 March 2030: Guthrie, Oklahoma

  “Well, I'll be—” Clyde Witherspoon caught himself in time, remembering who was in earshot. “A monkey's uncle,” he finished, and turned to face the middle-aged woman at the other desk. “Another big check. What's that, four this week?”

  His boss, Suzette Delafarge, nodded and smiled. “How much?”

  “Eighteen grand.”

  “Ours?”

  “Nah, that'd be chump change. Canadian dollars.”

  Her eyebrows went up. “From?”

  “Some guy in Tulsa named Joe Bramwell.” He handed the check over. “Heard of him?”

  “No, but he'll hear from us. I'll have Suzie drop him an email when she gets in.”

  The storefront office of the Oklahoma Independence Party had seen many better days. Some of the decor was left over from its previous incarnation as a Chinese restaurant, and the computers and office furniture were all too clearly secondhand. A banner along one wall and a rack of buttons and bumper stickers on the other proclaimed the party's slogan: “Independence? OK!” Even so, it was just one more little group on the fringes of American politics, trying to get its message out in the face of near-universal indifference while struggling to pay the bills month after month.

  Until now.

  “You think it's this NAPA thing?” Clyde asked.

  “I'm guessing.” She tapped some numbers onto her keyboard. “I'm about ready to fall on my knees and thank the go
od Lord for those idiots in Congress. We've got our debts cleared, the rent covered through the end of the year, and plenty of money on hand. I'm going to ask the executive committee to okay the bus ad project.”

  “You got my vote,” Clyde assured her. Putting ads on the sides of city buses in Tulsa and Oklahoma City had been the party's Holy Grail for most of a decade of shoestring budgets and disappointing fundraisers.

  “Bless your heart. And if this keeps up—why, then we'll go to the next thing.”

  “Radio ads?” Clyde said, grinning.

  “We can only hope,” she told him, and turned back to her computer.

  Over the weeks that followed, money kept flowing in, some of it in US dollars but most in the foreign currencies that were becoming standard now that the dollar was losing ground day by day. The Oklahoma Independence Party got its bus ads, its radio time, and more. So did more than thirty other parties on the far edges of American politics. Donations to extremist political movements all over the country shot up to unprecedented levels and kept rising, and their ideas flowed out into the national conversation as never before.

  24 March 2030: The Capitol, Washington DC

  “What do you think?” Bridgeport asked.

  Leona Price considered her sandwich for a while before answering. “They're not buying it. People don't care how many big names say that it's a bad idea, and they know the polls are rigged.” She looked up at him. “They think America's broken, they want it fixed, and they don't see Gurney or Congress doing anything to fix it.”

  Bridgeport nodded, said nothing.

  Lunch with Price had become a regular part of his Monday schedule: part of his job keeping track of what Congress was doing, he would have said at first, but there was more to it than that. She was smart, smarter than most others in Congress, and working the District the old-fashioned way, neighborhood by neighborhood and street by street, gave her a finger on the public pulse that few other figures in the federal government had.

  “The state legislatures agree with them,” he said finally.