The period between election night and inauguration day passes like a mote of dust in the eternity of an elephant’s eye. And soon it’s year-end. A great big imperfect new year about to commence. General Robert V. McSteeley, Retired, curled his toes around the granules of warm sand where he stretched his legs, estimating how many sand granules he could pick up and hold, as if his toes were porous shovels. Then he stretched his legs out further, as far as they would go, from under the plain-colored swim trunks he wore, until his taut muscles felt tauter. He could get used to this sort of leave. Life was good. And with fresh victory, he was back in the White House. There would be a shitload of work—starting January 21th! The cleaning up he had begun under Ohgala could be resumed now—and completed this time—under Match. Michael Match wasn’t part of the D.C. crowd. He was neither in government, nor “retired” in order to profit from it. He wasn’t part of the military-industrial state’s outsourcing economy. Not yet. Surveillance capitalism, some called it. It was making some people very rich. But Match would have none of it. Good. He was someone different—so an opportunity to clean house of residents who had made working in D.C. itself an “industry.” An opportunity to take on the permanent government, the people trading the common good for personal pork, warmongers of profit. The people Ike had warned against. The people he’d known in the military. Match needed eyes and ears for this, eyes and ears he could trust. A man able to lead—or to fall on his sword if necessary. That’s what he’d told General Robert McSteeley before he saluted Here I am! in response. Now, preparing to be deployed for duty, getting his batteries recharged for President Match, here he was curling his toes in the sand, on vacation in Barbados, waiting for his wife Anna, who was coming—eventually—as he patiently closed his blue eyes and considered the standard procedures for making change in mid-course, starting with a vacation like this.
There were a lot of creatures in the D.C. swamp, and draining it was going to expose so many. He shook his head. Only then would they know who was wearing a suit—and who not. Where was Anna? She really didn’t need make-up to sit in the sun, did she? But his wife, his best friend, his partner, his lover, he’d show patience. Yes, he closed his eyes again and felt the warm caress of the sun envelope his skin.
Match had chosen right, when he’d chosen him, Rob McSteeley crowed silently to himself, not only because he knew the alpha and omega of military Washington, but also because he was honest. And loyal. And a patriot. All that meant a lot to him, and to Anna. For Robert McSteeley, there was never a second thought about being otherwise.
He felt the phone vibrate in his pocket and thought it might be either the president-elect…or Anna. Anna!
But as he opened his eyes and glanced down at the screen, it was neither. It was the Russian Federation ambassador Vladimir Klisisnikov calling him back…after two days! It must mean he’d consulted Moscow. Different time zones. He hit the little phone icon and brought the speaker next to his ear.
“McSteeley here,” he said out loud, as if he had no idea who was calling.
“Robert? Robert, how are you?” The voice was formal, a rich baritone. “This is Vladimir Klisisnikov returning your call. I hope this is not a bad time?” Klisisnikov’s English was spoken with an accent, of course, but it could never be mistaken for imprecise. It was at once an instrument of self-deprecation and domination.
“I’m good, sir,” the general responded. “No, it’s a fine time. In fact, you’ve caught me at the beach waiting for my wife. So I’ve got all the time in the world!” he laughed. “You’re married, right? So you know. We’re in Barbados. You know it?”
“Yes, yes, I know all this well. I have had some good times myself there. Well, my soon-to-be hard-at-work Director, I won’t keep you long. Your wife is probably putting on the—how do you say it?—sun tan lotion, no? But I wanted to return your call.”
“Thank you.”
“In person we should meet right away once you are back. In my opinion. Man to man, as you say, as soon as you’re able, okay? There are so many important things for our countries to discuss. I say nothing bad about your predecessor, but women—you know, sometimes, it is hard for men to get on the same wavelength, yes? Sometimes,” he chuckled into the phone, “it is way too hard, no?”
“Well, yes,” he was thinking of Anna. “Women can be their own world.”
“So, yours is not with you yet? Then we have a moment still, yes? Tell me, why did you call? Was there something particular you desired from me?”
Rob McSteeley’s military brain took hold, and he dropped the frilly courtesies for the training that is part and parcel of who he is. “Yes, sir. The friction between our two countries lately, the suspicion of election interference—”
“Yes, yes, so your people say,” Klisisnikov interrupted him, “but let’s not go there. What can we two do? And it is past already. And neither, I think, of us were involved, right?”
“Yes, I agree, but—”
“Good. Very good,” pronounced the baritone. He had survived almost five years now at this most important post, representing his country in the capital of its principal adversary. Klisisnikov paused, letting his silence say more than words, forcing the retired general to take the initiative. He didn’t have long to wait.
“Mr. Ambassador, we both know the Ohgala administration has asked a number of your diplomats to leave the country. Thank God the list did not include you, sir. Now, the Match administration realizes the temptation here might be for your government to not only retaliate but perhaps, out of a misapprehension of machismo, escalate things? You know, as in up the stakes.”
Klisisnikov grunted, offering within that tone neither implication of assent nor dissent.
But the American general wanted to sally forth again to elicit a white flag from the man on the other side of the wall. He knew their call was likely being monitored by NSA or one of the other American surveillance agencies—as well as by the Russians themselves. He knew neither he nor Klisisnikov could afford to say much. As a general, this very surveillance had been one of his tools, his weapons, too.
“Vladimir, if your country can hold off escalation, I promise you we can peacefully put these matters to rest—when the time is right. We’ll talk in person…once we’re in office in a few weeks. We sincerely want to get on with improving relations. We have, I believe, a common enemy.”
“I am glad to hear you say that, Mr. Director. Very glad. Yes, we do have common enemies.”
Just then, Robert McSteeley saw Anna coming outdoors, putting on her shades, passing the bar area, looking gorgeous—like Ava Gardner, he thought, straight out of some movie from the 1950s. This was his gal. His mind wandered from the conversation with Klisisnikov.
“Mr. Director, are you still there?”
“Oh, yes,” the vacationer abruptly came back,” I’m here, Vlad, yes. Well, that’s really why I called. Will you be able to get away for the holidays, sir?”
“For me, being in Washington is getting away. Moscow this time of year is cold like you never believe. Well, your wife must be approaching. I can feel it.”
“Yes, she is,” the fond husband chuckled. “How did you know?”
“Oh, when you have been married as long as me, you know about wives, too. Well, I will see you then when you return. I’ve got your message, as you say, ‘loud and clear.’ You have a good holiday, General, and when you return, we shall start to solve the problems of our big world. His powers willing, huh?”
“Yes,” Rob McSteeley thought he understood. “God willing.”
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