The General's President Read online

  "Swedish kerosene," he called the birchbark.

  Before dark they'd eaten a supper of fried potatoes, bacon, eggs; and oven-toasted, buttered white bread strongly enriched with sugar, tasting almost like coffee cake. Afterward they used the sauna, lit by a kerosene lamp, then doused each other with icy water from the well. That done, they dressed, then took coffee, yellow and sweet, into the living room, and sat for a while.

  "Is this the way it was when you were a boy?" Flynn asked after a period of silence.

  "Nothing's the way it was when I was a boy." Haugen grinned, broad tan face creasing with it. "I'd hate to have to sleep now on the beds we used to have. And these chairs..." He patted the one he sat in. "The ones we used to have were homemade. Not bad, but not like these. And the fridge is new, of course, I never saw a refrigerator till I was in high school. Or used a telephone."

  He sipped his coffee reminiscently. "We didn't even have a wagon road till I was two years old. The river was the road. It was the main road till I was eleven, when the CCC graded and graveled the wagon road and put culverts in—made an auto road out of it. The country got a lot of good out of those hard-times projects. And when we had a real road, Dad bought an old truck; I learned mechanics on that klunker. Every month or so the whole family'd go in to Littlefork to a movie; it cost a dime each. And we'd eat popcorn! We thought we really had it made."

  Haugen laughed and shook his head. "That was a different world."

  Father Flynn nodded soberly. That had been "the Great Depression." Now they were in another, in some ways worse.

  "We were kind of crowded here," Haugen went on. "There were three of us boys that slept in the loft, and my sister slept in the living room. Mom and dad slept in that room"—he gestured—"and grandma in that one. We had a grandmother in the house till I was grown up and drafted. Sometimes we had two grandmas in the house. Grandma Salminen—we called her 'Mummo'—was with us all my childhood, and Grandma Haugen came to America when I was nine. She was 'Bestemor.' " He chuckled. "Neither one spoke English, and of course, Finnish and Norwegian are completely different. They lived in the same house together for years, sharing a bedroom, but they never had a conversation together. Each learned some words of the other's language and a few words of broken English, but not enough to really talk to each other."

  "How did they get along?"

  Haugen laughed. "Well, they didn't argue. Actually they were a lot alike. Both were old-country farm women, peasants, and both had a lot of patience. Except for cussedness. Neither had much patience with cussedness."

  ***

  The two men talked for a while longer, then Haugen took a small, battery-powered alarm clock from the pack, set it, and they got ready for bed. The bedroom was not totally dark; there was faint starlight through the newly washed window. Father Flynn knelt silently beside his army-style bed for a few minutes, then got between the sheets.

  "Steve," Haugen said after a minute, "I haven't prayed, actually prayed, since childhood. But while you were kneeling there, I was remembering. When Lois and I were younger, she used to drag me to church now and then. Lutheran. And we'd recite the creed. And there were things I used to wonder about."

  Father Flynn lay silent, waiting. After a moment, Haugen continued, reciting from memory.

  " 'I believe in God the Father Almighty, Maker of Heaven and Earth.' " He paused. "That part I had no problem with. Understanding it, I mean. But then it went on—'And in Jesus Christ, his only Son our Lord, Who was conceived by the Holy Ghost.' That's where I started to have problems. What does it mean by the Holy Ghost?"

  The priest paused only for a moment before answering. "The Holy Trinity," he said, "is important to our understanding of God. First of all, love is essential to God; it is basic to Him; and it's the basis of the Trinity. God the Father knows himself utterly, and his awareness—his image!—of himself is the Son. And the Holy Spirit is the bond of love between Father and Son."

  The priest lay silent then, and after a moment, Haugen spoke again. "I once read somewhere in the New Testament where Jesus said 'Ye are all sons of God.' How does that fit in?"

  "We are, in a sense, though originally not in the same sense as Jesus. But because Jesus came to us on Earth, he raised us all to his level."

  After a few seconds, Haugen continued. "Then it goes on to say: He 'was crucified, dead, and buried. He descended into hell.' Now what was that about? Why did he descend into hell?"

  "Well, first of all, hell is for those who are utterly ruined, utterly cut off from God and his redemption. Actually, as the story has it now, it was to purgatory that Jesus went, for three days. Purgatory is where souls go to be purified, souls not eligible for heaven but not beyond redemption. Jesus went there to gather the souls already there."

  There was another moment of silence. The Jesuit was a little embarrassed. He always felt that way when trying to explain theological matters to a highly intelligent analytical mind that lacked the background. If you looked at these things superficially, they could sound foolish.

  "All right," Haugen said next. "Then it goes on to say, 'I believe in the communion of saints.' What's the communion of saints?"

  Father Flynn's voice was quiet, soft. "In this case, 'saints' means all undamned souls, living and dead, and all are in communion with one another. We have a solidarity with the dead and with each other, and they with us. All are one. The living support the dead and vice versa, and we all support each other. For example, the prayers of the living help the dead to rise from purgatory, and the prayers of the dead help the living."

  "Hm-m. Interesting. Okay. And it ends up, 'the resurrection of the body; and the life everlasting.' I suppose I know what's meant by life everlasting, but how about the resurrection of the body? It seems to me that God would only need to think it to give you a new body. Why resurrect the old one?"

  "It's not the old one he'll resurrect; not in the strict sense. When Jesus comes back, he'll create your body anew, but he'll do it with the material of your old body. It doesn't matter what's become of it. If you are saved, he'll recreate a perfect body for you from the material of the old.

  "At the final judgment, Saint Thomas tells us, the world will be recreated. And if you've been good, your body will be recreated in perfection. If you were evil, on the other hand, it will be recreated in corruption."

  He paused, then went on. "But a current notion is that you ensoul your body. Your soul creates your body and your body creates your soul. And when you die, you ensoul the universe."

  He waited then. Haugen asked no further questions. "What do you think of all this?" the priest asked finally. "It's quite a meal for one sitting."

  "I don't think of it," Haugen said. "Not now. I'm just letting it percolate. But I'll tell you again, I'm an unlikely candidate for the Church. Even the Lutheran Church." He chuckled, then sobered. "But if there ever was a good time to pray, this feels like it."

  Nothing more was said then, and Haugen's breathing quickly took the slow and measured cadence of sleep. Father Flynn lay awake for a bit though, thinking. The year AD 2000 was getting near, the year some claimed would bring the final judgment of man, complete with scourges, plagues, and Armageddon. Times were hard; unemployment was forty percent, and poverty was becoming the mode. More than two million AIDS cases had surfaced, and no one knew how many were latent. The cold war still was cold, but the potential was there for disaster, perhaps holocaust. There'd been a resurgence of religion; his own Church, the Protestant churches, all were finding their pews more and more full, while the apocalyptic sects were doubling and redoubling their membership.

  A hooting outside took his attention from his thoughts. An owl; he hadn't heard one since boys' camp twenty-five years earlier. He listened, waiting for it to repeat, until images began drifting across the screen of his consciousness, and shortly became dreams.

  ***

  Morning dawned with white frost on the grass and a pane of ice on the pail outdoors. Haugen fixed a robust breakf
ast, and after they'd eaten, took a small shortwave radio from the pack and verified their pickup. Then they walked back to the canoe and set off down the river again. A couple of hours later, Father Flynn could see a steel bridge ahead, and farm fields by the river. Near one end of the bridge, on the road shoulder, a pickup truck was parked. A man stood fishing from the bridge, and when he saw them, waved, then walked with his tackle to the truck. Tall and long-armed, gray-shocked, he was waiting at the water's edge when they got there.

  "Hello, Haugen, you old sonofabitch," he said, and the two old men pumped hands vigorously. "Åssen går de'?"

  Haugen laughed. "Å, de' henger og slenger." He paused, half turning to the priest. "Vern, this is the friend I told you about, Father Steve Flynn. Steve, this is Vern Stenhus. Vern and I went to school together, sixty, sixty-five years ago. He worked for the Two Emils, too."

  The tall, still straight Stenhus looked Flynn over quizzically for a long second, as if surprised that the priest was not collared and robed. He put out a large hand, and Stephen Flynn shook it. Then the two older men carried the canoe up the steep path to the road while he struggled behind with the huge pack. Flynn was reasonably strong, but winded quickly. Physical strength persists long after physical endurance has been lost.

  After tying the canoe atop the pickup shell and stowing the pack, they crowded into the pickup cab. Stenhus started the motor and pulled out onto the blacktop.

  "I suppose you ain't heard what happened in the news the last couple days," he said as they started down the road. Stenhus's speech had a discernible flavor of Scandinavia which Haugen's did not.

  "No," Haugen said. "What?"

  "There was some big riots started. Fires and looting. Shootouts with the police—like a regular war you know. In New York first. Then yesterday they broke out in a bunch of other places too. Washington, Detroit, Los Angeles, places like that. I heard this morning that Donnelly sent the army in, and called out the national guard."

  Father Flynn felt his chest constrict. Haugen's face seemed to pucker. Outside, the Indian summer sun shone on.

  Stenhus turned and spit brownly out the window. "Too bad this country ain't got a president with a teaspoon or two of brains." He looked at Haugen. "You ought to run for president next time, Arne. If there is a next time. You got enough money to get elected, and you're a hell of a lot smarter than that Donnelly." He laughed then, and poked Haugen with an elbow. "Even if you are half Finlander."

  Haugen laughed wryly, as much a snort as a laugh. "Me, president?! That'd be the day! I wouldn't have the job if they offered it to me. And the country wouldn't have me if I took it."

  TWO

  The little OH-6 Cayuse lifted from the Pentagon grounds and swung smoothly north-northeast toward the Potomac. As an observation helicopter, the model had been replaced for more than a decade, but they were an excellent little aircraft, and a few were still used to shuttle brass. This one was the personal shuttle of the chairman of the JCS, the joint chiefs of staff, and just now carried two passengers wearing four stars each.

  The Lincoln Memorial and the reflecting pool scarcely registered on General Thomas M. "Jumper" Cromwell as he looked northward past them. He was seeing the bulldozed remains of street barricades near the State Department Building on 23rd Street, the black scars where cars had burned, and farther north, the blocks of burned-out buildings with smoke still rising from the rubble. The air stunk from it.

  He saw an old M-60, probably an A3, roll slowly, ponderously through an intersection, accompanied by three armored personnel carriers. Nothing seemed to be going on with them. Patrolling, keeping military visibility up, that was all. The fighting had dropped way off, to spasmodic sniping, brief infrequent firefights. All but the real hardcases had backed off, gotten lost, at least in Washington. The question was, would they stay backed off or would they go guerrilla?

  This was high security airspace. Although the Cayuse emitted a constant identification signal, the pilot had been challenged moments earlier, and responded with the code of the day. Constitution Avenue passed beneath, then 17th Street. The grass was still emerald on the ellipse and the White House lawn, though marred with machine gun emplacements. A few trees were beginning to show autumn colors. Rifle-carrying marines patrolled, in helmets and camouflage fatigues. And there were marines on the White House roof, no doubt with ground-to-air rockets.

  But no tourists at all. Of course, there hadn't been many since gas rationing began a year earlier.

  Cromwell could see a man in class-A uniform waiting in front of the South Portico, watching them come in. The OH-6 slowed, hovered a moment, oscillating slightly, then settled on the little helipad, a semicircle of marines standing nearby with ready weapons, watching.

  When the vanes stopped, the president's military aide strode over to greet Cromwell and Klein. Greetings were minimal. The aide led them briskly across the lawn toward the Executive Wing.

  "How's the president doing, Ernie?" Cromwell asked. The question was not a routine courtesy, but a matter of genuine concern.

  Brigadier General Ernest Hammaker shook his head. "Not well, sir. Not as well as yesterday. Singleton's with him."

  Shit! Cromwell thought, just what we need at a time like this—the president in the middle of a nervous breakdown.

  They entered the building and walked into the president's office area, Martinelli, the president's secretary, watching bleakly as they passed. Hammaker opened the door to the Oval Office and ushered the two senior generals through.

  President Kevin J. Donnelly met them seated. He looked older than his fifty-six years. The skin of his face was slack, as if he'd shrunk inside it these last two weeks, and especially the last three days. The White House chief of staff stood behind his left shoulder, and Colonel Singleton, the White House physician, behind his right. They don't look too damn good either, Cromwell thought.

  "Good morning, Mr. President," he said.

  "Good morning, general." The president stopped at that, as if to gather energy, then added, "I'm going to resign."

  Cromwell hardly missed a beat. "I understand, sir." He paused. "There's one thing I trust you'll take care of before you do though."

  The president simply looked at him.

  "There is no vice president, sir. Mr. Strock resigned four days ago, at your insistence. The Twenty-Fifth Amendment requires that you nominate someone for the post. As it stands now, there is no constitutional replacement for you."

  The president nodded. "Mr. Milstead pointed that out to me. I am appointing you my vice president."

  Cromwell's face suddenly felt as if it was going to shatter and fall off. "Mr. President," he said, "I don't think the Congress would approve that."

  Milstead spoke then. "General, we called the attorney general when President Donnelly first brought up his retirement last evening. You're aware, of course, that the Congress passed an Emergency Powers Act on Monday, granting the president extraordinary authority. We reviewed the act together, and it's the attorney general's view that the president can now simply appoint a vice president. During the emergency he doesn't need congressional approval." He went on almost apologetically. "The legislation was rather hurriedly drawn. They may not have envisioned this scenario."

  Cromwell's jaw locked with chagrin. Just the idea of being president somehow horrified him. He didn't look for the rationale in the reaction; it was simply emotional. But its roots, whatever they were, went deep.

  "General Cromwell?" said Milstead. Cromwell returned to the here and now, and focused on the man. "General," Milstead repeated, "if you accept the post and Mr. Donnelly resigns, you can then appoint a vice president and resign in turn, if you prefer."

  "Shit, Charles!" Cromwell snapped, "that's not okay!" He stopped then and looked at Donnelly. "Sorry, Mr. President. Sorry, Charles. But that would be terrible PR! It would look as if nobody wants the job! As if the problems were just too much."

  He turned to Donnelly. "Mr. President, would you be willing to
stay in office for—two more days? Charles will take care of things for you, and in two days I'll come up with someone who's willing to have the job and able to do it better than I could. If I don't, I'll take it myself."

  The president nodded, so doped he looked moribund more than tired. "Two more days?" He looked up at Milstead then. "Two more days, Charles."

  "Fine, Mr. President."

  Colonel Singleton said nothing, but his tight lips told Cromwell that two days was asking a lot of Kevin Donnelly.

  "Thank you, Mr. President," said Cromwell.

  "I'll walk General Cromwell to his helicopter, Mr. President," Milstead said. The president nodded slightly, and the three generals left the office with Milstead behind them.

  "General Cromwell," said Milstead when they got outside, "I may have to call you. It's not at all sure that the president will be able to function mentally at all in two days. Or even this afternoon; it's a moment to moment thing. And he has appointed you; all you'd need to do is accept. You already have, conditionally—if you don't get someone within two days. If the president becomes nonfunctional before he can appoint someone else, will you take the job?"

  He looked intently at Cromwell as they walked along. "Frankly, general," Milstead continued, "I think the president made a good choice. You've demonstrated a large capacity for accepting responsibilities, evaluating situations, making decisions, giving orders... Even in declining the president's offer, you noticed a consideration that the rest of us missed."