The place looked like an abandoned supermarket. Which is exactly what it was.
“Welcome to the Tomlinson campaign headquarters,” said Patrick Lovett, spreading his arms wide. Instead of his usual carefully tailored suit, the campaign manager was in baggy jeans and a T-shirt that proclaimed PEWAUKEE LAKE, PLAYGROUND OF WISCONSIN. Jake saw a claw hammer hanging from his belt.
The interior space was cavernous. The former supermarket had been totally gutted, nothing but a few desks huddled in one corner. The ceiling was lined with bright fluorescent lamps, the floor cleared of display cases, although Jake saw electrical outlets lining the walls and what looked suspiciously like a wilted cabbage leaf flattened in a corner.
As he ushered Jake and Tami into the empty, echoing space, Lovett said, “In a week you won’t recognize this place; it’ll look like the command center of a national political campaign.” Pointing here and there, he went on, “Desks, computers, communications consoles—the works.”
“In a week?” Tami asked.
Waggling a hand in the air, Lovett amended, “Ten days, at the most. And it’s only a ten-minute taxi ride from the Hill!”
Jake asked, “How much is this going to cost us?”
“Donated,” Lovett replied, with a satisfied grin. “The head of the supermarket chain is one of our supporters.”
“Shipping green vegetables to the Moon?” Tami asked, with a giggle.
“Could be,” said Lovett. “Could be.”
* * *
True to his word, Lovett transformed the onetime supermarket into a working campaign headquarters: desks, computers, communications consoles, volunteers busily chattering into phones, aides scurrying along the long rows of buzzing workstations. And looming above them all, a gigantic poster of the candidate himself, striding energetically, smiling, youthful, confident.
The first Republican Party debate was coming up in less than three weeks. Tomlinson would share the platform with Senator Sebastian, Governor Davis H. Hackman of Tennessee, Senator Edwin G. Morgan of California, and a grassroots candidate from Minnesota, a dentist who had polled surprisingly large numbers with a campaign based on ultraconservative values.
Lovett was determined to get Senator Tomlinson prepared for every contingency. “You can’t simply talk about the space plan,” he told the senator. “You don’t want to be seen as a Johnny-One-Note.”
“Or Captain Moonbeam,” Kevin O’Donnell added.
Jake was sitting with the three of them in Tomlinson’s private office in the campaign headquarters. Unlike most of the “private” spaces in the building, Tomlinson’s office had walls that actually extended all the way up to the ceiling. And Lovett had the room swept for electronic bugs several times each week.
The senator was in his shirtsleeves, leaning back in his desk chair. Lovett and O’Donnell had both peeled off their suit jackets. Jake was still wearing his sports coat, sweating in the room’s feeble air-conditioning.
“It’s the financial aspect that’s going to attract the greatest criticism,” Tomlinson said. “We need a lot of support there.”
“True enough,” said Lovett, nodding. Turning to Jake, he asked, “What have you got on that, Jake?”
“Not a helluva lot,” Jake admitted. “Haven’t been able to find a major Wall Street type who’s willing to stick his neck out at this stage of the game.”
Waving a hand in the air, Lovett said, “We don’t want a Wall Street man. We need somebody from the Senate. A senior figure, a respected senator who’s willing to say that the federal government should back these loans.”
O’Donnell asked, “You mean somebody like Zucco?”
“The chairman of the Senate finance committee?” Tomlinson asked, clearly incredulous.
“He’s from New Mexico, isn’t he?” Lovett asked. “You’ll be launching a lot of rockets from New Mexico.”
O’Donnell said, “Or from Texas, if he won’t play ball with us.”
Jake objected, “Maybe he doesn’t agree with our plan. Maybe he really thinks Washington shouldn’t guarantee the loans.”
Lovett answered, “It doesn’t matter what he thinks. What matters is, does he want his state to benefit from the program?”
“He’s known as a man of principles,” O’Donnell pointed out. “Solid reputation.”
Lovett shrugged. “Can’t hurt to talk to him.” Jabbing a finger at Tomlinson, he asked, “You willing to buttonhole him?”
The senator’s usual smile was nowhere in sight. “I can give it a try.”
“Try hard, Frank,” Lovett said. “It’s important. If the highly respected chairman of the finance committee says he’s in favor of backing the loans, it could be the difference between getting the plan approved or seeing it all go down the toilet.”
“I’ll try,” Tomlinson repeated.
* * *
There was a second Tomlinson campaign headquarters in Montana, of course. Not as large or as busy as the nerve center in Washington, still Tomlinson made trips there nearly weekly, usually with his wife.
Outwardly, Amy made an ideal candidate’s wife. Pretty, pert, her cheerleader’s smile and bright personality charmed almost everyone she met. She traveled with her husband almost everywhere he went. Almost. Only rarely did she stay home while the senator went on the road.
It was a week before the first debate was scheduled. Senator Tomlinson was in New Mexico, ostensibly to tour the rocket launching facility at White Sands: Spaceport America. His host for this visit was Harold Quinton, head of Space Tours, Inc. Accompanying Senator Tomlinson was Senator Oscar Zucco (R-NM), chairman of the Senate finance committee.
Jake sat alone in his condo, watching Tomlinson on the local evening TV news. Senator Zucco was at Tomlinson’s side. Both men were smiling for the cameras: Tomlinson tall, handsome, vigorous; Zucco a smallish wisp of a man, white-haired, frail-looking.
Answering a reporter’s question, Tomlinson smiled as he said, “We’re hoping to make Spaceport America here a key part of our new space program.” Nodding toward Quinton, standing on his other side, the senator went on, “We’d like to see rockets from this private launch facility taking Americans back to the Moon.”
Jake knew that Tami was among Tomlinson’s entourage. And he heard the results of her work when the sleek-looking female reporter asked, “And you plan to do this without spending a penny of taxpayer money?”
Tomlinson’s smile turned boyish. “I think Senator Zucco can answer that better than I can.”
Zucco took half a step forward, enough to upstage Tomlinson ever so slightly. “It should be possible to finance this new space effort entirely from private sources—with backing from the federal government.”
Suddenly Jake’s TV screen showed the local news anchor pair. “And now here’s Peter Panetta with tomorrow’s weather forecast.”
“Shit!” Jake snapped, and reached for the remote. He tried several more channels but none of them were showing Tomlinson.
Glancing at the wall clock, he punched the speed dial for Lovett’s private number. Busy.
As he tried to decide whether or not to phone Tami, the phone on the end table jingled.
He reached over and picked it up. “Hello.”
“Jake, are you busy?” Amy’s voice. “Can you come over to the house?”
Amy sounded different: tense, strained. Before he could reply to her, she added, “Please, Jake. I need your help.”