Arlington, Virginia: 5 June, 1:20 P.M. Eastern time
Bob Randolph was the kind of man who was born to be president. Tall, athletic, and good-looking, with a shock of gently graying blond hair and a boyish smile, he came from a family that had already produced one president, some half a dozen U.S. senators, and a raft of governors, representatives, and federal judges. True, he’d never done anything productive in his life, but he’d managed to steer clear of any scandals that couldn’t be either covered up or just flatly denied.
He also played a mean game of golf. T. J. Beckham had grown up hunting coons and fishing for bass rather than playing tennis at the club, sailing off Cape Cod, and dallying with pretty girls on all the most prestigious golf courses in the country. But everyone who was anyone in Washington played golf, so he had set himself to learn, and succeeded pretty darn well. T. J. Beckham tried not to be a prideful man, but he did pride himself on his determination, just as he prided himself on his loyalty. When he was selected as vice president after the death of Chuck Devine, Beckham set himself to be a faithful veep. He knew the office of vice president carried no authority and that his role was to serve. Yet his role was to serve not only his president and his party, but also his country. And lately he’d begun to realize that there were times when a man had to choose where his ultimate loyalty lay.
Trailed by a gaggle of Secret Service men, they were walking toward the third green of the Army and Navy Country Club when Beckham said suddenly, “I’ve tried, Mr. President, but I just can’t keep my mouth shut any longer on how I feel about what you’re doing.”
Bob Randolph glanced over at him. Randolph was neither the most brilliant nor the best educated man to sit in the White House, but he was an expert on reading and manipulating people. He was also sly and self-centered to the point of being amoral—a combination Beckham had always found both vicious and dangerous. “What’s the matter, T.J.? You don’t like the way I’m swinging my nine iron?”
Randolph’s smile was a winning one, and he used it now. Beckham resisted the urge to smile back and simply let the moment slip away. He shook his head. “It’s my job to support you, and I have tried. But I don’t think what you’re doing is right. and I’m being pushed real hard by my conscience to stand up and speak out before it’s too late.”
“You going to join the long list of people telling me how not to fight the war in the Middle East, T.J.? Is that it?”
“No, Mr. President. I think you’re trying to manipulate this country into another war. You’ve moved a second carrier group into the Persian Gulf. You’ve got the Secretary of State and Secretary of Defense out there rattling their sabers on everything from Fox News to Larry King Live, and it seems like every time I pick up the Wall Street Journal or turn on the TV, there’s some hysterical new piece about Iran. Now, I may be from Kentucky, but I’m not naive enough to think all these people aren’t pushing your agenda.”
Bob Randolph kept his smile in place, but his blue eyes were snapping. “What do you want me to do, T.J.? Let those crazy mullahs go nuclear?”
“The Iranians haven’t done anything they’re not allowed to do under the Nuclear Nonproliferation Treaty,” Beckham reminded him. “At least they signed the treaty—unlike some of our allies. And if they wanted to, they could back out of it. Just like we backed out of the ABM Treaty.”
Randolph thrust his head forward in a way that made him look considerably less presidential. “What? You saying you trust them? We’re talking about Arabs here, T.J. Those people learn to lie and cheat before they learn to walk.”
“Actually, Mr. President, the Iranians are Persians, not Arabs. And after spending thirty years on the Hill, I’d say neither the Arabs nor the Persians have cornered the market on lying and cheating.”
“I’m afraid you’re forgetting what’s at stake here, T.J. I’m not going to have another 9/11. Not on my watch. These are evil men we’re talking about, and if we don’t fight them over there, we’re going to be fighting them here. Better Tehran than Topeka, I say.”
“Mr. President, Iran had nothing to do with 9/11. It’s been thirty years since the Iranian Republic came into being after the fall of the Shah, and they’ve never attacked anyone. How many countries have we attacked in the last thirty years?”
Randolph swung to face him. “What’s that supposed to mean, T.J.? It’s a heavy responsibility this country bears, and I’ll be the first to admit it. But we bear it with pride. It’s our moral obligation to keep the light of freedom alive—not just for ourselves, but for the world. We can’t turn our backs on the struggles of the people in the Middle East, just like we can’t ignore the threat these mullahs pose to us. And we certainly can’t show weakness by backing down from evil regimes that—”
Beckham swiped one hand through the air with a grunt of disgust. “For Pete’s sake, Bob. You’re not on a stump making a speech. This is me you’re talking to, and you won’t get me to shut up by mouthing the same old easy platitudes about freedom and democracy. I’ve seen those two words used to justify the killing of far too many innocent people in my life. Freedom and democracy have nothing to do with your plans for Iran and we both know it.”
The President’s affable charm slipped away, leaving in its place something that was no longer genial and no longer attractive. “You want reality, T.J.? I’ll tell you what’s reality. Twenty years ago this world was divided between us and the Soviets. Well, we whipped their sorry Commie asses, and now we’re not just top dog, we’re the only dog on the block. The world is ours. Ours, and ours alone. The empires of the past were nothing compared to what we have. The United States was ordained by God to rule the world, and I’m not about to let Him down.”
T.J. studied the younger man’s face. “God told you that, did he?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. He did.”
“You scare me,” said Beckham, and he turned and walked off the green without looking back.