Minus 2 days
CHARLES CRANDAL STOOD TALL AND COMMANDING, a confident smile curving his lips just so, basking in the winds of political favor, his arms thrust over his head in a victory sign. Four thousand of San Diego’s citizens had discarded any notion of spending a day at the beach in favor of hearing this man shake the rafters with his call to power. They stood on the park’s green grass with fists lifted to the sky, young and old, male and female, mimicking the victory sign. Paying homage to Charles Crandal, who had persuaded them that he should be the next president of the United States.
Blane Roberts watched him from the side of the podium, intrigued by the man’s ability to bring out their affections. Crandal’s shiny bald skull flexed with his smile. He wasn’t particularly handsome, but even there, looking at the women crying out to him, you would think him a rock legend. John Lennon resurrected. In these moments even Roberts wanted to believe the stump speech. There was a sort of redemption in unity alone, he thought, regardless of its focus. It could be Hitler up here with a flat palm saluting the fine residents of Southern California and they would hardly know the difference.
They were chanting, “Power to the people. Power to the people,” which was a slogan Roberts had come up with (yuk, yuk), and it might just as well have been, “We’ll follow you to hell. We’ll follow you to hell,” for all they knew. Either way it didn’t matter; people like Crandal were destined to rule. This campaigning stuff was America’s road to power, but in reality, when you really got behind all the flags and the dancing girls, true leaders made their own roads. And in the case of Charles Crandal, Roberts was as much the road builder as the man San Diego was going batso over at the moment.
Crandal turned, made one last gesture to the people—an open-armed we-are-family gesture—and walked toward Roberts, who smiled and nodded supportively.
They walked off the platform together and headed directly for the black limousine waiting on the park’s driveway. Their bodyguards, Bone and Carson, followed at ten paces as demanded by Crandal. “You had even me going there,” Roberts said with a chuckle.
“Keep smiling, Roberts. I know it doesn’t come natural, but humor me.”
“I’m smiling; I’m smiling. I heard from our people in Eritrea.”
Crandal turned to meet a reporter who had slipped past the line and ran to catch them. A security man was striding to intercept, but Crandal waved him off with a casual hand. It was Donna Blair, political correspondent for NBC, her trademark blue eyes smiling even now at twenty feet. The blond anchor-turned-correspondent did not possess the muscles required to frown, Roberts thought. The wind had disheveled her short hair, but the look only complemented her.
“No interviews, Donna. I thought I made that clear.” Crandal said it with a grin, but his voice carried a slight bite.
“Who said anything about an interview?” She pulled up and smiled pointedly, a gesture that made most men blink. “How does it feel to be ten points up on your opponent eight weeks before the election?”
“Sounds like a question to me.” Crandal paused, studying her. “Ten points, huh? Which poll?”
“Ours. And it’s a word of congratulations, not a question. How about a sit-down in Los Angeles next week?”
“When?”
“Monday?”
“No, when was the poll taken?”
“Came out this morning, taken last night. How about Monday?”
“Come to the press conference Wednesday. I promise you I’ll give you the leadoff.” He turned and strode for the limousine and then looked back. “And if you think ten points is something, stick around, honey. We’re going to redefine blowout. You can quote me on that.”
Roberts’s gaze lingered. Even the media in all of their supposed unbiased neutrality couldn’t resist Crandal’s charm. He stepped after the man quickly.
“And the report on Tempest?” Crandal asked.
They were alone now, with only the chauffeur in possible earshot. Roberts spoke quietly. “Like clockwork. The news has it as another African border skirmish, but the guerrillas penetrated all the way to Debra Damarro.”
“They find anything?”
“No.”
He paused. “The monastery?”
“Leveled.”
“No survivors?”
“No.”
“Good. Tell them not to get carried away over there.”
“There’ll be the typical posturing for another month, but they’ve already started pulling back.”
“Good.” Crandal turned one last time and lifted his arms in his patented victory sign. “It’s amazing what you can get away with when you have the power, isn’t it?” The band was playing and the chants were still full on, but a fresh cheer rose above the din and Crandal smiled wide. He was getting to like the feel, and truth be told, Roberts wasn’t hating it either.
“Yes, sir.”
Crandal suddenly thundered his war cry, startling Roberts beside him. “Power to the people.”
Yes indeed. Power to the people.