Chapt. 35 (1st draft) - White House Rumble

The barking stopped within seconds after Trueblood spoke. He wasn't certain whether it was because of him or if perhaps The Undertaker also had said something and that it was his words that brought about Buford's obedience. Whatever the reason, the barking stopped. Trueblood saw Buford straighten up and back away from the corner. The bald behemoth was still gripping the pistol, but it was pointed at the floor.

As Trueblood started shifting his attention to the other side of the room, where The Undertaker stood, his eye caught movement in the corner in front of Buford. The back of Bart's suit coat was undulating as the man wearing it struggled to rise from his kneeling position. Trueblood looked away, not wishing to witness the remnant of his boss rising in his humiliation.

Then it became a one-on-one with The Undertaker. The success of his initial effect neither surprised Trueblood nor emboldened him further. His mental and physical state, this sense of unwavering equilibrium, was beyond his conscious control. He'd become a weapon, operating on instinct and intuition. He experienced no emotion in this condition yet knew without hesitation the appropriate passions would rise and enable him to neutralize an opponent at whatever moment such action was needed.

“You should be director here, not...” Trueblood watched The Undertaker nod toward the corner, where Bart Gladstone was still struggling to his feet.

The Undertaker's words startled Trueblood, because he was not accustomed to hearing anyone else when in his present condition, or, rather, hearing their voices as anything beyond background noise. In this instance The Undertaker's voice was no different than Trueblood had heard it previously. The same conversational but oddly flat, slightly nasal tone with seemingly exaggerated inflections at the end of certain sentences. The nod toward Bart took the place of what otherwise likely would have been an emphasis on thing, had he said “that thing over there.” The Undertaker fixed his eyes on Trueblood's.

The Undertaker's eyes looked mild, at a distance. They were not noticeably large or small or spaced too wide or narrow. Ordinary eyes. Mild, some might say meek, unthreatening eyes in an unobtrusive face. The face's vague heart shape rising balloon-like from a fragile-looking chin to a mat of sparse, mousey hair further robbed it of manliness. At a distance.

Trueblood was near enough, half a dozen or so feet away, to see the sneering slant of The Undertaker's mouth, which, with its compressed lips pushing dimples into the cheeks at each end, lent much at a distance to the illusion of easy friendliness his face projected. This was the nearest Trueblood had been to The Undertaker since he'd begun accompanying Buford to Bart's office. Now, the facial features, both in their components and in the whole, revealed a mien that was subtly hard and cruel. The eyes in particular, buttressed by the sneering mouth, played the treacherous game of luring you in with a tired ambiguity that delivered you to their soul-dead unforgiving centers.

The rest of him was unprepossessing, at any distance. Thin almost delicate build, no sense of being tall nor short nor quick nor strong nor athletic in any way. His tan chinos and unzipped, faded denim jacket implied no intimidating intent. The ambush revealed itself solely in his face.

“What should it matter to you?” Trueblood said.

The Undertaker cocked his head to one side and squinted, as if appraising his opponent. The compressed lips twitched, offering a partial smile that conveyed derision. “A reasonable question,” he said.

“Not that you deserve an answer, but let's just say I would find it more amusing to watch your inevitable descent into total corruption than to see that bag of gas over there even for one more minute pretend he has the remotest iota of integrity left in him.”

Bad Landing at Camp David (Chapt. 31 - 1st draft)

Marine One wobbled down through the thickening afternoon clouds and broke clear less than a thousand feet above Catoctin Mountain Park. The heavy copter skimmed over bristling forested terrain, slowing when the distinct contours of Camp David appeared. It eased into a hover before descending onto the concrete helipad where it made contact with an unpleasant thump.

“Don't tell me Maj. Erskine disrespects you, too?” Ruth said as the rotors wound down.

The president's sheepish grin and wagging head was answer enough, but he added, “I don't think so, Ruth, but I really don't know. Coincidentally they transferred the major awhile back, right about the time the paper started giving away those little magnifying glasses so people could see me in the cartoons. I think they use cadets to fly me now.”

Moments after the engines went silent the forward compartment door snapped open and a stocky young man in a shiny olive drab flight suit stepped into the passenger compartment. Without speaking he gave an impatient flap of his hand beckoning them to disembark. Ordinarily the other passengers would defer to the president to go first, but Morowitz nodded to Ruth, sitting nearest the door, to precede him.

She stood, turned and found herself staring into the young Marine's plump face. His jaw was moving slowly, rhythmically as if he were chewing gum, an act of insolence that by its mere suggestion sprayed a quart of psychic fuel onto her rage, ignited moments earlier by the clumsy landing. His facial muscles, working the gum, assumed the contours of a smirk that further aggravated the disrespect he conveyed. Ruth scanned the nonchalantly pulsing face until she came to a pair of cobalt eyes that peered through her without a glimmer of recognition she was there.

“Bring the pilot out here,” she snapped, glaring at the unseeing eyes. It wasn't until the Marine showed no reaction that Ruth noticed the twin white strings forking from a pocket in his jumpsuit and ending in each ear. The slap came without warning and with such fury it rocked the Marine on his heels and flung one of his earbuds with its tether onto his shoulder where it dangled, emitting the predictable cadence of a defiantly chattering hip hop cricket. Ruth reached up and jerked the other bud from its fleshy nest.

She said in a tight, hard voice, staring first at the nametag sewn into his flight suit then back into his now wide, startled eyes, “Henderson, huh? Well, Capt. Henderson, if you haven't heard the old infantry expression 'don't step on your dick', it's too late now. You've just jumped up and down on yours. Do you have any idea who your passenger is?”

“Whah, yes ah do, Miz Pres...”

“I'm not the president, you goddamned fool! The president is standing behind me...

“Ah'm aware...”

“If you were aware, Henderson, what were you doing chewing gum and listening to that shit you call music? Is this the kind of discipline they're teaching now in the Marine Corps?”

“No, my-em, ah shore do...”

“It's way beyond too late if you were thinking of apologizing, captain. You might as well kiss your career goodbye. If I had my way you'd be cooling your ass in the brig until I came up with a way to boot it out of the Corps for good.

“Speaking of asses, tell that incompetent pilot to get his out here right now!”

“Uh...yes'm...uh.” He lurched backward, bumping past the bulkhead, and stumbled toward the pilot's cabin. Ruth cursed when she saw him close the cabin door behind him. A heavy hand on her shoulder kept her from following him into the forward compartment.

So... (excerpt - Ch 28)

It was Roger Chapman, in the process of shutting down the equipment, whose peripheral vision snagged his attention enough to turn his head enough to notice the president.

“Sir! Er...Mr. President!” Chapman blurted, bringing Gladstone and Trueblood craning around in their chairs. Trueblood's lips formed the words “Mr. President”, while Gladstone merely stared, mouth hanging open.

President Geoffrey Morewitz was leaning against the wall just inside and beside the office door, arms folded across his narrow chest. His long yet oddly youthful face quickly mustered a dutiful smile, which nonetheless fell short of neutralizing the overall sense of haunted anxiety that seemed embedded in the musculature and nerve responses around his oversized eyes. Standing, even leaning, he looked taller than in photos where he was seated. This, because of the disproportionate lengths of his legs and abdomen, which caused unfriendly cartoonists to portray him as a daddy longlegs arachnid.

Both Chapman and Trueblood were stepping away from their chairs, gesturing for the president to sit, when Morewitz's sonorous, authoritative baritone voice froze all movement in the room.

“Evening, fellas...or is it morning, heh heh? Guess I've lost track of the time.” Morewitz made no effort to move to either of the proffered chairs.

“Good morning, Mr. President.” It was Trueblood whose presence of mind kicked in first. “Working late, sir?”

“Yup, I was that. Seems like this job never ends. Anyway, I laid down on the couch for a little nap and then I heard you boys down here. Thought maybe you had a little poker game going...”

“Our apologies, sir, we were unaware...”

“That's OK, Mr...oh, yes, you're Mr. Trueblood. I've heard good things about you...

“So, no poker game, it would appear, which must mean the rumors I caught wind of that something would be happening down in Virginia, at that cottage place, must have been true?”

“Rumors...sir?” The squawk was Gladstone's.

“That's right, Bart. I tried to check around, see if there was any connection to this administration...

“You know, despite all the chatter in the media about this, that and the other, the FDA thus far has made no decision regarding this so-called Vulcana formula. Legally we have no right to take any action whatsoever against Wilde Labs. Yet.” He stared at the still-seated Gladstone, who finally struggled out of his chair and faced his boss.

“Sir,” he said, breathing heavily, “I can assure you we had nothing to do with this. We heard the rumor, too. Probly the same one, Mr. President.”

“Well, I appreciate that,” Bart. “Not that I think you would have done such a...thing without running it up the flagpole first. Do we have any idea who it is?”

“WACKO, I had to guess.”

“Yup, that'd be mine, too. You know, sometimes I wonder why we even have this government. Like we're just window dressing or something. Do we know how it came out?”

“No idea, sir,” Gladstone said, shrugging, after shooting a quick glance at Trueblood and catching his eye. “Our...I mean the attackers appeared to have shot down one of their drones, but it was almost impossible to see what was going on there.” Morewitz nodded slowly, his eyes moving from Gladstone to Trueblood and then to Chapman, who stood behind his chair as if trapped.

“All right then, gentlemen,” sounding conclusive and weary, “I think I'll go back to that couch. Catch a few more zzzs. Good work here.”

Afraid to speak after the president left, Gladstone waited until he and Trueblood were in Gladstone's office. There, Gladstone scribbled the words window dressing on a sheet of paper and handed it to Trueblood. Remembering Gladstone used the same expression in Secord's office before the battle started, Trueblood nodded and mouthed the word “bug” and pointed at the light fixture over Gladstone's desk. Gladstone nodded.

“Wanna go grab a little breakfast?” he said.

“The cafeteria open this early?”

“I doubt it, but I'm hungry for some of Ma Brumfield's flapjacks. We can walk from here. Fresh air'll wake us up.” He winked.