Now he said: ‘James Moore has a new idea.’
Next year was election year, and Senator Moore was threatening to challenge Pauline for the Republican nomination. The crucial New Hampshire primary was five months away. A challenge from the sitting president’s own party was unusual but not unknown: Ronald Reagan had done it to Gerald Ford in 1976 and failed; Pat Buchanan had challenged George H. W. Bush in 1991 and failed; but Eugene McCarthy had done so well against Lyndon Johnson in 1968 that Johnson had dropped out of the race.
Moore had a chance. Pauline had won the last presidential election in a backlash against incompetence and racism. ‘Common-sense conservatism’ had been her slogan: no extremes, no abuse, no prejudice. She stood for low-risk foreign policy, low-key policing, and low-tax government. But millions of voters still hankered after a big-talking macho leader, and Moore was winning their support.
Pauline was sitting behind the famous Resolute desk, a gift from Queen Victoria, but she had a twenty-first-century computer in front of her. She looked up at Milt. ‘What now?’
‘He wants to ban pop songs with obscene lyrics from being listed in the Billboard Hot Hundred.’
There was a burst of laughter from the other side of the room. Chief of Staff Jacqueline Brody was amused. A long-time friend and ally of Pauline’s, she was an attractive forty-five-year-old with a brisk manner. She said: ‘If it wasn’t for Moore, there’d be days when I wouldn’t smile from breakfast to bedtime.’
Milt sat down in the chair in front of the desk. ‘Jacqueline may think it’s funny,’ he said grumpily, ‘but a lot of people are going to like this idea.’
‘I know, I know,’ Pauline conceded. ‘Nothing is too ridiculous for modern politics.’
‘What are you going to say about it?’
‘Nothing, if I can avoid comment.’
‘And if you’re asked a direct question?’
‘I’ll say the music that children listen to should not have dirty lyrics, and I would ban it if I were president of a totalitarian country like China.’
‘So you’re comparing American Christians with Chinese Communists.’
Pauline sighed. ‘You’re right, it’s too sarcastic. What do you suggest?’
‘Appeal to singers, music companies and radio stations to exercise good taste and remember their younger listeners. Then, if you must, you can say: “But censorship isn’t the American way.”’
‘That won’t make any difference to anything.’
‘No, but that’s okay, as long as you appear sympathetic.’
She looked appraisingly at Milt. He was not easily shocked, she thought. Could she ask him the question that was on her lips? She thought she could. She said: ‘How old were you when you and your friends started saying fuck?’
Milt shrugged, not shocked in the least. ‘Twelve, maybe thirteen.’
She turned to Jacqueline. ‘You?’
‘About the same.’
‘So what are we protecting our kids from?’
Milt said: ‘I’m not saying Moore is right. But I do think he’s a threat to you. And he calls you a liberal in just about every speech.’
‘Smart conservatives know that you can’t stop change but you can slow it down. That way people have time to get used to new ideas, and you don’t suffer an angry reaction. Liberals make the mistake of demanding radical change now, and that undermines them.’
‘Try putting that on a T-shirt.’
It was one of Milt’s sayings. He believed that few voters understood anything that could not be put on a T-shirt. The fact that Milt was so often right made him more obnoxious. Pauline said: ‘I want to win, Milt.’
‘Me too.’
‘I’ve been sitting at this desk for two and a half years and I feel I’ve hardly achieved anything. I want another term.’
Jacqueline said: ‘Way to go, Madam President.’
The door opened and Lizzie Freeburg looked in. Thirty years old with a mass of curly dark hair, she was the senior secretary. She said: ‘The National Security Advisor is here.’
‘Good,’ said Pauline.
Gus Blake entered, immediately making the room seem smaller. Gus and Milt nodded to one another: they did not get on.
The president’s three closest advisors were now in the room. The Chief of Staff, the NSA and the vice-president all had offices a few steps away on this floor of the West Wing, and sheer physical proximity meant they saw more of the president than anyone else.
Pauline said to Gus: ‘Milt has been telling me about James Moore’s appeal for censorship of pop songs.’
Gus flashed his charming smile. ‘You’re the leader of the free world, and you’re worrying about pop songs?’
‘I just asked Milt how old he was when he started saying fuck. He said twelve. How about you, Gus?’
The NSA said: ‘I was born in South Central Los Angeles. It was probably the first word I spoke.’
Pauline laughed and said: ‘I promise I’ll never quote you.’
‘You wanted to talk about al-Bustan.’
‘Yes. Let’s be more comfortable.’ She got up from her desk. In the centre of the room two couches faced each other across a coffee table. Pauline sat down. Milt and Jacqueline sat opposite and Gus beside her.
Gus said: ‘It’s the best news we’ve had from that region for a long time. The Cleopatra project is paying off.’
Milt said: ‘Cleopatra?’
Gus looked impatient. Milt was not conscientious about reading his briefings.
Pauline was. She said: ‘The CIA has an undercover officer who produced twenty-four-carat intelligence on an ISGS base in Niger. Yesterday a joint force of American, French and local troops wiped the place out. It’s in this morning’s briefing papers, but you may not have had time to read them all.’
Milt said: ‘Why did we bring in the French, for God’s sake?’
Gus gave him a look that said, Don’t you know anything? but he spoke politely enough. ‘A lot of those countries used to be French colonies.’
‘Okay.’
As a woman, Pauline constantly suffered suggestions that she was too nice, too soft, too empathetic to be commander-in-chief of the US military. She said: ‘I’m going to announce this myself. James Moore has a big mouth when he talks about terrorists. It’s time to show people that President Green actually kills the bastards.’
‘Good idea.’
Pauline turned to the Chief of Staff. ‘Jacqueline, would you ask Sandip to arrange a press conference?’ Sandip Chakraborty was the Communications Director.
‘Sure thing.’ Jacqueline looked at her watch. It was mid-afternoon. ‘Sandip’s going to suggest tomorrow morning, for maximum TV coverage.’
‘Fine.’
Gus said: ‘Couple of details that weren’t in the briefing because we’ve only just heard. First, the raid was led by Colonel Susan Marcus.’
‘The operation was commanded by a woman?’
Gus grinned. ‘Don’t sound so incredulous.’
‘This is great. Now I can say: If brute force is what you need, get a woman to do what’s necessary.’
‘Talking about Colonel Marcus, but also about yourself.’
‘I love it.’
‘Your briefing says that the terrorists’ guns were a mixture of Chinese and North Korean.’
Milt said: ‘Why does Beijing arm these people? I thought the Chinese hated Muslims. Don’t they lock them up in re-education camps?’
Pauline said: ‘It’s not ideological. Both China and North Korea make a lot of money making and selling weapons.’
‘They shouldn’t sell them to ISGS.’
‘They’ll say they don’t. And there’s a thriving second-hand market.’ Pauline shrugged. ‘What are you going to do?’
Gus surprised her by supporting Milt. ‘The vice-president has a point, Madam President. Something else that wasn’t in the morning briefing is that, as well as guns, the terrorists had three North Korean Koksan M-1978 self-propelled 170mm field artillery pieces, based on a Chinese Type 59 tank chassis.’
‘Jesus. They didn’t buy those in a flea market in Timbuktu.’
‘No.’