By Silent Majority Read online

  “The Silent Majority cares about prayer, Intelligent Design and a strong military,” Vice President Adams with conviction.

  Ugh, there is the nightmare again, President Carlson thought. Maybe he’s right. “The Silent Majority is a false god. Besides, if a member of the Silent Majority lost his job, we’d see what he’d care about.”

  This was an ongoing debate the President had with himself almost every day and usually from the night before. Politics used the term Silent Majority. It was a monster, an entity, a character that must be referred to as an it, but was alive in the President’s mind. Most fields of endeavor have a term that is used to guide actions one way or the other. In a theater, it’s the audience. Producers can use the audience to make an actor do something, or make the writer change a line or a scene. A trial lawyer has to think about the jury. Very intangible. Who really can tap into what the Silent Majority wanted or demanded? How many politicians used the Silent Majority’s name as a crutch?

  “I suppose you know what you’re doing. Unemployment has never been as low, and the economy is looking strong. HUD is making some serious progress in the inner city,” the Vice President conceded.

  “That’s my area. The other stuff is your area. That’s why I want you to handle the deficit battle, but after the election. I want to continue to focus on terrorism and employment.

  Without much of a pause, the Vice President said, “I’ll be happy to be a dutiful Vice President.”

  “You will, of course, report to the Chief of Staff about any progress.”

  “Yes, of course, Mr. President,” Adams said as he looked down at his eggs and took another mouthful.

  “Yes, good luck. It’ll be good to have you around another four years,” Carlson said with just a touch of sarcasm.

  Daniel Carlson walked into the West Wing of the White House and into the Oval Office. Waiting on his desk was the Daily Brief, which outlined the gathered intelligence on the various global theories. As Carlson read, Lynn, his secretary, entered when he pressed her call button on his phone.

  “Lynn, please get Alan on the phone.” The President sat in his chair and waited.

  “You can pick up, Mr. President.”

  “Hello, Alan. How are you?”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  “You sound tired.”

  Alan sighed, “Exhausted. I have to finish these exams, and then take the Bar in July. It’s a lot of work.”

  “Well, you’re doing fine. I’m proud of you. Your mom just told me you were elected editor-in-chief of the Law Review.”

  “Yes, well, I’m the President’s son,” he said sarcastically.

  “It’s been a long time since law school. Can I roll a home movie for a moment? I remember when I was in law school. It wasn’t easy. It was social life versus studying . . .”

  “Harvard’s for guys who couldn’t get into Yale.”

  “Don’t make me laugh.” Daniel feigned a British accent.

  “I want to do civil rights work.”

  “So do it. You’ve had the offers since your second year,” Daniel replied.

  “The President’s son can’t . . .”

  “The President’s son this and that. Do what you want. . . . Just don’t become a ballet dancer.”

  “I don’t want to be like my brother-in-law either. Getting a promotion at DMI because they think he has the ear of the President.”

  “How ‘bout the FBI?” Daniel said with a smile. “They always want lawyers. If a certain member of my cabinet had his way you could spy on North China, Inc.”

  Alan laughed aloud. “Right. I can’t even jog from here to

  my car.”

  “You know it’s all around the Hill that you’re quite a ladies’ man.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” The President said with satisfaction. “I’ll see you this weekend.”

  “Bye, Dad.” As Daniel hung up, he felt good inside. He was confident that he gave his son everything—more than the boy’s biological father probably ever could. He knew that Alan understood that, too.

  Daniel studied some data and reports from CIA, DIA and FBI intelligence. CIA’s seemed on target and DIA’s was bizarre. He was pleased. The Department of Intelligence report seemed to have the type of conclusions that the President was looking for. It seemed as if the FBI was using CIA counterintelligence reports rather than the Defense Intelligence’s. Daniel enjoyed the relationship the Director of the Department of Intelligence and the Director of the FBI had. They went to boarding school together. Sometimes he didn’t like the way they worked together, however.

  The compromise occurred when the President took office. Carlson knew that the Senate was done with the CIA, but the unpublished yet critical functions of the CIA could not be dismantled and reconstructed without risk to the county’s wellbeing. The way the State Department washed the intelligence it received from the CIA, it was a wonder if the President ever could get it right. Turf wars created agendas. Agendas create wars. Wars create death. That was just bad. It was that simple to Daniel Carlson. There was good and there was bad. Finding out whether some action was good or bad may be murky. Some call the world gray, but it was not to Daniel Carlson. There were pros and cons, but the final answer was right or wrong.

  “They’re ready for you in the Situation Room, Mr. President,” Lynn’s voice said on the intercom.

  In the Situation Room, the President sat with the Director of Central Intelligence, Roger Coltrain, and the Director of the newly formed umbrella agency the Department of Intelligence, Admiral Neal Zane. The new and simplified Department of Intelligence replaced the short-lived Department of Homeland Security—a failing testament to supposed sharing of a warehouse of intelligence. President Carlson had to start over. The major difference between the Department of Intelligence versus Homeland Security; the one that made the Department of Intelligence work: Budgetary control by the Department over every other intelligence agency. The CIA and others would share information or that agency could potentially fell the funding crunch.

  This afternoon’s topic was covert military assistance in China.

  “The Finding is clear, Mr. President. The Chinese underground resistance, like the guerillas of Kuomintang days, needs arms support that we can do covertly,” Coltrain said.

  “How?” The President asked in a serious tone.

  “The Japanese are willing to help us. All we have to do is put the money in a Swiss bank account. The Japanese accepts it as payment for the arms, and gets AR-15s to quell the North Wing factions.”

  “And SIGINT and other satellites tell us that the North Wingers are stockpiling weapons, Neal?”

  “Yes sir. I believe that Roger’s men are right on.”

  “We have to act now, Mr. President. Get the covert action in motion,” the Director of the Department of Intelligence said. The President feigned thought and smiled.

  “Gentlemen, let’s wait for the vote in Congress.”

  “Sir, action is needed now. Let’s get this started now, and when Congress votes, we’ll already be in motion,” Coltrain offered.

  “When they vote against?” Daniel asked.

  “We’ll abort.”

  Daniel smiled and couldn’t help but roll his eyes. In frustration, Director Coltrain stood up. “Better to ask for forgiveness than permission.”

  “I don’t think it works like that,” The President said. What will it think? What will the Silent Majority decide: is this an unjustified secret war, or a justifiable police action? It hates. It eats.

  “Where do you stand, Mr. President? We seemed to have convinced the Vice President. Which way are you going to urge Congress to vote?” Daniel seriously considered this question.

  “Let the White House Counsel and myself look at the findings. If it’s a real analysis, I’ll probably want a further review of covert
action, perhaps overt assistance options. If it’s a high shine job, forget the whole thing. I don’t understand why you bring these things up to me now. You know I can’t commit this in the campaign.”

  “We need to know as soon as possible, Mr. President. We want democracy to sprout in China. If we wait, my people tell me it will be perceived as weakness. With all respect, sir, weakness is not the image you want to convey in the upcoming election. You’ll need CIA support to foster your image of strength.”

  Six men, including Daniel, walked into the Backroom of the White House, not dressed in formal suits, but in flashy golf attire that would make Lee Trevino jealous. These men did not have poor taste in clothing, but were superstitious—the multicolored dress socks and the pom-pom berets helped their game. These men were of assorted backgrounds of distinction. All of them were successful in their endeavors throughout their careers. One cannot plan with great care to be a part of the President’s Kitchen Cabinet, which was created by the seventh President, Andrew Jackson, but must be distinguished enough, and be the President’s friend.

  These men now had the delight to sit with the President, before their golf game, in an undecorated room with only a round table, and talk like men in front of the television in their underwear who had a couple of beers. These men had uncanny power to be candid and influence the President.

  The Backroom sessions had no stenographer. No aides advised the proceeding. No lawyers were there to discuss legalities. What was spoken of in these sessions wasn’t spoke of ever again.

  To the right of the President was Thompson, a distinguished artist and the most liberal of the bunch. Next, was Hesse, a former CIA and NSA man from the Cold War, now a retired CEO of a major computer company. He tended to be Thompson’s political opposite. To the left of Hesse, Dr. Terrell, D.O. His view of the world was gray. He viewed men as generally idiotic. He was judgmental and quick to discriminate. To his left Marksman, a CPA. Cut-and-dry described his paradigm. The sixth, a psychologist, the noted Doctor Curley. He had a tendency to remind everyone of the realities of the world. Daniel kept quiet in these sessions, for the most part. For one, he wasn’t asked to speak. Secondly, he didn’t want to speak. These sessions could be very entertaining. His job, as he saw it, was to glean useful information, then translate it into a language Americans could use.

  “Abortion,” the President blurted out.

  “Forget about the damn conservative, anti-abortion people who have no sense to keep other people’s business alone,” Thompson said.

  “No, don’t start citing case law, you goddamn socialist,” Hesse replied.

  “Perhaps states should be given even greater freedom. Allow some more restrictions on access nationwide,” the President inquired.

  “It’s bullshit,” Dr. Terrell said. “You have these women with a third world mentality, who keep pumping out babies like Curley smokes cigars, and it’s a damn burden on the rest of the Goddamn taxpayers. This administration’s policy has been right on the money. Don’t loosen up on the right-wing conservative--”

  “Most poor women don’t have abortions, Terrell. Statistics show—”

  Hesse interrupted, “Statistics, again. Not everything’s a darn widget, Marksman. It would be wise for the President to consider more state autonomy on the issue. That’s something constitutional. Go figure that, Thompson.”

  “Don’t pick on Marksman and Thompson just because they haven’t gotten laid in twenty years,” Dr. Curley, offered. “Well that’s excluding, Rosy palms.” Curley laughed as he pointed to his palm. “Get it? Rosy palm . . .. Sociologically speaking, you need to have abortion clinics. Why? Because women are going to have abortions anyway—legal or illegal. Why not continue helping the girls who get knocked up from some shmuck who isn’t going to help raise the kid? Not everyone is like the President. Most people don’t raise kids they don’t want.”

  “People can change their mind. Women and their mates have been known to change their mind,” Thompson replied.

  “Let me tell you something I’ve been saying since I’ve been a psychologist for some thirty-five years—behavior is consistent. It’s goddamn consistent. These losers of society, the men that is, are going to raise these kids? Give the child a better chance in another lifetime.”

  “You don’t leave much hope for man,” the President said to Curley.

  “Well, behavior can be modified. Patterned behavior is next to impossible to break. Why do you think I stayed in business for thirty-five years?”

  “I’m tired of this issue,” Marksman declared. “Let’s go play golf.”

  The President came back from his golf game at a club in Maryland. He changed into a suit and walked into his secretary’s office to pick up the mail.

  “How was your game?” Lynn asked.

  “82.”

  “Not bad. Guess who just called me?” She asked with her noticeable southern accent.

  “Who?” The President wondered.

  “An old college buddy of yours—Scott Witherspoon.”

  “Really? Scott Witherspoon,” the President was happily surprised. “What did he say?”

  “He’s visiting next month with the whole family.”

  “Did you put him on the schedule? I want to see him. Give him tickets to anything he wants.”

  “It’s done. I know who this guy is. You’ve only talked about him a thousand times. How long has it been since you’ve seen him?”

  “Maybe twenty years. I still remember at one fraternity party. He grabbed this girl . . ..

  “Watch it there, Mr. President,” Lynn said with a smile.

  “Oh, look who’s talking. The woman who gets kicked out of the Tombs for being too rowdy. And you have to be seriously rowdy to get kicked out of the Tombs.”

  “That was twenty years ago. Working for a freshman Senator who was bound for the Presidency wasn’t the most stress-free job around, ya know,” Lynn responded.

  “You had no idea back then I would be President. While you were . . .”

  “Stop! The chopper is waiting for you.” Lynn pressed a button under her desk and a Secret Service agent walked in the office. “Take the President to the chopper.”

  “Did he tell you where her top was hanging the next day?”

  She laughed and said, “Bye.”

  “Write him a letter and tell him I’d be happy to see him. And try and fit him and his wife in for a dinner while they’re here.”

  Lynn Palmer was a small town girl of Pensacola, Florida. She was with Daniel from the very beginning of his political career, from the first time he ran for Senator.

  On a whim, the young Ms. Palmer was in town, saw the campaign office, and walked in. She was neither a Democrat nor a Republican and wasn’t politically savvy. Three months into the election campaign, she knew everything and did everything to help her man get into office.

  She was taking courses in typing and dictation at the local community college, but she developed into a person more valuable than anyone would ever expect.

  Before she began work with the soon-to-be Senator Carlson, her self-image painted a picture of a school girl from a backward hillbilly town, destined to become a wife to a domineering husband.

  Her image began to come into focus by the time she graduated from high school. She married her prom date, Tim Palmer, three months later. Tim, she discovered, after the fog of affection lifted on her marriage, was a heavy drinker, and he would beat her after a long night of binge drinking.

  Later, the night that Lynn joined the Senate campaign, while she was tending to her baby, Tim came home from a long night with the boys. He was murmuring that there was no food in the refrigerator. When he turned to berate her for not keeping it stocked, she took a direct punch to her eye. She couldn’t drop her baby to save herself.

  The next morning she began to make a change. She restocked the refrige
rator and was determined to keep it filled. Dinner was going to be ready on time every day. She wouldn’t complain that he stayed out all night and didn’t help with the baby.

  She also went volunteering the next day with a black eye, and boy, did she hear from her co-workers. They said, ‘Lynn get out of that house. You can’t be a part of that sick mentality.’ She promised that he would stop. She explained that he feels sorry the next day. All she would have to do is leave early from the headquarters and tend to the house.

  One of the workers picked up her daughter, who was playing in a crib with other babies, “You can’t subject this poor little girl to a childhood of violence.” Lynn said she knew what she was doing.

  On the eve of the election, for all of her hard work, the future Senator, through a memo, asked if she would be his personal Secretary in Washington, D.C.

  That night Lynn watched the television with baited breath. She didn’t discuss working as a secretary for a Senator with Tim. He didn’t even know she was volunteering on the campaign. The election was a landslide. There would be a new Senator. Her man won.

  Early the next morning, Tim staggered in from another night of drinking. She put him to bed quietly. He didn’t notice the suitcases standing by the door. She dressed her baby and a car came early the next morning to pick her up and take her to the airport. Her career was launched and her freedom discovered.

  The presidential helicopter was waiting to take the President to his meeting with Franklin Clineshaw, a wealthy contributor and friend of the President. Daniel waved off reporters who were waiting for him by the helicopter. It would be a twelve-minute flight to Mr. Clineshaw’s estate in Virginia. Daniel stayed for almost an hour. Certain cabinet positions were discussed. On the trip home, Daniel called Lynn and asked her to write a secret memo to the Secretary of Defense and advise him that the Assistant Secretary should look for another job at the end of the term.