The General's President Read Free Page B

bridge ahead, and farm fields by the river. Near one end of the bridge, on the road shoulder, a pickup truck was parked. A man stood fishing from the bridge, and when he saw them, waved, then walked with his tackle to the truck. Tall and long-armed, gray-shocked, he was waiting at the water's edge when they got there.
    "Hello, Haugen, you old sonofabitch," he said, and the two old men pumped hands vigorously. "Åssen går de' ?"
    Haugen laughed. "Å, de' henger og slenger." He paused, half turning to the priest. "Vern, this is the friend I told you about, Father Steve Flynn. Steve, this is Vern Stenhus. Vern and I went to school together, sixty, sixty-five years ago. He worked for the Two Emils, too."
    The tall, still straight Stenhus looked Flynn over quizzically for a long second, as if surprised that the priest was not collared and robed. He put out a large hand, and Stephen Flynn shook it. Then the two older men carried the canoe up the steep path to the road while he struggled behind with the huge pack. Flynn was reasonably strong, but winded quickly. Physical strength persists long after physical endurance has been lost.
    After tying the canoe atop the pickup shell and stowing the pack, they crowded into the pickup cab. Stenhus started the motor and pulled out onto the blacktop.
    "I suppose you ain't heard what happened in the news the last couple days," he said as they started down the road. Stenhus's speech had a discernible flavor of Scandinavia which Haugen's did not.
    "No," Haugen said. "What?"
    "There was some big riots started. Fires and looting. Shootouts with the police—like a regular war you know. In New York first. Then yesterday they broke out in a bunch of other places too. Washington, Detroit, Los Angeles, places like that. I heard this morning that Donnelly sent the army in, and called out the national guard."
    Father Flynn felt his chest constrict. Haugen's face seemed to pucker. Outside, the Indian summer sun shone on.
    Stenhus turned and spit brownly out the window. "Too bad this country ain't got a president with a teaspoon or two of brains." He looked at Haugen. "You ought to run for president next time, Arne. If there is a next time. You got enough money to get elected, and you're a hell of a lot smarter than that Donnelly." He laughed then, and poked Haugen with an elbow. "Even if you are half Finlander."
    Haugen laughed wryly, as much a snort as a laugh. "Me, president?! That'd be the day! I wouldn't have the job if they offered it to me. And the country wouldn't have me if I took it."

TWO
    The little OH-6 Cayuse lifted from the Pentagon grounds and swung smoothly north-northeast toward the Potomac. As an observation helicopter, the model had been replaced for more than a decade, but they were an excellent little aircraft, and a few were still used to shuttle brass. This one was the personal shuttle of the chairman of the JCS, the joint chiefs of staff, and just now carried two passengers wearing four stars each.
    The Lincoln Memorial and the reflecting pool scarcely registered on General Thomas M. "Jumper" Cromwell as he looked northward past them. He was seeing the bulldozed remains of street barricades near the State Department Building on 23rd Street, the black scars where cars had burned, and farther north, the blocks of burned-out buildings with smoke still rising from the rubble. The air stunk from it.
    He saw an old M-60, probably an A3, roll slowly, ponderously through an intersection, accompanied by three armored personnel carriers. Nothing seemed to be going on with them. Patrolling, keeping military visibility up, that was all. The fighting had dropped way off, to spasmodic sniping, brief infrequent firefights. All but the real hardcases had backed off, gotten lost, at least in Washington. The question was, would they stay backed off or would they go guerrilla?
    This was high security airspace. Although the Cayuse emitted a constant identification signal, the pilot had been