The Road to Omaha Read Free Page A

I’m going to file against the government of the United States,” replied Hawkins, pulling a mutilated cigar out of his pocket and lighting it with a World War II Zippo. “You wait, Brokey-One, and you watch.”
    “Good
God
, for
what
?… Don’t smoke! You’re not supposed to
smoke
in here!”
    “Oh, Brokey, you and your cousin, Ethelred, always went too much by the book, and when the book didn’t match the action, you looked for more books. It’s not
in
the books, Heseltine, not the ones you can read. It’s in your stomach, in your gut. Some things are right and some things are wrong, it’s as simple as that. The gut tells you.”
    “What the
hell
are you talking about?”
    “Your gut tells you to look for books you’re
not
supposed to read. In places where they keep secrets, like right in here.”
    “Mac, you’re not making sense!”
    “Give me a year, maybe two, Brokey, and then you’ll understand. I’ve got to do it right. Real right.” General MacKenzie Hawkins strode out between the metal racks ofthe archives to the exit. “
Goddamn,
” he said to himself. “Now I really go to work. Get
ready
for me, you magnificent Wopotamis. I’m
yours
!”
    Twenty-one months passed, and
nobody
was ready for Thunder Head, chief of the Wopotamis.

2
    The President of the United States, his jaw firm, his angry eyes steady and penetrating, accelerated his pace along the steel-gray corridor in the underground complex of the White House. In seconds, he had outdistanced his entourage, his tall, lean frame angled forward as if bucking a torrential wind, an impatient figure wanting only to reach the storm-tossed battlements and survey the bloody costs of war so as to devise a strategy and repel the invading hordes assaulting his realm. He was John of Arc, his racing mind building a counterattack at Orleans, a Harry Five who knew the decisive Agincourt was in the immediate picture.
    At the moment, however, his immediate objective was the anxiety-prone Situation Room, buried in the lowest levels of the White House. He reached a door, yanked it open, and strode inside as his subordinates, now trotting and breathless, followed in unison.
    “
All
right, fellas!” he roared. “Let’s
skull
!”
    A brief silence ensued, broken by the tremulous, high-pitched voice of a female aide. “I don’t think in here, Mr. President.”
    “What?
Why
?”
    “This is the men’s room, sir.”
    “Oh?… What are
you
doing here?”
    “Following you, sir.”
    “Golly gee. Wrong turn. Sorry about that. Let’s go.
Out
!”
    The large round table in the Situation Room glistened under the wash of the indirect lighting, reflecting the shadows of the bodies seated around it. These blocks of shadow on the polished wood, like the bodies themselves, remained immobile as the stunned faces attached to those bodies stared in astonishment at the gaunt, bespectacled man who stood behind the President in front of a portable blackboard, on which he had drawn numerous diagrams in four different colors of chalk. The visual aids were somewhat less than effective as two of the crisis management team were colorblind. The bewildered expression on the youthful Vice-President’s face was nothing new and therefore dismissible, but the growing agitation on the part of the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff was not so easily dismissed.
    “
Goddamn
it, Washbum, I don’t—”
    “That’s Washburn, General.”
    “That’s nice. I don’t follow the legal line.”
    “It’s the orange one, sir.”
    “Which one is that?”
    “I just explained, the
orange
chalk.”
    “Point it out.”
    Heads turned; the President spoke. “Gee whiz, Zack, can’t you tell?”
    “It’s dark in here, Mr. President.”
    “Not that dark, Zack.
I
can see it clearly.”
    “Well, I’ve got a minor visual problem,” said the general, abruptly lowering his voice, “… distinguishing certain colors.”
    “What, Zack?”
    “
I
heard him,” exclaimed the towheaded,