A God in Ruins - Leon Uris [125]
Now the sweat of a hundred men gave their rage a smell. Pastor Ed was speaking of Yaweh again and his prison visit from Jesus Christ.
“It all comes down very plain. I’ve seen with my own eyes, NATO trucks and artillery in a warehouse in Houston. I seen with my own eyes the interplanetary space people who landed in Roswell, who were snatched and hidden by the federal government. I’ve seen reports from our Canadian brothers that their border is filled with NATO and Russian troops…ready to move in the name of the New World Order. Brothers! There is only you and me to rise up and stop them and save this nation.”
Chapter 34
PROVIDENCE—THE WEEK BEFORE
LABOR DAY—2007
What was it that annoyed President Tomtree about Labor Day? After all, he had once built a model workforce environment. Or was it Darnell Jefferson? No matter, it was the proper move to make at the time. T3 had felt far more at home in the boardrooms.
He’d travel to Detroit, make a “read between the lines” speech extolling the partnership of labor and management, and slip out of town without offending anyone.
Today, though, was a day to laze on the water, which was unusually calm near Noah’s Rock. The mini-yacht Yankee Pride was rigged for serious fishing. There were not too many days the President could drop a line in the water.
In a moment he heard the sharp report of the yacht club’s cannon, indicating that the sun was under the yardarm and, most important, the bar was open. The President ordered the outriggers to be reeled in and once again reviewed the report of his brother-in-law, Dwight Grassley.
In the years since Dwight Grassley had first bet on young Thornton Tomtree, he had risen from family donkey to family patriarch. Inside the Republican Party, Dwight took on a role of what might be called a hatchet man.
Grassley was a superb fund-raiser who bent and twisted the soft-money rules to their limits. Not that T3 needed funds. He could draw from his own accounts, and legally. Tomtree insisted that the widest net was cast to have each and every individual CEO make their contribution.
Soft money had become a basic canon of American politics, protested by all but stopped by none.
Napkins with the presidential seal were laid on a cocktail table with assorted yum-yums. Eric, the steward, offered hot lemoned towels to deodorize the fish smell from their hands.
“Black Label on the rocks with a side of Black Label on ice,” Dwight said. His fringe of hair was white, yacht club white, a waxy silver white that growled at his plaid pants and startling crested jacket. Tomtree pontificated on the beauty of soft money…to let every big donor feel he had an insider’s look…soft money was just a way of covering bets…soft money was soft graft with a three-thousand-year history. Throw it out the front door, it will return by the back door. If Tomtree turned back soft contributions, the CEOs would hold his feet to the fire for the next five years. T3 knew them all. All of them had Bulldog networks operating from his great computer center in Pawtucket.
“Goddamned Labor Day,” Thornton growled and sipped. “My daddy was drowned on one of those Labor Day weekends. Seems to always bring bad news.”
“Well, the news can’t be better,” Dwight interrupted. “We have our coffers filled. We can channel funds on joint advertising to our candidates, and the economy is great. You’re going to be reelected in a landslide.”
Eric brought the news that the commodore’s skiff was on the way out with Mr. Jefferson aboard. Well, get on with it, T3 told himself.
“Dwight,” he began, “we are planning to formally announce after Labor Day. It is the best tactical time, before Christmas and the January doldrums. Announcing early will have any other candidates scrambling for money and key people. We’ll have it all. However, I want to enter the campaign with no lingering shadows