"After America" - читать интересную книгу автора (Birmingham John)

ON THIS SITE IN FEDERAL HALL

"Mister President?" Culver tugged at his arm.

Kipper frowned at his chief of staff. He'd labored manfully to get Culver to call him Kip or even Jimmy-ordered him to more than once, in fact-but the former attorney insisted on the formalities. Kip suspected he enjoyed them. Jed's considerable bulk was constrained in a dark blue three-piece suit, which must have been a terrible inconvenience; the president wore jeans, tan Carhartt work boots, and a ballistic vest over an old L.L. Bean shirt. Even that modest outfit was uncomfortable in the heat and humidity. The damn weather, it was still all over the goddamn place.

"Just one more minute, Jed."

Looking at the statue, Kipper wondered what truly had gone through Washington's mind on that day. He was the leader of a newborn nation on the brink of a vast wilderness surrounded by both real and potential enemies. He had given up command of the army against the advice of many officers who'd argued against the move. Faith in the system he was helping to establish-that was the lesson Kipper took from Washington.

Reading presidential biographies was a self-imposed requirement for a job he felt poorly qualified to do, yet they never truly got to the heart of the men who were his predecessors. Of them all, Kipper really identified only with Truman, who felt as if the barn had fallen in on him when Roosevelt died.

At least he knew it was coming, Kipper thought ruefully. He marveled at the path he had traveled: from being an anonymous city engineer in Seattle to provisional president and ultimately elected to a full four-year term as president of the much reduced United States in January 2004, not long before the Wave finally lifted. A hell of a trip.

"Okay, I've probably seen enough," he conceded. "Just thought it was important, you know, to have a look for myself."

"That's why people like you, sir." Culver smiled. "You like to get your hands dirty. Come on, shall we get back to the convoy? This place gives me the creeps."

They retraced their steps along Wall Street, carefully picking their way around the occasional pile of rags that had not been blown or washed away. There weren't many left after so long. Jed and Kip both swerved to avoid a rusted three-wheeled baby stroller that had tipped on its side. They studiously avoided looking too closely at its contents. At one point a shaft of light between two burned-out buildings illuminated a small galaxy of twinkling stars on the footpath. Some of the smaller, more desperate freebooters did nothing but sweep the streets clear of rings, watches, bracelets, and other smaller bejeweled trinkets left behind when their owners died. There was a mountain of such stuff still lying around. As Kip sidestepped an pricey-looking silver watch, the thud of faraway gunfire reached them. His detail chief spoke briefly into a radio, but even Kip knew the small battle was too far off to concern them.

The convoy was waiting back at the intersection with William Street, four black Secret Service Humvees and three Strykers bristling with machine guns and grenade launchers. More security men hurried toward his walking party as they approached.

"Trouble?" Jed asked.

"Nothing we can't handle, sir," replied the agent in charge. "Just a little flare-up over on Canal. It won't bother us, but we should get moving anyway."

Kipper distinctly heard the crump of multiple explosions somewhere far off in the city. The muffled thrum of helicopters grew louder but faded away before he could see them. At least they're ours, he thought. You couldn't always be sure these days. The detail hurried him over to his vehicle and almost pushed him inside. Jed climbed right in after him, followed by Karen Milliner. The young woman's expensive-looking black silk slacks were covered in dust and grime. She pulled herself into the cabin and seated herself directly in front of Kipper.

"Sorry, sir, but I've just been talking to the Service, and I'm afraid I probably have to advise against going on with this. There's been three big-ass firefights across the island this morning and more over in Brooklyn. A real humdinger near JFK with air force security forces."

Kip enjoyed Karen's totally ingenuous use of words like "humdinger."

"Karen, there are gunfights all over this city every day and night," he said. "Mostly freebooters and pirates fighting among themselves. There's never going to be a time when you get the nice quiet background vision you want. Just roll with it."

Doors slammed up and down the convoy, and the engine turned over in their vehicle, a heavily armored SUV.

"And while we're on the topic, sir, respectfully and all, you really should have let me assign a camera crew to at least shoot some pool vision of your little walk around back there. I mean, what is the point of all that meetin' and greetin' if we don't get any good coverage out of it?"

Kip smiled and shrugged as the vehicle lurched forward. "The point? To meet and greet folks?"

Karen opened her mouth to protest, but Jed cut her off.

"Give it, up, darlin'. You'll never win. I've been trying to get him to dress like a grown-up ever since I took this job, and he still looks like he's about to go and boss a crew of ditchdiggers somewhere."

Kipper waved his hands back in the general direction of the salvage workers they had just met.

"Well, mostly that's what I do, Jed. This job is not what it used to be. Matter of fact, it's not far removed from my old job for the city, and I'm just fine with that. The country doesn't need a commander in chief nearly as much as it needs a chief engineer, if you ask me. Just look at the work that needs doing in this city if it's gonna be our main eastern settlement again."

Jed gazed morosely out the windows as the convoy slowly rumbled down Broad Street. The fire-blackened shell of Goldman Sachs loomed just ahead.

"But Mister President, we cannot do that work without securing the ground first. Those people we just met back there-they could not be doing what they're doing unless that part of the city had been cleared of raiders and pirates. And now that we have cleared them, that is, killed them all and cordoned off that part of Manhattan, we'll need to hold the area, which will mean sustaining militia forces and at least a brigade of regulars, and securing JFK, the bridges and roads between here and-"

Kipper held up his hands to cut Jed off.

"I know all that, Jed. You don't have to remind me. Some days I feel like I'm living in some weird-ass History Channel show and we're trying to settle, or resettle, the Wild East. I got hostile powers to three points of the compass, a weakened military, massive debt, feuding state and federal governments, and an economy that pretty much ceased to exist four years ago. None of this is news to me, buddy. But when I agreed to do this job, I agreed on one condition: that it was to be about rebuilding. And yes, I know that retaking ground and fighting off all comers is part of that. But it's not the main game. Not for me. Restoration, reconstruction, and renewal are my three R's. Otherwise I just walk away."

He shook his head and folded his arms to emphasize the point. Nobody would ever doubt that James Kipper meant what he said. He wasn't even sure he wanted to run in the next election, and he had been entirely open about that, a level of honesty that drove his handlers to distraction most days.

Culver threw up his hands in mock surrender. "You're the boss."

"Yes, I am," said Kip. "It says so on all my underwear."