God’s sake.”
She took his arm, and he looked down at her sadly. “That’s the way it is when you’re second choice to a hero.”
“He wasn’t a hero when I married you—-I’m not sure he’s a hero now.” She smiled. “I think you’re a hero. You’ve held your family together and this county too. I don’t love Devin Milford. I don’t even know who he is anymore. I love you.” Her eyes glistened. “For such a smart man, you can really be dumb sometimes.”
She kissed him and he smiled almost bashfully. “And to think I risked my place in line for this,” she kidded, feeling anew about Peter the way she always wanted to feel about him.
Chapter 4
For two hours they were shown “indoctrination” fi lms : crude, committee-approved rhetoric about the administrative areas and the PPP and all the other glories of the Transition. Finally there was a lecture, warning the almost-ex-prisoners to be Good Citizens, to be Positive and Patriotic, lest they once again be declared “antisocial” and in need of “reeducation.” Devin nearly shuddered at the prospect.
After the films, Devin and forty or fifty others were herded into a converted barracks that now contained a dozen green metal desks and twenty or so file cabinets left over from World War II. Each desk had a clerk behind it, checking records. In time, Devin was called before a thin and severe young woman who studied his file with a glazed expression.
“Your records were left in the truck from Fort Davis. That’s why you had to wait so long.” She spoke with a slow Texas drawl, her large brown eyes focusing on his file. “Are you somebody important?”
“No.”
“Well, you got a red tag on your file and that usually means something important.” She looked at the file again. “Huh. It says here you ran for president in 1992.” She scrutinized Devin’s face. “Is that a joke?”
“Yes.”
She looked at him suspiciously. “You must’ve really screwed up. Were you a fascist?”
“No.”
“It says here you were in a mental hospital too.” “No. They sent me to Fort Davis.”
“Well, the file’s probably screwed up. Most of them are. But if it’s peachy with you, it’s peachy with me.” She regarded him again and smiled. “The prison record’s what counts anyway and yours looks real good. You have to go through orientation and delousing and then the magistrate’ll see you.”
“What? We were cleaned at the camp.”
The interview had ended. The young clerk closed Devin’s file. “Next.”
When Andrei’s jet Sanded at Dulles Airport, west of Washington, a military helicopter was waiting to whisk him westward to the command headquarters of General Petya Samanov, an “adviser” to the American government. In fact, Samanov was the single most powerful man in the country.
His estate, Birdsong, was built in the 1790s by one of Virginia’s first governors. The red-brick mansion sat atop a low hill, circled by oaks and lush farmland composed of gently rolling fields where generations of Virginia’s finest, fleetest horses had grazed. A bronze plaque by the front door boasted that Washington,
Jefferson, Madison, and Monroe had all visited here, and Petya Samanov gloried in this connection.
Until the Transition, Birdsong had been a historic landmark, open to tourists, but it had fallen into disrepair until Petya chose it for his home and headquarters. He kept an office in the White House, but it was here that he preferred to spend his time, amid the magnolias and the sweet-gum trees.
As his helicopter alighted in the field beside the mansion, Andrei admired its clever defense network. The casual visitor saw only the house and outbuildings, the barns, ponds, jumps, white fences, and tall trees; no one would discern the regiment of KGB border troops that was on duty in the bunker beneath the largest bam, or the squadron of attack helicopters less than a mile away, screened by century-old oaks. Petya could hardly have been
She took his arm, and he looked down at her sadly. “That’s the way it is when you’re second choice to a hero.”
“He wasn’t a hero when I married you—-I’m not sure he’s a hero now.” She smiled. “I think you’re a hero. You’ve held your family together and this county too. I don’t love Devin Milford. I don’t even know who he is anymore. I love you.” Her eyes glistened. “For such a smart man, you can really be dumb sometimes.”
She kissed him and he smiled almost bashfully. “And to think I risked my place in line for this,” she kidded, feeling anew about Peter the way she always wanted to feel about him.
Chapter 4
For two hours they were shown “indoctrination” fi lms : crude, committee-approved rhetoric about the administrative areas and the PPP and all the other glories of the Transition. Finally there was a lecture, warning the almost-ex-prisoners to be Good Citizens, to be Positive and Patriotic, lest they once again be declared “antisocial” and in need of “reeducation.” Devin nearly shuddered at the prospect.
After the films, Devin and forty or fifty others were herded into a converted barracks that now contained a dozen green metal desks and twenty or so file cabinets left over from World War II. Each desk had a clerk behind it, checking records. In time, Devin was called before a thin and severe young woman who studied his file with a glazed expression.
“Your records were left in the truck from Fort Davis. That’s why you had to wait so long.” She spoke with a slow Texas drawl, her large brown eyes focusing on his file. “Are you somebody important?”
“No.”
“Well, you got a red tag on your file and that usually means something important.” She looked at the file again. “Huh. It says here you ran for president in 1992.” She scrutinized Devin’s face. “Is that a joke?”
“Yes.”
She looked at him suspiciously. “You must’ve really screwed up. Were you a fascist?”
“No.”
“It says here you were in a mental hospital too.” “No. They sent me to Fort Davis.”
“Well, the file’s probably screwed up. Most of them are. But if it’s peachy with you, it’s peachy with me.” She regarded him again and smiled. “The prison record’s what counts anyway and yours looks real good. You have to go through orientation and delousing and then the magistrate’ll see you.”
“What? We were cleaned at the camp.”
The interview had ended. The young clerk closed Devin’s file. “Next.”
When Andrei’s jet Sanded at Dulles Airport, west of Washington, a military helicopter was waiting to whisk him westward to the command headquarters of General Petya Samanov, an “adviser” to the American government. In fact, Samanov was the single most powerful man in the country.
His estate, Birdsong, was built in the 1790s by one of Virginia’s first governors. The red-brick mansion sat atop a low hill, circled by oaks and lush farmland composed of gently rolling fields where generations of Virginia’s finest, fleetest horses had grazed. A bronze plaque by the front door boasted that Washington,
Jefferson, Madison, and Monroe had all visited here, and Petya Samanov gloried in this connection.
Until the Transition, Birdsong had been a historic landmark, open to tourists, but it had fallen into disrepair until Petya chose it for his home and headquarters. He kept an office in the White House, but it was here that he preferred to spend his time, amid the magnolias and the sweet-gum trees.
As his helicopter alighted in the field beside the mansion, Andrei admired its clever defense network. The casual visitor saw only the house and outbuildings, the barns, ponds, jumps, white fences, and tall trees; no one would discern the regiment of KGB border troops that was on duty in the bunker beneath the largest bam, or the squadron of attack helicopters less than a mile away, screened by century-old oaks. Petya could hardly have been
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