"Yes, as a matter of fact." Banion reached for the phone.
"Who are you calling?"
"Rule number one.- start at the top. and work your way up from there."
"White House," the operator answered.
SEVENTEEN
IN REVERSAL, PRESIDENT WILL ATTEND CELESTE LAUNCH
SPECIAL TO THE WASHINGTON POST
The White House today announced that the president will be on hand after all for the launch of the final stage of Project Celeste, the controversial space station.
The announcement came following emotional remarks at a press conference by Amber Lamb, a female mission specialist who is a member of the
Celeste
crew. Lamb, a fitness instructor who will study aerobic exercise in space, said that she felt it was "totally not fair that the president can't attend just because of politics.
Celeste
was his deal all along."
Press Secretary Fred Tully said the president was "deeply moved" when he read Lamb's comments and had "decided it was his duty" to attend, whatever the political costs."
Mona Moyst, spokesman for the Flickery campaign, said the president's decision came as "no surprise." She denounced
Celeste
as a "$21 billion orbiting pork barrel."
"Hello, Burt."
"J
ack O-mighty Banion, how are you? We going to see you at Val's?"
"Don't think so. I need your help." "Anything."
"1 need a meeting with the president."
"Hoo! You do need a favor. What's up?"
"Probably better if you don't know."
"You got to give me some idea."
"Little green men, Burt. It's about little green men."
Burt Galilee laughed. "You don't give up. I admire your pertinacity. But look now. Jack, the man's busier than a one-legged Cajun in an ass-kicking contest. The campaign, Russia, now he's decided to go to the
Celeste
launch. Did you see that? It's in the papers this morning. Maybe after the election, we could -"
"No, no. I need to see him today."
"Jack, this is the
president.
I
know you're operating in a different universe now, but the old one's still working according to the rules." "You know me. Burt."
"Let's be honest. You have been going through some significant changes . . ."
"Have I ever wasted your time?"
"You're a down-to-earth sort of fellow, for someone who believes in flying saucers. But I can't do what you're asking." "Do you want the president to have a second term?" "Come on. Jack. Don't talk shit to me."
"If I don't get this meeting. I promise you, his photo op at the
Celeste
launch is going to be the mother of all nightmares."
Burton Galilee pressed the record button on his telephone console.
"Jack, do I understand you to be threatening the president of the United States?"
"So you're taping? Testing, one. two, three. You getting this? I'm saying, if you don't want a disaster on your hands down there, get me my meeting with him. By the way, nice move with the stress specialist. "Gee, like if only the president could like, wow, be here.""
"You want me to go to the White House and tell them Jack Banion is going to throw a wrench into the
Celeste
launch unless you get a meeting with the president? Now how's that going to sound?"
"Convincing, I hope, for your sake."
"Why?"
"Flickery says he's going to crack down on influence peddling in Washington. It'll be slim pickings for you if he gets in."
Burt laughed. He pressed the pause button. "They all say that when they're running. Then they get to town and see how it works and we all become best friends."
"Sure, but it'll take him a year or two to figure that out. Meantime you're out on the sidewalk. The
quid pro quo
for this is you get to keep the status quo. It's a pretty sweet status quo. You're the First Friend. West Wing access, state dinners, sleep-overs in the Lincoln Bedroom, golf at Burning Bush, clients lining up around the block outside your office because you've got the president's private number on your speed dial. You really want to risk all that by
not
getting me ten minutes with him in the Oval? Think about it. I'll expect a call within an hour."
The call came forty-five minutes later, from the White House chief of staff. His voice was two degrees above freezing.
"Burt Galilee called. He said you called him, making threats. Extremely unwise, and possibly criminal. What do you want?"
"A
meeting with your boss, this afternoon."
"Out of the question."
"Now you're being unwise. You haven't even heard what it's about."
"I assume it's about flying saucers. We tried to meet you halfway on that. You were unreasonable, to say nothing of ungracious. So let me explain reality to you. You've had your moment in the sun. You got your hearings from Gracklesen. If you're looking for sport, go frighten some more senators. This is the White House. That crap doesn't play here."
"You saw what three million people look like, packed into the Mall?" Banion asked. "Okay, now imagine them camped out at Cape Canaveral, screaming that the president of the United States is about to bring about the end of the world."
"You're insane."
"Not really, but that's another conversation. That's exactly what they will do if I tell them that launching
Celeste
will provoke the aliens into attacking the United States."
"You need a psychiatrist, not the president."
"You're taping this, I assume? Well, why not, everyone does. All right, here's the deal. . ."
Banion glanced over at Scrubbs, who gave him a thumbs-up.
"We have received a communication from the aliens -"
"I don't have
time
for this, Banion."
"Two minutes. See, they know that the military payload module aboard the
Celeste
shuttle is a . . ."
Suddenly Banion's mind went blank.
"Plasma Beam Device," Scrubbs whispered.
"...
Plasma Beam Device, designed as a first-strike weapon against them."
"Get
help."
"All right, it sounds a little far-fetched. But I assure you the aliens are taking it very seriously. And they have communicated, through me, their, if you will, ambassador here on planet earth, that they
will
initiate all-out war on the United States
it Celeste
is launched. Now, if I tell my people about this, they are going to go bananas and do everything in their power to prevent the launch."
"If they set one toe on government property, they will be arrested and charged. And you with them. You'll spend twenty years in federal -"
"You want to make me into the Millennial Gandhi, go ahead. Do you really have jail space for three million people? And what becomes of your triumphant pre
-
election photo op? The word catastrophe comes to mind. Is that the photo op you're looking for on the eve of the election?"
"I'm going to hang up."
"Bill," Banion said, "if you doubt my ability to muster a crowd, just remember the scene outside your window last weekend." Silence. Gotcha.
"I'm asking for ten minutes with the president. What's ten minutes, next to pandemonium, right before the election?" "What do you want to talk to him about?" "You don't really want to know that." "I have to know that. Goddamnit
..."
"Okay" - Banion cleared his throat - "I have a plan to stop the aliens."
"For God's sake -"
"Three million people, Bill. Three million really strange people, chanting 'We Shall Overcome.' What a visual, eh?"
"All right, all right. Four-thirty. But ten minutes, that's all." "Four-thirty's bad for me. Can you make it two?"
Banion hadn't been in the Oval Office in almost a year. The Secret Service gave him a thorough going-over with their metal-detector wands and even took apart his fountain pen. Scrubbs had never been to the White House, much less the Oval Office. His clearing-in was complicated by the fact that he could produce no photo ID or, for that matter, valid Social Security number. (MJ-12 erased you from federal records when you joined.) They wanted to arrest him. It took the chief of staff, already deeply unhappy about the meeting, to intervene. Finally, they were ushered in and found themselves with the president of the United States and his chief of staff.
"This is Mr. Scrubbs," Banion said. "He works for you."
Banion related the whole story, with corroboratory grunts and nods from the awestruck Scrubbs. (Many first-time visitors to the Oval Office tend to clutch.) The president listened in silence, which he seemed at pains to maintain. His eyes widened slightly when Banion got to the part about Bernard the drug dealer greeting the MJ-12 assassins with a hail of machine-gun fire. It took more than ten minutes to tell the whole story, but the chief of staff did not interrupt.
"So," Banion concluded, "you need to call these people off, right now, before they harm this Bradley person, the man who rescued Mr. Scrubbs."
While the president and chief of staff were chewing on this large radish, Banion continued, somewhat airily, 'As for me. I have been put through unmitigated hell by the United States government, and I will require redress. Large redress. To begin with, I want, on an exclusive basis - naturally - the goods on this rogue agency. Details. Everything, especially who's in charge. If I'm going to try to get my old life back, I'm going to need a Pulitzer Prize-winning scoop, for starters." Banion sat back. "Quite a story, don't you agree?"
The president looked down at his desk, pursed his lips, looked at the chief of staff, looked back at his visitors, unreadable as the sphinx. Finally he said, "Well, we'll certainly look into it. Thanks for coming in."
"Thank
you,
sir," Scrubbs said eagerly. Banion thought, Novice. "Excuse me," Banion said. '"Look into if? What does that mean?" "It means," the chief of staff said starchily, "that we'll let you know."
"Well, screw that," Banion said. "Jack," Scrubbs hissed,
"the
president."
"There seems to be a misunderstanding," Banion said. "I'm not some supplicant from a Middle East sheikhdom come to beg you to sell me F-Sixteens. And I didn't grow up on a pig farm. You're not going to get rid of me with 'We'll get back to you' and a presidential tie clip. I've just informed you that a rogue agency of the government is going around kidnapping U.S. citizens and is at this moment on its way to kill this Bradley person, unless Mr. Scrubbs hands himself in to them. God only knows what ghastly plans they have in store for me, but I certainly have no intention of waiting for them to inject my arteries with an air bubble. So you're going to have to do better than 'We'll get back to you.' I'd suggest you pick up that phone, dial that number Mr. Scrubbs gave you, and issue a cease-and-desist order. Unless," he said, "you want a millennial
zoo
at your precious launch."
"That's it," the chief of staff said. "This meeting is over."
"Jack," the president said in a not-unfriendly voice, "you're only going to look like a maniac if you do this."
"Mr. President," Banion said wearily, "I already look like a maniac. I've lost everything I cared about. You, on the other hand, still have something to lose."
"How am I going to lose the election just because a bunch of nuts show up at my launch? How is that going to make me look bad? Unless" - he smiled - "your aliens do retaliate and launch an attack on the U.S."
The chief of staff chuckled mirthlessly.
"I think," the president said, standing up behind his desk, "I can live with that possibility. Thanks for coming in, Jack. Take care of yourself." He came around his desk and extended his hand.
"Well," Banion said to Scrubbs when the two of them had reached Pennsylvania Avenue, "that was a success."
"Sorry to put you through that," the chief of staff said, "but I figured, better give him his meeting. A lot's riding on a smooth
Celeste
launch. No point encouraging him to turn it into a freak show if we can avoid it."
The president was contemplating the phone on his desk. "Sir?"
"Who," the president said, "would theoretically be in charge of this Majestic Twelve? Assuming." 'Assuming what?" "It exists."
"Sir, at the risk of stating the obvious, Jack Banion is not playing with a full deck these days. You heard what Burt Galilee said. The man's had a breakdown. To put it in clinical terms, he's nuts."
"He seemed pretty lucid to me."
'A lot of nuts do. Look at Perot. You didn't
believe
what he said?"
"Look, I never could stand the arrogant son of a bitch, but if this is some sort of midlife crisis, it's a lulu. I think something happened to him. Some kind of trauma, maybe. I'm not a doctor, but I'm telling you, a man - especially a snob like him - doesn't throw away everything that he had to go hang out with UFO loonies because of some 'nervous breakdown.' I've known a lot of people who had nervous breakdowns, psychotic episodes, reality disruptions, whatever hundred-dollar name you want to put on it, posttraumatic stress - saw plenty of
that -
and I never knew any of them could sit here like he did, cool as ice. All right, maybe I'm wrong and he is nuts. Fine. Find out. So you call George Herrick right away and tell him to have CIA look into it. Or would this be more of an NSA deal? I wouldn't know who'd be in charge of this worm farm. Anyway, start making inquiries."