(12)
A Retrospective
George W. Bush was deep asleep, dreaming about running. He often had dreams that involved his love of running. Sometimes in his dreams his running was disconnected with reality–he had run with Ronald Reagan bicycling next to him in one, and with his mom in a jogging stroller in another. In this dream he was running at Lake Travis in Austin by himself–with no Secret Service agents or minders. He had just taken off without telling anyone. It felt really good to be alone for a change.
His running reverie was disturbed by the murmuring of what he perceived as a TV with the sound turned down low. He cracked open one eye, and through the slit saw the reflection of a live TV in the sitting room just off the bedroom. The President was very much on his guard at this point concerning what was real and what was not in the middle of the night considering his recent nocturnal experiences. However, he reasoned, he had just been dreaming about running, so he couldn't be dreaming now. Could he? He propped himself up on one elbow and wiped his eyes as he reached for his glasses with his other hand. The clock read 3AM. He was alone at Camp David this evening, as his wife Laura was in Texas visiting family. George W. Bush had been spending more and more time holed up at Camp David, prompting further rumors about his mental state.
As the fog started to clear in his brain, the President began to pick up snippets and syllables from the TV sound. He thought he heard the word "funeral," and then a few moments later the words "former president." That got his attention. He immediately thought of his dad as he sprung out of the bed in the direction of the TV. As he put on his robe, he distinctly heard the word Bush. Oh my God, Dad! As he turned the corner into the sitting room he heard the newscaster say, "The controversial life of the former president has finally come to an end at the age of ninety-six."
Ninety-six? Ninety-six? Dad isn't even 80! The President wracked his brain. How old is Ford? Maybe it's Ford.
And then he saw the picture.
If George W. Bush hadn't been in as good shape as he was, he might have had a heart attack right at that moment. As it was, he literally fell off the ottoman onto the carpeted floor. "Ah, God, no!" The President was truly mortified, the most afraid he had ever been of anything in his life. He scrambled around for the remote, thinking that somehow if he could turn the TV off, he would turn the dream off, and he would wake up. But when he found the remote, he knew that it wouldn't work. It didn't. He lunged at the TV while the screen was showing pictures of his dad and his family and tried to turn the power off. The TV seemed to be stuck on. He frantically fumbled around on the ground for the AC plug, and for the first time realized that it actually was hard-wired into the wall. He wouldn't be able to unplug the TV unless he literally punched a hole in the wall. He tried to tell himself that it was only a dream, that it was just a strange figment of his suddenly fertile imagination. Just a dream...just a dream, repeated the President as he moved quickly back over to his bed, picked up the glass of water on the end table, closed his eyes, and threw it straight in his face. He sat down on the edge of his bed and slowly opened his eyes. He was still wet. It seemed like he was awake, but his internal logic had concluded that if he was dry when he opened his eyes he would be awake, but if he was still wet, then he would be dreaming. Now soaking wet, he moved slowly back into the sitting room and sunk back on the floor with his back resting on the ottoman, defeated. He knew he would have to watch.
At the same time, the President was casing the room, looking for the horrible black hooded creature with a scythe. There didn't seem to be anyone else in the room. Just stay calm, he reminded himself as he picked up the remote again and tried to change channels. This time, the remote obeyed, and the picture went hopping from station to station, all reporting the same story: George W. Bush, the 43rd president of the United States, was dead at the age of 96.
As the President tried to wrap his brain around this incomputable fact, he absent-mindedly started to figure out what year it must be. 46 plus 54 makes 2000, and 54 plus what is 96? 42–it's gotta be... 2042! His mind began to wander as he thought about how long he lasted. Ninety-six! Not bad! All that runnin' paid off. Kept in good shape. He was jolted back to reality when the talking head on the TV declared, "President Kennedy is expected to comment on the death of Mr. Bush sometime in the next hour." President Kennedy?? What the...must be one of the grandkids.
Slowly the initial fear started to leave George W. Bush and his curiosity got the better of him as he flipped around the channels and began to be lulled in by the details of his life.
"Born on July 6th, 1946...son of the 41st President, George Herbert Walker Bush and his wife Barbara...grew up in West Texas, educated at Andover and Yale..."
Never patient, he flipped the channel, "...the Texas Rangers baseball club in 1984 before making a successful run at the governor's seat in 1994...He was elected president in 2000 over Vice President Al Gore in a disputed election that ended up being decided in Bush's favor in the United States Supreme Court..." He flipped again. "...September 11th , 2001..." Flip–
"the 11th, 2001, the day–" Flip–
"...America was attacked on September the 11th, 2001–" Flip–
"what should have been the defining moment of George W. Bush's presidency instead became the millstone around his neck as he turned the sympathy of–" Flip–
"...a half-hearted effort to find Osama bin Laden, he plunged the nation into a disastrous war with Iraq–" Flip–
"...the ruinous Iraq War–" Flip–
"...the failure in Iraq which he–" Where the hell is Fox? Flip–
"...which spilled over into Iran and Syria and ignited the Great Seven Year Oil War, leading to an OPEC embargo of oil to the United States and Great Britain, and plunging the world into the Depression of 2015." What? "Although Mr. Bush wasn't around for the full ramifications of the devastating decisions that he and his administration had made, his term coming to an end in January of 2009, the American people and, indeed, a majority of people around the world laid full blame for the catastrophe squarely on his shoulders. Now, for more on world reaction, we go to Ahmed Lavailliere in Paris. Ahmed?"
"Peace be upon you. Sanjay, there was joy in the streets of Paris today when the death of George W. Bush was announced. The passing of the man that became the lasting symbol for the hatred of all things American by Muslims throughout the world was celebrated with rifle fire and explosions heard all over the streets of this majority Muslim city and indeed in Muslim capitals all over Europe and the Middle East. The government of Prime Minister Mahmoud al-Joffré made no attempt to stop the riotous demonstrations, and ministry spokesperson Pierre bin Oman merely allowed that, in his words, 'the people need to let off a little steam.' We've received similar reports from Amsterdam, Berlin, Madrid, Istanbul, and obviously from the Palestinian capital of Jerusalem. And here in Paris, the party seems to be growing. This is probably the biggest celebration Paris has seen since the election of 2024 that ushered in a majority Muslim government. Who would have thought, here in the City of Lights, that the death of an American president would spark such a festive response! Sanjay?"
"That was Ahmed Lavailliere in Paris. And now on to Great Britain, where there seems to be a different reaction, we head to London, and Syreet Najour–Syreet?"
"Thank you, Sanjay, many blessings upon you. Here in London, there was little or no reaction to the news of George Bush's passing. It looks like a normal day here on the street, soldiers on patrol, people going about their business with their heads down, moving as quickly as they can under the circumstances. The name George W. Bush still evokes a sort of bitter sadness among most Londoners we talk to, and will of course be forever linked with his partner in crime, the equally disgraced Tony Blair."
The screen now showed a thin, nervous-looking man with his head down and his hands in his pockets. "We asked this man, a 24 year-old unemployed native of Brixton, who pleaded not to be identified, what he thought of the news: 'I hope 'e bloody likes it in 'ell cuz that's where 'e's headed. That's all I got t' say.'" Then the screen showed a heavy-set middle-aged woman, her hair in a scarf. "And a little while later we caught up with this woman, who again declined to give her name: 'Ah, the devil finally got 'is due. Shoulda been 'anged fer wha' 'e did.'"
"It was here in London in 2030, you will recall, that the elderly Mr. Bush defied the International Criminal Court, which had indicted him on war crimes and crimes against humanity, by showing up unannounced at the funeral of his friend, former Prime Minister Blair, and was arrested by His Majesty's government at Heathrow Airport whilst trying to leave. A fierce fight over Mr. Bush's extradition to The Hague ensued, with a judgment for rendition finally sustained by England's highest court. The former American president was remanded to the care of the International Court in January 2031."
George W. Bush saw film of a thin, stooped man in handcuffs being led up courtroom stairs that reminded him of his dad. This couldn't be true. It wouldn't be allowed. The United States doesn't even recognize that court!
"The United States, who finally joined the International Criminal Court in 2016, argued for presidential immunity but was turned down by the Court. Mr. Bush was in custody for eight months while prosecutors prepared their case."
The President was sitting with his mouth open, stunned. Oh, God, I'm Milosevic!
"The trial, which began almost exactly eleven years ago, lasted six months and resulted in a guilty verdict against Mr. Bush on all charges. The verdict was largely symbolic as the Court, considering Bush's advanced age and time already served, released the former president to the United States government on condition that he forfeit his passport and not be allowed to leave his home country. But here in London, Mr. Bush will seemingly forever be remembered as the man who created the conditions for England's long, lasting isolation from the rest of Europe. This is Syreet Najour reporting from London."
"Thank you, Syreet. And as we all know, Mr. Bush lived out the rest of his life under virtual house arrest at his home in Crawford, Texas, a pariah to all but his family and a few old loyalists.
"Here in Washington, we are momentarily expecting a statement from President Joseph Kennedy—um... okay, we are now being told that they're not quite ready, so in the meantime, we head to one place in the world where there is genuine sadness about the passing of George W. Bush—we go now to Jerusalem, the capital of Palestine, and our correspondent Rami Hassein."
"Blessings upon your house, Sanjay. Here in Jerusalem, there is a mournful feeling among the Jewish minority in Palestine today with the news of the death of George W. Bush. A statement released by the Jewish Labor Party, Palestine's largest minority party, had this to say, and I quote: 'We deeply lament the passing of George W. Bush, a great man and a loyal friend to Jews all over the world. Mr. Bush was a passionate and loyal believer in the state of Israel, even after the disastrous events of the Seven-Year War. While others may blame Mr. Bush for the ultimate demise of the nation of Israel, we know of no finer friend and extend our deepest sympathies to his family.' So as you can see, Sanjay, there are those who are genuinely saddened by Mr. Bush's death."
"Rami, what is the rest of Jerusalem like right now? It sounds like the Fourth of July from what we can hear."
"Sanjay, you could add New Year's Eve to that as well. The mood here is festive, no doubt about that. There is music, dancing in the streets...I've never seen anything like it–especially over the death of a former head of state. It's really incredible the depth of hatred that this man provoked in the souls of the Palestinian people."
George W. Bush began to get scared again as he watched Arab women and children celebrating. What could've happened–what could've gone so horribly wrong? No one had gamed this scenario. Not one single advisor had brought up anything close to this as even a remote worst-case possibility. Here he was, watching news of his death being celebrated around the world like he was some kind of Hitler, or worse, if that was possible. What had he done?
"Rami, we're getting word that the President is ready to make a statement. That was Rami Hassein in Jerusalem. And so now we go to the press room at the White House where President Joseph P. Kennedy is addressing the press and the nation."
"My fellow Americans, the death of any person brings sadness and grief to those who loved him, to those who mourn his passing. George W. Bush was a decent man, a patriotic and loyal American to a fault. Though deeply misguided and misled, he did what he thought was best for his country and never wavered in his belief that what he was doing was in the best interests of the United States. Throughout the long winter of his life, he has paid the price for his poor judgment and we ask now that he rest in peace, awaiting his final judgment before his God."
Tears began to roll down the President's cheek, as he felt deeply ashamed about the ramifications of what he had not yet done.
President Kennedy continued. "The celebrations that we see going on throughout the world are unseemly, and, while there may be justification in the eyes of certain peoples for these feelings, they are no doubt deeply upsetting to the Bush family in their time of grief. We ask for understanding of the family's feelings and ask that those around the world temper their joy with compassion, as they would want nothing less after the death of a loved one. Given the controversial nature of this man's life, I have decided that there will be no state funeral for Mr. Bush, as it has been deemed too unsafe for the security of the nation's capitol."
Oh, God, please...no!
"As such, after consultation with the former president's daughters, it has been decided that there will be a private burial at his home in Crawford, Texas. I ask all Americans to respect the privacy of the Bush family and stay out of Crawford. I will have no more to say on the matter. Thank you."
"President Joseph Kennedy, speaking on the death of the 43rd President of the United States, George W. Bush, who died this morning at the age of ninety-six; a polarizing figure in life, and, it seems, a polarizing figure even in death."
The TV went black. The room was now deathly still. The only audible sound was the President's sniffling as he wiped the tears away from his nose. He sat, alone in the darkness, afraid to move.
"I can see how this must be hard on you."
George W. Bush shrieked as he crab-walked away from the sound coming from his left. "Please... no... please..." The President was trembling with fear.
"Do I look like I mean to hurt you?"
The President put his hand up in a kind of self-defense. "I–I can't see you...I–I mean...I can't see your face. You...you don't have a face, do you?"
"If I didn't have a face, then I wouldn't have a mouth, and then I couldn't talk to you, could I?"
"I–I don't know what you are or what you could do, but at this point, I...God, I just want to wake up..." The President put his head in his hands and started weeping. "WAKE UP!!!" he cried, tearing at his hair.
"I'm not going to hurt you. I'm here to help you. There's no reason to be afraid."
"Oh sure! Why is this happening to me?!? I've just watched my own obituary as the most hated man on earth thirty-somethin' years from now and a...a monk with no face appears in my room outta nowhere and I'm not supposed to be afraid?" The President was trying to steal a peek inside the hood. "Who are you? Or do I even wanna know the answer to that?"
"Call me what you will. But first of all, George, you have to change your perspective. What's happening to you isn't a tragedy, it's an opportunity. It's a gift. How many people ever get to look into their own future and have the chance to change it? Now...if you decide to ignore it–well, that would be the tragedy."
The President rubbed his forehead with both hands. "How am I supposed to know what to believe? These dreams, they're...what? Prophecies? Visions? Who's gonna believe that? My own wife thinks I'm a little crazy. What am I supposed to do, change everything because of a couple of dreams?"
"Obviously, my friend, these aren't just a 'couple of dreams'. I think that it is safe to say that these dreams are unique."
"Well, I don't know about that. How do I know whether or not everybody has dreams like this? I'd like to hope they don't. I'm losing my mind..."
"Trust me, they don't."
"Trust you? I'm–losing–my–mind! I just saw myself blamed for unleashing some sort of...hell on earth! I don't know what is real, or...who to trust! Assuming I wake up, what do I do then? Tell everyone in my Cabinet, and the Joint Chiefs, 'Hey everybody, I've decided to call the whole Iraq thing off because I saw a vision of the future in a dream I had and it was really bad.' Does that sound like it'll work to you? But on the other hand, there's no denying what I just saw–I mean, how could information like that get in my brain if there weren't some truth to it?" Once again, the President's own logic had tied him in knots.
"It's never easy for any prophet, George. But look at the stage you have! Look at the power you have to effect a change! You have been given three visions–most men never have one. Great men have been led by visions, revelations, prophecies, apparitions–call it what you like–but it should be clear to you by now that these are not ordinary dreams.
"And you have now seen the fruits of the path that your wisest advisors have led you down. You don't have to tell anyone what you've seen. But that knowledge is in your brain now, and you can't plead ignorance, and you won't be able to make it go away, and if you don't act on it, you will be haunted by it for the rest of this life, and–"
"But it's too late! Everything's too far down the road! I can't stop it now!"
"Yes you can! There were eleven million people in the streets of cities all around the world begging–hoping against hope–that you will miraculously have a change of heart; not Blair, not Cheney, not Rumsfeld, not Rice or Powell, but you. And just like you and only you, not any of them, will become one of the world's all-time villains if you do what they advise, you are also the only one privileged to be known someday as one of America's greatest statesmen. That is, if you use your power to stand up in front of the whole world and say, 'No! We've been too hasty. We will pause and reflect on this before blood is spilled.' This takes courage! To admit you were wrong! Or even that you might not be right.
"But I–"
"You have been trained to believe that admitting a mistake or a fault is a weakness, when great men have admitted as much time and again. Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, Gandhi, Martin Luther King—all were strong enough men to admit when they had failed. Only the weak hide behind their impenetrable certainty. Do you think that the people of your country are so gullible that they will not eventually discover the thin reed of justification in which you and your people have based this war upon? If not sooner, then certainly later!"
George W. Bush was dumbstruck. It was all too much to digest. He needed time to think, but he didn't have any. He was sure that none of this had ever happened to Clinton, or his father for that matter. He had heard about Nixon talking to the paintings and to ghosts, but Nixon had been a mentally unstable alcoholic by the end of his presidency, and who knows what he had seen.
He had genuinely tried to listen to the counsel of others–there was the Roundtable at Camp David and the reigniting of his friendship with Mo Levison. He had made a conscious effort to reach out to his father and his brother for their opinions. He now did know something about Iraq; certainly more than when he started down the road to war. All of these things, all of these people, everything he had learned and was learning–it was all turning him away from his decision to go to war with Iraq. He was being torn in two. He had been so sure of himself, and now...he was becoming just as sure that at the very least he needed to take a step back–as painful as that might be politically. And there was no doubt that it would be a political bombshell. It might cost him reelection in 2004. It could even cost him, a sitting president, the re-nomination in his own party.
But what did politics matter when innocent people were going to die? He had always tried to rationalize that part of it. Death was a necessary part of war. He knew that every effort was being made to try not to kill civilians. He knew just as well that many civilians who had nothing to do with his reasons for going to war would die anyway. They already had in Afghanistan. More than forty people dead at a wedding party? "An unfortunate mistake." How many more innocents would die due to more inevitable unfortunate mistakes? Or from "collateral damage," a phrase that made him shudder. Did he have to go to war? Did he need to go to war? Or had he simply wanted to go to war? Afghanistan was still justifiable in his mind. Some may have questioned the tactics, others the success of the mission. There were very few who did not understand why.
Iraq was different. The case for invading Iraq was being made on the basis of what he now knew to be flimsy evidence and conflated reasoning. Several of the speakers at Camp David had told him that invading Iraq was bound to turn world opinion strongly against America and the many antiwar demonstrations in cities all over the globe had begun to confirm that. Still, he wasn't supposed to care what the rest of the world thought–his job was to protect America from another 9/11. Yet others at Camp David pleaded with him that invading Iraq would create more terrorists than it would destroy. Who to believe? Everyone had agendas. Everyone was biased in some way. Dealing with the Israeli-Palestinian issue seemed to be by far the most important thing on the minds of the people that had come to the Roundtable. Yet what was his administration doing but simply encouraging Ariel Sharon's baser instincts?
What to do? What to do? He did what many God-fearing souls would do in a
moment of supreme crisis: he got down on his knees and prayed.
***
George W. Bush slowly came to conciousness to the buzz of his clock alarm going off. It sounded as though it was coming from another room. As he awoke, he became aware that he was not in his bed, but was curled up on the floor of the sitting room, in front of the TV. The television was off; the only sound in the air was the muffled beeping of his alarm. The remote control was lying next to him. The President was scared. He was afraid of his own mind. He was afraid that he had lost the ability to tell the difference between his dream-state and reality. He wasn't sure which one he was in at that moment.
Slowly, he got up, a little bit stiff from lying on the floor, and walked shakily over to his bed. A full glass of water was sitting on his end table. The President sat down on the edge of the bed, picked up the glass and stared at it for a moment. He thought about throwing it in his face, but decided instead to take a sip. The cool water felt good going down. He began to assume he was back in reality but it didn't lessen his fear. This fear felt more like fatigue, like a weight. He was vaguely nauseous. He turned off the alarm. He took another sip of water. He didn't want to move.
The phone rang, startling the President and causing him to spill a little water on his pajama pants. He fumbled for the phone. "Mornin'?"
"Bushie? I was thinking about you and just had this feeling... I don't know what it is, but...you okay?"
There was a long pause and a sigh. "Laura (he never called her that), I'm not okay." George W. Bush started to choke up. "Honey, I'm not okay."
"Bushie what's the matter? What happened? Did you have another dream?"
"Yeah. A nightmare. I woke up on the floor in the sitting room."
"Oh, Bushie!"
"I'll say it again: either I'm a prophet of some kind, or I'm literally going out of my mind. I'm real scared, honey–I don't know what to do. This is, this is some kind of madness, and yet...I am seeing things that...honey, I saw my own funeral. I saw the people on TV talking all about my life as if, as if..." The President broke off at this point, overcome with this fresh memory.
"What is it? What happened? Maybe you should talk about it, get it out. You can tell me, Bushie. I don't think you're crazy. I really don't. I do believe God singles people out to be messengers of His prophecy. You're just in a funny position to be receiving it, that's all."
This last comment got a chuckle from the President. "Boy, ain't that the truth. Well, since you asked...hoo boy...I saw a retrospective of my life, 'cause I had died. It was 2042, and I was ninety-six. But that was about the only good news. Bushie, I was the most hated man in the world. There were all these celebrations because I had died!"
"Oh, honey, that's terrible! That's just your brain playing tricks on you. You know how our dreams can do that."
"No, you still don't get it, but I don't think I would, either, if it wasn't happening to me. There are dreams, and then there's this. I've tried to explain this to you, honey–I've learned things that I absolutely didn't know beforehand. Let me tell you what I saw. I saw that Israel had turned into Palestine and Jerusalem was the capital. The Palestinian capital! There was no more Israel! I saw that most of Europe was majority Muslim and that they hated me more than people hate Hitler. I saw that I had been convicted of war crimes and sent to The Hague–they released me to the US government as long as I never left the United States. It was all because of Iraq. Oh, and a Kennedy is going to be president in 2042. And then I was visited by this...monk guy with no face, or I couldn't see his face, and...this is the third time this has happened, Bushie, the third time! Each one had the same kind of message in the end. Why it's happening in this, this Dickens kind of way, I don't know. It's just bizarre. But I am now becoming convinced beyond a doubt that this Iraq war, well it might have been a good idea at one time, but now, I think it's a really bad idea." The President had stood up and started pacing.
"Because of your dreams–or visions?"
"Yeah, but also because of where the visions have led me. Probably more importantly where they've led me. I know a lot more now than I did a couple of months ago, about things I never cared about. I know God is tellin' me to stop the war–I just know it now. But if I do stop it, I'm going to be crucified by my own people."
"Like Jesus?"
"Yeah, well, no, I wasn't thinking of it like that, but it may go down like it did with Jesus, only I don't think there's gonna be a resurrection with yours truly."
"Other than me, whose support can you absolutely count on?"
George W. Bush parted the blinds to see if there was any daylight yet. "Well, Dad, Jeb, you know, the family, and Andy, Karen, Condi, Colin, Ari, some of dad's people... I think Ashcroft'll stay with me, I don't know about Tenet–I think he needs a long vacation or something. I don't know about Congress–actually, I think I'll have a lot of new friends 'cause of this, but I'll lose a whole bunch of old ones."
"Well, they weren't really your friends if they wouldn't support you over this," said Laura, in a perfectly wifely kind of way.
"Aw, honey you know that's not how Washington works. I do this, and I'm toast in my own party. But I'm startin' to be okay with it. You gonna be okay with it?"
"If this is truly what you want, and you've thought it through thoroughly, then of course I'm with you."
"Well, that means more to me than anything else. I love you."
"Love you too. Talk to you later."
Still wary, but more certain of reality since talking to his wife, George W. Bush sat back down on the bed and next placed a call to his father. "Dad?"
"Mr. President! To what do I owe the honor?"
"Dad, I wanted you to be the first to know–well, actually you're the second, after Laura–but I want you to know that I am gonna put a stop to the Iraq invasion–at the very least for now, and, geez, you know, I just think it's throwin' us off the right path, and I think there's so many other things that are vitally important. We just let our enthusiasm get ahead of our brains on this one, Dad."
"Son, I know you wouldn't be telling me this if you hadn't given it a great deal of careful consideration already. Can you still stop it? I know once that great big machine gets going it can be awfully hard to pull the plug."
"I think until the first combat units cross the border of Kuwait or the first bombs fall, I can stop it–that's not my worry. I'm more worried about what this is going to do to my party, to 2004, my future. You know, stuff like that."
"Well, that's gotta be a consideration to weigh in with all the rest, but it sounds like the decision has already been made–you just need to figure out how to deal with the fallout. If it's any help, just be assured that your mother and I are behind you a hundred percent no matter what you decide, and if there's anything that I can do, or your brother, or General Scowcroft, or James Baker, why, you know you can count on them, too."
"Thanks, Dad. I just may need as much help as I can get. I'm gonna get pummeled over this. Dick Cheney is gonna go ballistic, as will Don, and the whole FoxNews crowd."
"Well, you can't really worry about that. There's nothing you can do about what others are gonna think, when you're making a decision as important as this, as long as you're sure you've made the right decision. We're with ya, and God bless you, son."
"Thanks, Dad."
Feeling better with every conversation, George W. Bush put on his exercise clothes and headed for the workout cabin. Mo Levison was already there, climbing the Stairmaster.
"Vlad–you're in here early!" Vlad was short for Vladimir Putin, Putin being originally short for Rasputin, which the President had taken lately to calling Mo Levison.
"No, you're late," puffed Levison, and, in fact, the President was almost forty-five minutes behind schedule due to his oversleeping and the two phone conversations.
"Mo, I'm, stoppin' it," said the President as he climbed on the adjacent Stairmaster. He pressed a few buttons and the machine whirred into action.
"You mean I can go home?"
"No, not you, the war. I'm stopping it."
"Great! Then I can go home!"
"Mo–did you hear what I just said? I'm pulling the plug on Iraq." The Stairmaster accelerated.
"And I have plants that are dying in my condo. I have to get back to the planet earth–being a despised Siberian monk is okay, the perks are pretty good, but it's time for me to turn back into a pumpkin and try and get back what's left of my dignity, not to mention my profession. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm happy about Iraq–thrilled–but I don't think I want to be around here when that tornado hits."
"I'll have to start callin' you Rasputin the Compassionate. Geez, Mo, I would've thought you'd be a little more excited. But you're absolutely right about the tornado."
"And I'll watch every minute of it from my condo in Connecticut." Levison's Stairmaster, ahead of the President's, was in sprint mode.
"Mo, seriously, I had another dream, vision, whatever, last night. It was Part Three in my apparent Dickens three-pack, and this one was the Future. And it was scary. Mo, what I saw left me no doubt that I have to pull the plug."
"I absolutely wouldn't believe this if you weren't telling me. But you seem resolved. How does one go about 'pulling the plug' on a war?" Mo Levison, sweating,
breathing heavily, got down from his machine and started to towel off.
"I'm the Commander-In-Chief, Mo. I believe I just cancel or countermand current orders, but, of course, I'm gonna have to get some advice from the legal department on how to actually do it. There's going to be a heckuva lotta angry folks at the other end of the telephone line in the next couple of days."
"Not to mention Herrs Cheney und Rumsfeld."
"Yeah, them. I'm gonna have to just weather the inevitable storm, that's all there is to it. I could very well be writin' my own political obituary, but after seeing my real obituary, I think I prefer the alternative."
The President finished his exercise, showered, and let his security team know that he wanted to head back to the White House. He took special care getting dressed that morning. His shoes were freshly polished. His cufflinks glittered off the overhead lights in the dressing room. He lingered at the mirror for an extra minute. This must be what the great generals feel like on the eve of a huge battle. He, too, was about to begin the biggest battle of his life.
