NOTE: This is part of a continuing online novel. Here is the Table of Contents.

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“So this is the famous undisclosed location.”

“Karl, if I hear that joke one more time I’m climbing out of here and choking someone,” Dick Cheney replied with a grunt.

The basement room at Walter Reed had been set up decades before, a bomb-proof shelter for the victim of the next assassin’s bullet. Now it looked like an old mogul’s bedroom, with plastic flowers, pictures of grandchildren, and heavy wooden furniture hiding the accoutrements of a modern hospital, which were mostly hidden in cupboards.

“What is it this time?” Karl Rove asked, taking a seat beside the Vice President.

“Nothing serious, a little arythmia. But you always want to be careful.” Cheney pressed a button that let him sit up, then sat up straighter to show he still had some strength. “To what do we owe the honor?” It was another Cheney attempt at humor. He’d called in Rove.

“Atlanta? Shanghai? Najaf?”

“Try New York, smart guy,” said the Vice President irritably. “The dollar is in worse shape than I am but I see this trade report for tomorrow shows only a 20% improvement in our balance.”

“We can spin it. Record narrowing of the trade gap. It’s good news,” said Rove.

“I’m not the bloody New York Times,” Cheney said angrily. “Look inside the numbers. What do you see?”

“More numbers?”

“More bad numbers, idiot. Look at the categories where exports are up – lumber, minerals, scrap metal, chemicals, fresh fruit. We’ve become an extractive economy. Where’s the damned manufacturing sector? Where’s high-tech?”

“China,” said Rove. “Most of them are in China.”

“Yes, Karl, but you would think that when we’re handed a weak dollar those businesses might adjust things. They might bring production here, at least to serve Europe. But there’s no move in that direction.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” said Rove. “These things just take time. Production at Dell is up significantly. All our chip plants are running full-out.”

“Which means you won’t see another 20% gain next month, and the month after,” said Cheney, a little angry now. “And despite a cut in actual oil imports, the value of those imports is actually up.”

“So next month they won’t rise again, and we’ll be fine,” said Rove.

“No, idiot. When prices go up and stay up things don’t get better. Look at this, even the value of the damned Mexican Peso is rising. And what about GM? How could they stop production a week before Christmas when their export prices have practically been cut in half?”

“Weak domestic demand,” said Rove, quietly. “They depend on domestic sales. But that will change. They’re ramping up sales efforts throughout Latin America. They should be up to three shifts by March.”

“We don’t have until March.” Cheney’s previous outburst was causing him pain. He leaned back into his mattress heavily. “We need action, now.”

“Oh, we’ll get action,” said Rove. “The President has ordered that any sympathy marches be halted. He’s declared a national day of mourning for tomorrow. And he’s going to void those union contracts, allow non-union replacements at whatever the company is willing to pay. They’re nothing but Communists.”

“He can’t do that,” said Cheney.

“Already done.”

The only sounds in the room were Cheney’s breathing and the hum of his heart monitor. If Rove had any medical training he would notice the monitor was beeping faster than it should, given the patient’s prone position. If Cheney had any medical training he’d be looking at his own saline drip.

“Power,” said the Vice President at last.

“Power?” asked Rove.

“What we do for it,” Cheney said heavily. “You said, once, it’s easy to steal an election you’ve lost by one. And we know you can even steal one you’ve lost by 3, if you go big and push everyone, tell them the other side is doing it. It’s funny, all they thought of was undervotes, voter suppression. They never had a clue, did they?”

Rove shook his head and kept his mouth shut. But both men knew what he was thinking.. Overvotes, extra straight-ticket votes in areas under party control, that’s what won. That’s how LBJ became “Landslide Lyndon.”. Now it was part of the system. Everyone did it. The winners just did more of it.

“But when you’re down by 10 or 20 or 30 and you try that kind of shit, other things happen. You remember Viktor Yanukovych a few weeks ago?”

“Gesundheit,” said Rove.

No, idiot. The Ukraine. Victor Yanukovych lost his re-election by 15 to our man, Viktor Yushchenko, but Yanukovych stole it to win by 3. And you saw what happened? Massive street protests, an economic shutdown.”

Rove completed the sentence. “And a military alliance with Vladimir Putin that brought in Russian troops and martial law. It’s Putin’s near-abroad. We do the same thing all the time.”

Cheney reached down with his right hand and pulled his glasses off his head. He pressed two fingers against the bridge of his nose. It was his way of calming himself. The sound of the monitor slowed slightly, then picked up again. “You really are an ass, Rove. The point is that power demands legitimacy. Without it your autonomy disappears. That’s the lesson. You’re always weaker with an approval rating of 30 than with one of 70, no matter how far away the next election is. We have to do something that will bring people to us. It’s not enough to have power if the people won’t follow you.”

“Sure it is,” said Rove cheerfully. “Power is a zero-sum game. You either have it or you don’t. When we didn’t have it, back in the 1990s, we could make all the plans we wanted but nothing happened. Now we remake the world in our own image, and there’s nothing to stop us.” Rove patted Cheney’s shoulder and prepared to leave.

“Wait!” called Cheney. Rove turned around. “You ever been hungry, Karl? I mean really hungry?” Rove shook his head. “Ever been hungry with the memory of food still fresh? Ever have food snatched from your hands?” Rove leaned against the door impatiently.

“When you see that, you’ll know the limits of power, Karl. The doctor says I’ll be in next week.”

“I hope so,” said Rove quietly. But as he walked back down the hall, whistling, he tended to doubt it.

Cheney had never even seen the syringe. He patted his pocket thoughtfully. No weak sisters.