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a lot about.
    It was what got him elected to the Presidency when no one thought he could do it. He was considered a New York liberal by his colleagues; he used the same soft-spoken, low key, egghead approach that characterized his boyhood hero, Adlai Stevenson. That sort of thing got good play in New York. Of course, he didn’t share Stevenson’s weakness, his passionate concern for ideals. Ideals just tended to get in the way of the real issues, like reelection.
    So, he quietly put in his time in the Congress, mousing his way along. He saved his political chits and sharpened his arrows, and when the right time came along, he moved. The war had everything turned around and in chaos. The country, at least what was left of it, was looking for new leadership. Harker pulled in his lines, worked a few coup d’états on his enemies, and when all the bloodletting was done, he stood at the top of the hill.
    He was it—the Man.
    And he liked it. Loved it. He had the power of a nation behind him. He was the power of the nation. He wasn’t Mousey anymore. And the great State of Alabama didn’t have its water projects.
    Now he had a bomb that could make him President of the World. He’d go to Hartford, deliver his message, then retreat to the deep shelters at Camp David to await the response. Maybe he’d take that stewardess with him and fuck some sense into her, bang the hatred right out of her eyes. It was an intriguing thought.
    The plane suddenly buffeted, nearly throwing Harker out of his seat. He jerked his head toward the cockpit to hear the sounds of a scuffle behind the door.
    “What the hell?”
    The movement had thrown everyone else to the floor. The secret servicemen were up first, moving to the cockpit. There was confusion as the plane rocked back and forth. Something was wrong, desperately wrong.
    “Help me,” Harker called. “God help me!”
    The doctors thought he was referring to them. They ran to him, as the agents tried to get through the cockpit door. It was apparently locked from the inside. The movements had steadied somewhat, but the plane was going down, steadily down.
    The doctors were on him, checking his pulse, heads darting to the door. One of the secret servicemen was banging futilely against the terrorist-proof steel and wood with the butt of a rifle.
    All at once, the cabin speakers came up. Something must have accidentally hit the button. All movement in the cabin stopped dead still, like a freeze frame.
    “. . . and lies can’t stop him now. We’re going down. We’re going down hard.
    That damned stewardess. He knew he shouldn’t have trusted her. An anarchist, for god’s sake. Those people were insane. They’d do anything. Harker’s pulse was racing. They couldn’t do this to him. They couldn’t. He had to save himself.
    The voice was still coming over the speakers as the secret service began throwing their weight against the door two at a time.
    “All your guns and spying and computers can’t stop the people’s rightful vengeance. Can’t stop me!” Her voice was rising in intensity, peaked with hysteria. “Tell this to the workers when they ask where your leader went!”
    There was a pause. Harker shoved the doctors away from him. They were too scared to be of any use anyway. The escape pod. That’s what he needed. He felt for the revolver in his jacket pocket. He was going to have the pod. He’d defend it if he had to.
    The woman spoke again. Her words came more slowly; she was obviously reading. Her voice was vibrating, insane. Harker knew that she fully intended to take the plane down and die with it. “We the soldiers of the National Liberation Front of America, in the name of workers and all oppressed of this imperialist country, have struck a fatal blow to the racist police state.”
    Two of the secret servicemen ran back to Harker while the other continued banging on the door.
    One of them was talking. “Sir, we can’t get . . .”
    “Jesus Christ, shoot the