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FOUR

Arne and Lois Haugen deliberately avoided watching the news at breakfast. She considered it a poor way to start a day, and he tended to agree. And he didn't often turn on the set in his office at all. But things now seemed so damned critical that, when he arrived at work that morning, he turned on CNN. A commercial was showing, and while waiting through it, he got a cup of black coffee from the coffee station beside his drafting table.

With the cup in his hand, he paused to look out the window. The main management-manufacturing complex of Duluth Technologies stood near the brink of the Superior Plateau, and his large thermal window looked northeastward across the north end of the city. Beyond lay Lake Superior, ice-blue in the sunlight, stretching to a distant horizon and disappearing. A single freighter steamed outbound, a bulk carrier. From its small size and its black smoke plume, it was one of the ancient coal burners renovated when Persian Gulf oil had stopped flowing a year ago.

Carrying wheat, probably, he thought. Other shipping was way down. Fewer and fewer ships had been in and out of the harbor in recent months.

Times were very bad in Duluth. They'd been bad for decades as the iron mines played out, then had gradually improved. More recently they'd crashed, and hard times had taken on new meaning. But there'd been no riots here, and hardly any demonstrations.

Ordinarily he took the TV news with more than a grain of salt; if ten homes were lost to a forest fire somewhere, they'd give the impression that a town had burned up. But last night they'd shown aerial views of fires and fighting in half a dozen cities, and mentioned a dozen others; it had been a sobering, even a frightening thing to watch. For the first time in his life, it was really real to Arne Haugen that the United States of America could go down the tubes.

Now, from his chair, he watched film of a small battle in the Sierra Nevada of California. Troops against a paramilitary outfit. The newscaster called them "survivalists," but survivalists weren't likely to be challenging the army. Whatever they were, they'd been surrounded on the crest of a forested ridge by elements of the 7th Light Infantry Division, late the day before. The firefight wasn't intense, as firefights went, but Haugen could recognize bursts of automatic rifle fire, the staccato racketing of occasional machine guns, the thump of mortars, now and then the slam of rockets. From both adversaries; the paras had a lot more than deer rifles up there.

It occurred to Haugen that, while much of the video photography was seemingly from a helicopter, apparently using zoom lenses from a distance, the sound pickup was on the ground, with the infantry.

Then there was another sound, the growing sound of helicopters. Their threat, their promise, drew his attention from the gunfire. Then a camera showed them coming, a flight of five, lean and not very large. As they approached the ridge, four of them veered and began to circle it at a little distance. The fifth moved nearer, and he could hear a bull horn of some kind calling on the paras to lay down their weapons, and file down the ridge with their hands on their heads.

It had only begun to repeat the message when a rocket struck its lightly armored side. The craft staggered, then veered away, still flying. The others didn't hesitate; they came in shooting, releasing searing flights of antipersonnel rockets, while their chain guns ripped the fabric of morning. The rockets tattooed the forest then, the upper ridge slopes, throwing debris. The attack continued for perhaps half a terrible minute before the choppers withdrew.

The cameras didn't show the result—limp bodies, wounded prisoners. The photography, Haugen thought, must be military; the intent was not to shock but to sober, and to demonstrate that the government was in full control. He felt effectively sobered indeed. The network commentary was brief; there'd been several significant fights between military units and backcountry paras.

There'd also been a siege, of "La Raza" paras who'd captured and fortified a country jail in rural New Mexico. There was no footage of the firefight, but a silent camera, after the fact, showed the heavily pockmarked building, and inside, rooms shattered by rockets and grenades, large bloodstains on the floor. Most of the seventeen paras there had died. The military force had been a national guard company whose troops were also from northern New Mexico.

Interesting, Haugen thought. It was as if people were reacting against the destructive violence of the few, even when the few were their own. Perhaps most of them were ready to try keeping the machinery going, trying to survive.

Coverage had shifted to central L.A. when the phone buzzed. Haugen touched a key to cut the sound volume from the TV, then answered the phone. His secretary's voice issued from the speaker.

"Mr. Haugen, there's a General Cromwell for you on line one."

A puzzled frown touched Haugen's face. "Thanks, John, I'll take it." He hadn't seen Jumper Cromwell for—it had been three years in September. He touched the blinking key, and the general's face appeared on the phone screen. "Good morning, Jumper. What can I do for you?"

At his end, Cromwell was renewing his image of Haugen's face: broad, with high strong cheekbones, a wide mouth with the thin lips of age. The nose was somewhat flattened and slightly crooked, probably a souvenir of some long-ago brawl.

"It is a pretty good morning here at that," Cromwell answered, "compared to the last couple. Arne, can you fly to Washington today? If I send a plane for you."

"Fly to Washington? What for, Jumper?"

"It's confidential. I can't tell you over the phone."

"Umh! How long would I be there?" Haugen's mind was reviewing his plans for the week as he asked.

"Maybe a day, maybe longer. Depends on what you decide to do after we've talked."

He wouldn't be asking me if it wasn't damned important—to him anyway. Haugen told himself. And for a day or two...

"Sure. I can do that. I suppose that'll be from Duluth International?"

"Right. I'll have you picked up at the Air National Guard Office. Just make yourself known to whoever's in charge. Or if there's any problem about getting there, I can have you picked up at home or your office."

"No. I'll have someone take me."

"Good. It's—what? Eight twenty-five there now?"

Haugen glanced at the clock. "Right."

"It's about a two-and-a-half-hour flight for the plane I'm sending, and it'll leave here in about an hour. Then say a half-hour layover at your end for refueling and whatever else the pilot has to do. You'll take off in about four or five hours from now."

Haugen's expression turned quizzical. "Five hours? Make it 5 p.m. instead." He was testing: The general seemed to be pushing for time; how urgent was this, really?

Cromwell's expression didn't change, but his mind raced. He wanted Haugen there while Donnelly was still rational. But if he pushed too hard, Haugen was likely to insist on knowing what it was about, and if he told him over the phone, five would get you ten he'd shy off.

"Okay, 5 p.m. will be fine," Cromwell said. "I'll see you tonight."

"I'll bring clothes for two days."

"Make it three days?"

"Three then." It made no difference. Arne Haugen always kept a bag packed and ready.

***

When they'd disconnected, the general realized his forehead was dewed with sweat. What're the odds he'll tell you to go to hell, Cromwell? he asked himself. He really really didn't want to accept the presidency himself. Because if he did, and couldn't make it work... He veered away from the thought.

***

Haugen sat back in his chair and watched a few more minutes of news—up till the weather forecast. The president was rumored to be ill. The latest unemployment figure was forty percent, but that was the week before the blowup; it might easily be fifty or sixty by now. The final games of the baseball season, plus the league playoffs and world series had all been cancelled, and Baltimore declared champion on the basis of the best record—101 wins. And the Iranian army had finally taken Baghdad; at least the Ayatollah Jalal had something to cheer about.

Then, after turning off the set, Arne Haugen reached and dialed his home. His wife answered. They hadn't had a maid recently; Lois had decided to try a twice-a-week cleaning service for the privacy it gave.

"Hey, Babe," he said, "I've got to fly out of town about four-thirty or five this afternoon. How about I take the rest of the day off? We can drive up the North Shore and enjoy the color, stop at Bjerke's for a late lunch, and come back."

"Oh?" Her brows had risen. "Well, I like the driving and eating part. Where are you flying to?"

"D.C."

"Hmh! Okay. Shall we drive the Elf? It doesn't ride like the Caddy, but I've hoarded enough gas coupons for a tank and a half."

"The Elf it is then. I'll be there in ten minutes."

They disconnected. He took his jacket and safety helmet off their hooks and started for the lot where his little Yamaha 250 was parked. He wasn't speculating on what the trip was about; he'd find out when he got there.

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Framed