Culver grimaced. Mad Jack simply demonstrated that the power of the people could be a very sharp, double-edged sword. After all, how could any right-thinking American resist a staunch defender of the nation who fought the good fight against the granola and tofu-chewing hippies of Seattle? Because, of course, your granola-chewing tofu types could never be real Americans, could they?

If only it were that simple, Jed thought.

He leaned right back in his office chair, cheating a little extra room to cross his legs, as he contemplated the photograph he was holding of Blackstone. It was a typical press shot of the former US Army Ranger, in his green dress uniform, bedecked in ribbons and stars, smiling at the camera with the pre-Wave flag of the United States draped artfully behind his right shoulder. He came across as a country grandpa of sorts, eager to get out of the army-issue suit and tie for some fishing by the river. When Blackstone wasn’t angry, he could even sound like your granddaddy, calmly telling you the facts of life with the same patience that one might teach a child how to thread a worm onto a fishing hook. Or throw a roomful of duly elected civilian representatives into confinement for arguing over Oreo cookies.

There was a bit of the Roman in him too, perhaps, something to Jed’s eye that brought to mind the old busts of Pompey and Vespasian. The great leonine head, the long nose and imperial bearing that seemed to fill out his uniform with extra awesomeness. You could understand why people might turn to him during the End Times. The motherfucker had a glint in his eye that whispered of your salvation. Or to Jed’s practised and cynical eye, of Blackstone’s Messiah complex.

He tossed the colour photo onto a pile of more recent, matte, black-and-white photographs that was threatening to spill over the edge of his desk. In the later shots, Blackstone had offset his bald pate with a grandfatherly beard that was slowly going white with age. The Santa Claus look, Kipper called it.