Debt Bomb

by Michael Ginsberg

  Xu Li laughed. “It sounds Russian because it is Russian. And no, the Russians are not helping us. We have no time for their substandard capabilities. Why do you think the only things they attack are weak neighboring countries and defenseless old defectors living in the English countryside? They don’t stand a chance against anyone with an ounce of sophistication and capability.”

  “If the Russians aren’t involved, why ‘Operation Pripyat’?”

  “How old were you when Chernobyl exploded?”

  “Chernobyl? The nuclear reactor? I don’t remember when it happened.”

  “It was 1986.”

  “Then I was two.”

  “So you remember nothing.”

  “You remember anything from when you were two?” Sometimes Acorn could not contain his irritation.

  “Watch yourself, Acorn.”

  “I am sorry, Madame Xu.” Acorn bowed deeply.

  “Pripyat is the town that was next to Chernobyl. The reactor employees and their families lived there. The radiation forced the Russians to evacuate the town. It is now the abandoned, quarantined symbol of a nuclear meltdown.”

  “What does a 1980s nuclear meltdown have to do with America’s national debt?” asked Acorn.

  “Sometime within the next year, an American bond auction will fail. You need to make certain the American government won’t be able to borrow any money after that.”

  My Lord, this really is going to melt down the United States. No government borrowing meant no government spending. No government spending meant catastrophe for the United States. And he, Acorn, would be the key man implementing the plan in the United States. He pictured himself in a history textbook as the man who brought down capitalist America.

  “That is all I have for you, Acorn. You will know when it’s time to go into action, and you will know what to do.”

  He hated the Ministry’s cryptic nature. Why can’t the Ministry just tell me what they want me to do and when they want me to do it? Sure, he wanted to overthrow capitalism and take down the American government, but the CIA probably told its agents exactly what they wanted them to do. Xu Li was treating Operation Pripyat like some kind of Choose Your Own Adventure.

  But one did not question Xu Li. He had already made one mistake in the conversation and wasn’t about to make another.

  “Yes, Madame Xu. I will be ready.”

  “Mom, you down here?” Aaron hollered down the basement stairs. “Michelle and I are going to the park to play.”

  “Honey, I’m busy working,” Andrea replied. She had been putting together budget drafts for Congressman Murray for weeks, and her thirteen-year-old son had made it his mission to interrupt her every hour.

  “Geez, Mom, could you be any more obsessed?” Aaron poked his head down the stairs. “We never see you anymore ever since that congressman guy showed up at your office. The only things left in the refrigerator are mustard and ketchup. How am I going to be able to stay on the basketball team if I’m eating Chick-fil-A every night?”

  Andrea laughed. “If you don’t want Chick-fil-A, there are frozen steam-in-the-bag veggies in the freezer.”

  “You idiot!” whispered ten-year-old Michelle, who apparently had joined her brother on the stairs. “Now we’re not going to get Chick-fil-A for dinner anymore and we’ll have to eat steamed broccoli.”

  Andrea smiled to herself.

  Footsteps pounded down the stairs, and Michelle and Aaron made themselves known.

  “What have you done down here?” Michelle uttered as she glanced around the basement.

  Andrea had been so absorbed in developing draft budget proposals she had been oblivious to the mess she’d created. Rejected drafts littered the floor. A small trash can overflowed with paper and candy wrappers. Diet Pepsi cans and empty Doritos bags were scattered on the floor around her desk chair. The only clean spot was the area in front of the SO MAD backdrop where she recorded her videos.

  She immediately regretted not locking the basement door, embarrassed her children had seen this mess.

  “And you tell me to clean up my room?” said Aaron.

  “I’m just working on that budget stuff I told you about,” Andrea said. “If you’re so worried about the condition of the basement, maybe you would like to help with the laundry down here on occasion.” The threat of laundry duty would surely end this unwanted conversation.

  “You’re going to save the country from inside this mess?” Michelle’s high-pitched voice exuded doubt.

  “That’s the plan. I’m putting together the different budget proposals Mr. Murray asked me to give him. If he wins, he might use one of them.”

  “Did you save NASA?” asked Aaron. “Because I’m going to fly in space one day.”

  “I’m trying,” she said. She wanted to add, But every rocket we pay for to launch people into space might cost someone their prescription benefits, but decided against it.

  “You both doing all right?” asked Andrea. “I have a meeting in fifteen minutes.”

  “We just wanted to tell you we’re going to the park,” said Michelle.

  The local park had a lighted basketball court and playground, a favorite spot for the children. Another time Andrea might have insisted they be home at seven and text her updates. But she was so lost in her own work that she’d unconsciously suppressed her usual overprotective instincts.

  “Sounds good, kids. Call if you need anything.”

  The kids raced up the stairs and Andrea got back to work. She had prepared three different budgets for Murray. One was a gradual set of cuts that would put the country on a course to pay down its debt in fifty years. Another paid down the debt in twenty-five years. And one was a draconian, slash-and-burn emergency budget that paid down the debt within eight years, two presidential terms. Murray wanted that option in case he became convinced none of his successors would continue his debt-reduction efforts and would turn on the spending spigots again. Andrea christened it “The Nuke” because she considered it the financial equivalent of dropping a nuclear bomb.

  In the quiet before her call with Murray, she sat back in her chair, folded her hands behind her head, and smiled. She was pleased with her budget plans. But she felt growing frustration. She watched the news every evening to see if Murray had mentioned the national debt on the campaign trail and so far, he hadn’t. What was he waiting for? If he wasn’t going to talk about the debt, what was the point of her work?

  Andrea was raring to go when Murray joined the online meeting.

  “What did you think of the draft budget plans?” she asked.

  “Looked good to me,” Murray replied. “They’re exactly what I wanted.”

  “I’m looking forward to your telling the country the hard budget truths,” said Andrea.

  Murray gazed at Andrea through the video chat.She recognized Murray’s faraway look from the Gang meeting. Something was on his mind.

  “Congressman?” she asked, trying to prompt some conversation. “May I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “When are you going to release these budget plans?”

  Murray sighed. “Not during the campaign, Andrea. After it. If I win.”

  “You’re not going to use them in the campaign?” Andrea drew her face close to the screen to fill Murray’s screen with an incredulous look. “I spent weeks holed up in this basement living off Doritos and Diet Pepsi and you’re not planning to use my work?”

  Murray cocked his head and peered over his reading glasses. The jocular visitor to her office was gone, replaced by the steely-eyed, calculating politician. The type of guy she hated.

  “Andrea, if I push budget cuts, I’m going to lose,” said Murray. “We’re going to lose.”

  “Not you too.” Andrea threw up her hands.

  “You need to trust me on this. I promise, I’m using them. But didn’t you learn anything from your experience with the Debt Rebel Gang?”

  Oh Lord, here it comes, the politician condescending
to the unschooled rube.

  “People are mad all right, but not about the debt,” said Murray. “If I start talking about cutting their Social Security and Medicare, I will lose. And what do you think will happen if Zack Hunter wins and opens the spending spigot?” Zachary Hunter was Murray’s Democratic opponent in the presidential election.

  “But somebody needs to condition people to prepare them for the cuts someone is going to need to make. If Hunter does Medicare-for-All, and pays off everyone’s college debt and medical debt, we’re going to go bankrupt in a week. I’m telling you, Americans will listen. They know Hunter is talking about paying for things with unicorn farts and pixie dust.”

  Her foot twitched under the desk. Yet again, someone was ignoring her advice. Cam Davis disregarded her, with tragic consequences. The Debt Rebel Gang disregarded her. And now Earl Murray, the one politician she thought took her seriously, was disregarding her. She was back to being an unimportant suburban nobody.

  “Listen, I’m frustrated too,” said Murray. “Believe me, it did us no favors when the Debt Rebel Gang admitted they weren’t really concerned about the debt after all their balanced budget caterwauling. Even the talk-radio babblers confessed no one ever truly cared about the debt, that it was all a ruse to stir up anger and get their favored candidates elected. What do you think that did to our credibility? Even if I try to make the case, no one will believe us. At this point, I wouldn’t either.”

  Acid burned the lining of Andrea’s stomach. Her powerlessness was literally consuming her. Was she such a nobody that she couldn’t make a genuine case to the public to cut the debt despite the Debt Rebel Gang’s cynical leveraging of the debt issue to gain power?

  “The bottom line is this: In order to lead, we have to win,” said Murray.

  Andrea grimaced through the pain of her acid reflux. “Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around?”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” replied Murray. “If you want to drive the conversation, you have to win the election. Elected officials control the debate. Election losers stand on the sidelines shaking their fists and yelling at the clouds.”

  Andrea took a sip from an open can of Diet Pepsi.

  “If I win,” Murray said, “I’m going to attack the debt hard with the budgets you’ve been putting together.” He pointed at Andrea for emphasis.

  “In other words, you’re going to trick the American people into thinking you’re not worried about the debt and then start cutting spending and all their government-provided goodies,” she snapped.

  “Delusion is a two-way street,” Murray said. “If the American public has deluded itself into thinking the country can incur debt forever, we can delude it into electing us to deal with the problem.”

  Andrea rubbed her forehead. Maybe Murray was right. And maybe there was something to being a professional politician after all. Though the thought did nothing to stop the acid in her stomach.

  “Do me one favor,” said Murray.

  “What’s that?” asked Andrea.

  “Come to the election night party in Dallas. We’ll have a suite. All kinds of food and drinks. Win or lose, I want you there for election night. Watch the returns come in with me and my team.”

  “I don’t know, I can’t leave my husband and the kids.”

  “Bring ’em.”

  “But the cost of the plane, the hotel—”

  “The campaign will cover it,” said Murray. “Any other excuses I need to shoot down?”

  “No strings attached, right? You’re not going to make me get in front of a camera or something, are you?”

  “No strings,” said Murray. “Just come and see what a presidential election night party is like.”

  Andrea could not hold back a slight smile. “You drive a hard bargain, Congressman.” The thought of attending the party settled her pulse.

  “I told you I was a car salesman,” said Murray. “Top salesman in Dallas from 2012 and 2014.”

  “What happened?”

  “I got myself elected to Congress,” said Murray. “After that I couldn’t sell water in the desert.”

  Andrea laughed. “Fine, Mr. Murray.” His charm had won the day. “We’ll come to Dallas for election night.”

  “Excellent. My assistant will call with all the arrangements. Talk to you soon.”

  “Goodbye, Congressman.”

  Andrea sat back and exhaled. The election night party? With the potential president-elect? Maybe she wasn’t a suburban nobody after all. Maybe Murray really did take her seriously. She felt a surge of motivation and confidently took a big swig of her Diet Pepsi. As the liquid traveled down her throat, she could feel its caffeinated energy osmotically passing into her bloodstream. She dove back into revising her budget plans in earnest. She’d finally hit the big time.

  “Frank, so glad you made it!”

  Lewis Mason, chairman of the House Debt Rebel Gang greeted Acorn as he descended the stairs into the pub of the Capitol Hill Club, the elegant club the national Republican Party ran on Capitol Hill a block from Mason’s office in the Longworth Building. Pictures of Republican notables lined the walls of the stairs. Eisenhower. Lincoln. Reagan. Taft. Bush. Icons of the Republican Party.

  “Thanks for the invite, Mr. Mason,” said Acorn.

  It was a big deal to be invited to the Capitol Hill Club for the election night party. Other than being at the candidate’s party watching the returns, the Capitol Hill Club was the place to be for a Republican.

  The Club was once Acorn’s domain. He’d made contacts and built his reputation here. His networking at the Club probably accelerated his career arc by a decade. The basement pub’s low ceiling and dim yellow lighting practically screamed “smoke-filled room where politicians cut deals.”

  Now that the Ministry had activated him, though, the Club was the last place he wanted to be. He was terrified of saying the wrong thing and exposing his clandestine activities. But one didn’t turn down an invite to the Capitol Hill Club for the election night party. That would have aroused suspicion. So Acorn swallowed hard and went.

  It wasn’t all bad. Cheeseburgers were on the buffet menu, and the Capitol Hill Club had one of the best burgers in the city.

  He thought of his parents. “There’s an engineer or doctor with no political power probably slaving away in a lab while the politicians enjoying themselves at this buffet control their lives with their decisions about health care, defense budgets, or the rest,” his father would have said. He looked at the waiters busing the tables. Surrounded by political power while having none of their own. How could they stand it?

  “Hey, Frank, you watching this? Murray is going to win this damned thing!” Mason roared.

  There were five screens set up in the front of the pub. Each had a different network’s election coverage. One by one they were calling the race for Murray.

  “A stunning upset,” the NBC anchor said.

  “No one saw this coming,” the CNN anchor echoed.

  “What a win for Earl Murray and the Republican Party,” said the Fox anchor.

  Acorn’s stomach churned. He was regretting having eaten that third cheeseburger.

  Earl Murray was going to be the next president of the United States.

  He had told Xu Li that Murray had no chance. What am I going to tell her now? Is she going to disappear me?

  Acorn scanned the room. The chatter got louder as Murray’s victory became clear. Attendees’ faces glowed with the light of cell phones as they furiously texted. A few lit up cigars. In the middle of this growing celebration stood Acorn, aghast, wondering what Xu Li would say to him now. He had to remind himself not to look upset or disappointed and blow his cover.

  “Frank, I bet you didn’t expect this,” said Mason.

  “Did anyone?”

  “Murray’s going to be a pain in the ass to deal with.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  “If he tries to cut the budget and entitlements the way he used to talk about in
Gang meetings the few times he actually spoke, our voters will eat him alive,” said Mason. “We’re not going to break any promises President Roberts made to the voters.”

  “You know perfectly well that’s what Murray’s going to do,” Acorn replied.

  Mason pulled Acorn close to him. Amid the cigar smoke and drunken revelry, Mason whispered ominously in Acorn’s ear. “Then we’ll have to stop him, won’t we?”

  Acorn couldn’t believe what he’d heard. He’d risen to become Mason’s chief of staff by pretending to be a deficit hawk. Now that he needed to keep Murray from cutting the national debt, Mason agreed. He couldn’t have picked a better member of Congress to serve. He might face Xu Li’s wrath, but the task of manipulating Mason was as easy as could be.

  Mason pulled away from Acorn and made his way to the stairs. He left, saying goodbye to no one. It wasn’t like Mason to leave a party early, not when the drinks were flowing and there was free food to be had. Something was on his mind. Maybe he anticipated a showdown with Murray.

  Acorn had his own showdown to contemplate. For Xu Li was no doubt waiting to hear from him. He dreaded her reaction to his now-disproven prediction that Murray would lose.

  He looked over at the buffet. A new platter of cheeseburgers had just appeared.

  One for the road. This might be my last.

  Andrea sat on a couch staring at a television in shock, goosebumps dotting her arms. The twelfth-floor suite in the Dallas Hilton that served as Congressman Murray’s election night campaign command center was filled with people celebrating. Thrilled, stunned, excited, speechless—she was all of these and then some. Ryan was seated next to her with his arm around her and a broad smile on his face. Michelle was jumping up and down, shouting “Mommy’s team won! Mommy’s team won!”

  A commotion exploded outside the room. The doors burst open and in walked a massive crowd of people, camera shutters clicking, television cameras recording, and microphone booms hovering over it all. The man who’d left the room two hours ago as Congressman Murray had now returned as President-elect Murray.