Debt Bomb

by Michael Ginsberg

  Over the last hour he’d acquired a massive entourage comprised of an army of Secret Service agents, aides, staffers, family members, celebrities, and who knew who else. The campaign staff swarmed President-elect Murray as he entered the room.

  “Congratulations, Mr. President!”

  “You did it, sir!”

  Andrea stood up and watched but said nothing. Her head was on a swivel. Dignitaries, celebrities, staff, and hangers-on filled the room.

  What am I doing here?

  She retreated to the couch and sat down. She could feel her insides shriveling up, curling into a ball among the A-list social scene. She watched as Murray worked the room with ease. Working a room wasn’t in Andrea’s repertoire. She had trouble making conversation at her college reunion. How could she possibly hang with this high-powered crowd?

  She shrank into the couch next to Ryan and nursed a Diet Pepsi through a half-hour of stage fright, saying nothing as she watched the crowd. Near midnight the crowd finally began to disperse to the hotel ballroom where more celebrations had begun. President-elect Murray did not join them. Instead, as the crowd thinned, he seated himself next to her. Secret Service agents took up positions around the couch.

  “How about you and I head out to the balcony for a moment,” said President-elect Murray.

  Andrea nodded and stood up. As they walked to the balcony, she shot Ryan a questioning look. Murray saw it. “Your husband can come too if you’d like,” he said. “He may want to be part of the conversation.”

  Ryan got up and the three of them headed out to the balcony. The lights of downtown Dallas shimmered in the background. The Secret Service took up their standard positions, one on the balcony and one inside the suite guarding the sliding door.

  “We did it, Andrea!” A jubilant President-elect Murray embraced her warmly. “You and I, we need to talk.”

  “You did it, sir,” Andrea replied. “I had nothing to do with it. You barely used my plans and policy papers.”

  “Nonsense,” Murray said. “I used them quietly, in private, with people who truly care about the deficit. Just because I didn’t splash them all over the airwaves doesn’t mean I didn’t use them. When you get more experience, you’ll see the difference between the public and private campaigns politicians run.”

  “Get more experience?” asked Andrea.

  “I want you to come with me to Washington,” Murray said. “I need your help.”

  “For what?” Andrea’s voice was a combination of excitement and dread.

  “I want you to be my Office of Management and Budget director. Your job will be to write and manage the federal budget.”

  “Come again?” She took a step back and glanced at Ryan. “You want me to be your OMB director?”

  “You know what that is, right?” Murray asked.

  “You’re asking me to be the most important accountant in the world?” Even as she said it, she couldn’t believe it was happening. “Don’t you have party poohbahs, donors, and apparatchiks to reward? I’d be perfectly happy to be an anonymous staffer at OMB.”

  “I’m the president-elect,” said Murray. “I do what I want now. And thanks to SO MAD, you are the face of cutting the debt to the women of America.”

  “Mr. President, you need someone with experience in Washington,” Andrea replied. Calling Murray “Mr. President” made Andrea feel as though she was in an episode of her beloved West Wing. “Making internet videos in front of empty rooms is one thing. Being out front, talking to crowds, talking to Congress? You saw how I failed in that Debt Rebel Gang meeting. You want more of that? I’m happy to keep writing budgets from my basement, but I don’t want to be out front.”

  Murray shook his head. “I need you in Washington.”

  “I can’t do this. I don’t know anyone in Washington.”

  “If it doesn’t work, I’ll replace you.”

  “Maybe I could be the deputy, or the assistant, or something like that.”

  Murray leaned in close to Andrea and put his hand on her shoulder. “That’s not what I want. I want the person who spoke truth to the Debt Rebel Gang. You kicked their asses, whether you think so or not. I need the person who wrote all those draft budgets during the campaign. I need the person who rallied the SO MAD moms. You said it yourself. The country needs an accountant. And I am choosing you.”

  “Maybe I could talk to my family first?”

  Murray pointed at Ryan, who’d been standing next to Andrea on the balcony listening to their conversation.

  “Sweetheart, the president is asking you to serve the country.” Ryan tilted his head and peered over his glasses at Andrea. “The president is asking you to serve the country. The president. The country.”

  Andrea looked at her kids through the balcony door. Aaron was plowing through what remained of the appetizer buffet, and Michelle was playing with the daughter of one of Murray’s campaign aides, both still blissfully unaware of the debt bomb ticking in the background. The president was asking her to defuse the debt bomb and save their futures.

  Andrea turned to Ryan. “What about the family?”

  “We’ll move to Washington,” Ryan said. “It’s fine. I can find a hospital to work at. The kids will find schools. We won’t even have to sell the house. When we’re done in DC, we’ll come back home.”

  “The Virginia suburbs have some of the best public schools in the country,” added Murray. “Your kids will be fine. And what an experience they will have. Not every kid has a chance to use the White House bowling alley for birthday parties. Yours will.”

  “That settles it,” said Ryan.

  Andrea nodded, sheepishly at first and then with growing conviction.

  “Okay, Mr. President. I’ll be your OMB director.”

  “I knew I could count on you,” Murray said, smiling broadly. “Let’s take on the debt and make history.”

  Acorn’s four-hour drive to the cave felt more like eight. He’d kept the radio off. He didn’t want to hear any more election coverage. What he needed to do was think.

  How do I face Xu Li? What do I say?

  He ran a few stories through his head. He could tell her most pundits had gotten it wrong, so he wasn’t the only one. Or he could simply throw himself on her mercy.

  Why waste your time thinking about what to say? You know perfectly well that the moment Xu Li appears on the screen you’re going to forget whatever you planned to say and seize up tongue-tied. What’s the difference what you decide to say now?

  Acorn arrived at the abandoned drive-in theater. He looked around to see if anyone was there. The full moon provided enough light that he didn’t need a flashlight. He’d come straight from the party and was still wearing his loafers. Good. They make less noise.

  Acorn descended into the cave.

  When he arrived, he tiptoed to the red button on the console beside the video screen. The acid in his stomach from the three cheeseburgers finally released and the reflux burned its way up his throat. He took a deep breath and pressed the button. Xu Li appeared on the screen.

  “I see you misjudged the election results, Acorn.”

  Acorn momentarily stopped breathing. Xu Li had gone right for the jugular.

  “Madame Xu, the American people are hard to predict. Too many factors at play.”

  “And you all think Chinese Communism is undesirable. Predictability is always preferable over mob rule.”

  “I know we need a strategy to respond to this,” stammered Acorn. “I’ll execute whatever plan you have.”

  “You are lucky you’ve burrowed as deeply into American society as you have, Acorn. If you were more expendable, we would not be having this conversation.”

  Was that meant to make me feel better? That I wasn’t going to be liquidated? Or was she reminding me she had no compunction about liquidating failed agents?

  “Is it the plan of Mr. Murray to cut the American debt and end the deficit?” continued Xu Li. “He spoke of it hardly at all during the cam
paign.”

  “All a ruse, Madame Xu. He had staff working on debt-cutting plans throughout the campaign to unleash if he won. But he knew he would not win if he let the American people know his plans before the election. So he said nothing.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “I’m not a complete failure, Madame Xu. I know Murray. And I knew staffers on the Murray campaign. Including the staffer he had working on the debt-cutting plans.”

  “And who is this?”

  “Andrea Gartner.”

  “This is the woman in the online videos?”

  “Yes. She got the suburban moms all fired up about the debt, and Murray wanted their votes. So he put her on his campaign.”

  “Do you know her?”

  Acorn saw an opportunity to show Xu Li he was a valuable, well-connected agent.

  “She tried to run for Congress. I made sure she was nuked.”

  “Not completely nuked, obviously. She still seems to be a problem.”

  Acorn had miscalculated, forgetting Xu Li dealt only in absolutes. Success or failure. Life or death. She gave no partial credit. If Andrea Gartner was a threat, and Acorn had her in his sights and didn’t take her out, he had failed in Xu Li’s world.

  “I don’t think anyone expected Andrea Gartner to become the sensation she did. I thought the Debt Rebel Gang had broken her. If Murray had lost as expected, she would have been consigned to oblivion. But I am in a position to craft a new strategy.” Acorn desperately wanted to stop talking about his failure to predict Murray’s victory.

  “We already have a strategy, Acorn. You may not plan for all contingencies, but you are an American. The Ministry thinks through every conceivable contingency. We have a plan.”

  “What is that?”

  “We will speed up the timetable of Operation Pripyat.”

  The camera panned out from Xu Li slowly and behind her stood a man in an expensive suit. Even through the screen Acorn could tell it was a thousand-dollar, custom-tailored Ermenegildo Zegna suit.

  “Study this man, Acorn. The next time you see him it will be the signal that Operation Pripyat has begun and it is time for you to move into action.”

  Acorn carefully studied the Russian-looking man. He looked wealthy in his pricey suit and perfectly folded pocket kerchief. But on closer inspection he was a brute. He had a thick build, large reddish nose, small, narrow eyes, and brown hair with a receding hairline and a beard. His supremely round, craggy, leathery face suggested he’d seen his share of combat.

  “Have you a good sense of this man, Acorn?”

  “Yes, Madame Xu.”

  “Good. The next time you see him, Operation Pripyat will have begun. And it will not be long before you see him again. I suggest you prepare now.”

  Acorn knew Xu Li didn’t “suggest” anything. By “suggest” she meant “command.”

  “The wheels are turning now, Acorn. You must be ready to strike when you receive the signal.”

  “Yes, Madame Xu. I will be ready.”

  The transmission disconnected. Xu Li had not even said goodbye.

  Returning to his car, Acorn finally turned on his radio. The local news station was replaying President-elect Murray’s victory speech. Murray waxed eloquently about the bright future ahead. A smile crept across Acorn’s face. He knew all of Murray’s happy talk would soon come crashing down upon him. Operation Pripyat was about to explode the debt bomb.

  A little more than two months after election night, and one day after President Murray’s inauguration, Andrea stared at the Eisenhower Executive Office Building, the “EEOB,” as it was known, as she drove up to it for the first time as OMB director. She grabbed the lanyard from around her neck, flashed her badge with the White House logo, and followed the Secret Service agent’s directions to the parking lot on West Executive Avenue, between the White House and the EEOB. Thick black security gates adorned with small gold stars guarded the West Executive Avenue parking lot. They began to retract when Andrea pulled up. She gazed in awe like Dorothy entering the Emerald City, the West Wing on her left and the EEOB on her right.

  After parking in her reserved space, she headed to the EEOB entrance. The vaulted ceilings, marble floors and stairs, and ornate banisters and moldings inside the lobby took her breath away. It was a far cry from the nondescript suburban hovel where she did her clients’ taxes.

  Andrea made her way to her office on the third floor. She hoped her move-in to the White House went as smoothly as her family’s move to their new home in Sterling, Virginia, the week earlier. Her neighbors, Paul and Ellen Frost, had brought over a small gift basket when the Gartners moved in. Paul was president of the local homeowner’s association and officially welcomed new residents to the neighborhood. She had also moved her mother into a nearby assisted living facility in Springfield.

  Three OMB office staffers came in and out of the office, bringing office supplies and computer equipment. She had never had a full staff retinue before. On any other day, Andrea would have worried about the cost of the move and this extensive staff and how it added to the debt, but even she was overtaken by the majesty of her surroundings. Out her window she had a view of the West Wing and the Oval Office. Her building oozed power from every pore.

  Her personal office was twice the size of her private practice. Off to one side was a private dining room while on another side was a small study and library. Antique-style lamps softly lit the office, an upgrade from the harsh white fluorescent lights to which she was accustomed. The desk and furniture were wood, not cheap gun-metal-gray aluminum. It even had couches and a coffee table. A wood-carved OMB logo hung on the wall. This was no mere office. It was a command center worthy of the commander of the federal budget.

  President Murray had told her the first thing she needed to do was hang her diplomas. He said the first thing the Washington elite would ask a rookie like her was where she went to school. Anyone ready to dismiss her as a lightweight would think again when they saw she was Ivy League. So Andrea went straight to the boxes with her family pictures and diplomas. Pulling out the hammer and nails she’d packed, she went to work hanging her Penn diploma on the wall.

  “What’s all that banging?” came a gruff cry from the foyer.

  Startled, Andrea dropped the hammer. A rumpled, balding, bespectacled man about five-and-a-half feet stood in her doorway.

  “Hanging my diplomas, sir,” said Andrea sheepishly. “Is that okay?”

  “We have people who will do it for you,” he said. “Are you Andrea Gartner?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So you’re the D/OMB. I take it you already have your TS/ SCI clearance and you’ll be able to attend the principals meeting tomorrow in the Cabinet Room?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand a thing you just said, sir,” Andrea answered. “Have we met yet?” She extended a handshake.

  The man groaned. “Murray warned me about you. Said you might be new to all this. I’ve been in this town and this game forty years, and you don’t know who I am.”

  Nice to meet you too.

  “It’s true, this is my first government job,” said Andrea.

  “First government job, and it’s OMB director,” he muttered. “Unbelievable.”

  “I’m afraid you have the advantage,” Andrea nervously replied. “I don’t believe we’ve met yet.”

  “Wally Flynn,” he said. “The president’s chief of staff.”

  Andrea took in his rumpled appearance. He was just how she imagined a White House chief of staff would look. A little disheveled, sleeves rolled up, tie slightly drooping as if he was perpetually harried.

  “It’s good to meet you. I’m Andrea Gartner.”

  “You already told me that,” grumbled Wally.

  Andrea felt embarrassed. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t act nervous around all these high-powered people, and she’d already blown it with the first person she’d met.

  Wally glanced at Andrea’s diploma. “You went
to Penn, I see.”

  “I did,” said Andrea. “Majored in economics.”

  “I’m Princeton class of eighty-five,” said Wally. “You’ll find a lot of us Ivy Leaguers around here.”

  So much for her Ivy League advantage.

  “I’m looking forward to getting started,” she said, hoping to take the conversation in a direction that didn’t make her feel inferior.

  “I’m sure you are,” said Wally. “Now listen, I know the president brought you on board to fix the national debt, but let me make something clear to you right now. If you try to cut too much—you try to make big cuts to Social Security, Medicare, or anything else—I’ll shut you down so fast you’ll wish you never tried.”

  Andrea swallowed the lump in her throat.

  “My job is to protect the president’s political interests, and I’ll be honest with you, you and your budget cutting are a threat to them. Especially since you’re a rookie and don’t know shit about government. Just keep your cutting blade dull and we won’t have any problems. You cut too much, and I promise you, I’ll unleash bureaucratic warfare that will have you begging to go home to South Carolina.”

  Andrea wasn’t accustomed to people asserting hierarchy this aggressively.

  Should I push back? Give in? I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot. But what does that mean anyway? Would it be worse to push back or for him to think I’m a pushover?

  Every fiber of her body was telling her to back down, to give in, to let Wally Flynn enjoy his moment of alpha male dominance. But then she thought of Cam Davis. He didn’t become the Mattress King by backing down to bullies like Wally Flynn. He beat them and put them in their place.

  I didn’t uproot my family so Wally Flynn could marginalize me. I’m here to fix the budget. And that’s what I’m going to do.

  “Wally,” Andrea paused a moment. “Can I call you Wally?”

  “Sure.”

  “Wally, I came to do whatever the president tells me to do. If he wants me to make cuts, I’ll make them. If you want to fight about them, we’ll fight about them. If you win, you won’t get any more trouble from me. But if I win, I expect the same.”