Debt Bomb

by Michael Ginsberg

  Rachel followed Andrea into her office and to her desk.

  “Good lord, Rachel,” said Andrea as she scanned the front pages of the papers. “This is the worst thing I’ve seen since 9/11.”

  “AMERICA AT WAR” screamed the headline of the Washington Post above a picture of the burning Ronald Reagan in the South China Sea, sailors leaping off it in desperate attempts to save themselves.

  “When was the last time Americans saw American ships burning in the Pacific Ocean?” Andrea asked. “World War II? This is probably the first time in their lives anyone’s seen pictures of a sinking aircraft carrier in a newspaper instead of a history book.”

  “It gets worse.”

  Andrea looked below the fold of the Post. Pictured there were the two American ships in the Port of Taipei with a caption noting the ships had lost contact with the United States. The Chinese had severed or jammed all communication links to Taiwan.

  The second page of the Post featured an article on American public opinion of the war. The country had quickly divided into two camps. The first demanded immediate retaliation. These Americans wanted to see something in China burn. “They messed with the wrong country!” a former Marine was quoted as saying. “We ought to wipe Shanghai off the map.”

  The second camp questioned why the United States was in the Pacific in the first place during the emergency budget’s dramatic belt-tightening. “My parents just lost their Social Security,” another interviewee said. “They can’t pay for their medicines. They can barely pay their rent. Why are Americans halfway around the world protecting other countries while people are being thrown out of nursing homes and half the country is losing its health insurance?”

  “The man has a point,” Andrea said. “But we know where Murray stands, don’t we?”

  “That’s why we have the pleasure of meeting with Mason today,” Rachel responded. “Somehow we’ve got to get Congress to add the funds the president needs to fight this war by making cuts to something else.”

  Andrea grimaced. It figures. I finally take a stand and it comes back to bite me.

  Just then Secretary Brooks Powell walked into Andrea’s office. “Morning, everyone, ready to go?” he said in his commanding voice. The secretary delivered even the simplest comments with an air of authority.

  “Yes, sweetie,” Rachel responded sarcastically. “Andrea can’t wait.”

  “Yeah, I can’t,” replied Andrea. “After I swallowed my pride and agreed to meet with Mason, I chased it with a swig of the Pepto in my desk.” Rachel and Brooks both laughed.

  “All right, let’s go,” Rachel said.

  They left the office and walked to the West Executive Avenue parking lot and got into Andrea’s ancient Camry.

  “We’re headed to Morton’s, right?” Andrea asked as she put the car in gear. “Just a few blocks up on Connecticut Avenue?”

  “Yup,” Brooks said as he fastened his seat belt. “It’s a Mason favorite. Though it’s not really Morton’s that is Mason’s favorite restaurant.”

  “How’s that?” asked Andrea.

  “Years before Morton’s took the space, the restaurant was Duke Ziebert’s,” Brooks replied.

  “Ah, Duke Ziebert’s,” Rachel replied.

  “What’s Duke Ziebert’s?” Andrea asked.

  “Sweetie, back in the day Duke Ziebert’s was the place where power brokers went to see and be seen. Practically invented the power lunch.”

  “Mason was a regular there,” Brooks added. “He loved how people would point to his table and whisper, ‘That’s Congressman Mason.’ He lived for those moments. Duke Ziebert’s closed a while back, but Mason loves the Morton’s that replaced it.”

  “You all and your inside baseball Washington-speak,” said Andrea.

  The drive was short and within ten minutes Secretary Powell, Rachel, and Andrea were at the maître d’s station in the front of Morton’s. They saw Mason sitting at a table in the back corner near a window overlooking Connecticut Avenue.

  Mason spotted them and scowled. He got up from his table and walked toward them. As he approached, Brooks stuck his arm out for a handshake, but Mason didn’t reciprocate.

  “What the hell is this?” Mason asked gruffly. “This meeting is supposed to be me and Andrea. That’s it. Whose dumb idea was it for you two to come along?”

  Brooks dropped his arm to his side. “Lew, come on. We told you—”

  “Nobody told me nothing,” Mason growled. “This meeting is me and Andrea alone. You two”—he pointed at Brooks and Rachel—“get lost. Or there’s no meeting at all and I’ll go back to my lunch. Your call.”

  “What about Frank Palmer?” asked Brooks. “You bring Frank to every meeting I’ve ever had with you. Where’s he?”

  “Thanks to your budget cutbacks I had to let him go,” Mason growled. “All we can afford for staff on the Hill are fresh-out-of-college kids.”

  “So where’d he land?” asked Rachel.

  “He was so humiliated from losing his job to this political amateur’s budget,” Mason replied, pointing to Andrea, “that he went completely off the goddamned grid and took a job helping to manage a ranch in Montana. Chucked his cell phone and everything. Said he was done with politics and this whole town could rot in hell for all he cared.”

  Andrea’s shoulders sagged as she looked at Brooks and Rachel.

  “There’s a nice little chocolate shop in the basement of the building,” Brooks said. Andrea appreciated his sparing her the embarrassment of having to tell him to leave. Rachel nodded reassuringly, letting Andrea know she understood too.

  Brooks and Rachel went down the stairs toward the retail basement of the building. Mason turned sharply and began walking back to his seat, saying nothing and barely acknowledging Andrea.

  She followed quietly, nervous about being on her own. The maître d’ shoved a menu into her hand as she walked by. She sat down across from Mason at the two-person table. Mason had already ordered his lunch and eaten half of it.

  What a jerk. Trying his little power move knowing I’m here to ask him for help.

  Mason seemed to only care about one thing: power. Who had it, who had more of it, and who sat where on the totem pole.

  Mason took a bite of a well-done filet and spoke, chomping vigorously and not even trying to hide the food in his mouth. “This place used to be full of lunchtime chatter and the clinking of glasses and cutlery on plates filling the air. Now it’s three-quarters empty.”

  “What happened?”

  “Your shitty emergency budget, that’s what,” Mason said. “Great work by your crack budget team.”

  Andrea could see the half-chewed piece of filet in his mouth as he spoke. The frosty reception was a sure sign he was still smarting from the televised humiliation she’d dealt him.

  He’s baiting you. Don’t let him suck you into an argument.

  She tried to change the subject. “Congressman, you know why I’m here. We need to amend the emergency budget to reallocate funds for the war. The president, the Joint Chiefs, they all want to fight, but we need to amend the emergency budget to provide them the funding. I’m a budget person, not a foreign policy expert, but the president and Joint Chiefs made it clear to me. If we don’t fight, the Chinese are going to own Taiwan, control the South China Sea, and make us look like impotent fools. Have you seen the papers this morning? Americans are demanding revenge after the Reagan. Plus, we’ve got two ships and hundreds of sailors stuck in Taipei Harbor.”

  Mason looked around and then leaned into the table furtively. “Not so fast, Andrea. Who says we’re at war? Last I checked the Constitution required Congress to declare war, and I’m a constitutional conservative, you know.” He smirked as he took a big gulp of water.

  Andrea dropped her menu on the table in disgust. “The Reagan is at the bottom of the South China Sea with untold dead American sailors. And you don’t think we’re at war? You’re not going to authorize an amended budget to allow us to respond to
this crisis?”

  “Listen to me, and listen to me good,” said Mason. “I’m not going to get any more Americans into any more foreign wars. Taiwan is six thousand miles away from the United States, and any threat to it doesn’t pose a threat to the United States. I’m not sending Americans to fight and die to free Taiwanese.” He theatrically grabbed a roll, slathered it with butter, jammed it into his mouth, and ripped it apart with his teeth. He made no effort to hide the chewed roll in his mouth. “After Iraq I’m done with that shit.”

  A waiter came over to the table. “Ma’am, do you care to order?” Andrea was about to respond when Mason interrupted. “She’s not ready yet. Give her a few minutes.”

  “Okay, I’ll come back,” the waiter said with a look of confusion on his face.

  Andrea slapped her menu down on the table. Who does this guy think he is? No sense ordering now.

  “Mr. Mason, if Congress doesn’t amend the emergency budget to fight this war, and the Chinese keep Taiwan and assert complete control over the South China Sea, this is going to be on you. When the media and history books ask ‘Who Lost Taiwan?’ your picture will appear right there.”

  Mason took a swig of his water and laughed. “Don’t try to scare me, Andrea. When people living on Taiwan can vote for me, then maybe I’ll reconsider. Until then, I’m not fighting a war for them.”

  Andrea had had enough. “Then we have nothing more to discuss.”

  “Yes, we do.”

  “What’s that?”

  For the first time, Mason appeared to be taking the conversation seriously. He had been about to take a bite of a large morsel of filet but instead put his fork and knife down. He looked around as if to make sure no reporters were around. Then he leaned into the table and scowled.

  “Don’t you ever, ever, ever fuck with me like that again in a hearing.”

  Andrea shook her head and did a double take. After all that windup, it was that stupid hearing he was so upset about? She blurted her thoughts before she could catch herself. “You’re going to sell Taiwan down the river because I made you look bad in a hearing? The global order is collapsing and all you care about is your image on TV?”

  “No, I’m selling Taiwan down the river because my constituents don’t give a good goddamn about it. But if that pisses you off, so much the better.”

  Andrea stood up and turned to leave. Then she turned toward Mason, searching for something to say. Her mouth moved but nothing came out. She was too disgusted. She turned away and stormed toward the door.

  The maître d’ saw Andrea rushing past. “Ma’am, is everything okay?”

  Andrea didn’t even look in his direction.

  Zooming down the stairs, she went down to the retail shops in the basement to find Brooks and Rachel. She spotted them in the far corner of a small bookstore where they probably were trying to hide from the press.

  “What the hell happened up there?” Rachel asked.

  “Goddamn stubborn mule,” Andrea said. “I go through how important fighting this war is to the president, and what does that damned egotist tell me? That he’s still pissed about the hearing a few weeks ago and he’s not going to give us a dime.”

  “That’s not like Mason,” Brooks said. “He used to be one of the biggest superhawks in Congress. Now he’s all Mr. Restraint?”

  “He’s just a cowardly politician,” Andrea said in disgust. “He’ll do whatever’s popular to save his own skin, and no one calls him on his blatant hypocrisy. He can RINO away knowing his Debt Rebel Gang cronies will provide him cover.”

  Still, Andrea was bothered by Mason’s response. President Murray had told her the same thing about Mason—that he had been one of the foremost hawks in Congress and never met an international intervention he didn’t support. The Chinese were presenting the most serious challenge to the global balance of power since the end of the Cold War, and now Mason wanted to sit on the sidelines?

  Rachel and Brooks seemed confused as well. They looked at one another without saying a word.

  “What do we do now?” Andrea asked, breaking the discomforting silence.

  “We’re in a race against time,” Brooks said. “One of three things can happen. We can win the war in four weeks. Or we somehow get Mason to change his mind and fund the war.”

  “What’s the third option?” Rachel asked.

  Andrea knew the answer and said it before Brooks could respond.

  “Surrender.”

  The word hung in the air. No one said anything.

  The unspoken prospect of losing the war was now out of the closet and on the table.

  Andrea’s neighborhood was dark. There were no lights on at her house except for the one in the guest bedroom where her mother was staying. The place seemed dead as if no one was home. Andrea pulled into the garage. Her husband’s car was there.

  It had been a long day, and Andrea was still frustrated by her failed meeting with Mason. She was tired and starving. When she made her way inside, she bee-lined for the kitchen.

  “Where’s my glasses?” her mother shouted. The voice was coming from upstairs.

  “Mamie, that you? I’ll come up in a sec.” Andrea put her satchel down.

  The house had a different feel. The first floor was dark and silent. Back in South Carolina, when Andrea would come home later, her kids were at the kitchen table doing homework while Ryan made dinner. Aaron might still be in his baseball uniform from practice, and she’d tell him to take off his cleats because of the mud he was traipsing about. Michelle might be in the den reading a book or working on an art project.

  “I can’t see a thing,” Mamie cried from upstairs.

  “Mamie, I’ll be there in a second. Just let me put my stuff down.”

  Where was everybody? I just walked in the door and I already have a crisis to deal with? Little help here, people.

  Andrea hurried up the stairs. The kids’ rooms were dark and empty. Ryan wasn’t upstairs either. Her mother was all alone and the only light upstairs was coming from her mother’s room. Andrea opened the door and saw her mother on her hands and knees on the floor.

  “Where could I have put my glasses?” Mamie said, squinting at the floor.

  “Here they are.” Andrea rushed over. “They were just on your dresser.”

  “Oh,” her mother said. She stood up and took the glasses from Andrea. “Thank you, sweetheart. How was your day?”

  “I’ve never been through anything like this in my life. I don’t know how politicians do it. I’m bouncing from crisis to crisis and meeting to meeting. China. Debt. Fixing our budget. I swear, I check my hair in the mirror every time I go to the bathroom to see if there is any gray.”

  “That’s not so bad, honey,” said Mamie. “Your father spent four years in Vietnam, and I was trying to raise you while he was gone.”

  Andrea’s heart pounded. Home was supposed to be a refuge. She needed support, not her mother diminishing the stress of the monumental challenges she was facing. And she was exhausted and smarting from Mason’s lunchtime barbs. Something inside her snapped.

  “Come on, Mom, can’t you just offer a little sympathy? All I get at work is grief. I need support too, you know. Did it ever occur to you that maybe, just maybe, my shit just might be a little worse than your back-in-the-day whatever?” Andrea’s exhaustion was getting the better of her. After all her days of biting her tongue and being diplomatic at work, it felt liberating to be able to say exactly what she was thinking.

  “Everyone has shit, honey.”

  “Yeah, everyone has shit. The guy next door needs a new roof, you’ve got arthritis, and I’m dealing with a shooting war with China and a national debt crisis. All sounds like the same shit to me.”

  “Oh, give it a rest already.”

  Andrea snapped, “Give it a rest? What I wouldn’t do for a little goddamned rest! Tell you what, as soon as I get a rest, I’ll give you a rest. How about that?”

  Mamie rolled her eyes. “You always had a temp
er. That’s why I always said you’re not cut out for politics.”

  “You don’t understand me at all, do you?” Andrea shouted. “Maybe having you come stay with us wasn’t such a good idea.”

  “Maybe cutting my Medicare and forcing me out of the assisted living home wasn’t such a good idea,” her mother replied.

  Take a breath. Count to ten.

  “Enough about me,” Andrea said. “What is going on around here? Where is everybody? This place feels like a mausoleum.”

  “I hate it here.” Mamie hung her head. “The kids won’t even talk to me, and your husband hates having me around.”

  “What do you mean the kids won’t talk to you?”

  “They hide in the basement all day after school playing video games or watching TV.”

  “They don’t even say hi when they come home from school?”

  “They give me a nasty look and go straight to the basement,” Mamie said. “And you’re never here to give them any discipline.”

  “Where’s my husband?”

  “He’s sick of me. He won’t even look me in the eye anymore he seems so disgusted with having me around. Last night he set up this microwave, put this stack of Chef Boyardee next to it, and wished me good luck.” She pointed to the microwave on her dresser.

  “Unbelievable,” said Andrea. “I work a few weeks of really long days and this family comes apart at the seams.”

  She charged down the stairs looking for her husband and children. The kitchen was still silent. The television in the living room, usually the family’s evening background music, was off.

  She’d never seen the house like this. It was unsettling.

  Andrea opened the door to the basement stairs and went down. She could hear the unmistakable sounds of Call of Duty. It had to be Aaron, hard at work on his Xbox.

  Sure enough, Aaron was sitting on a couch, feet propped up on a coffee table, fixated on his video game. Michelle was sitting next to Aaron, zoning out to some garbage reality television program on her laptop. It looked like the Real Housewives of who-knows-where.