By Silent Majority

by Robert Buschel

  John Carlson could only understand so much. Even though John Carlson was a man of science, he was quick to accept that this is the way it is, and Daniel must adapt, rather than attempt to change. The man could only forgive to a certain point. He never could’ve accepted Daniel unconditionally. Daniel concluded: thank God I pleased him by being a Senator. It was nice having him pleased with me, no matter how fleeting. Daniel reluctantly conceded his father was a member of the Silent Majority. The vocal disgruntled. A man with so much fortune could still conclude, the government was against him, the system was plotting against him, and everything he did for others turned out to be the ungrateful. Some fathers can never be pleased. With those instincts to seek love is the child’s ability to con himself into thinking he can please the unappeasable father. Daniel was having difficulty coming to terms. John Carlson’s tombstone would be in place, and Daniel was taking time out to visit his grave tomorrow.

  Daniel wore a coat, even though it wasn’t very cold. He enjoyed putting his hands deep into the pockets and pressing down hard. He walked out alone to the middle of the graveyard. No one else was there. It was quiet. Only a cool breeze rustled the flimsy branches of neighboring trees.

  Daniel liked the way the gravestone appeared—not too gaudy. He never liked the overdone gravestone; or, the whole overdone funeral ceremony. The person’s dead—what’s to gain by lavish funeral processions? It must be to prove to the world, this is evidence I loved my father. Or worse, “Dad, are you pleased now?”

  Daniel looked down at the grass, unable to stare directly at his father’s grave. He felt ashamed. Like the irrational belief that a child can please the unpleased parent, Daniel had a belief about the dead. He believed that after death the spirit becomes omniscient. The Great Education as he called it. A person dies and all the questions he asked or didn’t ask on earth are answered. It may be a childish theory, unable to be proven or disproved; still, it was Daniel’s belief.

  “Hello, Father. You got a nice tombstone, didn’t you? I miss you. I feel we can be closer now, Father, now that you’re gone. It’s sad that it had to be that way, but I know that it was best this way. So now you know. You know the real me. You know the pain that has been encapsulated in my viscera for what seems like an eternity. What do you think of me now? Do you still love me?” Daniel paused to sob some more. “I’m still a Senator. I’m a powerful man in spite of, huh? I still love you. Hopefully with your education you’ve learned understanding. I hope you can forgive me.” Daniel wiped the tears from his eyes and spoke about a more lucid topic.

  “So you’re with Mom now. That must be a bonus about dying last—you get greeted by such wonderful company. I still wait for Mom to yell something to me at the front door of our home. I’m so happy that I’m sad when I don’t hear her voice. I figured that over time I might forget things about her. I still remember everything. I can still hear her voice, Father. I can’t forget it. It’s wonderful. I’m jealous you get to have her to yourself. I can walk around and smile and say innocuous things like: ‘Hi, hi, how’s it going? Real great to see you.’ I function just fine to the onlooker. But they don’t know my pain. All I have is my children, now that you’re gone. I wish peace to your soul—rest well.” Daniel placed one rock that was in his pocket, on top of the tombstone, turned to the right, and placed another stone atop the tomb bearing the name, Susan Carlson. Another family tradition.

  CHAPTER 11

  Phalange

  Steve Vann stared at his shoes and his watch wishing that he had a cigarette to smoke, but promised his wife, Johanna standing beside him, that he would quit. The blond man with a ponytail stood impatiently with his wife in a crowded corner of the airport in Beirut—the jewel of the Middle East. Steve swore a life of PTA meetings and a steady job if he would just get out of the Middle East. Steve was willing to make a deal with God or the Devil, he was desperate and only wanted to take the plane to Paris, Paris to New York, and New York to Miami.

  Johanna could only be described as sweet to those who knew her. She had no enemies, had no desire to define herself through making enemies. Her slicked back black hair and plump structure didn’t advertise the beautiful harmless creature she was inside. She only wanted to be loyal to her family. Her son was home in Miami, and she was with her husband in the middle of the ruins, the eye of the swirling storm of religious love.

  For in this hurricane of Jesus versus Allah remained another war. A war that left Johanna asking why she would be so loyal to a man who was, in the eyes of the law, a drug dealer. The answer came easily, in her eyes, Steve was a caring husband whose only crime was that he had an anarchist streak within him, and still was a holdover hippie from the seventies. He was egocentric and cocky, and she couldn’t help resenting him for getting caught with so much marijuana. Steve made a deal, but not with God or the Devil.

  Steve Vann traveled with Johanna to Beirut and set up a heroin deal with some men of considerable power in the region on his own behalf, and perhaps on behalf of others. Both Steve and Johanna knew Lebanon well. They were both students at the University of Beirut for many years before the tragedy. Steve was comfortable with the deal. He wanted to plea out his arrest—get credit for time served and some supervised release. He was not just working for himself, however. Steve worried about his son at home. He prayed that his mother was taking care of Alex; that Alex was getting to school on time, getting enough to eat.

  Steve cursed silently to himself that the flight had been delayed again. He didn’t feel right about the whole deal. It wasn’t in and out. There were a few more men with guns, and grenades; some extra assurances that they would check him out, to see if he was who he said he was. “The Americans talk too,” they assured Steve. That’s what made him nervous. Who in Washington would casually leave his file in plain view on his desk for the wrong person to see?

  There wasn’t law and order in this neighborhood. These men have killed and would kill again to make a point to the rest of the people who dealt with them. There were no courts. One could get away with murder, bury the body in the sand, and that was it. Unless one was protected by the government of the United States, say a confidential informant of the DEA—but only if the United States government wanted to admit it.

  The Phalange militia acted against Steve Vann because a friend he introduced to them owed $1.5 million. Steve vouched for him by merely introducing his friend; therefore, it was Steve’s fault. He would have to pay. As always, it was hot in Beirut. It wasn’t much cooler inside the airport. Nine men dressed as Arab soldiers, with their faces covered, wielding AK47 assault rifles walked into the airport, and marched Steve and Johanna out without much of a fuss. They were afraid to scream. No one in the airport seemed to notice even though the gunmen were carrying machine guns. In the Middle East if you wear some type of uniform and carry a rifle, you blend. They were transported in a VW van that would match Steve’ aura, but his karma became distorted and irregular.

  Steve and Johanna were kept alive in captivity for 19 months. There, in a sealed building in Beirut, they stayed hoping they would be freed. They were eventually released—scarred and traumatized, hoping that the day would be realized that their release was mishandled by the U.S. State Department. Their lives were left in peril because the DEA failed to come to their defense; denying that the Vanns were working on their behalf. Their day in court would come. They expected vindication; as Florida residents, they went to Senator Daniel Carlson for justice.

  It was almost two years earlier on a cool winter night on a long stretch of highway in northern Florida. Steve Vann was ironically playing country music and enjoying it. With his unsophisticated model radio, country was the only music that came in clearly.

  Steve Vann had left Jacksonville nearly two hours earlier and the sun was dipping into the horizon tracing a fiery pink skyline of beauty. The set traced a sun that could only be experienced through sight, one that a camera couldn’t replicate
. In an instant, the peak of beauty faded away.

  Steve was cruising exactly at the speed limit when he noticed the Florida State Trooper behind him. His heart rate rose but he commanded himself to remain calm—he wasn’t doing anything wrong.

  Steve regretted his last thought when he saw the blue lights go on atop of the police car. He hoped that his tail light had malfunctioned, he would get a ticket, and that would be the end of it.

  The trooper approached Steve with his hand on his gun. By the time the police officer told Steve to step out of the car another trooper arrived.

  When the first trooper got finished examining Steve’s license and registration three more officers pulled up on this lonely stretch of highway. Steve was concerned about all the attention. He got tense when he saw a sergeant approach him.

  “Mr. Vann?” The sergeant said. “We would like you to open the trunk of this here vehicle.”

  Steve Vann was an intelligent man and knowledgeable about the law. “First, I’d like to know why you stopped me. I mean don’t you guys have an old lady to walk across the street?”

  “Well—”

  “Then I would like to see your search warrant,” Steve said clearly and in a moderate tone.

  “Well, Mr. Vann. The Sheriff up in Jacksonville just arrested your friend you just visited and he said that he sold five pounds of marijuana to you. That’s our reasonable suspicion for stopping you. And this search warrant here,” the sergeant showed it to him, “says I can impound the car and search for the drugs if you don’t oblige.”

  Steve wanted to disappear, vanish. He opened the trunk of the car and the block of marijuana was in plain view. It was over. He was placed under arrest and the State had first dibs on interviewing him, but not for long. Vann was part of a drug network that the federal government was interested in.

  Peter sat at the edge of Daniel’s desk with his feet up smoking a cigarette. It had become a Friday evening ritual the two confidants enjoyed. It allowed Daniel to see a soft human side of Peter. The end of the week was the peak of exhaustion for both men. Peter would relax and let his guard down. He would trust Daniel not to reveal his compassion to anyone else in the political world.

  “What is on your mind?” Peter asked with sincere concern.

  “I’m sort of disturbed with this letter I received from Congressman Beecham, about Steve Vann. Have you read it?”

  “Yes, I read it just before you did.”

  “Do you believe the DEA could do such a thing, Peter? Leave an agent of theirs out in the cold?”

  “Wait, an agent? More like a cooperator, right?” Peter corrected. Daniel nodded, yes. “Well, what we know is this: this guy is a drug dealer who was trying to beat a long prison sentence by helping the government. The question is whether he was acting on their behalf on his last trip—the trip he was abducted.”

  “You didn’t answer me,” Daniel insisted.

  Peter waited. He thought some more, and answered: “Yes, I believe they could do such a thing. But you have to realize that he’s already free and we would only be hurting the government. His lawsuit is asking for $40 million.”

  “You see, that disturbs me that you would think a government agency could abandon someone they asked to work for them. No matter who it is. How would you’ve liked it when you were with them?”

  “My boys in the Navy would never hang me out to dry like that!” Peter said emphatically. And Daniel noted Peter’s use of the present tense.

  “I want you to check it out. Make some inquiries at DEA.”

  “I will, but I don’t think it wise. I’m not going to make a lot of noise about it.”

  “Sometimes you just have to do what’s right, Peter, and forget about how it looks.” Daniel’s resolve was immovable. He came to terms with the fact that he would not be a teacher; he was way off the track. Since that was clear, he was just going to do his job as he saw it—idealistically—no ambition, no quid pro quo to powerful forces that be. He waited to see how long that could last—and whether it could really work.

  Peter ran into resistance to his inquiries from the agency and other politicos. The Republicans wanted to step up the war on drugs and this kind of publicity would hurt the effort.

  Deep inside Peter’s heart, he knew that this was killing his own ambitions for Daniel Carlson and a run for the Presidency. This issue is all that the Republicans or Democrats would need to assassinate the stupidly idealistic Senator. Senator Carlson is against the War on Drugs. Even Peter wasn’t that fired up about America to buy that nonsense. But the American people were. Yes, the Silent Majority was all about America and drug-free America.

  Peter didn’t want to know or help Steven Vann. But how could Peter undermine Daniel’s benefit to keep Daniel’s best interest at heart. The debate within Peter’s heart ricocheted through his gut. This values dilemma was never in his programming.

  After intense thought, Peter reminded himself he worked for Senator Carlson. Senator Carlson was his friend. He wanted to make Senator Carlson the most powerful member of Senate, if not President. Peter set a priority on friendship over ambition. This surprised him, but he took comfort in his decision. With that resolve in mind, he picked up the phone and dialed.

  “Hello, Code name Cottontail,” the voice on the phone said.

  The voice was British. The voice could have said, ‘Bond, James Bond,’ and it would be eerie. Instantly the voice flashed the picture of his colleague’s friend. It was a tall lanky man’s, with dark hair, and circular plastic dark-framed preppy glasses.

  “Hello, Berger,” Peter replied.

  “Not playing the games anymore, Peter? How can I help you?”

  “My conscience has given way. I do need to know if Steve Vann was an agent of the DEA and if his release from Lebanon was mishandled.”

  “This is for the Senator?”

  Peter hesitated, “Yes, it is.” Peter quickly added, “But the favor is for me. Still, within the boundaries of the group’s agreement.”

  “Yes, I guess it is Peter. But you know my position with the agency. You’re asking a lot. You’d be jeopardizing my job.”

  “Where are your loyalties? You took an oath to the group. And by the way, you’d be doing the right thing.”

  “What would you do, Peter? If you had to make the choice of being loyal to the group or to your Senator?” Peter didn’t answer the question but he didn’t ignore it either.

  “Nothing will come of it if the DEA’s version is accurate. It’s a fifty-fifty shot.”

  “No, it’s not. Vann was a shithead who put a lot of agents in harm’s way. But he was given the shaft in Lebanon. Are you on a secure phone?” Berger waited. “Take down this number 12-244-45-129-9899A. That file will shed some light.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Berger.”

  “I don’t think you’re helping anyone, Cottontail.”

  Peter sat in his chair and was smoking a cigarette on, again, another Friday evening. Daniel had grown accustomed to the secondary smoke, and even admitted he enjoyed it because the smoke came from Peter.

  Daniel knew that Peter was having a difficult time investigating Steve Vann. Daniel also knew that Peter was the only one who could get answers. Even a Senator would get a run around from the intelligence community, unless he had subpoena power. Senators and reporters were lumped together and were the reason for cover-ups. “We’re all ready to go to the press with the information, Daniel.”

  “I want to thank you for giving this case your all. I know it was difficult. I’m surprised that you haven’t drilled me for jeopardizing my minute chance for the nomination for the Presidency.”

  “I’m doing it now, Daniel. We don’t have to do this. Steve Vann was kind of an asshole. I don’t think he deserves forty million dollars in a federal lawsuit.”

  “The money is not what we’re suppose to decide on,” Dani
el said in a stable tone. “This isn’t about Steve Vann. It’s about government making good on what it says. It’s about doing the right things for the right reasons. Not the right things by accident.”

  “We lost the railway stimulus bill because of this. Just the rumor has alienated you with even the most liberal faction of the party. Perhaps we can save it. The House version could—” Daniel interrupted.

  “I think we’ve made a decision. I’ve asked our old boss, Giulianti to take Steve Vann’s case on a contingency. Which he was happy to do as a favor.”

  “Giulianti is in private practice now, huh?” Daniel nodded. “Do you know in Vann’s file it says that billionaire H. Cal Remington raised two million dollars for Vann’s release and the government squelched it?” They both smiled. “You know rumor has it that he wants to run for President.” They both smiled wider.

  “What we must do now is rely on the people to demand their rights. And a Bill will come through in the future.” Daniel’s voice dropped. He knew he was kidding himself. Only destiny could create what he had hoped.

  The news had hit the front page of every major newspaper in the country. Senator Carlson received fifteen phone calls from various bureaucrats from the DEA asking how he knew about the DEA file. He would return none.

  The press called Daniel Carlson a hero Senator and Steve Vann said Daniel Carlson was the only honest man Vann ever dealt with in the government.

  Peter walked into the Senator’s office. “I just got the results of a party poll and you’re not going to believe it. Sixty-five percent of the public approved of your inquiry and the poll concludes that you’re the most popular Senator next to everyone’s hometown Senator. The percentage of people who were in favor of an upscale on the War on Drugs has remained intact. Effectively eliminating the argument, you hurt the War. And, this is the best part, Cal Remington has said that he admired your gutsy move and thinks you’re the material that leaders should be made from. Can you believe it? That’s not all, the House is debating their version of your railway stimulus bill right now. Can you believe it?” Peter said raising his hand in the air for Daniel to slap.