Purge on the Potomac

by Roberts, David Thomas;

  Looking down at his cowboy boots, Pops moved his left foot, then his right, in small circles as if he was kicking dirt around on his ranch, despite the fact he was standing on broadleaf pine wooden floors in the governor's mansion. He spit some tobacco and saliva juice into the cup, then twisted his thick handlebar mustache, deep in thought. Next came the slight tilt on his Stetson as he pulled it down slightly lower above his left eye.

  “Smitty, folks are madder than hell. They stirred up a damned hornets’ nest. It’s like a box of BBs fell on the floor. You ain’t never gonna get ’em back in the box,” Pops said in his slow Texas drawl. “If I was that dirt weasel Simpson, I’d be damned sure afraid to go back to my hometown right about now. We’re sittin’ on a tinder box, Gov. It wouldn’t take much for the whole enchilada to blow up again.”

  “Well, crap, Pops, we had one hundred eighty-nine Texans die simply trying to cast a vote for a non-binding referendum on Texas independence!” retorted Brahman. “Seventy-eight percent to twenty-two percent, then the legislature refuses to take up the referendum and pass it. I’m pretty angry myself!”

  “Some folks think Bartlett will salve all wounds,” responded Pops. “I don’t buy it. She’s worse than that scalawag Johnson in some ways. Pure evil through and through. I don’t know how folks don’t see it. It’s as plain as sunlight hittin’ your face in the morning.”

  Again, Brahman drew down deeply on his cigar. His office now had a three-foot-thick haze of cigar smoke clinging to the ornate tin ceiling as the two antique ceiling fans in the room barely turned.

  “I’m working on the timeline now to call the legislature back into session. We better get this one right, Pops.”

  “Damned straight, Smitty,” shot back Younger.

  “The good people of Texas will find out soon enough if their elected leaders have any balls,” said Brahman.

  “Governor, I have a lot of faith in my fellow Texans, but that damned legislature ain’t much better than those sons of bitches in D.C. Politicians are lower than a snake’s belly, no offense intended.”

  “None taken,” chuckled the governor.

  Pops sat back down and Brahman now stretched his legs as he put his black snakeskin cowboy boots up on the desk. They both just sat there and thought for a few long moments. It was as if just the fact that they were in the same room together, smoking cigars and dipping tobacco, that put them both at ease despite the enormity of the last few months’ events. Both had felt a strong loyalty and duty to Texas for their entire lives. Now, two giants of Texas lore, one as iconoclastic as a figure straight out of the 1880s and the other of more recent vintage, sat there together, just the two of them, quietly pondering the uncertainty of Texas’ fate.

  After a few quiet moments, Brahman said, “That was a helluva storm, Pops.”

  Pops knew exactly what the governor was referring to, and it wasn’t the weather.

  “Sir, what’s bearing down on us right now will make that look like an afternoon squall,” replied Pops.

  More moments of silence ensued as Pops peered over to the west wall of the office, the only wall without windows to the downtown Austin skyline. For a moment, Pops seemed to be taken aback, then he flexed his slender frame as if realizing he was in the presence of royalty or some antiquity of historic or religious importance.

  Recognizing this was the first time Pops had seen the large framed item that adorned his west wall, Brahman offered, “I sure as hell hope he and that little gal didn’t die in vain.”

  Pops kept staring at the now famous item, a Texas Lone Star flag with the black numbers 1789 hand-stitched in the white bar. The flag was covered with dark stains…

  Blood… from Chuck Dixon and Amanda Flores.

  Pops walked over to the flag and stood just beneath it, then rubbed his mustache with his right forefinger, trying to hide the fact that he was struggling to hold back tears.

  “It would be a damned tragedy, sir. Damned tragedy, indeed…” said Pops as his voice trailed slightly.

  After a few more moments of silence, Pops seemed to gather himself and his entire demeanor changed. “Gov, you can say a lot of things about Texans, but forgetting history ain’t one of ’em.”

  Chapter 7

  “During times of universal deceit, telling the truth becomes a revolutionary act.”

  - George Orwell

  Author & Journalist

  The emergence of populist Republican candidate Roger Hilton over the spring and summer months jolted American politics. Although he was more of a populist and not exactly conservative, the far-right wing of the party was forced by public sentiment to eventually get behind him over traditional candidates who were congressmen, senators and governors. A businessman, he was an outsider who had never held political office.

  Former Secretary of State Bartlett was always one to make the most of her political opportunities. There was nothing contrived about her. To those who knew her well, she was cold, manipulative and cunning. Very few politicians in American history had her knack for sensing when to seize the narrative. She was now in her sixties, and the political seeds she had sown over thirty years were about to be harvested in a big way.

  As President Johnson wound down the last few months of his lame-duck presidency, he was more than happy to broker a back-room deal with congressional Democrats. He had no problem with allowing Attorney General Tibbs to be impeached as the scapegoat for the feds’ incompetence and ultimately the death of a sitting Texas governor and his wife in the Texas Crisis.

  Johnson and Bartlett had always had an uneasy co-existence. Johnson had come from behind to win the Democratic primary eight years before. Bartlett thought it was her turn, as did most of her party establishment. The Democrats, who made history with the first African-American president, now wanted to do it again with the first elected woman for the leader of the free world.

  Bartlett had gotten the lion’s share of the credit, albeit mostly undeserved, from the media for brokering a temporary pause to the hostilities of the Texas Crisis. The Bartlett machine then kicked operatives around the country into gear to lock up the Democratic nomination long before the convention, with no serious threats from other candidates.

  Hilton, on the other hand, was in a supreme battle with a dozen candidates. The Republican primary was especially harsh, inflicting permanent damage on each candidate who slogged through the state primaries. Hilton did not carry the Texas primary. Senator Roberto Perez from Texas did, bolstered by his support for the referendum.

  In each televised debate, Perez was excoriated by the moderators, Hilton and the other candidates for supporting the Texas referendum. Hilton labeled Perez as “Treasonous Bob” and the pseudonym stuck. Surprisingly, Perez’ affinity for the Constitution enabled him to win seventeen states, but he fell significantly short of Hilton’s delegate count majority.

  Hilton’s attraction came from the voters’ disgust with both political establishment machines and the dysfunction of the federal government. Surprisingly, despite the fact that voters were fed up, the vast majority of Republicans nationwide did not support the Texas referendum, but they also were strongly against President Johnson’s actions during the Texas Crisis. Hilton often crowed that Perez did nothing to avert the crisis that led to bloodshed, even to the point of blaming Perez’ support of the referendum directly for the deaths of federal agents and Texas citizens.

  Most political experts and prognosticators predicted a close general election, with the final tally in the Electoral College coming down to the swing states of Florida, Virginia, North Carolina, Ohio and Pennsylvania.

  The Texas Crisis was a central subject of both campaigns; however, for the most part, both candidates agreed Texas had no right to conduct such a vote. Hilton, especially, was very measured in responses to questions about the crisis, states’ rights and the loss of life in an attempt to gain independent voters who polled against the Texas referendum.

  Bartlett was quick to take credit, at any opportunity
she could, for ending the crisis.

  This presidential election broke all spending records by a couple of billion dollars. Despite the serious flaws, associations, and questionable dealings in their pasts that would have sunk candidates in previous election cycles, the country appeared to be entering a new political era where anything was accepted.

  A country where the average voting-age adult couldn’t even name the three branches of government or give two examples of the Bill of Rights was about to choose from an entrenched political hack and an outsider who could become the first tabloid president.

  A key component of the Bartlett campaign strategy was to distance herself from Johnson, but especially from Johnson’s Attorney General, Jamail Tibbs. Tibbs was a fierce personal enemy of Bartlett’s. She reveled in the fact that he was impeached and made no bones about his complicity in the ultimate deaths in the crisis. Bartlett, however, was not dismissive whatsoever regarding the feds' authority to attempt to shut down the Texas referendum.

  As the Florida votes came in, Hilton had an early lead, larger than anyone expected. As the night wore on, Bartlett began closing the gap. Election returns from South Florida in the Miami/Dade area were solidly in her favor, typical for the Democrats. By 10:00 p.m., most of the networks were ready to call a huge upset for Hilton. Fox and CNN were already projecting Hilton as the winner, although his lead had shrunk to four points with only the Jacksonville metro area to report. Because of Jacksonville’s military presence, it was safe to predict Hilton would carry this last major precinct, and thus Florida.

  MSNBC broke into programming to declare Bartlett had carried Jacksonville, erasing Hilton’s lead and delivering the first major blow on election night. Bartlett won Florida, not totally unexpected, but from far behind in a staunchly conservative area that hadn’t voted Democratic since JFK.

  Pundits now focused on Virginia, North Carolina and Pennsylvania, whose polls closed at or near the same time as Florida’s.

  Bartlett’s election headquarters in Arlington, Virginia was abuzz. The crowd went from despair to elation when Fox, CNN and ABC changed their projections to declare Bartlett the winner.

  Bartlett watched from her expansive hotel suite with her handlers, strategists, and largest donors. In the corner of the room, drinking a glass of Dewar’s and water, was Nils Ottosson. Ottosson was an executive with a lobby firm on K Street that just happened to be owned by Säkerhet Intelligent Systems, AB (translated into English to “Certainty”) and was well known in Washington, D.C. circles as CIS.

  CIS had won several database contracts for their work on the U.S. Census. The lobbying firm CIS America was well known to Beltway insiders. It was one of the most prominent of the hundreds, if not thousands, of lobbyists registered to influence votes and government contracts.

  Ottosson was a known ladies’ man and partier, and the Bartlett campaign headquarters environment was beginning to be described as giddy, perfectly suited for a good time. Though he was married, with his wife and two children in Stockholm, Ottosson never acted like he was married while he was in D.C.

  “This is going to be a great night,” claimed Ottosson in broken English to two twenty-something females who were deep into their own private conversation and countless selfies they were taking with the crowd in the background.

  At first acting like they had not heard him, they finally looked up and one said, “So far, so good, but it’s only the first one in!” she said, gleefully referring to the Florida results.

  “Trust me, it’s going be a great night!” he claimed, holding up two full glasses of Dewar’s, one in each hand.

  Laughingly, the second girl said, “Well, we’re glad you’re so confident. There’s still a long way to go.”

  Ottosson was dressed in an Armani suit and displayed a little bit of charm, even if he was approaching middle age. The first girl took a couple of steps closer. She sensed his confidence, but also figured he must be somebody important.

  “Two drinks at once?” she asked.

  “I’m already celebrating our victory!” he shot back coolly.

  “Do you know something we don’t?” she replied wryly.

  “Let’s just say that the Electoral College will be decided before the polls move west across the Mississippi,” he said confidently as he sipped from one of his two glasses.

    

  As the election night sped on, Hilton took early and sometimes substantial leads in some of the key swing states, but amazingly couldn’t sustain those leads in any of them. A trend began to emerge where key counties that traditionally voted Republican were won by Bartlett very late in the election count. As many as six key Republican counties swung Democratic in Pennsylvania which, along with northern Florida, may have been the shockers of the electoral map this election night.

  On the strength of pulling out a win in every single swing state, former Secretary of State Annabelle Bartlett swept to victory. What most pundits believed to be a very tight race turned into three-hundred fifty-two electoral votes to the populist Hilton’s one-hundred eighty-six. It was a landslide. Ninety-seven electoral votes swung to Bartlett in six states alone where Hilton was expected to be very competitive and where his early election return leads evaporated and turned into last-minute Bartlett victories.

  Far worse for the Republicans, they barely hung on to a majority in the Senate and lost the majority in the House handily.

  Experts called Bartlett the “closer” for her ability to come from behind late on election night in key states to win.

  The United States of America had elected its first woman president.

  Chapter 8

  “It is enough that the people know there was an election. The people who cast the votes decide nothing. The people who count the votes decide everything.”

  - Josef Stalin

  Communist Dictator of the Soviet Union

  (1878-1953)

  Zach Turner and his wife settled on the couch after a home-cooked dinner, after they put their son Colt to bed. Kymbra Turner was already cozy in her flannel pajamas and was ready to settle in for the night with Zach to watch the election returns. Zach had prepared her that the deciding results might not be apparent until deep into the night.

  By 10:30, Zach became so agitated that he couldn’t sit still.

  “Something ain’t right,” he told Kymbra as she struggled to stay awake. She had chased after Colt all day, along with housework, and the election results were not enough to overcome her fatigue.

  “Damn, they are starting to call it,” Zach said in a distressed voice.

  Kymbra had just fallen asleep, but Zach’s tone shocked her awake.

  Zach scooted up onto the edge of the couch, clicking the remote to check all the major election coverage on Fox, CNN, ABC and others.

  “I’m telling you, this stinks,” he growled.

  “Yes, it does, baby,” said Kymbra, knowing how disappointed he was as she played with his short-cropped hair.

  “Not for the reasons you think, sweetheart. She has either got to be the luckiest candidate in history or something else is going on here. I mean, heck, she was down in almost every swing state, some with sixty or seventy percent of the precincts already reporting. That just doesn’t happen.”

  “Well, it did this time. Zach, you can’t get yourself so worked up,” she said soothingly, knowing that her protests about his anger would likely be ignored.

  Zach’s cell phone rang.

  “Turner,” he answered. He never said “hello.” He looked at his watch as he listened for a few seconds. “Right. 0700 at the Bunker.”

  Kymbra knew it was useless to protest, but tried anyway. “Baby, try not to get so worked up. I can see your mind already working overtime. What’s going on in that head of yours?”

  “I just don’t understand this. It doesn’t look right. The odds of that happening like it just went down is astronomical, yet everyone is praising Bartlett for the great comeback. I don’t buy it,” he said as he s
tood up and began to pace around the living room.

  “You’re scaring me… Zach, there’s nothing you can do.”

  “It ain’t right. Somebody has to look into this. Not one pundit on TV said a damned thing about the odds of this happening. Something happened. I don’t know what happened, but I don’t trust it one damned bit.”

  “My hero,” she said, “always taking on the weight of the world at any opportunity he can.” She stood and put her arms around him, kissing him on the cheek, partly in genuine admiration and partly to calm him.

  “I can’t be the only one who sees this,” he kept saying.

  “Come to bed, baby. I’ll settle you down,” offered Kymbra in the sexiest voice she could offer.

  “I can’t take this. I’ve got to find out. I’ve got to do something.”

  As they crawled in bed, Kymbra snuggled up to Zach and started kissing him slowly, all over. She was determined to put him at ease.

  He tried his best to get into their lovemaking, but his mind wandered at times. Shortly afterward, Kymbra fell asleep. Zach quietly got up from bed and went back into the living room where he turned the election coverage back on.

  “This stinks. I don’t trust it,” he murmured to himself.

  Finally, Zach went back to bed, crawling carefully under the covers so as not to wake Kymbra. But he couldn’t sleep; as he lay on the pillow, his brain ran in circles.

  Staring at the ceiling, he continued to rerun the election in his head as he tried to discount the deep nagging feeling that the election had possibly been stolen somehow―some way.