by Tom Grace
“This was the enlightened, progressive opinion at the time, and it perfectly embodies the ruling class’s disdain for the rest of us. Butler was also a winner of the prestigious Nobel Peace Prize.
“And seeing the President enthroned at Columbia, I recalled that relations between Columbia and Mussolini were so warm that the dictator personally donated some furniture for the Casa Italiana on the university’s campus. I just have to wonder if they hauled out one of Il Duce’s old chairs for the President. That would have sadly been both appropriate and ironic.
“Now, I am used to feeling a sense of vexation when it comes to the leader of the current regime, but it was the second commencement address that really, I mean really, set me off. And this came from a place about as far from the hallowed halls of academe, where future government parasites are bred, as one can get—northern Michigan.
“Under most circumstances, I am thrilled when a true conservative runs for elected office. As I have said many times on this program, the Republican Party and conservatism are not synonymous. Being a Republican does not make you a conservative, nor does being a conservative automatically make you a Republican.
“Ross Egan is an example of a conservative who is not a Republican. I have met Ross, and I have nothing but respect for the man and what he accomplished for the people of Dutannuru using core conservative principles. On any given day, I would be thrilled with his candidacy for any office, but not today, and not for the presidency of the United States.
“Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying I don’t think Egan would make a good president. In fact, I think he is better qualified than anyone else running for the job. The problem is that his timing frankly sucks.
“The election is six months out and the chaos on the Republican side—thanks largely to the minions of the regime—all but assures a floor fight for the nomination and a bloodied and financially wounded candidate going into the fall campaign. Assuming the Republicans fail to unify under whomever they pick, those dissatisfied with the nominee may look elsewhere. With the current president as the only alternative, these lukewarm Republicans would hold their noses and pull the lever for what they consider a second or third-choice nominee. Egan’s entry gives those conservative Republicans a tempting alternative.
“Egan now threatens to act as a wedge that splits Republican Party loyalists from conservatives, and that split could provide the opening that allows this president to sneak into a second term with a plurality of the voters behind him.
“This is why I’m against third parties, unless of course they split the left. Third parties do not win American elections. And if we need to have a third party on the right, then let it be a party made of the ruling-class, centrist Republicans.
“Ross, I think the world of you, man. But jumping into the race now all but assures the President of a second term, and all but assures the rest of the country four more years of misery and an America gleefully pushed into decline.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
MAY 28
“Will you be marching in the parade?” the middle-aged woman behind the counter at the Devils Lake Dry Cleaners had asked as she handed Mike Unden his uniform.
“Not this year,” Unden had replied.
“A shame. Won’t be the same without you and your pa.”
Not many towns in America could boast of a living Medal of Honor winner among their inhabitants. Devils Lake used to have those bragging rights, but not anymore.
Unden peeled the plastic bag off his dress uniform and laid the garment on the bed of his budget-priced hotel room. The Big-Ag corporation that had bought his acreage unfortunately had no openings for him to work what had been his land. So, for the first time in his life, Unden was idle.
Idle hands are the devil’s tool, Unden recalled his mother often saying as he dressed. That may be, but I’m not idle by choice.
He was clean-shaven and his hair was trimmed to military regulations. Though years past his honorable discharge, Unden slipped into his dress uniform with practiced ease. Standing before the full-length mirror with his array of campaign ribbons and medals, he felt certain he could still pass inspection. Then he glanced at the box that contained his father’s Medal of Honor.
In his protests outside the White House, Unden had worn the medal in honor of his father’s service to his country. He never presented himself as its recipient, nor had he sought any benefit or privilege due to the honored heroes. The medal simply amplified the gravity of the injustice wrought by the death tax against the estate of a hero.
The medal had assured Unden’s entry into the US Naval Academy at Annapolis, allowing the son of an enlisted Marine to earn a commissioned rank. His father had told him that this was the American dream— that each new generation would build upon the previous one and do even better.
He considered for a moment the act of wearing his father’s medal today. Wearing the Medal of Honor in protest outside the White House was one thing, but to don the nation’s highest military award on hallowed ground troubled him.
In wearing this medal, Unden reasoned, I mean no disrespect to those who earned it. Rather, I protest the treatment of one of their own by a government those heroes fought and bled and died to protect.
Unden placed the award around his neck, donned his hat, and studied his image in the mirror. Ramrod straight, he was the very picture of a Marine.
He left the hotel and took the metro to Arlington National Cemetery. A number of tourists took note of the stoic Marine, some fathers quietly pointing out the medal around Unden’s neck to their sons. No one disturbed him, though a few aged veterans nodded with respect.
Arriving early for the Memorial Day activities, Unden made his way to a remote section of the cemetery. There, in the shade of a Lebanese cedar, he found the graves of his fallen brothers-in-arms. He spent a few moments before the marker of each of the men he knew personally from his time in uniform. Those who were friends from his academy days were frozen in a state of perpetual youth in his mind.
After paying his respects, Unden walked to the mansion at the heart of the great national cemetery. Though used for barely half a century as a private residence, the magnificent home had family links to both President George Washington and Confederate General Robert E. Lee.
Unden found a shaded spot along the colonnade with a clear view of the carved marble block marking the Tomb of the Unknowns. A solemn crowd had gathered for the morning ceremony under a clear blue sky, many there to pay respects to relatives or friends interred at Arlington.
Just before eleven o’clock, the First Lady took her place on the memorial plaza for the ceremony, accompanied by the Secretary of Defense and his wife. On the hour, the President and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff walked past the joint services color guard and processed in silence onto the plaza.
The two men, the civilian and military leaders of the United States, stood respectfully at attention before the simple flat stone slabs set into the plaza—the graves of the unknown soldiers. A military band played the national anthem, after which a soldier brought forth a large wreath stand and set it before the President. With the assistance of the soldier, the President hung the wreath on a stand before the tombs. The President then returned to his spot beside the chairman.
Unden’s mind flashed back to his father’s funeral as the honor guard fired a twenty-one-gun salute, followed by a solitary bugler playing Taps. Few dry eyes remained as the last of the mournful notes faded from the air.
“Excuse me, sir.”
Unden glanced over his shoulder to find the respectful inquiry came from a plainclothes Secret Service agent.
“Yes?” Unden replied.
“I’ve been asked to bring you up onto the patio.”
“Why?”
“The President will be passing that way.”
Unden nodded and quickly followed the man behind the cordoned area onto the mansion’s patio. On the plaza, the President and the chairman tur
ned from the monument and walked up the stairs toward the mansion.
As both men reached the patio, the chairman, a four-star Marine general, stood at attention and snapped a salute at Unden. Unden returned the salute, and then accepted the President’s offered hand.
“It’s an honor,” the President said respectfully.
“Active duty?” the chairman asked, attempting to reconcile the rank insignia on Unden’s uniform with his apparent age.
“Honorably discharged, sir,” Unden replied. “I only don the uniform for special occasions.”
“Where are you from?” the President asked, trying to place Unden’s accent.
“Minnesota, sir.”
“What brings you here?”
Unden considered the question and decided that on this day, in this uniform, he would resist offering a brutally honest response.
“Just paying my respects to some old friends.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
ON AIR
JUNE 6
“The polls are now closed. The ballots have been tallied. And yet, ladies and gentlemen, not only has the fat lady not yet sung, she’s still back in her dressing room.”
Denby paused as his engineer played a song parody based on “Should I Stay or Should I Go” by the Clash. The musical comedian who created the piece replaced Joe Strummer’s wailing vocals with imitations of the GOP candidates.
“Yes, my friends, the indecision is indeed bugging me,” Denby continued. “We are now just five months from Election Day and what kind of choice are we presented? On the left, we have a progressive reformer— in other words, radical liberal—hell-bent on a second term of social and economic destruction.
“On the right, we have a conservative independent whose first run for elected office is the presidency of the United States. And somewhere in the middle, actually to the center-right, is a six-car pileup in which no GOP candidate managed to cross the finish line. The President’s strategy to inflict chaos on his Republican opposition has worked like a charm.
“Not since men named Truman and Eisenhower sought the presidency has either party headed into its respective convention without a clear front-runner who could win the party’s nomination on the first ballot. Barring some serious deal making, that’s exactly what the Republicans are in for this July in Philadelphia.
“The Democrats will stage the typical four-day infomercial to try to resell the American voter on their clearly defective product. I expect the potential ratings black hole for this snoozefest will limit its coverage to the fewest prime-time minutes possible. Some bright network execs are likely trying to figure out how to package it as a half-hour sitcom.
“A truly contested convention is actually the one thing going for the Republicans this year, and for that we can thank the President. Most of today’s voters weren’t born when Dewey and Stevenson emerged from the smoke-filled rooms of their respective conventions. I expect that veteran newscasters are thrilled with the chance to cover a convention where some actual news might be made. The President’s chaos strategy has created something that no Republican in recent memory could—a party convention worth watching.
“And of the iconic outsider on the national political stage, I can report that Ross Egan’s name will officially appear on the ballot in all fifty states. Polling of a three-way contest between Egan, the President, and any of the GOP candidates projects a tight race, with the next president winning by a plurality rather than a majority. It is entirely possible we could see our next president win office with less than forty percent of the popular vote, and it is entirely possible that the results of this election will be determined in the House of Representatives.
“My friends, we are indeed living in interesting times.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
ATLANTA
JULY 20
Egan slipped through a side door and ascended the three steps onto the stage in the Fox Theater’s Egyptian Ballroom. The opulent space was filled to capacity with just over one thousand people cheering his arrival. Clusters of people knotted around the cash bars while servers moved among the attendees with trays of hors d’oeuvres.
“How ya doing?” Egan called out.
The attendees cheered, applauded, and whistled at the grinning candidate, who basked for a moment in the adulation before motioning for a little quiet.
“That was quite a group we had down there in the theater—musta mistook me for Jimmy Buffett or something. This is a great place you got here—a beautiful theater, and a whole lot bigger and fancier than anything up around where I’m from.”
A heavyset man dressed in worn denim and work boots held up a homemade sign: BUBBAS FOR EGAN.
“I hear ya, Bubba,” Egan said with a laugh. “And while I grew up north of the Mason-Dixon Line, I can honestly say the only real difference between a Bubba and a Yooper is snow.
“First off, I want to thank you for coming out to hear what I have to say, and for giving me an earful of what anyone wanting a job in Washington needs to hear. That’s what my Fifty-Fifty Tour is all about— visiting fifty state capitals in fifty days, starting with the fiftieth state and working my way back to the first. And if I’m in Atlanta, I’m in the homestretch with only three more of the founding states to go. Your ancestors fought in the War of Independence and that’s a heritage of which you have every right to be proud of.
“I also want to thank you for your bucks. My campaign is only taking contributions from individual citizens, and the maximum allowed is …”
“Just-A-Buck!” the audience thundered back.
“Just-A-Buck. When I look at our war chest, I know that each and every dollar has a unique name attached to it, and that each was made and given value by the people of this great country. These bucks were born in boardrooms and barns, factories and farms, laboratories and loading docks. These bucks are the result of tireless ingenuity and plain old hard work—the kind of honest labor that makes a person proud and a nation wealthy.
“Our currency is famous for the motto: In God We Trust. Our Founders understood the role Divine Providence played in the creation of the Unites States, and inscribed that motto on the instrument that symbolizes the trust we share with each other. Far from being something evil, money symbolizes an agreement freely made between individuals, and it is that trust that gives those coins and slips of printed paper value. No government printing press can make money worth more than the paper it’s printed on—it is each and every one of us that performs that bit of alchemy.
“You already heard the rest of my stump speech in the theater, so if you don’t mind, I’m going to get myself a drink and something to nibble on and hear what’s on your minds.”
CAMP DAVID
“Peter,” the President said warmly, “I am so pleased you could come.”
The Secret Service agents escorting Sturla stopped at the doorway to the sitting room, allowing the billionaire to proceed on his own. The President gave Sturla a two-handed shake and locked eyes with his most fervent supporter.
“It is always my pleasure to spend time with you and the First Lady,” Sturla replied. “Thank you for inviting me to join you on your respite from campaigning.”
“Can I get you a drink?”
“Some ginger ale, perhaps.”
The President nodded to one of the house staff and motioned Sturla to a club chair as he returned to the couch. Beside him were campaign briefings on his likely opponents.
“This is a lovely retreat,” Sturla said.
“D.C. is hot and full of tourists right now, so it’s best to be out of town as much as humanly possible. And this week, I’ll just lie low and let the Republicans muddle through their convention.”
The staffer brought Sturla his drink and set a fresh gin-and-tonic on the coffee table in front of the President. A television built into the bookcase displayed a reporter standing outside of the convention hall in Philadelphia. The sound was muted, but behind the reporter stood a modest gathering of protest
ers.
“Those are ours,” Sturla offered once they were alone.
“And I appreciate it,” the President replied. “It’s important to provide the media with the right visuals to accompany the story.”
“From now until Election Day, the Republican candidate will face such protests wherever he or she chooses to appear. It is vitally important that they always appear as the enemy of the people—which is exactly what they are.”
“Amen to that. What about Egan?” the President asked.
“That will require some finesse. We must oppose him, to be sure, but not so much that he loses his viability as a candidate. Creating an opposition third party is even more difficult than a shadow party. Egan is the parasite that will drain the strength of your most dangerous opponent. And if, in the unlikely event that he emerges as a real threat to you, well that’s what your opposition research is for.”
“I’ve never seen anything like his campaign before,” the President said. “He says he won’t take matching funds, which is a given these days, but we haven’t pinned down how he plans to pay for his run. His tax filings show a net worth of a few million, which would barely cover a shot at a minor House seat. And he doesn’t appear to be courting any of the usual deep pockets.”
“I will have my people look into his finances as well. The money trail could prove useful in October.”
As they spoke, the cable news network cut back to the studio feed. A picture of radio talk show host Garr Denby floated behind the anchor.
“Oh God,” the President groaned. “Can you believe somebody hired that buffoon as a commentator for the convention?”
“I expect nothing less from that network. Their investigations into my political activities are interfering with my business. In your next term, I certainly hope something can be done about regulating both that network and Denby off the air.”
PHILADELPHIA
“The first ballot is a pro forma exercise,” Denby opined from the cable news network’s booth inside the convention center. “The delegates are for the most part bound to vote for a specific candidate, and the number of at-large delegates won’t tip the balance in anyone’s favor.