ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened?

by Harvey Ardman

  Wang got on his cell phone again and a few minutes later, in walked Marty Katz, the President's avuncular chief political advisor, and the possessor of the West Wing's least effective comb-over, not to mention a prominent mustache he vainly hoped would draw the eye away from the top of his head.

  He listened carefully as Callaway and Wang outlined the problem for him. "It seems to me," he said, "that we've got a damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don't situation here."

  "How so?" asked the President.

  Katz reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a fat cigar and lit up. He had insisted on the privilege, even though it was against the rules. It was his a condition for taking the White House job. "Well, if you agree to meet with Bourque, you're going to anger your base, especially the Blacks. And they won't care what your reason is. They'll call you a traitor to your race."

  "Lovely," Callaway said.

  "And if we refuse the meeting?" Wang asked.

  Katz took a long, thoughtful drag on his cigar, and exhaled in a series of exquisitely-executed smoke rings, a feat for which he was well known. "If it gets out—that is, when it gets out—your bleeding-heart friends will say you've shit-canned a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to change Confederate society for the better."

  "So we have our choice of executioners?" Callaway asked.

  "It's not quite that bad," said Katz, taking another drag on the stogie. "We can defend either position. If you okay the meeting, we can tell the Blacks that you'll be working to make life better for their southern brethren."

  "All right, Marty, I can buy that. What happens if I turn down Bourque's offer?"

  Katz took another puff on his cigar and blew rings within rings. "Well, then you tell your lefty friends that you can't meet with Bourque without seeming to condone the Confederacy's racist policies."

  "Which would be true," Wang remarked.

  "Which I would never do," said President Callaway.

  "Exactly," Wang said, as though that decided the question.

  Katz searched for an ashtray and, finding none, settled for a nearby teacup. He flicked a fat, inch-long ash into it. "Let's look at this another way," he said. "Let's imagine that you meet with Bourque and it's a great success. He gets his money, or arms, or whatever he wants and you get…what?"

  "Nothing," Wang said.

  "Not necessarily," said Callaway. "As I said, a social concession of some kind. Voting rights for Blacks? Some kind of educational affirmative action?"

  "Not a chance," Wang shot back. "Not a chance in hell. He's not going to trash his country's most ingrained beliefs just to get a loan, even a big one. His people would ride him out of that plantation of his on a rail."

  "That's what I like about you, Eric," said the President, innocently, "you're never troubled by doubt."

  "Quite true," Wang said, grinning. "Comes from being right all the time."

  Katz took another puff from his cigar, and blew another perfect smoke ring, which slowly expanded into life preserver size. "I don't know about all the time, but this time he's right. There's just too much risk here. You don't want to crash and burn before you even get off the ground."

  "Isn't that just what I've been saying?" Wang asked.

  "Almost word for word," Callaway noted.

  "Okay, let's get another opinion," Wang said. "How about the military?"

  “Fine,” Callaway said. “Set it up.”

  This time it was a video conference, with the White House on one end and the Pentagon on the other. The military was represented by Major General Richard Hutchison, the President's favorite soldier—he'd been an early Callaway endorser—and a bit intimidating, at least in his larger than life-size video screen incarnation.

  "Is there any military reason for me to meet with Bourque?" Callaway asked him, after explaining the situation "Or any military reason not to?"

  "I don't think it matters one way or the other," the General said. "We don’t have any military contact with them, except at the border of course. And they certainly aren't a threat to us."

  Callaway found himself taking a step back from the screen. "Tell me, General Hutchison, is there any possibility Bourque wants military help from us for some reason? And, if he does, should we consider it.?"

  Hutchison chuckled. "No and no. Well, wait—he could be worried about Mexico. After New Orleans, there's plenty of bad blood. But I think the Mexicans would be nuts to try anything now. The Bourque Line is impregnable."

  "So we shouldn't consider giving them any military aid?"

  "Bottom line, sir? I don't see any military reason for you to meet with Bourque. And even if Mexico attacked, I doubt the American people would be willing to come to the Confederacy's defense."

  Wang chuckled. "I'd say you have a good point there."

  "I agree," said Callaway. "Unless the NAU were genuinely threatened."

  "Which is very unlikely," Hutchison declared. "But of course we're ready for anything."

  "I expect no less," said President Callaway. "Thanks for the briefing."

  On the video screen, the Major General's image was replaced by the Presidential logo, leaving the President alone with his Chief of Staff.

  "Looks like it's pretty unanimous," Wang said. At that moment, his cell phone decided to vibrate. He answered it and listened briefly. "That was reception," Wang told Callaway. "He's just arrived."

  "Damn," said the President.

  "Shall I have him sent up here?"

  Callaway shook his head. "Let's make it the Oval Office. Better this time to have a formal setting I think."

  "I assume you're going to decline Bourque's request," Wang said, still trying to nail it down..

  Callaway reached over to the far edge of his desk, picked up a small, exquisite millifiori crystal paperweight, no doubt the gift of some notable White House guest from the past, its provenance long ago forgotten and he gazed at it for a moment. Then he shrugged. "Well, according to the advice I’ve been getting, it isn't worth the risk."

  "I concur," Wang said, hoping Callaway had really decided.

  "But let's not make an enemy out of Mr. Pickett, Eric. Who knows, we may have reason to change our minds in the future. Let's let him down easy."

  "You want anyone else in the room?"

  "Beside you? No. He might find that humiliating," Callaway said. "No photo op either."

  "Goes without saying."

  President Callaway was sitting behind the Presidential desk and Eric Wang was perched on a nearby couch when a chirpy, attractive dark-haired girl, an intern, ushered LeRoy Pickett into the Oval Office. He was wearing the same suit he'd had on yesterday. Callaway came out from behind his desk and there was more handshaking.

  Then all three of them took seats on the twin couches in the middle of the room, in front of the President's desk. "I've seen pictures of this room," Pickett said, "but it's much more impressive in person. I'm intimidated."

  Callaway laughed. "I feel the same way," he said.

  "We haven't had a chance to redecorate," Wang said. "All this is Howard Exley's vision."

  "It looks like the trophy room of some 19th century explorer," Pickett said.

  "Mrs. Callaway can't wait to get her hands on it," the President said, smiling. "She thinks it would benefit from a woman's touch."

  Pickett held up a hand. "Please, gentlemen, I appreciate the small talk, I really do, but maybe it's better for all of us if I get down to business."

  "Good idea," Wang said. "You've talked with Bourque? You can tell us more about his request?"

  Pickett took a deep breath. "He said he wants to talk with President Callaway about a broad range of issues. He wants to improve the relationship between our two countries. He used the word 'revive.' "

  "That's an admirable goal," Callaway said, sounding friendly. "A little vague, though."

  Wang reacted with a kind of negative neutrality. "We'd all like better relationships with our neighbors," he allowed.

  "Enough to give a go-ahead to
a Summit meeting?" Pickett asked.

  "Mr. Pickett," Wang said, "I think we're all practical men here, and as a practical matter…"

  Wang paused and Pickett finished his sentence for him. "As a practical matter, you're ready to praise the idea and then make sure it never happens."

  "I didn't say that," Wang objected.

  "Mr. Wang, I've spent a lifetime reading between the lines. I understand exactly what you're saying—what both of you are saying."

  Callaway tried to be diplomatic. "I must tell you, Mr. Pickett, when I was elected, it never occurred to me that I'd be fielding an offer from Buddy Bourque."

  Wang chose the blunt approach. "The fact is, Mr. Pickett, your request is unprecedented and somewhat disconcerting. It has many serious ramifications, foreign and domestic. And to be really frank, I can't see any advantage to granting your request."

  "Of course it's unprecedented," Pickett said. "And that's exactly why I thought you'd seriously consider it."

  "Maybe if the CSA made a formal proposal, something we could read and debate," Callaway suggested.

  Pickett got to his feet, slowly walked to the bay window behind the President's desk and gazed at the immaculate grass of the South Lawn. The President and his Chief of Staff waited him out.

  "No can do, gentlemen," he said, finally turning back toward them. "No formal proposal."

  Callaway hadn't been President long, but he still expected others to accept his suggestions with alacrity. "Why not?"

  "Because it's just a way of delaying your response. We won't be able to get you a formal proposal for a couple of weeks, and you'll send it to the State Department and they'll debate it for a couple of months and then they'll pass it on to some other agency and by the time you've decided, it will be too late—and that's assuming you'll say yes, which I doubt.

  "So you have it all figured out then," Callaway said.

  "Pretty much."

  Wang looked at Pickett with open curiosity. "What do you mean by too late? Too late for what?"

  Pickett met his eyes, took a deep breath and made a decision. "President Bourque has not authorized me to say this. I'm not even sure he'd admit it to himself. But I can say it because I've seen it with my own eyes: The Confederacy is at the end of its rope. We're pretty much finished."

  Wang's eyebrows rose. "Well now, Mr. Pickett, as negotiating ploys go, that's a doozy."

  The President was also surprised. "What do you mean, Roy?"

  "I mean that we're just about bankrupt. Germany—if Germany weren't loaning us money, we wouldn't have anything. And I'm not just talking about the government, I'm talking about the country. We're in the third year of a recession. Long tunnel ahead. No light."

  "I'd heard about the German loans," Callaway said, "I didn't realize how dire things were."

  "It's a well kept secret, except for the people without jobs or homes or people mired in poverty. They know."

  "What caused the recession?" the President asked.

  "Crop failures," Pickett explained. "Cotton. Three years in a row. The land is exhausted and so are the people."

  "Would agricultural aid…" Callaway asked.

  "Not anymore. Maybe if we'd asked a decade ago."

  Wang sat back, gazing steadily at his opposite number, as if visual inspection might reveal whether or not Pickett was telling the truth. "So what's the bottom line here, Pickett," he said. "Are you looking for money? For humanitarian aid?"

  "No, I am not," Pickett said, rather fiercely. "I'm here to set up a meeting."

  "I'm sure that we could provide a reasonable amount of food and medical supplies, you know, on a humanitarian basis," Callaway said. "Even funds to keep the government functioning—as a loan, of course."

  "That's not what we're looking for," Pickett said. "Even as a gift."

  "Then what?" Wang asked.

  For a moment, Pickett seemed to struggle with his temper. "I haven't told you everything," he finally said.

  "You have more secrets?" Wang said sarcastically, earning a reproving glance from Callaway.

  Pickett paused for a long time and when he spoke, it was clear that the effort had cost him a great deal. "Yes. More secrets."

  "Mr. Pickett—Roy—I don't know if this will help," the President said, "but I promise you that what you say here will stay here. Right, Eric?"

  The Chief of Staff hesitated as his mind clicked through a series of scenarios. "You're the Boss," he said.

  They both looked at Pickett expectantly.

  "If we were attacked—militarily—we couldn't defend ourselves," Pickett said.

  "What?" Wang said, astonished. "What do you mean? You have an army and a navy, don't you? You even have a air force, maybe it's small, but you have one, right?"

  "We have all of these things, yes. But much of the equipment is rusted or non-functional. And we have hardly enough fuel or ammunition to train our soldiers."

  Wang was stunned. "The Bourque Line…"

  "It's a sham," Pickett said. "I didn't know it until recently, but it's just a long row of crumbling concrete pillboxes and guns so old and corroded they'd probably explode if you tried to fire them."

  "So you fear an attack from Mexico." Callaway said.

  "Hold on," said Wang. "According to our military experts, Garcia wouldn't dare take on Bourque again. Not after Bourque kicked his ass at New Orleans."

  "That was a long time ago," the President observed. "A lot has changed since then."

  Wang had another thought. "Wait a minute—does Garcia knows how defenseless you are?"

  "Well, you didn't—if you're being honest with me," Pickett said. "And if you didn't know, Garcia probably doesn't know either—yet. But if he finds out…"

  "I assure you," Callaway said, "we had no idea it was that bad. The Confederacy has been hiding its failings pretty well."

  "Yes," Pickett admitted, taking no pleasure from it. "Our security system is still working."

  “I’m surprised you’d tell us all this,” Wang said. “You make me wonder about your loyalty to your President.”

  “I’m telling you because of my loyalty,” Pickett said. “He told me to tell you as little as possible, but as much as necessary. And that’s what I’m doing.”

  Wang had another question: "So what do you expect from us? Are you hoping we'll give you tanks and guns?"

  Pickett was very cool. "I don't think that's what President Bourque is looking for."

  The President got up, went to the coffee pot, poured himself a cup and took a sip. "You told us you were poor, then denied you wanted money. You told us you were defenseless, then denied you wanted arms. What do you want, Mr. Pickett? What does President Bourque want from us?"

  Pickett shook his head. "I've already said more than I should," he said. "All I can add is that President Bourque believes that a Summit conference would be to our mutual benefit."

  "Mutual?" Wang asked. "What do you mean."

  "That's for President Bourque to say, not me."

  "You're being pretty cagey, Mr. Pickett, if you don't mind me saying so," Wang said.

  "If you can't be any more specific, Pickett," Callaway said, "I don't know how I can grant your request. I'm sorry."

  For a moment, Pickett seemed on the verge of an angry retort. He settled for sarcasm. "So, you've reached a decision?"

  "I'm not dismissing the idea entirely," Callaway said. "If you send us a proposal, I promise we'll give it serious consideration."

  Pickett met Callaway's eyes and nodded once, sharply, in acquiescence. Then he rose and extended a hand. "Thank you for hearing me out. It's been a privilege to speak with you. Perhaps we will talk again."

  Callaway stood and shook Pickett's hand. "I hope so, Roy."

  Pickett took four steps toward the door, then stopped. He slowly turned back toward his hosts, surprising them. He looked at them, weighing them in the balance. "There's one more secret," he said.

  Wang frowned. "Yet another secret? And you think it might chan
ge our minds?"

  "Perhaps."

  "Please go ahead," Callaway said, trying to encourage the young man.

  Pickett was not about to be hurried. He walked back to the couch and sat down again. "Bourque is going to have my head for telling you this." But he stopped there.

  Wang's expression turned conspiratorial. "Does he have to know?"

  That suggestion took Pickett off guard. "Maybe not," he said. "Maybe not."

  "So?" Wang asked. "So what's the secret?"

  "President Bourque is dying," Pickett said quietly, although he couldn't have gotten a stronger reaction if he'd shouted it out at the top of his lungs.

  "No shit," Wang said, absolutely shocked.

  "You're sure?" Callaway asked.

  "I was with him at the doctor's office."

  Even Wang was impressed by that.

  "Who else knows?" the President asked.

  "No one, at least not yet, except his daughter Delphine. Nothing escapes her. And they’re totally devoted to each other. But no one else knows."

  "So, how long does he have?" Wang wanted to know.

  "A year, if he's lucky. Last few months won't be pretty."

  "We have some great doctors," Callaway said.

  "It's pancreatic cancer."

  The three of them sat in the Oval Office, silent, considering the implications..

  "Who will succeed Bourque when he dies?" the President asked.

  "I guess George Barnes, the vice president."

  Callaway turned to Wang, seeking information. "Kooter Barnes," Wang said. He shook his head in the negative. Kooter Barnes wouldn't do.

  "There's no one else?" Callaway asked.

  It was Pickett's turn to shake his head no.

  Wang asked the obvious question. "So what will happen to the Confederacy when Bourque dies?"

  Pickett smiled slightly. "I have a question for you, Mr. Wang," he said. "How would you feel about a Mexico that's 30% larger, has a population 40% greater and commands a string of modern ports up and down the Atlantic Ocean? How would you feel about a Mexico that's the biggest, most powerful country in North America?"

  "You're saying that's what will happen when Bourque dies?" Callaway asked.

  "I think it's inevitable, Mr. President," Pickett told him. "The only question is how long Garcia will wait before he strikes. Not very long, I'd say."