ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened?

by Harvey Ardman

  Sullivan decided to play Devil's advocate. "Yes, but they'll come here to make better lives for themselves and their families. They'll come here to be free."

  "Yeah, sure, but at our expense," the labor leader said. "Is dat fair? Is dat right? I mean, I'm all for deyr freedom, but can't dey have it dere, in dere own country?"

  "Won't the influx be limited by the immigrations laws?" Sullivan asked, leading his witness.

  "Laws? Do you really tink Callaway is gonna enforce dose laws? Against his own people? Do you tink he'll free dem only to keep dem out of da Promised Land? I say not a chance. I promise you he won't. He'll welcome dem wit open arms."

  "You may be right."

  "And dell come, great waves of 'em. Dell sweep over da Promised Land like locusts, our land…"

  "But it will transform the Confederacy…"

  "It's how our country’ll be changed that scares me. We're gonna be poorer. We're gonna have Blacks fightin' white and whites fightin' Blacks. Crime rates are gonna go through the ceilin'. Unemployment too. His people may get da jobs, but it's my people dell get dem from. Deyr gonna cost a fortune in welfare. Da emergency rooms are gonna have lines ‘round the block, 24-7. It's gonna be a catastrophe, I'm tellin' ya."

  "You're painting a pretty grim picture, Tony."

  "Da ting is, we helped elect dat guy. And what tanks do we get? He turns his back on us and opens the door for all da poor, oppressed Negroes of da Confederacy. I mean dats all well and good. But what about us? Da deal Callaway makes with Bourque is goin' to break da unions, all of 'em. The Blacks are gonna invade us and dell take $15-$20 less an hour an’ still make twice what dey do down South."

  "Maybe so, if Callaway and Bourque make a deal. But all that's been announced is a meeting."

  Tony laughed, and it turned into a snort. "Ya know better than dat, Jack. You of all people. Yove made a career of seein’ through deyr lies. Don't be fooled by dis slick-talkin' new President of ours. He's a nice guy, maybe, means well I guess, but he's no Moses."

  "Do you think he'll pay attention to the Teamster's resolution?"

  "I doan know. But we're not gonna sit around and see. We're a powerful union and we're gonna use our power."

  "Political power you mean."

  "We'll do whatever we gotta do t’ stop the meetin’. And if da meetin’ happens anyhow, we're gonna do all we can to stop any negotiations. And if negotiations go ahead, we're gonna bust a gut to stop dem from makin’ a deal. We're gonna win dis one, I guaran-damn-tee ya."

  Sullivan turned toward the camera. "Well there you have it. Tony, thanks for coming by. You're a breath of fresh air."

  "Happy to be here," Zolli said.

  The view switched back to a one-shot, a close-up of Sullivan. He had a finger on his ear and was evidently listening to someone. “Wait,” he said. “Yes. Ladies and gentlemen, I have the great honor to welcome President Howard Exley to our show, via Skype Teleview. Mr. President, glad to have you here.”

  The camera pulled back, showing Sullivan at his desk, and on a large TV screen, the unmistakable visage of Howard Exley, complete with orange hair and Steinway smile. “It’s a pleasure, Jack,” he said.

  “Mr. President, I know you’re a busy man, so I’ll keep this brief. What’s your take on a meeting between Callaway and Bourque?”

  “Well, I’m not gonna pull any punches about it Jack,” Exley said. “I think it’s a terrible idea, like tryin’ to mix oil and water. Won’t work and it’ll make a mess.”

  “The Confederacy and the North American Union can’t help each other?” Sullivan prompted.

  “Oh, we could help them, but it would never end,” Exley said. “We could loan ‘em money, if that’s what they’re after—which is my suspicion—but they couldn’t pay it back and before we knew it, they’d be knocking at our door again, pleading for more. They’d drain us dry—if we let ‘em.”

  “So you think the meeting…”

  Exley finished the sentence, as Sullivan had intended. “Should be canceled, that’s what I think. That Bourque fella is very shrewd, very dangerous. I’d like to see our new young President get some experience before he deals with men like that.”

  “I guess that pretty much sums it up,” Sullivan said. “Thanks, Mr. President. Your opinion carries a lot of weight here.”

  “My pleasure, Jack.”

  The camera came in closer on Sullivan. "When we come back, I'll have an Edge Editorial about the Presidential meeting."

  What followed was another minute-and-a-half of commercials, hawking, for 30 seconds each, a cheap memory foam mattress, a discount buying service and a car painting outfit,. Then Jack Sullivan appeared again, in a close-up.

  "Welcome back," Sullivan said, in his most earnest voice.

  "I believe it is my patriotic duty to speak out when I see this country heading for danger," he said. "And I see danger ahead—danger to our country. Economic danger, political danger, danger to our social harmony, danger to the values and ideas that have made our nation what it is. Grave…moral…danger."

  "Three days ago, we were told—not asked, but told—that our newly elected President had agreed to meet with the long-time leader of the most racist, most-backward, nation in the Western Hemisphere, a nation that exemplifies everything we hate. Our President consulted no one on this decision except his own cronies.

  "Since then, one of these cronies, the President's Chief Political Advisor has appeared on a Sunday morning talk show to explain just why our President had decided to take such an unprecedented step," Sullivan said, acid in his voice. "He told us that it was all in the cause of keeping our air and water clean and our cotton and fish prices low. He told us it was all in the interest of a better understanding." Sullivan paused and looked down, mournfully, holding the pose for two full seconds. Then he looked up again and resumed

  "I think we already understand President Buddy Bourque quite well and—until Charles Callaway became President of the NAU—I thought the Confederacy understood us equally well. We both understood a vast and unbridgeable gulf separates us. We both knew that when President Lincoln let the South secede in 1860, and we went our separate ways, one of us became Dr. Jekyll. The other became Mr. Hyde. I don't think I have to tell you which is which.”

  Sullivan cleared his throat, then went on, his voice overflowing with concern. "I believe that President Callaway and his advisors are misleading us, perhaps lying to us. Consciously and willfully. I believe that they have plans that go far, far beyond a simple meeting, but they are pretending it's all quite innocent. Why would they do such a thing? Two reasons: First, our idealistic young President wants to free his own people. A noble aim, right? Well, maybe not so noble when you consider that every refugee from the Confederacy will be a vote for Callaway.

  "I believe I understand quite well how this all came about. Buddy Bourque, his country sinking into bankruptcy, came begging to President Callaway, looking for a bailout. Callaway is clearly considering his request, or there would be no meeting. But Callaway wants his reward. He wants to set his people free, to make his mark on history. And the Progressives will applaud him, because it will help assuage the guilt they feel toward the Blacks of the Confederacy, whom they abandoned to a fate barely better than slavery."

  Sullivan looked down at his desk for a moment, as if gathering strength, then back up at the camera. “Ladies and gentlemen, we elected Charles Callaway President of the United States. He has just taken office. He may be well-intentioned—I am willing to give him that much—but compared to Bourque, he is hopelessly naïve. He is also evidently under the impression as President, he can do whatever he wants. He seems to think we elected him king, not just President. But his decisions directly affect us, so he needs to listen to us, because we…are the people. Call the White House. Call your Senator. Call your Representative. Tell them no. Tell them that we the people do not approve. Tell them that the meeting with Buddy Bourque must be cancelled, immediately."

  Sullivan paus
ed dramatically, then resumed. "This has been an Edge Editorial by yours truly, Jack Sullivan. Thank you ladies and gentlemen. And remember: the time to act is now."

  *

  In the Eagles Aerie, Metzger raised his remote control, pushed a button and gazed without interest as the thin, 65" television screen quietly rose toward the ceiling and disappeared into a narrow slot. "That was quite good," he said to Robert W. Wade, his right hand man, a dead ringer for the famously corpulent 1930s movie actor, Sydney Greenstreet. Wade was lolling, somewhat uncomfortably, in one of the black suede beanbag "chairs" casually scattered around Metzger's office.

  "The way he read it or the way I wrote it?" Wade asked.

  "Your words, Robert. You have the common touch. And Sullivan reads well."

  "He told me he models himself after Billy Graham."

  "You make my point," Metzger said.

  "What now?" Robert asked.

  "Well, this was a start," Metzger said. "But I want the whole company involved." Grunting, Robert somehow contorted himself into what passed for a sitting position and pulled a small, gilded, leather-covered notebook out of a pocket. Then he fished around in his jacket and came up with one of those gigantic, gold-nibbed pens made for men who rarely use them except to sign checks on hedge fund deals. "Okay," he said, writing, "I'll meet with the anchors and the commentators and lay out the campaign for them."

  "We need a guest list too," Metzger said. "Heavy hitters. Talk to the Chamber of Commerce. Get some clergy, big-name if possible. "

  Robert jotted down notes.

  "I want to hit Callaway with this again and again and again, Robert. I want to hit him on every news show, every talk show, every commentary show and every call-in show. Stage the callins if you have to. Get our newspapers and our radio stations involved too. I don't want to hear one good word about this unholy meeting our schvartze President plans to have with das Arschloch Buddy Lee Bourque. I want to go all out on this. We may never get a better chance to destroy that empty suit in the White House. I won't be satisfied until that obszön basketball court in the White House is permanently cemented over."

  Robert was writing furiously. "Yes, Helmut. I will see to it."

  "And put out a poll that shows most Americans disapprove of the meeting. Especially the schvartes and the liberals. Put that on air before the White House can release its own polls."

  Robert jotted down his Boss's words. "I'll tell Hendrickson what we want."

  "Good," Metzger, and his eyes took on a twinkle. "And see to it that we are always neutral and objective."

  Wade shot an amused look at Metzger, who smiled innocently.

  Chapter Eight

  "You had no word of this, this meeting?" asked El Presidente Garcia, his single eye malignantly fixed on his intelligence chief, Hector Herrera. "No sign, no hint, no indication, no forewarning?" He ground out his cigar in a heavy crystal ashtray, which didn't matter much, since the room was already full of noxious fumes.

  Herrera offered up a nervous smile. "Nothing, El Presidente. I was just as surprised as you were." He adjusted his slim sunglasses, which had slipped down his nose a bit. "We have not yet infiltrated the new administration."

  With surprising grace, Garcia lifted his bulk out of his fancy modern chair, walked around his desk and stood over Herrera, a towering black cloud threatening a torrential downpour. "How much do I pay you, Hector?" He inquired.

  "$5 million pesos a year," Herrera said. "Why?"

  "That is a great deal of money to pay someone who missed the most important foreign development in a decade," Garcia observed. "Think of what I could buy myself for $5 million pesos."

  "I wouldn't say that the announcement of a meeting between Bourque and Callaway was the most important foreign development…"

  Garcia bent down, until his face was only a few inches from Herrera's, enough, despite the cigar smoke, to totally envelop the intelligence chief in the pungent aroma of garlic that El Presidente customarily emitted.. "You disagree with me?" El Presidente asked. He reached down with a fat-fingered paw and gently patted Herrera's cheek.

  "Of course not," Herrera said, shrinking in his chair. "Your knowledge of world affairs is far superior to mine. I just…"

  Garcia interrupted. "You just want to apologize to me and tell me that if it ever happens again, you will present your resignation immediately. Am I correct?”

  Herrera swallowed audibly. "Yes, that is exactly what I meant to say. I deeply regret my failing and I hope that our long friendship will lead you to give me another chance."

  Garcia straightened up and rubbed his stubby fingers over his grizzled chin, apparently contemplating Herrera's request. "A second chance, eh?" He folded his arms across his chest, causing his medals to tinkle. "Hector, I would hate to remove you," he said. "But if, for the safety of our great nation, I have to…"

  "You needn't do that, Presidente. I will redouble my efforts to find out what's going on between Bourque and Callaway. I promise."

  Garcia affected a kindly, paternal expression. "Ah, Hector, Hector. You have made my life more difficult, and you know how hard it already is to rule this country and its colonies. I am constantly subjected to stresses and strains. But I will take you at your word. I will give you a second chance. If you fail again, however—well I hope I do not have to say what your fate will be."

  "No, Presidente, I understand. And thank you. I will send more agents into the field, both in the NAU and the CSA. Better agents. We will find out what's going on, I assure you."

  "Good," Garcia said. "One thing puzzles me, however. That biographer-spy you planted in Bourque's household? He goes to the doctor with Bourque but he doesn’t have the slightest idea the man is planning an unprecedented meeting with President Callaway?"

  Herrera cautiously embarked on an explanation. "I had him interrogated at length," he said. "He is more certain than ever about Bourque's terminal illness, but he hadn't heard even a whisper about any meeting with Callaway. He insists that no one else at the Plantation knew about it."

  Garcia frowned. "And you believe him?"

  "It was not a gentle interrogation."

  "I see. I hope you did not injure him badly enough to compromise his usefulness."

  "I left no scars."

  “Good.”

  “And he promised he will do his best to go to Washington with Bourque and report back anything he discovers.”

  Garcia sighed. He slowly twirled his chair around and observed Popocatépetl for a few moments, presenting his back to Herrera. The volcano was sleeping. When El Presidente turned to face his intelligence chief again, his beetle-brows were clenched so tightly that they were abutting each other. His anger had turned into concern. "The meeting announcement changes everything," he said.

  "I know," said Herrera. He resisted the impulse to call Garcia by his first name.

  "It must be connected to Bourque's health," El Presidente went on. "But I don't understand how."

  Herrera had an idea. "Bourque may be asking for money," he said.

  Garcia nodded. "Or military help, or even some kind of alliance. Against us."

  "Miguel, those two countries have distrusted each other for nearly 150 years. They're not going to kiss and make up overnight. If they want to ease tensions, they're likely to start with sports or cultural exchanges."

  "If I were a smart man," Garcia said, "I'd cancel all our plans.”

  Herrera decided to be bold. "If you were a weak man," he said, "that's what I'd advise you to do. But you are not a weak man. And we both know this is the best opportunity we've had for decades to achieve our national destiny."

  Garcia tilted back in his chair and studied his intelligence chief. "In some ways, Hector, we are very much alike," he said. "Once we've got hold of something, we are very reluctant to let go of it."

  "We get emotionally involved," Herrera agreed.

  Garcia raised an eyebrow. "What?"

  Herrera shrugged. "Once we start something, we don't sto
p until it all plays out."

  "I just said that."

  Herrera let it pass. "So what are we going to do?" he asked.

  Garcia leaned back in his chair, slipped off his big, muddy boots and put his stocking-clad feet up on his desk, adding yet another olfactory note to the room's pungent bouquet. "Why don’t you tell me?"

  Herrera pondered the question. "We're going to do what we have to do," he said after a few moments.

  "Which is what?" Garcia was puzzled but interested.

  "These two countries really dislike each other…"

  El Presidente grinned. "How true. Their mutual hostility has been entertaining to watch. And useful."

  "Exactly. So our job now is to make sure they never forget how much they hate each other."

  Garcia cocked his head, curious. "And how do we propose to do that?"

  "Well, plenty of people in both countries will be against any kind of agreement between Bourque and Callaway."

  "Very likely," Garcia agreed, nodding. "So?"

  "We incite them. We help them. Secretly, of course. We goad them into violence, if we can. We let them kill any Bourque-Callaway agreement. And we just sit back and watch, and pretend it's not our business."

  Garcia rubbed a hand over his chin again, "Interesting," he said. "Very interesting. Who should we help?"

  "I don't know yet," Herrera said. "But I'll find out." He was feeling confident again. "Maybe the old line plantation families who hate the NAU's civil rights. Maybe the NAU liberals, who can't stomach the idea of their new Black President negotiating with the leader of the most racist nation in the Western Hemisphere, and treating him like an equal. We'll find who's against the idea and we'll help them in any way we can."

  "With money?"

  "Yes, with money. Secretly funneled to the right groups."

  “How much?” Garcia asked his intelligence chief.

  “Well, two or three million…”

  Garcia frowned. “I am not a bank, Hector.”

  “No, of course not, but…”

  “One million, Hector. That should be more than enough,” said El Presidente. “And I want an exact accounting.”