“Gary, at Our Country First, we know that. So we’ve raised funds from donors, large and small. As a result we expect to have free buses leaving from all of the state capitals and from every major metropolis. So watch your email, folks. Check your local newspaper and myface for the exact locations.”
“Well, I’m sure many members of my audience will be doing just that, Phyllis. But I have one more question. As you know, the Teamster’s Union and several other unions have voiced their objections to the meeting of the Presidents. Is Our Country First coordinating its activities with them?”
“Not in any formal way, Gary. We don’t usually see eye to eye on things. But we’re on the same side in this fight and we’ll do anything we can to help each other.”
“Well, I understand your concerns, Phyllis and I wish you and your organization the best of luck. Thanks for coming today.”
“Thank you, Gary. And I want to personally invite you to the Mall three weeks from next Sunday. There’ll be a spot at the speaker’s table for you.”
The camera came in on Hobart. “I’ll be there, Phyllis, I promise,” he said, gushing with humble sincerity. Then he looked into the camera and patted a paper on his desk. “We’ll be back in a moment, ladies and gentlemen, with some important breaking news.”
The screen momentarily faded to black, then lit up with a jangly red and blue graphic touting the virtues of an obviously predatory outfit by the name of the Tax Masters.
At the White House, President Callaway just shook his head in disgust. “You know,” he said, “two men actually married that woman.”
“And died in her bed,” Julia said. “Of natural causes, so they say.”
Callaway smiled. “Yes, frostbite.”
At the Eagle’s Aerie, Wade had a question for his Boss. “Do you think she’ll get much of a crowd for that rally at the Mall?”
Metzger raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I don’t know how popular she is…”
“Robert,” Metzger said, patience frayed, “you do know that I am supporting her.”
“I know you agree with her,” Wade said.
“We’re going to publicize her rally,” Metzger said. “And I’m going to finance it.”
“Ah,” Wade said, finally understanding.
Hobart’s image reappeared on the screen. “Welcome back,” he said. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, I promised you some important breaking news and as you know, when Gary Hobart makes a promise, he delivers.”
Hobart sat down at his desk, picked up the piece of paper he’d indicated earlier and cleared his throat. “What I have here,” he said, gazing at the paper judicially, “is the just released results of the latest Symington Poll, which asked citizens of the North American Union how they felt about the meeting between Buddy Bourque and President Callaway.
“Question 1: Do you favor a meeting between Presidents Bourque and Callaway. No, 51%, yes 34%, don’t know or no opinion, 15%. If you add together the nos, the don’t knows and the no opinions, that’s 66% of the people who do not favor the meeting. That’s two-thirds of the country. Are you listening, Mr. President?
“Question 2: In regard to the meeting between Presidents Bourque and Callaway: Do you feel all of the important details of the meeting have been made public? No, 83%, yes, 9%, don’t know or no opinion, 8%. We all know you’re keeping secrets from us, Mr. President. What are you hiding and why?
“Question 3: In regard to the meeting, etc., etc., do you believe that the North American Union will benefit from this conference? No, 79%, yes 11%, don’t know or no opinion.10%. Do you hear that, Mr. President? You haven’t fooled anyone, or very few of us. We know you want to bail out Buddy Bourque. And we won’t let you—not with our money we won’t!
Hobart put down the paper and gazed soulfully into the camera. “I hope you’ve watching, Mr., President, because what I’ve been bringing you is the voice of the people. The American people, the honorable citizens of the North American Union. They’re asking you to stand tall and tell Mr. President Buddy Bourque no, we don’t want any, he’s knocking on the wrong door, whatever he’s looking for, he isn’t going to get it here.”
He paused for the count of three, then continued, smiling a charming but crooked smile, as though he were embarrassed by what he’d just said. “Ladies and gentlemen… thanks for watching.”
His face faded out, and was replaced by another aging movie actor doing commercials, the man’s once thick head of black hair now totally white, what was left of it. He was displaying a handful of gold chains. “You may not know it,” he said, “but there could be money in your drawers.”
High in the Eagle’s Aerie, a blue light on Metzger’s desk flashed three times. Metzger raised an eyebrow and picked up his phone. “Metzger,” he said--as if anyone else might dare to use the instrument.
“Helmut, it’s Phyllis,” came the voice, cultured and domineering. “I assume you saw me on the Hobart show?”
“I did indeed. And you were splendid, as expected.”
“Thank you, Helmut. The man’s an ass, you know. And possibly certifiable.”
“Yes, but we need the eggs.”
“Beg pardon?”
“It’s an old psychiatrist joke, Phyllis. Man tells a therapist that his uncle thinks he’s a chicken. Therapist says, ‘Bring him in, I think I can cure him.” Man says, “I would, but we need the eggs.”
“Haha,” Phyllis said, humorlessly.
Metzger changed the subject. “Have you made the bus company arrangements?”
“Yes. We’ve leased nearly every bus east of the Mississippi. The bills will be going to you, as you asked.”
“To the Liberty Eagle account, right?”
“Yes. And you’ll be promoting the march on all of your shows?”
“Just as I promised,” Metzger assured her. “And if there’s any other way I can help, just let me know.”
“Thank you, Helmut. You are a true friend.”
“We share the same cause, Phyllis,” Metzger said.
“I hope more than that.”
“You know how I feel about you,” Metzger said, his tone warm, his words subject to interpretation.
“That was unbelievable,” Julia said, disgusted. “Why do we let people get away with saying things like that?”
Callaway hit the mute button. “It’s that ole freedom of speech thing,” he said.
“But outright lies should be outlawed,” she persisted.
“I agree,” said the President, “but who decides what’s true and what’s a lie?”
Julia reached over and smacked her husband on the shoulder.
“Hey!” he objected.
“Well, stop with the Democracy 101 clichés.”
“Yeah, well, some clichés have a lot of truth to them,” Callaway said. “That’s how they got to be clichés.”
“Is that question going to be on the test, Professor?”
He offered a rueful smile and shook his head. “Now who’s testing?”
“But seriously,’ Julia said, “Are you just going to let Gary Hobart get away with his lies?”
“We have things in the works.”
“Like?”
“Well, Marty has put together a consortium of church groups. They’ve raised nearly $10 million for a TV campaign saying that Christ would have met with President Bourque and treated him charitably. I’ve seen the spot. It ends with a strong catch phrase: Can we do any less?”
“That’s a start, I guess,” Julia said, without enthusiasm.
“And they’ll be rallies in favor of the meeting at Harvard, at NYU, at Northwestern, at Berkeley and many other colleges.”
“Media coverage?”
“Marty says everyone except INN.”
“That’s right,” Julia remembered. “When the time comes, they’ll be in Washington with Hobart and that woman.”
“Iserbyt. Yes.”
Julia took her husband’s hands. “Will it be enoug
h?”
“Of course it will,” he said with a certainty he did not feel.
She rose. “Time to turn that thing off,” she said, pointing to the muted TV set.
“Yeah.”
“Coming to bed?”
“In a minute,” Callaway said. “I gotta make a call.”
“Don’t be too long,” she said. She smiled, but he was already looking up a phone number. She left him to it.
“Hey, Gordon,” he said, speaking into the phone. “It’s Charlie. I just wanted to touch base, see how things are going.”
“They’re moving right along here,” said Gordon Bowman, the Canadian Prime Minister. “But it looks like you’ve got your hands full.”
“You were watching Hobart?”
“Last half.”
“First half was just as bad,” Callaway said.
“I guess it goes with the territory.”
“Yeah, you could say that. Metzger’s my cross to bear. But he’s not going to stop me.”
“I’ve seen that for myself, Charlie. Not much can stop you, once you make a decision. And I hope you know not much can stop me either, certainly not Metzger.”
“I know. But it’s good to hear the words. “
“Actually, I’ve been making pretty good progress,” Bowman said. “Everyone’s on board, except for Macomber and Ryan. I’m going to make this happen.”
“Hah!” Callaway said. “The last time I heard you say that was when we were at McGill.”
“Yes. And I was the one who got the girl. Don’t you forget that.”
“I am somewhat reassured,” Callaway admitted.
“Good,” Bowman said, laughing.
*
Fifteen miles from the famous Glass Church, Junior—that is, Harlan Hurbuckle, Jr.—sat by himself in his modest little house, in his modest little living room, staring at his modest little television set, ruminating on what he had just seen and heard.
Every word and picture on the Gary Hobart show confirmed what he had long believed: the NAU had nothing to offer the CSA but contempt and disgust, its hatred was permanent and implacable, and any meeting between Buddy Bourque and the President of the NAU could only bring shame and embarrassment.
But that was a great relief. It was a relief to see people protesting the meeting—people from the NAU, people who were angry, determined and powerful. They would stop Bourque from betraying the Confederacy. He was sure of that. And he wouldn’t have to do anything at all.
Chapter Thirteen
A small, black helicopter came over the ridgeline, hovered over the concrete landing pad just off the Gulf shore, and landed. After a moment, the door on the passenger side popped open and, with considerable effort, Presidente Miguel Garcia hauled himself out of his seat and hopped onto the concrete. Hector Herrera followed, exiting from the other side of the aircraft. He slipped on his stylish sunglasses.
As the helicopter blades slowed, a welcoming committee—half a dozen high-ranking men in carefully-pressed uniforms—hurried to greet them. "Good morning, Presidente Garcia," said Admiral Rueben Diaz, “hello Director Herrera.” Diaz was a tall, distinguished looking man with a chest full of ribbons. "I am happy to welcome you to the Esperanza Naval Base." He smiled broadly and extended a hand.
Garcia gave the offered hand a single perfunctory shake, as did Herrera.
"Where's the ship, Diaz?" Garcia asked, peering at him with his single eye.
"Tied up on the other side of the warehouses."
Diaz led the way, following a broken asphalt pathway through some low weeds and between two rusty Quonset huts, Garcia at his elbow, winded but impatient, Herrera following. Up ahead was a narrow channel, befouled with oil, bordered in ragged bushes, at which was docked one of the world’s most decrepit oil tankers, a sad, corroded vessel streaked with rust and listing a good seven degrees to starboard.
On her bow, faded white lettering announced her identity. She was the S.S. Tampico, 52 years old, 350 feet long, with a 30 foot beam, an enormous, decaying steel bathtub with a lid—the deck—which was topped by a three-story superstructure that contained crew facilities and the captain’s bridge. Though her bilge pumps were noisily sucking at the grungy liquid down below, she was barely afloat.
Garcia eyed the vessel with suspicion. “This piece of shit is going to steam across the Gulf?”
“Our finest engineers assure me that she can make the trip,” Admiral Diaz said. “She is taking on water, but her turbines are in running order.”
“Running order,” El Presidente repeated, unconvinced.
“I talked to the engineer myself,” Herrera told him. “He understands how important it is.”
“Do you wish to go aboard, sir?” The Admiral asked.
Garcia walked up to the dock and took a long look at the tanker, then turned his single eye toward the Admiral. “It will carry our weight?” he inquired.
“Oh yes, Presidente,” Admiral Diaz said, then saw the light. “Of course you’re joking. Aren’t you?”
“I wish to board this bucket of rust, God help me,” Garcia replied. “Lead the way.”
Admiral Diaz did just that, walking down the pier to the gangway, which was little more than an armload of planks haphazardly nailed together. It creaked with his weight and even more with Garcia’s and Herrera’s.
They boarded the vessel at midship, and up close, it did not disappoint. Most of the bridge windows bridge were broken. In some spots, the decks had been so eaten away with rust they were no thicker or stronger than aluminum foil. And there was a stink about the ship, not just the pungent odor of petroleum, but something more ominous, something truly disgusting.
“Is it carrying any oil?” Garcia inquired.
The Admiral chuckled. “No, Presidente. Her oil transport days are well behind her. As you can see, she is riding high in the water. That will lessen the load on her engines and allow her to travel a bit faster.”
“Faster?” Herrera said. “What is her top speed?”
“Ten knots. Perhaps twelve, if she gets a following wind.”
“She is not a ship,” Garcia said with contempt. “She is a turtle with propellers.”
The Admiral shrugged. “Her speed is sufficient for the mission. Besides, even when she was new, she was never able to exceed 15 knots.”
“Well, she will be no loss, will she.” Garcia said.
“A more worthless vessel would be hard to imagine, Presidente,” Diaz said, smiling.
“So, Hector,” Garcia said. “Tell me how the mission will work.”
“It is all quite simple,” Herrera assured him. “The ship will steam out to the appointed location and stop. A speedboat will follow. At the given moment, the tanker’s small crew will be taken off the ship, finding places in the speedboat.”
“Yes,” Garcia nodded. “And then?”
“And then the speedboat will pull a safe distance away from the tanker…”
“I assume explosive charges will have been planted aboard the Tampico…”
“Yes,” Herrera said. “And they will be triggered by remote control, from the speedboat. The Tampico will sink within five minutes, but before it goes down, the flames should reach hundreds of feet in height and be visible for 200 miles in all directions.
“In fact,” said the Admiral, “the explosives are already in place—enough to blow out the ship’s bottom and cremate the superstructure.”
Hererra found this curious. “Already in place, you say?”
“Yes. After all, the mission will begin in three hours.”
El Presidente headed back to the gangway, followed by Herrera, both of them walking rather briskly, in fact leaving the Admiral behind. Diaz scurried to keep up. “Would you like to see the speedboat, Presidente?” he said, oblivious.
“Yes, yes, of course,” Garcia said, annoyed. He hopped off the gangway, no small feat in his case, and faced the Admiral. “Where is it?”
Diaz pointed to the most distant of the Quonset huts
. “Of course, since it uses secret technology, we keep it away from prying eye.”
“I would hope so.”
The Quonset hut concealed not only the speedboat, but a small dry dock, which connected with the tanker’s channel. The speedboat, an odd-looking craft shaped more or less like a dart, made only with flat, triangular surfaces, lay within the dry dock, which was, at the moment, flooded. The boat floated idly, low in the water, a crocodile ready to lunge.
“It looks fast,” Garcia observed.
“It is very fast,” said Hector Herrera, slipping off his sunglasses. “It is can maintain 80 knots in calm waters, and more than 50 knots in the choppy waters that can be found in the Gulf tonight. Would you like a test ride?”
“That is not necessary,” Garcia said.
“What makes this vessel different from most speedboats is that it is totally invisible to radar.” Herrera said.
“Ah,” Garcia said. He bent down and touched the glistening fiberglass hull. “Very impressive. You seem to have thought of everything, Hector.”
The Mexican intelligence chief smiled. “I try to do my job as well as possible.”
“If this works as we have planned,” Garcia said, “you will be rewarded appropriately.”
“It will work perfectly,” said Herrera. “You have my guarantee.”
“Oh?” Garcia asked. “And it fails, what are you prepared to forfeit?”
*
Anthony Zolli sat behind his desk, his feet propped up on an open drawer. “Read that to me one more time, Alice,” he told his secretary, a birdlike woman in her late 30s.
“Of course,” she said. “The International Brotherhood of Truckers’ today announced that it is planning a work stoppage that would shut down all container delivers going in or out of the New York container terminal throughout the NAU.”
She looked up to see if Zolli had any corrections. His chin was in his hand and his eyes were closed. “Go on, go on,” he said.
Alice read. “The work stoppage is a protest against the meetings between CSA President Buddy Bourque and the President of the NAU, Charles Callaway. According to Union President Anthony Zolli, the action will take place unless President Callaway breaks off the talks with his southern counterpart and pledges not to resume them.”
ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? Page 22