The reporter grinned and raised his voice. “The leaders of the protest tell me that they intend to keep demonstrating 24 hours a day until the Sunday after next, when they plan to fill the mall with upwards of 200,000 members of the Our Country First organization…”
Pickett sighed and found the off button.
“Well, that’s about as welcome as a skunk at a lawn party,” Bourque said, frowning.
“Don’t let ‘em worry you,” Pickett told him. “Wang told me there’d be protests.”
Bourque went back to the window and watched the protesters for a few moments. “I ain’t gonna lose weight over ‘em, Roy, but that don’t mean I gotta like ‘em.”
There was a knock at the door, then Marty Katz walked in, cigar in place but unlit. “They’re ready for you in the media room, Mr. President.”
Bourque straightened his string tie. “Let’s go,” he said.
“All the networks have signed on?” Pickett asked.
“Yes,” Katz said. “They’re ready to interrupt normal programming at our signal—NBC, ABC, CBS, Canadia Broadcasting and the Confederate Broadcasting System. Mexican TV will pick up the broadcast as well.”
Bourque had a thought. “Someone has alerted Garcia?
“I had our ambassador call his office.” Pickett said.
“See that, Mr. Katz,” Bourque said, “my boy here is as smart as a tree full of owls.” He furtively slipped another Tum into his mouth.
Pickett caught the surreptitious movement. “You up to this, Boss?”
“My stomach’s punishing me some,” Bourque admitted, “but I still got plenty of snap left in my garter.”
Katz checked his watch. “We’d better get moving.”
He led them through the long tunnel under Pennsylvania Avenue and into the White House, to the television studio on the lower level. It housed enough video and audio production equipment to arouse envy at a major network, and was manned by a matched pair of geeky, bespectacled technicians and a blowsy, wide-eyed make-up girl.
Adjoining the studio, and visible from the control room through a window, was a mock executive office, complete with imposing desk, a background wall of books and plaques and, this morning, a prominent but modest flagstaff flying the Confederate colors. A video camera stood about 10 feet in front of the desk and its operator was busily fiddling with the lens.
Eric Wang, who’d been arranging the desk’s generic knickknacks, looked up as Bourque and Pickett entered the studio. “What do you think?” He said. “This do the job?”
Bourque surveyed the set. “It’ll do,” he said. He pulled out the desk chair and sat down heavily. The make-up woman was on him immediately, wielding a powder puff, which she used to de-shine Bourque’s forehead and nose, a fuss he barely tolerated.
“Where’d you get the flag?” Pickett asked Wang.
“The Smithsonian had one in the attic.”
“Very funny.”
“I had your embassy send one over.”
Bourque cleared his throat. “hello, hello, hello, testing one two three.”
One of the technicians in the control room gave him a thumbs up.
“What do I say when I want to cut to the video?” Bourque asked.
“You say, ‘Let’s cut to the video,’” Katz instructed.
“Got it.”
“Two minutes,” one of the technicians called out.
“Got the notes?” Pickett asked Bourque.
“They’re right here in my…” he reached for an inside jacket pocket, found nothing and gasped. Then he laughed mischievously and took the notes out of another pocket and spread them on the desk.
“Everybody’s a comedian,” Pickett said. “Okay, you’re on your own. Watch the window. The technician will give you the start signal.” He closed the office door and joined the others in the control room, leaving Bourque alone at the desk, in full view, with the cameraman tightly focused on him.
Everyone kept an eye on the clock on the control room wall. When the second hand hit 12, a technician nodded to Marty Katz. “Good morning. And now, Virgil L. Bourque, President of the Confederate States of America, speaks in response to the tanker sinking in the Gulf.”
Bourque looked into the camera lens, his expression grave. “Ladies and gentlemen, citizens of the Confederacy, people of Mexico, Presidente Garcia and all my friends in North America…
“First, I want to say that I was greatly saddened when I learned that a Mexican tanker had sunk in the Gulf of Mexico. This is a terrible tragedy for the people who lost their lives, for their families and for Mexico. You all have my deepest condolences.
“Second, I want to promise that the Confederacy will cooperate without reservation in any investigation to determine exactly what happened and to recover the bodies of those who went down with the ship.”
He paused and glanced at Pickett, who gave him an approving nod.
“Third, I wish to state categorically that neither the Confederate States of America nor any of its agents, associates or friends had anything whatever to do with the sinking of the SS Tampico. I deny our responsibility in the strongest possible terms. Let me repeat myself: The CSA had nothing—absolutely nothing—to do with the sinking. In fact, we were totally unaware of it until the Mexican Government announced the news.”
Bourque momentarily lost his train of thought and glanced down at his notes, hoping to find his place. After a moment, he looked up again.
“Some of you watching me this morning may doubt I am telling the truth. Some of you may believe the CSA sank a Mexican tanker in a pre-meditated act of aggression. Some of you may have watched Presidente Garcia accuse the CSA and believe what he said. Some of you may have listened to the distress call from the tanker and come away convinced it was real.
“And I understand that. If I didn’t know better, I might have drawn the same conclusions. But I know better. I know the CSA had nothing to do with the tanker sinking. And thanks to some friends in Canadia, I can prove what I say.”
He hesitated, still looking directly into the camera.
“That also bears repeating. I can prove what I have said. And I am going to do just that, right now. Cut to the video.”
On the dozen monitors in the control room—and in the network feed—Bourque’s face was replaced by a split screen. Half of it was black and the other half consisted of a page of type.
“Okay. Is it up? Good,” Bourque said. “Now on the right you see a typed version of the distress call, as the Mexican government released it. And on the left is an image from the Argos, the weather satellite launched by Canadia last Friday. It’s aimed at the last known location of the S.S. Tampico, according to the Mexican government. Could you fix the contrast on that?”
On screen, the image’s left half brightened and a distant, but large, ship-shaped object could be seen in the center of the picture. It was dark, except for lights fore and aft and in the wheelhouse, high up in the superstructure.
“Good,” Bourque said. “Now at the bottom, you see a time code on both halves of the picture. It’s zeroed-out right now, but when the tape starts running, so will the clock. It will begin at exactly the time—according to the Mexican government—that the distress call started.
“So, on the right side, we’ll see the transcript of the distress call scroll by, and hear the English translation released by the Mexican government, and on the left, we’ll see what the satellite’s camera picked up at exactly the same moment. We ready to roll boys?”
A control room technician gave Bourque a thumbs up. The image of the ship remained relatively static, flickering slightly, but the distress call text moved at reading speed.
“S.S. Tampico to base,” the translator’s voice said. “A small vessel is approaching us at high speed, on an interception course. Please advise as to how we should respond,”. The time code was at 8:37:10.
The satellite image flickered almost imperceptibly, but continued to show the ship, by itself, with no other vess
el in view. The time code was the same as on the other half of the screen.
“S.S. Tampico to base. We are taking machine gun fire from the approaching ship. Altering course to avoid attacker,” the translator read. The time code was advancing past 8:37:40.
On the satellite image at that moment, the tanker was the only ship visible.
The transcript—and the time code—continued to roll, and two blank pages went by. Then, at 8:38:50, the translator began speaking again. “S. S. Tampico to base. We are being attacked by a torpedo boat flying a CSA flag. Repeat: We are under attack by a CSA torpedo boat and we are taking machine gun and cannon fire.”
At the same moment, the satellite image showed only the tanker, dead in the water, lights still on.
At 8:40:05, after two more blank pages, the distress call transcript resumed and the translator continued. “S.S. Tampico to base. SOS! SOS! We have been hit by a torpedo below the waterline and we are starting to list.”
Meanwhile, however, the satellite view of the tanker, also at 8:40:05, showed nothing unusual.
“SOS! SOS! S.S. Tampico to base. We are sinking by the head and have lost power. Send help immediately. Oh my God, we’ve been hit by a second torpedo! Abandon ship! Abandon ship! Oh my God! We have huge fires blazing fore and aft.” The time code showed 8:40:30.
According to the satellite view, however, no fires had broken out on the ship. But now something new appeared in the frame. A small speedboat approached from the west, hove to on the tanker’s port side, and held its position for a few moments. It was barely possible to see four or five people scrambling aboard. Then the little vessel sped off, in the direction from which it had come.
At 8:40:46, the transcript stopped dead, but the translator continued to talk. “At this point, we hear an enormous explosion, accompanied by screams and sounds of falling debris. Then, the transmission ceases.”
But there was no explosion on the satellite picture. The tanker and its lights remained as before. The only visible motion was the departing speedboat. And at 8:41, it left the frame.
Now, the transcript half of the television picture went blank, but the satellite image half continued, showing the tanker. Thirty seconds passed. Then, a single huge explosion amidships split the tanker in half. It sank almost immediately.
The transcript and satellite image split screen faded and were replaced by the stern visage of President Bourque. “There you have it,” he said. “No attack. No torpedo boat. No torpedoes. A mysterious evacuation by a speedboat. A distress call that doesn’t match the actual events. The premature announcement of an explosion, followed nearly two full minutes later by the real thing.
“What does all this mean?” Bourque asked. “It means that the tanker sinking was staged, no doubt by the Mexican government. It was a fake, a phony, a hoax, or as we say where I come from, a flimflam. It means the Confederacy had nothing to do with what happened. It means, very probably, that no one died and that some old rust bucket was sent to the bottom of the Gulf in hopes of…in hopes of what?”
Bourque fixed his gaze on the camera, as if expecting an answer. Then he continued. “Think about it, my friends. Why would Mexico stage a phony attack and blame it all on the Confederacy? Only one explanation makes any sense: Mexico wants to make us look like we’re warlike aggressors. They want an excuse to attack us.
“This whole business—the bogus sinking, El Presidente’s puffed-up hollering for my apology, his blatherin’ that we extradite the captain and crew of one of our torpedo boats, you know what all of that is? It’s bad theater. And it wouldn’t surprise me one darn bit if he isn’t planning a second act, even though the first was a total flop.
“Presidente Garcia, it’s time for you to tell the truth, for a change. Explain why you staged the fake tanker sinking. Explain that third-rate movie script you tried to pass off as some kinda transcript. That’s my demand and that’s my answer to your mendacious caterwauling. Tell the truth, Presidente! The world is waiting to hear what you have to say.”
*
Miguel Garcia leaped to his feet, flinging away his lunch tray, food and plates flying everywhere. Then, with an anguished roar, he hurled his drinking glass toward the TV screen with all of his strength. His aim, fortunately for the television screen, was poor. The glass hit the wall above the TV, shattering and showering half the video room with broken glass.
Cursing and infuriated, El Presidente slowly turned toward his intelligence chief, Hector Herrera, who was cowering in his chair. “You fool!” Garcia bellowed. “You stupid, incompetent cretin! You have singlehandedly destroyed the work of a lifetime. God curse you. And God curse me for ever giving you responsibility, for ever knowing you.”
Herrera stared at his employer, eyes wide, cringing. “I did not know…”
“You did not know?” Garcia snarled, waving his clenched fists in Herrera’s face. “You did not know? It is your job to know! I depend on you to know. Are you the head of intelligence or a joke?”
“Presidente, when we planned this operation no one had satellite coverage of the Gulf. The Germans had no interest in it. Neither did the British. No one could have foreseen…”
“It was a Canadian satellite, Hector,” Garcia said, his single eye glaring and fixed on his underlying. “A Canadian satellite you knew nothing about—even though it was your job to know.”
Herrera was suddenly breathing hard and drenched in sweat. It wasn’t simply that he had made a mistake, that he had overlooked something crucial, although he certainly had. He wasn’t just risking the mother of all chewing outs, or that his job was on the line, although that was true in both cases. It was that Garcia had killed men for less. And he’d killed them without warning, with his bare hands.
“They launched it only a few days ago,” Herrera said, painfully aware of how lame he sounded. “I received no report from my Canadian agents.”
“And that is your excuse, Hector?” Garcia’s voice was dangerously gentle. “I thought that speedboat was supposed to be invisible.”
“To radar, yes. It is. But not to a camera lens.”
“So you are trying to excuse yourself.”
“I have no excuse, Presidente. I have failed. I have failed you. I have failed my country.”
“You are absolutely correct!” Garcia said, still infuriated. “I was generous enough and trusting enough to give you a job of great importance, the greatest in your lifetime, and you blew it. You have humiliated me in the eyes of the world and ruined plans that have taken years to perfect. I should kill you now and get it over with.”
Herrera tried to look at Garcia, but could not bring himself to meet the man’s eyes. “I will accept any punishment…”
“Accept punishment?” Garcia was incredulous. “You think you have a choice?”
“Of course not, Presidente. How you punish me is entirely up to you.”
“I’m glad we agree on that.”
“Presidente,” Herrera said, at last getting some control of himself, “this was a terrible failure, but it need not be the end of it.”
“What!? Surely you aren’t suggesting that we go ahead with the airplane operation!”
“No, no,” Herrera said quickly. “No one would believe it. But I implore you, Presidente, do not cancel the invasion. When Bourque dies, we will have a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
Garcia shook his head. “If we invade then, the world will condemn us. The League will cut off our imports and stop our exports. Germany might send ships to destroy our invasion forces.”
Herrera’s mind was racing, driven by fear and desperation. “When Bourque dies,” he said, eyes agleam, “we will come in to restore and preserve order, we will make sure the country continues to function. We’ll provide police and keep the hospitals open and the supermarkets supplied. We’ll act as the government. We’ll portray ourselves as humanitarians, on a noble and selfless mission.”
Garcia put a hand to his chin and rubbed his whiskers. “Hmmm,” he sai
d. “And if the Confederacy resists—what then?”
“Without Bourque to lead them? Not going to happen—especially when they see the size of our invasion forces.”
“Hmmm,” Garcia repeated. “Hmmmmm. But Germany and the others—they will believe we have humanitarian motives?”
Herrera managed a weak smile. “Of course not. But they’ll accept our explanations, because they really won’t want to get involved.”
“I wish you’d thought of this before we sank the tanker,” Bourque said. “And by the way, just how do you propose we deal with that? Everybody knows—thanks to your oversight—that the whole thing was faked, and just an excuse for us to attack the CSA.”
Herrara thought a moment. Then, inspiration arrived, and not a second too soon. “This is what you do,” he said. “You blame me. “You fire me as publicly as possible and tell the world I was acting on my own, in defiance of your orders and against your wishes. Then you put me on trial. I’ll confess my guilt, say that it was all my idea, all my doing. I’ll say I did it because I’ve always hated Bourque.”
To Herrera’s great relief, Garcia smiled. “Then you’ll be convicted and go to prison?”
“Yes,” Herrera said, “if that’s what you want.”
“Well, an execution would be more convincing.”
“Perhaps,” Herrera said, “but perhaps a touch too brutal. Anyway, if I’m alive and in prison, you can mention me whenever you like, reminding foreigners of how benevolently disposed you are to the CSA.”
Garcia sat back down in his chair and considered his options. “How about if I turn you over to the CSA and let them do with you whatever they want?”
“If you’re giving me a choice, Presidente, I’d prefer a Mexican prison, where I might be assigned to a nice cell in minimum security, perhaps given a few privileges, maybe better food,” Herrera said hopefully. “Possibly released when my failures no longer matter.”
El Presidente pointed his single eye at his intelligence chief with interest. “You failed me miserably, Hector. Still, you are a clever man.”
“Thank you, Presidente.” Herrera allowed himself a very slight smile.
ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? Page 28