ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened?
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“So, Veronica,” Callaway said, “what do you think?” He bit into his burger.
“Who me? I think that if you make this deal with Bourque, we’ll have all kinds of tsuris. You’ll be impeached and thrown out of office and us along with you. And I haven’t even gotten Senate confirmation yet. What am I gonna put on my résumé, ‘very nearly Secretary of State’?”
“It is going to take some selling,” Callaway admitted. “We’re going to have to pull out all the stops.”
“All the stops?” Katz said. “How are we going to stop the Truckers’’ Union? Zolli is threatening to shut down the entire country and I think he means it. And the Our Country First people and Metzger and the INN? You’re good, Mr. President, but I don’t know if you’re that good.” He salted his fries and started munching on them.
Callaway responded with an enigmatic smile. “I may still have a few tricks up my sleeve, Marty,” he said.
“Mr. President, with all due respect, you aren’t Houdini,” Veronica put in. She took a sip of diet soda.
“You have to admit Bourque’s request was outrageous,” Wang said.
Callaway shrugged. “Compared to what? What should it cost to save an entire country?”
“There you go again, getting all idealistic,” Katz said. “Haven’t I told you that politics is the art of the practical?”
“Several dozen times, at least,” Callaway acknowledged. “But that just means we need to find a way to make this possible.”
“I don’t understand why you’re so set on this, Mr. President,” Wang said.
“Mainly because I believe the Mexican threat is real, and that if Mexico absorbs the CSA, we’ll be the losers—in power, in influence, commercially and politically.”
Veronica resumed eating. “So you think making a deal with Bourque is the best solution to the problem, Mr. President?”
“It may be the only solution,” Callaway said.
She swallowed. “Oy vey.”
“How’s he feeling, by the way,” Katz asked.
“Well, yesterday wasn’t good,” Callaway said. “After the TV speech, he was finished for the day. Today he seems fine.”
“Yeah, I didn’t see him gobbling up Tums this morning,” Wang said. “I was beginning to think we’d have to order a carload from GlaxoSmithkline. But today, he’s evidently got his mojo back.”
“Okay, let’s say we make a deal with Bourque,” Katz said, and he took out his cigar case, selected a victim and lit up, “let’s say we make a deal, but it isn’t enough.”
“Not enough?” Wang asked.
“Yeah, it’s only a temporary solution. The CSA is so weak that after awhile, no matter how much we try to pump it up, it deflates. Bourque dies. His successor can’t cut the mustard and Garcia attacks. You know what happens then, Mr. President?”
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
“What happens is that we go down with him. We try to save the Confederacy and the rescue attempt bleeds us dry, and Mexico takes the CSA despite our best efforts. Where do you think they look next? Or do you think Garcia will be satisfied with one conquest?” He ate another French fry and waited for an answer.
“Well, Marty, we’re none of us Nostradamus,” Callaway said, casually chomping down on his own French fry. “We have to do what’s right for today. We can only look so far into the future.”
*
After they finished lunch, President Callaway excused himself and went back to his private office to do some paperwork. As soon as he sat down, the telephone rang. He sighed and picked it up.
“President Bowman is on the line, sir.” The operator said.
“Put him through,” Callaway replied.
“’Morning, Charlie,” said the President of West Canada. “I just wanted to call you and tell you how impressed I was by Bourque’s TV appearance yesterday. He certainly made the most of our satellite material—with your help, of course. Very nicely staged.”
“Thanks, Gordon. I was going to call you today to thank you. Anything that puts Garcia in his place is good for all of us,” Callaway said.
“That may be more true than you think,” said Bowman.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, that’s why I was calling, Charlie,” Bowman said. “Our photo analysts have been studying those satellite photos and they’ve found something rather interesting.”
“What’s that?”
“They compared the satellite images of Mexico’s Gulf coast with some commercial aerial reconnaissance shots taken a few months ago,” Bowman said. “And they noticed that in the older photo, there are hardly any boats in Lake Pueblo Viejo, near Tampico, but now half the lake is covered with shipping.”
“And they think this means…?”
“They magnified the images and they’re convinced the boats are landing craft. Hundreds of them.”
Callaway was surprised. “Landing craft?”
“Yes, amphibious landing craft. And they’ve also found a big manufacturing plant on the shore that seems to be cranking them out by the dozen. What do you make of that, Charlie?”
Callaway was silent for a moment. “I make the same thing out of it you do, Gordon,” he said, finally. “Garcia is planning something, something big and ugly.”
“Which is why he faked the tanker sinking,” Bowman said. “He was laying the grounds for retaliation.”
“This is a very ominous development, Gordon.”
“I know. Is there anything we can do about it?”
“Maybe,” Callaway said. “I’ll get back to you on that. Meanwhile, full speed ahead on the other thing?”
“That’s been a bit of a bumpy ride, but I think I’m making progress.”
“Good luck.” President Callaway said.
“We’re gonna need it.”
*
At 1:30, Melissa Parker, INN’s midday news reader offered her prettiest smile and said, “Now let’s go to Andrew Simmons, who’s covering the Our Country First demonstrations at the White House. Andy?”
The scene cut to the iron fence in front of the White House and the on-location reporter, microphone in hand: “Not much new to report here, Melissa. The demonstrators continue to, well, demonstrate—peacefully, quietly, non-violently.”
“How about the numbers, Andy?” Melissa said, voiceover. “Are they holding up?”
“Hard to tell, Melissa. Some people have been leaving, but others have been arriving.”
“Well, you keep us informed, Andy.”
“Sure will, Melissa.”
The scene changed, back to the studio shot of Melissa Parker, sitting at a desk. “Meanwhile, we have an exclusive from our sources inside the White House. Apparently, the talks between Presidents Callaway and Bourque are on the verge of collapse. A high-ranking official familiar with the negotiations says that the Confederacy has made requests that our government is unwilling to grant. More on that story when we have it.
“Next up: the News-Journal has just released a new public opinion poll. It shows that national approval of the Callaway-Bourque meetings has declined to 51%, below 55% for the first time. 45% disapprove and the rest don’t know or have no opinion.
She looked up and smiled winningly, then paused and put her hand to her ear, evidently receiving information from her earpiece.
“And now we have some breaking news.” She glanced down at a piece of paper someone had slipped onto her desk. “Just before dawn this morning, approximately 50 Southern Negroes, all members of a church in Montgomery, Alabama, that was firebombed last week, attempted to escape to the NAU at a border crossing in northern Virginia. They were turned back by units of the CSA Border Guard. Two of those who attempted to escape were shot and killed, while 14 others received non-life-threatening wounds. There were no causalities among the Border Guards. This is the first border incident in over a decade.” She looked up, smiling her silly smile. “At least that we know of.”
“I’ll be back at 2 o’clock
with a wrap-up of the day’s news. Meanwhile, stay tuned to the International News Network, where we let you form your own opinion.”
*
It was ten minutes past 2 o’clock when Buddy Bourque and Roy Pickett steamed into the conference room, to join President Callaway, Eric Wang and Veronica Tennenbaum. They all took their seats.
“Ah, Ms. Tennenbaum,” said President Bourque, bubbling over with warmth. “I’m always happy to see you. Sorry I was late. Urgent business.”
“So we heard,” Wang told him.
“Ah.”
“It wasn’t good news,” Callaway said. He was looking grim.
“It was a tragedy,” Bourque agreed. “The border guards acted against my specific orders and their officers will be appropriately punished. We also intend to make generous restitution to the families of the victims…”
“And how about offering free passage to the NAU for the survivors?” Veronica suggested.
“Yes. We already thought of that,” Pickett said. “All of that is being announced from Arcadia within the hour. And, if President Bourque could use the television studio again tonight, he’d like to briefly address the Confederate nation.”
“Good idea,” Callaway said. “We will be happy to accommodate you, of course.”
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Bourque said. “I surely appreciate that.”
“We suspect the border incident was staged,” Pickett said.
“Staged?” Wang said, aghast. “Two people dead, 14 injured?”
“By someone trying to sabotage our meeting,” Bourque said.
Veronica nodded. “I guess you got your mumzers too,” she said.
“Yes m’am,” Bourque said, “we certainly do, if I get your meaning.”
“Do you have any idea who…” Wang let the question fade out.
“Our intelligence boys are sniffin’ around,” Bourque said.
“Of course, they could be the culprits,” Pickett added.
“Wonderful,” Wang said, meaning the opposite.
“Look, the damage has been done,” Veronica said. “It’s time we stopped kvetching and started fixing.”
“I’ll do my best to take the sting out of it,” Bourque said.
Callaway nodded. “I’m sure you will, Mr. President. Now let’s move on to another subject. There’s been a development.”
“A development,” Wang said, “Since lunch?”
“Yes,” Callaway said, almost too calmly. “A call from Gordon Bowman. He told me his photo analysts spotted something in the satellite images. Apparently, Garcia is building amphibious landing craft by the hundreds. They’re filling up a lake near the east coast that has access to the Gulf.”
It took a moment for Bourque to respond. “My God,” he said quietly, “he’s assembling an invasion force.”
“It certainly looks that way,” Callaway agreed. “Have you gotten any intelligence about this?”
Bourque just shook his head in the negative, still stunned.
“We expected he’d take a shot at us—eventually,” Pickett said. “But not this soon.”
“Actually, we don’t have a clue about his timetable,” Callaway said. “And we don’t know where he intends to strike.”
“Maybe he’s waiting,” Bourque said, “waiting for me to…”
Callaway’s expression didn’t change. “Which would mean that somehow he’s found out about…”
“Impossible,” Pickett said. “Nobody in the CSA knows except me and Lester Cohen.”
Wang gave him a sharp look. “Lester Cohen?”
“My doctor for the last 35 years, who’s never even told his grandmother that he knows me.”
“One other,” Pickett, said, correcting himself. “Delphine.”
“You told Delphine?” Bourque asked, surprised.
“Didn’t have to,” Pickett said.
“Yeah, she’s country smart.” Bourque said. Then he looked at Callaway. “She wouldn’t breath a word, you don’t have to worry about her.”
“I’m not,” Callaway said, “but Garcia may have found out somehow.”
The light dawned in Pickett’s eyes. “The writer,” he said. “Pinckney. He was in the limo when we went to Dr. Cohen’s office.”
“Shit,” said President Bourque. “That’s right.”
“You think that schnook could be spying for Garcia?” Veronica asked.
“It never occurred to us,” Pickett said. “But it’s possible, quite possible.”
“I’ll get Hawke on it,” Callaway said. “Meanwhile, we have other business to discuss and I think it’s gotten a bit more urgent. Where did we leave off, Eric?”
“As I remember,” said Wang, “President Bourque had just asked us to sign over almost everything we own and become the Confederacy’s permanent protector. That the way you remember it, Roy?”
“Pretty much,” Pickett conceded.
Bourque was studying President Callaway. “So, Mr. President,” he said, “what do you think of our proposal?”
Callaway regarded Bourque with a disarming smile. “President Bourque, I think you’re trying to pull the wool over our eyes.”
“I don’t know how you can say that, President Callaway,” Bourque protested, returning the smile unfazed. “I have been nothing but forthright and honest.”
“Uncharacteristically so,” Pickett chimed in, getting a warning looking from Bourque.
“Mr. President,” said Callaway, with an enigmatic smile, “I don’t think you really want what you’re asking for.”
“I agree,” Wang said. “That was just haggling. You’re expecting us to offer you half, and hoping to settle for about two-thirds, which is what you had in mind in the first place.”
“This isn’t a Casablancan souk, Eric,” Veronica said. “This is the White House.”
“Bargaining is the same all over the world,” Wang maintained.
“I don’t think our friend is looking for a lower counteroffer,” Callaway said.
Bourque smiled playfully. “And what do you think I’m looking for?”
“I think you want more. Much more,” Callaway said.
Wang was taken aback. “More?”
“Yes,” Callaway said. “President Bourque’s request would turn the Confederacy into a virtual NAU protectorate. But I think he has something bigger in mind.”
“Bigger?” Veronica said, puzzled. “What could be bigger?”
“Reunification,” President Callaway said, and the effect was the same as if a husband or wife had suddenly used the word divorce in the midst of a minor argument.
Veronica was the first to recover. “Stop kidding around, Mr. President.”
“I’m quite serious, Veronica,” Callaway said, his eyes locked on Bourque’s. “That’s what we’ve really been talking about, you know, ever since Roy Pickett came here. Might as well say it. Reunion. It’s certainly been in my mind since the beginning.”
This time, it was the Confederate President who broke the silence. “Well, Mr. President—Charlie, if I may—looks like you and me have been trying to tree the same coon,” he said, with a lopsided grin.
“You know, Mr. President—Buddy—I think you may have a point,” Callaway said. The two Presidents were still holding each other’s gaze.
At that moment, Bourque stood, and reached a big paw across the table. Callaway took it and they shook hands for much longer than customary. When Bourque sat back down, he seemed to be blinking back tears.
“Mazel tov!” Veronica said sarcastically. “You have both lost your minds. Simultaneously.”
“Maybe it’s something in the water,” Wang theorized.
“Look, Mr. President, this is impossible,” Veronica said. “And please notice that I didn’t say ‘very difficult’ or ‘pretty unlikely.’ I said ‘impossible.’ We’ve been separate countries for 150 years. We don’t like each other much now and never did—and for damn good reason. You’re not going to get us to cohabit by executive order.”
“What same ideals?” Wang asked. “We have a classic case of irreconcilable differences. It’s like asking the Republicans and the Democrats to tie the knot.”
Callaway chuckled. “What’s that cliché—about strange bedfellows?”
“What I want to know,” Veronica said, “is what’s changed since 1861. Yeah, time has passed and we have cell phones and jet planes, but the differences that split us apart are still there.”
“I’m not sure that’s true,” President Bourque said. “I think something very important has changed. We need each other now. A Mexican invasion would threaten both of us.”
“He has an excellent point, Veronica,” Callaway said.
“But the task force, and maybe a military alliance—wouldn’t they keep Garcia at bay?” Katz asked. He’d taken out another cigar, but after a dirty look from Wang, had thought better about lighting it.
“The task force might prevent an attack, for now,” Callaway said. “But how long could we keep it on station? And what happens when Garcia sends a full-scale invasion force? The task force couldn’t hold it off for long.”
“My goal,” said President Bourque, “is not to stop Garcia from attacking the Confederacy or even from invading. My goal is to force him to abandon the idea of conquering the CSA forever. The only thing that would accomplish that is reunion.”
“I agree,” Callaway said. “He wouldn’t risk an attack on a reconstituted United States.”
“Reunion would isolate him,” Pickett pointed out. “It would put him on the defensive, make him docile, even cooperative.”
“Which would be a pleasant change,” Bourque said.
“Given the circumstances,” Callaway said, “I’m of the same opinion.”
“Mr. President,” Veronica said, “don’t you think we should get Marty Katz’s take on this?”
“By all means.” He turned to Wang. “Go fetch him, Eric. Tell him what’s been going on up here.” Wang left.
“The obstacles to reunion are absolutely insuperable,” Veronica said. “Imagine how the Congressional leaders will react? Ed Lockett is gonna plotz. And he’s a Democrat. The Republicans will have apoplexy, not that that’s a bad thing.”