“I didn’t know that,” Cherry said, striking a tone somewhere between doubtful and impressed.
“Well, it’s true. Now, could ya get back to my back?” Zolli said. “It’s all one big knot.”
*
Alvin Gribbish paused for a moment, looking for the next name. “Mr. Smith,” he said, clearing his throat.
Senator Smith (R-NH), 69, a grey-haired man in a grey suit, with a nobby tie of grey silk, rose from the second row on the Republican side. “I would like to register my vote as nay,” he said in a quiet, crackly voice.
“Mr. Smith, nay.” Gribbish echoed. “Mr. Svenborg?”
Sen. Ingo Svenborg (D-MN), was a big-boned man with a handshake that could—and sometimes did—crush walnuts. And many had experienced it, since he was one of the friendliest bears in the Senate. He stood at his desk, but instead of announcing his vote, he turned to Sen. Lockett, who was looking up at him, and winked broadly. “I pass,” he said.
“Mr. Svenborg, pass,” Gribbish said without showing any sign of interest. “Mr. Taft?”
Robert Taft III, like Robert Taft I and Robert Taft II, not only occupied a seat in the Senate, he was a particular kind of Senator—the leader of that august body’s fiercest tribe of Neanderthals. He’d made a career out of trying to sabotage every progressive step the Senate tried to take, succeeding all too often. He and Wendell, another pea in this particular pod, typically spent at least three days together every week, pounding the bejeesus out of little dimpled white balls. Everyone knew how he was going to vote now. “Nay,” he said proudly.
“Mr. Taft, nay,” Gribbish said, with as much expression as someone announcing the time. “Mr. Underhill.”
Mr. Underhill, a little man partial to brown suits, was a junior—and very obedient—member of Taft’s clan. “Nay,” he said immediately on hearing his name.
“Mr. Underhill, nay,” Gribbish said.
*
The two of them—the Reverend Frederick Langston Baldwin and Amelia Hansberry—sat in his office at the Heritage Baptist Church in Jackson, Mississippi, both of them intently watching the ancient 10” black and white portable TV perched at the back of his desk, its rabbit ears spread wide.
They were looked at a shot of the NAU Senate. “For the first time,” said a news reporter, voice over, “the nays are up three, 33 to 30. With just 15 Senators left to be heard from, that just may be an insurmountable lead.”
Amelia tried to blink back the tears, but was finally forced to wipe her eyes with the sleeve of her flowered dress. “I’m sorry, Reverend Baldwin. I’m afraid we’re going to lose and it’s…it’s just too much for me.”
The elderly Black man offered her a comforting smile. “It’s not over yet, Amelia. Don’t you forget. As long as we have God on our side, we’re gonna be all right.” Who am I trying to convince? He asked himself.
*
Gribbish took a deep breath, stretched and called out the next name. “Ms. Uvalde.”
Maya Uvalde (D-NY) was a strikingly tall Black woman of Massai heritage, a fact she celebrated by wearing brightly color robes, even in the Senate chamber. “Aye,” she said in a low, husky voice that never failed to catch male attention.
“Ms. Uvalde, aye,” Gribbish said. “Mr. Volovitch.”
Sen. Bert Volovitch (D-MA), an unreconstructed liberal and one of the more combative members of the Senate was frequently sneered at by Republicans, who considered him low-class. But his constituents elected him again and again, usually by large margins. “Aye,” he said.
Gribbish stretched stiffly. “Mr. Volovitch, aye,” he said. “Mr. Wendell.”
Wendell rose from his seat, turned toward Sen. Lockett and smiled. “Pass,” he said. Lockett shook his head, as if to say what kind of a game is he playing this time?
“Mr. Wendell, pass,” Gribbish repeated.
*
Somewhere over the Atlantic, a two-engined, silver-colored Messerschmitt 676 corporate jet slipped smoothly through the lower reaches of the stratosphere at better than 600 miles an hour. Inside, Robert D. Wade lay sprawled on a couch, gazing out the window, and Helmut Metzler sat in one of the lounge chairs, staring, without interest, at a P and L report.
In the middle of the passenger compartment hung a large screen television set, which was tuned to INN. The screen was filled with a wide shot of the US Senate. Arthur Nixon, the network’s sharp-featured Washington correspondent, was describing the action in the hushed tones of an awed witness.
“Now this is a surprise,” he said. “Sen. Wendell is the most prominent opponent of reunion and his nay vote could have tied the count, at 33, but he decided to pass, apparently for strategic reasons. I don’t know how this will affect the final vote, but Wendell is known as one of the Senate’s shrewdest Parliamentary strategists…”
“Turn that fucking thing off,” Metzger ordered.
Wade slowly began to rise from the couch. “But maybe Wendell…”
“Off!” Metzger screamed. “Off! Off! Off!”
*
Alvin Gribbish glanced at his register. “Mr. Whittaker,” he said, unmoved by Wendell’s surprising pass.
Sen. Kendall Whittaker (R-RI), whose descendants came ashore at Plymouth Rock, or so he claimed, was another member of Taft’s crew of Neanderthals. “Nay,” he said.
“Mr. Whittaker, nay,” Gribbish intoned. “Mr. Wittgenstein.”
“Mr. Wittgenstein nay,” said an academic-looking older man, whose hair fell slightly below his ears. He’d risen quickly, and now he sat just as quickly.
“Mr. Wittgenstein, nay. Mr. Wollenstone?” Gribbish inquired.
Sen. Alistair Wollenstone (R-WY), a Hitchcockian figure who, for some reason, was oblivious to the sprinkling of dandruff that could always be found on his shoulders and lapels, rose ponderously, pronounced the word “nay” with his idea of a British accent and sat, relieved to have taken his turn.
“Mr. Wollenstone, nay,” Gribbish said. “Mr. Yeakal?”
Bruce Yeakal (R-WA), inventor of a waterproof fabric that allowed perspiration to escape, but prevented rain from penetrating, and a member of the Senatorial freshman class, stood at his desk. “Nay,” he said.
“Mr. Yeakal, nay.”
*
Count Friedrich von Zimmerman stood quietly in the foyer of his Yucatan mansion, two commodious calfskin Louis Vuitton suitcases at his feet. He checked his gold Sky Moon Patek Phillipe watch and frowned. “Miranda,” he called up the stairs. “The limo will be here soon. You need to hurry.”
Moments later, Miranda glided down the tiled staircase, one hand on the wrought iron banister, the other lugging another overstuffed Louis Vuitton bag, part of the set. She was an eye-watering vision of teenage beauty, face-of-an-angel, body-of-a-vixen variety.
“I still don’t know why we have to leave, Father,” she said petulantly.
“I’ve explained again and again, sweetheart,” Zimmerman said, trying to be patient. “The Chancellor has asked me to return for, um, consultations,” he said. He resisted the urge to tell her the truth, since he didn’t want to dwell on anything unpleasant.
Miranda offered a hopeful smile. “I could stay here,” she suggested.
Zimmerman sighed. “We’ve been through that, haven’t we, honey? I can’t leave you unsupervised, especially since I’m not sure when I’ll return.” Or if, he thought.
“I hate you,” she said, without much passion.
“Yes, I know.” He looked out the window. “Here comes the limo.”
They picked up their suitcases, Zimmerman expending considerable effort, and started for the door. Outside, an impossibly long black limo pulled up to the portico. A mustachioed chauffeur hopped out and opened the trunk and the rear door.
And as he did, they could all hear the car radio. The voice of a radio newsreader wafted out into the cool Mexican morning. “…Senator Bruce Yeakal’s nay makes the count 32 for reunion, 37 against—just three short of defeat, with only nine Senators left to vot
e. It’s beginning to look like reunion is dead.”
Count von Zimmerman dropped his bags and smiled. Then he chuckled. He tried to suppress a giggle, but failed and started laughing almost uncontrollably.
Miranda regarded her father with concern. “Father?” she said. “Daddy?”
*
Gribbish checked his register. “Mr. Yerkin?” he asked.
Sen. Yerkin (D-NV), 47, had been the COO of Myface.com in its earliest days, leading the company to what was, at the time, the most successful IPO of its time. He stood. “Yea,” he said. “And I wish I could say it twice.”
“Mr. Yerkin, yea. Mr. Young?” Gribbish asked.
Sen. Young (R-UT), who suffered from a severe case of Parkinson’s disease, although his mind remained sharp, stood at his desk, shaking. “A-Aye,” he said.
“Mr. Young aye,” Gribbish said. “Mr. Zanger.”
Sen. Zanger (D-WY), 68, former publisher of the Casper Star-Tribune, a man with a beard Santa Claus might have envied, stood and rendered his verdict. “Aye,” he said.
“Mr. Zanger, aye,” Gribbish repeated. “Mr. Zubkus?”
Arlo Zubkus (D-ND) willingly defied his party from time to time—“on matters of conscience,” he said, a construction which Lockett found extremely irritating. And now, Lockett was sure, the man was going to stick it to him again. “Aye,” said the Senator, causing Lockett to light up in surprise and delight. He caught Zubkus’s eye and gave him an approving nod.
*
The SS Truxton and the other vessels of the NAU task force were holding station in quiet seas, 30 miles off of the South Carolina coast, as they had been for the last several weeks. Inside, in the Captain’s ready room, Rear Admiral Robert F. Broadwell and Captain Drew Wasserman were focused intently on the portable TV set on the desk.
“Well, that’s it for the roll call,” the announcer was saying. “Now it’s time to get to the passed votes—five of them. With the current count 36 for reunion, 37 against, it could still go either way. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this much suspense in the Senate Chamber.”
“He’s talking about our fate, you know,” Broadwell said, speaking over the announcer.
Wasserman looked at his old friend. “Meaning?
“Well, it if passes, I think we go home. Mexico is never going to attack a country with the combined might of the NAU, the CSA and Canadia. But if it fails, we’re gonna have ships here on station for, well, pretty much forever.”
“Yes—or until El Presidente decides to attack.”
*
Gribbish fiddled with his papers. He’d run through the alphabet, but five Senators had passed. It was time to call them again. It was time for them to commit. While he arranged to record the passed votes, a low buzz arose in the gallery. Some of the more naïve spectators had expected that the alphabetical end of the roll call would bring a decision. Now they realized it did no such thing.
Gribbish was ready now. “Mr. Connelly,” he said.
“Nay,” said Sen. Connelly.
Lockett made a tick on his list. They were down two, with only four to go. If he didn’t get three of them, it was all over. Done. Finished. He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself.
“Mr. Connelly nay. Mr. Jefferson?”
“Yea,” said Jefferson.
Lockett made a tic. The sweat was dripping down his sides and soaking his shirt.
“Mr. Jefferson yea. Mr. Miller?”
“Yea,” said Miller
“Miller, yea,” Gribbish noted.
Okay, Lockett thought. That ties it up. Two votes left—Svenborg and Wendell.
Wendell was a lost cause, of course. But Svenborg—he had to get Svenborg. He suddenly realized he was holding his breath.
*
The rusty old pickup truck was parked on a small rise, underneath one of the ancient live oaks that shared St. Mary’s cemetery with the dead and their gravestones. On the driver’s side, the door was open. The radio was on. “…And Miller’s vote ties it up again at 38,” the announcer said. “There are only two votes left and it’s still too close to call. The Senate Chamber is absolutely silent now. Nobody is even breathing.”
A few yards away, Chief Warrant Officer James Frontenot was lying in the grass, straw hat protecting his eyes from the sun, leaning against a grey tombstone so weathered it was unreadable. He coughed once, sighed and, without another movement, expired.
*
Gribbish checked his ledger. “Mr. Svenborg,” he called out, voice breaking between the syllables.
“Mr. Svenborg?” Gribbish called out.
“I vote aye,” Mr. Svenborg said firmly.
“Aye for Mr. Svenborg,” Gribbish said.
Lockett forced himself to tick Svenborg’s box, then his mind went blank. Was it over?
*
“God damn!” Veronica said
“That’s it!” Katz said, breathing an enormous sigh of relief. “We’ve won!”
“We’ve won?” Wang said. “Wait—don’t you remember? Wendell hasn’t vote yet. He’s going to tie it up, 39 to 39. You watch.”
Katz looked at Wang in disbelief. “You mean you don’t understand what just happened?”
“Of course I do,” Wang protested. “The Vice President is going to break the tie and make it 40-39 in favor. I was just doing the play-by-play. You know, it’s not over until it’s over.”
“Oy, Eric. It’s done. It’s over,” Veronica said, exasperated. “I’m not thrilled by the margin of victory though.”
“Yeah, one vote is not exactly a rousing endorsement,” Katz agreed.
“It was the best we could do,” Wang said. “We should be damn glad we did it.”
Veronica turned back to the TV. “Here comes the end of it,” she said.
*
Gribbish studied his list. “Mr. Wendell?” he said, looking at the Senate Minority Leader.
Oliver Wendell rose and slowly surveyed the Senate chamber, making eye contact with several of the other members, especially those on his side of the aisle. And when he had concluded that sweep, he looked up at the gallery and did something very similar, exchanging a significant but cryptic look with Howard Exley.
“Mr. Wendell,” Gribbish repeated, tonelessly.
Wendell swallowed hard. “Ladies and gentlemen, I ask that we suspend the rules and accept the motion by acclamation,” he said. “I may not love or even approve of reunion, but we can’t go into it half-assed.”
The Senate chamber went suddenly and completely silent. Senators looked at each other in total confusion. The visitor’s gallery crowd seemed paralyzed. Something had happened, something big, and they just couldn’t wrap their minds around it.
“I want to say a word to all of those courageous Senators who voted to oppose reunion,” Wendell said. “We did our best, for a cause in which we believe. But we lost. And now, we must join with our friends across the aisle. We must come together as one, as one country. I release all of those who voted with me and I ask that we approve the bill by acclamation.” He sat.
Vice President Garvey stared at Wendell in disbelief, and spoke before he could restrain himself. “What?” He said. “What do you mean?” The parliamentarian pulled on Garvey’s sleeve and whispered to him urgently. Garvey seemed unconvinced, but at last he shrugged and spoke. “Go ahead, Mr. Gribbish.”
Gribbish cleared his throat, hoping to avoid more unintended squawking. “We have a motion for a vote by acclamation. Any objections to the vote?” He gazed around the room, ready for a response, but there was none.
“Okay,” he said, jotting down a note. “Any seconds?”
Lockett was one of the few who had grasped what had happened. “I second the motion,” he shouted quickly, as if he thought Wendell might change his mind. Several other Senators added their seconds.
Half a dozen Senators on both sides of the aisle called out, “Second.”
Gribbish nodded. “Ok, approval by acclamation, moved and seconded. In favor?”
After an awkward moment of silence, the Senators found their voices. Most of them said yes, almost in unison. After a few seconds, the rest, the stragglers joined in.
Gribbish coughed and blew his nose. “Are there any Senators in the Chamber wishing to vote or to change their vote?” He looked around, very briefly. “Then the ayes have it,” he announced. “The motion is carried by acclamation, 78 yea, zero nay.”
This was followed by an instant of shocked silence—everyone was trying to come to terms with what had just happened—and then the applause began, first in the gallery, then on the Senate floor itself. People began standing, and then the clapping turned into cheers, cheers of triumph, of relief, of joy, of wonder. During the commotion, Howard Exley managed to disappear.
Vice President Garvey stood, uncertain of what to do next. Finally, he banged his gavel. “Okay,” he said, “the motion has passed. Is there a motion to adjourn for the day? I move we adjourn.”
The parliamentarian tugged at Garvey’s jacket sleeve again, but the Vice President shook him off. Garvey looked around the room, hoping for help.
“There’s a motion on the floor to adjourn,” Gribbish said, taking control. “Do I hear a second?”
“Second,” said half a dozen Senators almost simultaneously.
“Moved and seconded,” Gribbish went on calmly. “All in favor?”
“Aye,” said the entire Senate.
“All opposed?”
Silence.
“The ayes have it,” said Alvin Gribbish. “The Senate is adjourned.”
Garvey blinked a couple of times, after which he banged the gavel once, sharply.
Chapter Thirty
Callaway switched off the television set, then turned to his wife, stunned.
“What just happened?” he asked.
“I’m not sure,” Julia said. “I think we won.”
“Yeah, I think you’re right.”
“My God, Charlie.”
“I know. They passed the bill, right?”
“Right. That’s what they did.”
Callaway closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them he was smiling and shaking his head in amazement. “I think I have finally arrived at a pinch-me moment.”
ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? Page 52