by Gordon Ryan
For three days Senator Malcolm Turner had tried to come to grips with his mortality, afraid to discuss the matter, even with his wife, or to seek a second medical opinion for fear of public disclosure. He drifted through each day, physically present at his committee meetings, but mentally absent for all but the most direct confrontation from one of his honorable senatorial associates.
President Eastman had been strangely silent. Even his staff had not presented any insurmountable problems. Other than the visit from Jean Wolff, who had presented Turner with visions of a place of honor in California history, both as originator of the secession movement and actuator of the removal of one of the largest impediments, it had been a politically uneventful three days. Wolff’s implied action—assassination of the president—had brought more people infamy than notability. Still, Turner contended with himself as he wrestled with the possibilities, there were those who had turned the course of history by the assassination of a national leader. It all depended on one’s retrospective point of view. Above all, from Turner’s perspective, being brought down in a hail of bullets from the Secret Service was better than enduring a disgraceful, slow death from some debilitating disease.
The call from Eastman’s chief of staff, asking if the senator would have a few moments to meet with the president prior to the joint congressional assemblage, surprised Turner. The meeting could indeed be about the president’s address, scheduled for that evening, but Turner, in leaving for the White House, held no such illusion. John Henry Franklin always knew what was happening, and John Henry Franklin had said the president was going to go public.
Turner entered the Oval Office and found President Eastman there alone. Eastman rose to greet his old friend and occasional political sparring partner.
“Good of you to come, Malcolm.”
“Mr. President, it was kind of you to ask. It’s a big evening for you. How’s tonight’s message coming together?”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Eastman said. Taking a seat across from Turner, Eastman had a sympathetic look in his eyes, a calm tone in his voice, and a conciliatory demeanor, all of which confused Turner, who had expected retribution at the least.
“How long have we been climbing this hill together, Malcolm?”
“Ah, too long to count the years, Mr. President. And I a bit longer than you, I suspect.”
“You’re probably right,” Eastman allowed, smiling briefly. Then he adopted a serious, fatherly posture, and his voice took on a new tenor. “Malcolm, you’ve been ill-used in this mess.”
“Excuse me, Mr. President?”
“John Henry Franklin—that’s who I’m talking about. He’s manipulated everybody associated with him, and, as in the case of Rodrigo Cordoba, he’s discarded them when he no longer found them useful.”
Turner’s caution flag went up. So that was it. Eastman was going to play to his soft side—appeal to their long association and sidle up to him, trying to change his position and co-opt him onto the president’s team. Well, it was too late, Turner concluded, instantly aware of Eastman’s game.
“Well, that’s politics, isn’t it, Bill? We’ve dumped a few associates along the way in our time, haven’t we?”
“Not in the morgue, Malcolm. This man’s dangerous.”
“They’re all dangerous if you’re not careful. I believe in what we’ve been doing out west, Mr. President, and I’m sorry that it doesn’t agree with your view of things. But there you have it.”
Eastman stood and walked back to his desk, retrieving a folder from a stack of papers.
“I’ve got to expose this fraud, Malcolm,” Eastman said, waving the folder, “and from where I stand, you’re caught in the firing line. You were out front leading the troops, and while I now know you were unaware of the nature of the conspiracy, you allowed yourself to be used by evil intentions. You got bamboozled, Malcolm.”
“The secession of California isn’t evil, Bill. It’s the nature of evolution. It’s casting off the shackles of bondage and getting off the road to incremental federalism that this nation’s been on for over two hundred years. You know how intrusive Washington has become in our lives, right down to regulating the mom-and-pop grocery on the corner in Modesto.”
“I have no intention of being drawn into a philosophical debate on the merits of secession, Malcolm. Tonight I intend to sing my swan song. I intend to lay it out for the nation—to display our findings regarding rigged elections, congressman and senators who were vaulted into office through corporate conspiracy—most of whom, Malcolm, as in your case, didn’t even know they were part of the conspiracy. They actually thought they had been elected by popular support. That’s the shame of it. Many of these people are honest, upright citizens seeking a chance to serve their country, as you always have. But someone must stop this chicanery in its infancy. And the California secession, as important as it has become, is only the tip of the iceberg. I’m opposed to it, you know that, and I’ll do what I can to stop it, but …” Eastman again took on a softer, gentler tone, “… my old friend, you’ve been caught in the middle, and the press, heaven forbid—you know how they’ve roasted you over your stance. Once they find out it’s all been a sham and you’ve been duped …”
Turner stood, smoothed his hair back, and buttoned his jacket. Affecting a smile, he said, “Mr. President, this is an issue on which we each have to follow our conscience. I wish you well, sir, and may history provide the telling.”
President Eastman put his hand on Turner’s shoulder, smiling at him and shaking his hand gently. “Thank you, my old friend. I’m sorry you see it that way, but may God go with you.”
“With us both, Mr. President.”
* * *
“Mr. Speaker,” bellowed the Sergeant at Arms to the House of Representatives, “the President of the United States.”
The large, ornate double doors opened and the president and his entourage flowed in through the entryway. Seated in the upper gallery, Daniel Rumsey Rawlings leaned slightly forward, arms resting on the polished brass railing, watching intently as five hundred and sixty-eight senators and representatives, about a hundred various other cabinet officers, military leaders, foreign ambassadors, and invited guests all took to their feet in thunderous applause. Colonel Pug Connor sat immediately to Dan’s left. Dan thought again how the pomp and ceremony of government always had the power to give him chills.
President William Eastman, former Florida senator and the nation’s chief executive for nearly eight years, was in his full glory in such a setting. He moved gracefully down the aisle, accompanied by his ever-present security cadre. With two full terms as president behind him, Eastman still commanded considerable respect, and his popularity polls, currently at fifty-eight percent if taken east of Denver, were higher than any other president in history this late in his term of office. Given the recent events in California, however, his popularity had dropped precipitously in the West, ranging from thirty-nine percent in Utah to an abysmal seventeen percent in California.
He stopped at each row briefly to mingle with those fortunate enough to be close to the aisle, chatting briefly to this or that congressman, receiving the accolades and affectionate physical gestures that were so much a part of his public appearances. Rawlings watched with admiration, feeling out of place in this elite gathering, but pleased to be there at the president’s personal invitation.
The applause continued long after President Eastman reached the podium, where he shook hands with Vice President Prescott and Speaker Frank Redman before assuming his place on the stand. When the applause began to diminish, House Speaker Redman stood and pounded his gavel for attention. “The House will come to order!” he cried.
Sensing the moment, the audience responded to the announcement by renewing the chorus of applause, during which the Speaker stood silently, smiling for another several minutes. Finally, with repeated raps of the gavel, a semblance of order crept over the House.
“The House w
ill be seated. Honored Senators, fellow Representatives, and welcome guests, it is my high privilege and a distinct honor to introduce to you the president of the United States, the honorable William Baldridge Eastman.”
Again the full house took to its feet, reviving the thundering applause, which continued unabated for the following three minutes, an ovation that gave Daniel Rawlings a prickly sensation down his spine. His hands were beginning to numb from the constant applause, which had lasted nearly fifteen minutes since Eastman’s entry.
Off to Rawlings’ right, the First Lady and her two sons, plus their wives, stood, the entire family smiling as the president accepted this acknowledgment of his accomplishments. During the annual State of the Union address nine months earlier, Eastman had announced the admission of Puerto Rico as the fifty-first state of the Union, and added two senators and one representative to the ranks of national legislators, who were biannually elected and sent to Washington to facilitate the acquisition of a “fair and just share” of the redistribution of wealth—a dubious accomplishment for which Washington D.C. had become known worldwide.
As the president stepped to the podium, Rawlings thought of Nicole and regretted her absence. She belonged here even more than he did. But for her actions, he wouldn’t be alive to be here at all.
Connor must have caught his wistful gaze because he leaned toward Rawlings and whispered, “I’m sure she’s watching on TV.”
“Probably, Colonel. I talked to her an hour ago, but the nurse in charge cut the call short.”
“It’d take more than a bullet to stop her, Dan. She’s tough,” Connor commented.
“How well I know,” Dan replied, a quick, bone-chilling vision of that dreadful night when he had come face-to-face with his mortality filling his mind.
William Eastman stood behind the lectern, surveying the room and the assembled legislators. He smiled briefly at his family and glanced upward toward Connor and Rawlings, momentarily catching Rawlings’ eye and nodding slightly.
“Americans all,” the president began. “Indeed, Americans all. For nearly four hundred years, Europeans, Asians, Africans, Hispanics, Polynesians, and many others from around the globe have migrated to this blessed land to join our Native American brothers and sisters in forming this nation, built from many ideals. Their work was inspired and, yes, occasionally flawed. Nevertheless these ideals have brought us a long way in the past four hundred years. Americans all,” he repeated boldly, and was again greeted with a standing ovation.
A skilled and inspired orator, President Eastman always had been able to find the right chord in his audience. He had the uncanny ability to touch the patriotism button and enlist support for his goals, a talent Dan Rawlings had recently observed firsthand. He motivated people as much by his fervor for the cause as by the relative importance of the event.
“I thought that perhaps tonight, given our current state of national disunity, I would dispense with the usual presidential political hyperbole, discard the pre-distributed speech—which, by the way, should completely destroy the media analysis which has already been prepared to debunk most of what they think I intend to say—and simply lay it on the line, speak from the heart. Perhaps, since this is my last opportunity to speak to this august body, and I no longer have the need to consider reelection, this occasion lends itself to a candid appraisal as well,” he said with a broad smile, invoking a burst of laughter from the assembly.
“As the idea of an independent America began,” Eastman continued, “we had the opportunity to avail ourselves of the combined knowledge and best thinking of the previous centuries. Certainly, we had to fight our way free, and in the heat of that battle, we formed the basis for our new nation: Freedom and equality for all, even if it did take us another hundred years to extend that freedom to all who lived here. ‘E Pluribus Unum,’ the Founding Fathers declared. ‘Out of many, one!’
“And now, it seems one of the states in this blessed Union has made that determination for itself, has given us reason to pause, has caused us to consider our diversity and our increasingly intrusive federal system—has sought to bid us farewell.”
This was unlike any previous presidential address Rawlings had ever heard. Almost a history lesson, absent party rhetoric contrived to take the credit and shift the blame. Indeed, Rawlings sat enthralled as Eastman seemed to throw caution to the wind and speak what he perceived to be the truth. It was evident that Eastman was building to something, and it wasn’t just the traditional regurgitation of accomplishments during the prior year.
“Americans all,” he reiterated, “‘with malice toward none, with charity for all,’ as President Lincoln said. And as Alexander Hamilton once said, ‘Here, sir, the people govern.’ Mighty words, if true. But are they still true? Or have we abandoned the principles for which this nation once stood? How did we get to this point in history? A cursory study of history will show us. We’ve allowed secret combinations of devious men, and occasionally women, to meet together in clandestine gatherings, to undermine the very fabric of our society. Don’t for a moment think it is only the criminal element. More of those secret meetings were held in this building than were convened on Wall Street.
“We used to call it the ‘smoke-filled back room,’ and with some degree of humor, we caricatured the participants in political cartoons as ‘party hacks.’ Of course we each like to think it was only the other party that acted that way.” Laughter followed his attempt at humor. “Since those days, we’ve come a long way in the art of deception. To see things as they really are is not quite so easy in this technologically advanced world. With the technology at hand, we could fill this room with holograms,” he said, his arms gesturing in a sweeping motion, “with the images of everyone who once served here. And who would know they weren’t their actual ghosts?”
Rawlings could see Judge Wentworth, Colonel Connor’s former boss at the CIA, seated in a front row position next to Director Granata. Both men kept their composure as President Eastman addressed these new, sensitive areas. Although operatives from both the CIA and FBI reported to Colonel Connor, Rawlings knew that Connor, as the head of the president’s task force, reported directly to the president or vice president, and that the task force members were also precluded from directly reporting to their home agency. Was Eastman really going to deliver their devastating findings here, in this forum?
“Well over a year ago,” Eastman continued, “when the clamor for secession became a reality, and long before the California legislature convened their constitutional committee intent on following through with the ‘divorce,’ I directed the formation of a small, confidential task force to investigate the origins of the secessionist movement. Not the reasons we see each night on the news, but the real purposes behind the façade. Their findings were—well, let’s just say they opened the proverbial can of worms. But then, as my granddaddy used to say, ‘You need big worms to catch big fish.’”
Eastman again looked up at Rawlings and Connor, taking a sip of water as he paused. Looking toward his family, he smiled and continued.
“As one new political entity has recently gained admission to the Union, another, to our dismay, has sought to withdraw, with attendant bloodshed and chaos. In the face of this, I have had cause to consider how Lincoln must have felt as he saw the nation beginning to crumble around him, with the Deep South standing firm for what they believed to be their right to defend their way of life. Today, the secret combinations of which I speak have no such noble aspirations. The almighty dollar is their primary motivation, but mark my words, this will not stand!” he trumpeted, emphasizing each word by pounding on the lectern. His sudden fervor electrified his audience, most sitting up straighter, intent on the rising fervor in the president’s demeanor. Rawlings noticed that the members on the floor had begun to divide their response to Eastman’s remarks, with pro and con factions beginning to murmur their opinions.
“Please understand me clearly,” the president said. “The federal gover
nment is certainly not blameless in bringing about internal dissatisfaction among the states. For most of the twentieth century, whether it was Republicans or Democrats in charge, Washington has tended to usurp the rights of the separate states, and, by extension, the rights of the individual citizen. Many of those who have worked to affect this ostensibly benevolent control sit in this very room tonight. I do not speak disparagingly of their efforts. In most cases, they acted in good faith, out of a desire to make the bounties of this great nation available more equitably to all our citizens. Nevertheless, we took unto ourselves the power to regulate nearly every aspect of human endeavor, much as a parent might control his young children. Adverse public reaction to such a policy was inevitable and certainly predictable.
“This worldwide separatist movement, with its primary origins coming out of World War II, followed by the demise of the British Empire, increasing dramatically following the fall of the Soviet Union, provided the impetus. Then, once internalized within our borders, it provided the opportunity for men of dubious motivation to align themselves in purpose. Cheap labor, illegal immigration, and blatant greed drove the cause. This domestic dissatisfaction culminated in the California advisory referendum, which was followed by the formal vote for secession and the ultimate adoption of an implementation date and the formation of a constitutional committee.
“The federal marshals intervention, the military confrontation, and the resulting carnage and devastation brought about by the California civil disturbances are all too fresh in all our minds. However, the information gathered by my task force—nothing short of startling, I might add—has shed remarkable new light on the devious nature of this conspiracy.”
More grumbling erupted from the floor at Eastman’s use of the word “conspiracy.”
“I know,” he said, shaking his head in response to his audience’s reaction, “conspiracy is an oft-used word, and seldom with ample justification. But this time, my esteemed colleagues, we have the proof. And the trail, as onerous as it may be, leads right here to Washington, and indeed, right here to this House,” he emphasized.