ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? Read online

  “Did you know,” Julia said, “That Helmut Metzger has cloven hooves?”

  “Say what?”

  “It’s true,” she said. “I have friends who’ve seen him in a swimming pool.”

  “Very funny,” Callaway said, grinning and shaking his head.

  “Well he might as well have.”

  Callaway considered the remark. “That would explain a lot,” he mused.

  "So, Mr. President," Julia said, changing the subject, "it's your first day in office—are you going to wear the new suit?"

  "I think not," Callaway said. "Let them see me as I am."

  "You mean as Gucci, and not as Dolce & Gabbanna?"

  "If I were you, I wouldn't tease anyone about designer clothing."

  They both laughed.

  And the telephone rang. "No rest for the wicked," Callaway said, picking it up. "Hey, Eric," he said. "Yeah, got a couple of hours. My feet are killing me and I'm fighting a hangover. Gimme 10 and I'll meet you in the private office. No, not the Oval office, the other one."

  There was a knock on the door. "Just a minute," Callaway called out. Julia headed for the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

  The President opened the door to find Karen Tumulty, his matronly-looking long-time secretary standing there, her chubby arms overflowing with printed emails, letters. and various other documents. "My God," she said, amazed, "you're already dressed."

  "You expected to see me in my skivvies?" His cool grey eyes twinkled.

  "One can always hope," she said dryly.

  "So, what do you have there?"

  "The usual exercises in flattering insincerity—that is, congratulatory messages from Presidents, Kings, Prime Ministers and others of their ilk."

  "Ah, okay. Well, write them all warm personal messages from me and, if it's appropriate, say that I hope to see them soon. And give me a list of who's checked in."

  "You don't want to see the messages yourself?

  "Not unless someone is offering something or making a threat," Callaway said.

  "Gotcha," she said. "I'll have them answered by sunset."

  "You're an amazing woman, Karen."

  "Don't spread that around," she said, departing.

  Callaway stepped back into the bedroom and closed the door. "Olly olly in free," he called. Julia emerged from the bathroom, now clad in a huge white bath towel, and Charlie posed in front of her. "What do you think?" He asked.

  "Very presidential," she said. She gave him one of her 'deluxe kisses,' as she called them, and for a few seconds, it was satin black skin against worsted wool pinstripes.

  "Thanks," he said. "I needed that."

  "Me too," she said.

  "Well," he said, "here goes nothing." He let Julia slip away and walked down the hallway, a couple of well-tanned marines snapping to attention as he passed.

  When Callaway got to his office, Eric Wang, his short, bespectacled chief of staff was already there, making notes. "Good morning, Mr. President," he said.

  "Eric, of all people, you can call me Charlie—at least in private."

  "No I can't, Mr. President. It's going to be hard to break the Charlie habit, but I don't want to take a chance slipping in public."

  "Ok. Just don't expect me to call you Mr. Wang," Callaway said.

  A smile broke across Wang’s broad, Asian face. He handed Callaway a piece of paper, typed single-spaced. "Your schedule for the day, Mr. President."

  "Hmmm...National Security Council meeting in..." he checked his watch "fifteen minutes. Meet with Council of Economic Advisors 11 a.m. Lunch with the German ambassador. Meet with Republican Congressional leadership at 1:30. Press conference at 2:30. Meet with Democratic Senatorial leaders at 3:30. Meet with Democratic House leaders at 4:30. Tea with the British Ambassador at 5:30. Tea, Eric?"

  "Well, it is customary."

  Callaway sighed deeply. "Can I have coffee?"

  "I'll check with protocol."

  Callaway glanced back at the schedule. "Dinner with the editorial staff of the New York Times?"

  "I know, I know, but it was either them or the Wall Street Journal. Maybe by the end of the week, you and Julia can have an evening together."

  "Well, I can't complain, I guess. I asked for it." Callaway said.

  "Asked for it? You fought for it, begged for it, cajoled for it, maneuvered and manipulated for it. You worked your ass off for it. And now that you've got it, you'd better enjoy it."

  "Yes, sir."

  The phone rang and Eric Wang picked it up. "Wang here," he said. He listened for a moment and passed the phone to Callaway. "It's Bowman, Canadia’s Prime Minister."

  "G'morning, Gordon," said the President. "You’re up a little early, aren’t you? What is it in Vancouver, 6 a.m.?"

  Callaway listened for a moment and laughed. "Well, you succeeded—you're the first foreign leader to call me."

  He listened some more, laughed again, and then grew serious. "I feel the same way, Gordon. I think we have an excellent chance. I'm going to call you sometime next week, after I get my feet wet here, and we can talk about it."

  Callaway said goodbye and hung up.

  "What was that all about?" Wang asked.

  "It's a little project Gordon and I have been cooking up. I'll tell you more about it later."

  Wang shrugged, then checked his watch. "Time to meet with the National Security Council, Mr. President."

  "I think I'm beginning to understand our new relationship, Eric. I'm the horse and you're the driver."

  "Giddy up," Eric said.

  A few minutes later, they walked past a brace of well-armed marine guards into the Situation Room, in the White House basement—a high-ceilinged windowless chamber the size of a theater lobby, its walls covered by video screens showing the weather worldwide, foreign military bases, the disposition of navy ships at sea, television news channels from all around the world, and the current location of the country's communication satellites.

  In the center of the room was a big walnut conference table, around which were sitting a selection of Very Important People:

  * Vice President Darren Garvey, ex-governor of Ontario, a former NFL quarterback, a man with a rocket arm, aw-shucks charm and a weakness for women, chosen mainly to balance the ticket geographically;

  * The grandmotherly Secretary-of-State designate Veronica Tennenbaum, who was generally considered to be the smartest woman in Washington;

  * Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Major General Richard Hutchison, square-jawed, keen-eyed and pompous, the very model of a modern major general;

  * CIA Director Linus Hawke, scion of an old, rich, socially prominent Philadelphia family, a mossy but elegant holdover from the last administration; and

  * Dr. Sidney Burton, National Security Advisor-designate, a bearded, balding celebrity professor fresh from the Ivory Towers and Ivy-covered walls of Cambridge, one foot in MIT and the other in Harvard.

  The table itself was littered with their notebooks, briefcases, speaker phones, laptop computers and binders, as well as coffee cups, small plates and carefully folded damask napkins.

  Two huge sterling silver chafing dishes sat in the middle of the table, one holding a heaping platter of fine pastries, the other incongruously bearing a large, garish box of Dunkin' Donuts, well known to be the Chief Executive's favorites.

  President Callaway slid into the deep red leather chair at the end of the table, exchanging nods, hellos and handshakes with his high-ranking co-conspirators. Wang took a seat at his elbow. "Well," said the President, "here we go. Director Hawke, do we have any international emergency situations in progress?"

  "Not at the moment, but there's always tomorrow," Hawke said. He spoke with a slight upper-class British accent, acquired long ago at a New England prep school and never abandoned.

  "We should discuss the Mexican situation," said Dr. Burton, the National Security Advisor-designate. "It worries me."

  There were nods all around the table. "Yes," sai
d General Hutchison, clearing his throat impressively. "I've spent a lot of man-hours worrying about how to deal with Presidente Garcia. He is quite a piece of work."

  Callaway nodded, unsurprised. "In our opinion, General Hutchison, does he still have territorial ambitions?”

  "Damn right he does. He doesn’t conduct those annual military exercises just to entertain himself," Hutchison asserted.

  Callaway glanced at his National Security Advisor. "Dr. Burton?"

  Burton put on his glasses and stood, as though addressing a class. "Well, let's take a look at history," he said, "Back in 1861, when we and the CSA separated, Mexico snatched up Arizona and New Mexico before anyone knew what was happening."

  "Yes, yes, we know all that," said the President. ”But what about now?"

  Burton was not easily interrupted. "And then, in 2005," he went on, "while Garcia and the Mexican Navy were attacking New Orleans, the Mexican army seized Texas, as we know. It's a miracle the CSA survived."

  "Thank God for little hurricanes," said Eric Wang.

  "And now?" This time the question came from Secretary-of-State designate Tennenbaum. "Does Garcia pose a threat today?" She fumbled around in the Dunkin' Donuts box and found a sugar-coated jelly donut.

  Callaway, deciding to share the guilt, got himself a cruller.

  "A threat?" the DCI asked rhetorically. "Well, there's nothing to make us think El Presidente is planning any surprises for us, but..."

  "...but he isn't spending all those billions his defense budget for no reason." General Hutchison interrupted.

  "Could we be his target, now or in the future?" Callaway asked.

  "Oh, I don’t think he’s looking in our direction,” Hawke said, with easy confidence. "He’s obsessed with the Confederate States of America, which is why the CSA built the Bourque Line on the Louisiana-Arkansas border."

  "Just a minute now," said Vice President Garvey, holding up a hand. "I don't get it. Why would Mexico attack the CSA? It's poor, socially backward, undereducated. What does the CSA have that Mexico might want?"

  Eric Wang sighed, then pushed the speakerphone's intercom button. "Lt. Parkington, could you put up a continental map on the main video screen?"

  One of the giant screens on the wall blanked out briefly, then lit up again with a map of North America, showing state and national boundaries.

  "To the north, Mr. Vice President," Dr. Burton said, shining a laser pointer across the map, "you see New France, that is, all of Canada from Quebec to the Atlantic Ocean. It's in pink. On the other side of the continent" – the pointer's bright red light moved to the left, "You will find Canadia—in tan—everything from British Columbia to Manitoba."

  "You don’t need to talk to me like I’m a seventh grader," Garvey said, annoyed, "I know my geography."

  Burton kept on talking. "Then, in the middle, of course, the North American Union, in blue—the our northern states plus, of course, our newest component, Mr. Vice President, your home state of Ontario.”

  The Vice President turned his back on Burton, who didn't notice, and he ostentatiously dug through the pastries, selecting one with thick white frosting and nuts. He took a very large bite, then wiped his mouth.

  "After that," Burton said, lecturing again, "We have the Confederate States of America, from the Louisiana border to the Atlantic." He waved the pointer across the grey blob. "And finally, in pale green, we have the lower third of the continent, including Baja California and Texas—the Empire of Mexico."

  "When is the test, teacher?" Garvey said sarcastically. "Will we have a chance to study?"

  "Now, Mr. Vice President," Burton said, undeterred, "take a look at the Atlantic coast there." He ran the pointer up and down, from Virginia to the tip of Florida. "What do you see?"

  "Beachfront property," Vice President Garvey responded dryly.

  "Seaports," Burton corrected him. "Seaports on the Atlantic Ocean: Miami, Jacksonville, Savannah, Newport News, Norfolk."

  The Vice President was thoroughly exasperated. "Ok, seaports. So what?"

  "Well, look now at the coast of Mexico." Burton used his pointer again. "What do you see?"

  Garvey stared at the map, clueless, his mouth falling open slightly. "More seaports?"

  "Yes, a few," Burton allowed, "But on the Gulf of Mexico, not the Atlantic. Separated from the Atlantic by more than 800 miles of shallow, barely navigable waters—that's two days of extra transit time. And time, Mr. Vice President, is money. Big money."

  "I see," said Vice President Garvey. He didn't see, not at all.

  "This makes Mexican oil over-priced—or less profitable, if the Mexicans meet the going rate," DCI Hawke explained. "But if they could build a pipeline to Savannah or Newport News..."

  "Ah," said the Vice President, the light finally dawning. "So why don't they?"

  "Because of Buddy Bourque," Veronica Tennenbaum told him, as though that should have been obvious. "He and Garcia are sworn enemies."

  Callaway posed a question: "What would happen if Mexico attacked the CSA again?"

  Hawke steepled his fingers thoughtfully. "I don't think Garcia would try. He barely made it home alive the last time."

  The Vice President nodded. "I seem to remember something about a hurricane."

  "Yes, and Buddy Bourque," Hawke said. "That man is a force of nature. He's practically holding the CSA together with his bare hands. As far as his people are concerned, he's their savior."

  General Hutchison cleared his throat. "It's not just the man," he said. "If the Mexicans attacked across the Texas border, they'd run smack into the fortifications he built. They’re a little old-fashioned and a bit run down, but they’re a well-manned barrier of concrete pillboxes and deep, impenetrable tunnels nearly 300 miles long, bristling with artillery pieces, machine guns and mortars."

  Callaway finished off his cruller, and, realizing his fingers were sticky, reached for a napkin and tried to wipe them off. That failing, he licked, and smiled when he saw everyone watching him. "Madame Secretary of State..."

  "Designate," Ms. Tennenbaum reminded him mischievously.

  "Designate," Callaway added, "How would you characterize our relationship with the Confederate States of America?"

  She leaned back and folded her arms under what her awe-struck subordinates liked to call the Grand Tetons. "We don't have much a relationship," she said. "We've tried to be friends occasionally, during the 1918 and 1963 influenza epidemics, for instance, But the cooperation didn't last."

  "Yes," Callaway said, "I remember some of the stories. They'd bring sick whites to our hospitals, but no Blacks. So we finally started refusing all CSA patients. What about now, Veronica?"

  "Now we don't have much to do with each other," the Secretary-of-State designate said. "We're like a long-divorced couple with no children. We might nod if we pass each other in the street. But neither of us is interested in trying it again."

  "Let's keep this in mind," General Hutchison pointed out. "We share most of our southern border with the CSA and it's one of the most heavily patrolled borders in the world, on their side anyhow."

  This time it was Hawke who helped himself to a donut, a glazed one just starting to turn gooey. "True enough, but in their paranoia, they want to prevent their people from leaving. They’re not concerned with keeping us out."

  "They're happy to see us when we bring money," Eric Wang said, speaking up for the first time.

  "You've been?" Callaway asked, surprised.

  "To Miami Beach," Wang said. "It was pretty nice. Good corned beef at Junior's Deli."

  "I like Havana much better," said the Vice President. "The night clubs are spectacular."

  Callaway frowned. The Vice President was a known partier."Ok, people," he said, "let's get down to business. We've already covered the CSA and Mexico pretty well. Let's look at the rest of the world. Director Hawke?"

  Hawke opened the yellow binder on the table in front of him. "You mean Germany, of course."

  "Indeed,
" said Callaway, pleased with Hawke’s quick mind.

  "Well, as we all know, the German Empire is thriving and at peace with its colonies in Africa, the South Pacific and China. It remains the most powerful country in the world, both economically and militarily, as it has been for the last 75 years or so."

  "With military bases all over the world, " General Hutchison put in unnecessarily.

  "Well, they are good peacekeepers" said the Secretary-of-State-designate. "And God knows, the world needs a policeman. Japan and China would still be at war if it weren't for the Germans."

  "The line between peacekeeping and colonization is a very fine one," DCI Hawke observed.

  "That's true, " Callaway said, "but they've been fairly benign."

  "Yes. So far. And very generous to their defeated enemies," said Hawke.

  "Ah yes, England," Callaway said. "Anyone have any ideas about reducing tensions between us and Jolly Old England?"

  "I think we're destined to rub each other the wrong way," Hawke said. "We're continually on the verge of a trade war, or a trivial territorial dispute, like the one over Bermuda, or we're kicking each other's diplomats out of the country because of some kind of sex scandal. Or spying."

  "Well, we did fight two wars against each other," said Dr. Burton. "and we barely avoided two others. That’s a lot of bad blood."

  "Fortunately, England isn't powerful enough to be a real problem," Secretary-of-State designate Tennenbaum piped up. "She hasn't been the same since the Great War. It's almost 100 years later, and she still hasn't recovered from her loss of men and treasure."

  Callaway drew in a deep breath. "keep going, Director Hawke. What about France?"

  "France? Well, we're great friends with France," Hawke said, "but outside of fashion...and food...nobody takes France seriously. You know the saying, 'Don't buy anything with moving parts from France.' Since the Great War, when Germany grabbed off most of its industry, it's mostly been a stop on the European tourist circuit. It isn't any more important than, well, Japan or Russia."

  "Now that you bring up those two..." Callaway promoted.