ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? Page 4

  "Yes, Japan and Russia. Might as well throw China in there as well," Hawke said. "The three sleeping giants. May they continue to snooze.”

  Suddenly, large square red lights in all four corners of the room began flashing almost stroboscopically. Moments later, a shrill warning siren sounded three times. A score of well-armed marines poured into the room and set up machine guns to guard the doors. Thick steel plates nosily slid down the walls and thudded closed, turning the situation room into a huge steel box.

  Vice President Garvey leaped to his feet, opened his mouth and sat down again, completely flummoxed. Ms. Tennenbaum just stared at the Marines, paralyzed. General Hutchison folded his arms across his chest, and exchanged an calculatedly bored glance with DCI Hawke.

  The President was not so patient. "What's going on?" he demanded, confronting the nearest Marine, a grim-faced officer with his gun drawn.

  "Please come with me, Mr. President," the officer said, taking Callaway by the arm and helping him to his feet. On the wall opposite the door, two panels opened automatically, revealing a long, poorly-lit concrete tunnel leading out of the situation room.

  The President went along with the officer, but continued to question him, in a surprisingly steady voice. "What's happening? Has there been an attack of some kind?"

  "We've had a main gate intrusion attempt," said the Marine. "An SUV crashed into the wrought iron entrance, apparently with intent to gain White House access."

  "But the intruder has been stopped and caught?"

  "I have no information about that. But, since the intruder could have accomplices, standard drill is to get you to safe quarters immediately."

  Callaway nodded, "Myself and the room's other occupants," he said.

  "That is correct, sir."

  Callaway found himself being hustled into the tunnel, the rest of the group nervously following along behind him. A pair of Marines, weapons at the ready,

  brought up the rear. The President and his aides had been here before, during the transition process, but the sudden alarm caught them all off guard, raising fears, stripping away dignity. Vice President Garvey seemed particularly dazed and confused.

  It took the little procession nearly two minutes to walk the length of the tunnel, which ended in a smaller version of the Situation Room, equipped with every communication device and life support system known to man. Adjoining it were bathrooms, a kitchen, sleeping quarters, and a larder sufficiently well-stocked to feed 100 people for six months.

  The President and his companions could have taken seats at the table in the center of the room and continued their meeting, but instead, they milled about, uncomfortably.

  "What's that noise?" asked Eric Wang, anxiously.

  "Noise?" asked the Vice President, eyes wide with fear, "What noise?"

  "That hum—don't you hear it?"

  "Ah," said General Hutchison. "That's the generators. This place is totally-self sufficient. It even has an independent air-supply supply system."

  "It still feels very stuffy," said Veronica Tennenbaum. "I'm having a hard time catching my breath."

  "That's just surprise and tension," said DCI Hawke. "The feeling will pass."

  Callaway's eyes were on the Marine officer, who was listening intently to his earpiece. "What news?"

  "No sign of another attack," the officer said. "The intrusion has been stopped."

  Callaway smiled tentatively. "What do they say about the intruder?"

  "Actually, there were two of them," the Marine officer said. "Both were dressed in military uniforms, wearing IIM patches. We have them in custody."

  The President was puzzled. "IMM?"

  "No, IIM—the Independent Idaho Militia. They're one of the more active anti-government groups in the Pacific northwest. We're old friends."

  "Were they armed?" Secretary Tennenbaum asked. "Any casualties?"

  "Yes, with automatic weapons," the Marine officer said. He cupped a hand over his earpiece again. "No shots were fired. The intruders are a bit bruised, but not seriously hurt."

  "Bruised, eh?" Wang said. "I wonder how that happened."

  The Marine officer permitted himself a small smile, but said nothing.

  For the rest of the hour, they skipped around the globe, giving short shrift to Africa ("Mostly colonies," Burton said. "Mainly German"), to South America ("Bananas, music and abject poverty" was the way Tennenbaum summed it up), and to Arabia ("Camels and sand," said Ms. Tennenbaum, to which Director Hawke added "and evidently large reserves of petroleum.)

  None of these vast areas, the President was assured, presented any immediate problems or opportunities, and any conflicts they had with each other were the province of the League of Nations, not the North American Union.

  Next came President Callaway's meeting with the Council of Economic Advisors, where the Treasury Secretary-designate, Sherman Mullhouser, the one-time 'lion of Wall Street,' a slim, gimlet-eyed man who wore a better suit and much better shoes than the President, rattled on for a good half hour about the competitive threat from Mexico's manufacturing sector and the threat to NAU's independence, because of our reliance on Texas oil.

  "Mark my words," the Treasury Secretary-designate warned, "Mexico intends to dominate North America and minimize us. It hopes someday to challenge Germany for the economic leadership of the world. And Presidente Garcia will seize any opening he can find. He is the ultimate opportunist."

  "I guess that means I should be very nice to the German Ambassador." Callaway said. "I'm having lunch with him in a half hour."

  "Yes,” Mullhouser suggested. “Arrange to play tennis with him. Let him win."

  Wang was suddenly alert. "My cellphone," he explained. He flipped it open and listened. "What?" He said. "You're kidding me. No, no, no...put him in the Oval Office. We'll be there in a couple of minutes."

  Callaway looked at his Chief of Staff with raised eyebrows.

  "Howard Exley is here."

  "Why? Good Lord, why?"

  "Courtesy call, I guess," Wang said.

  Callaway leaned back, closed his eyes and put his hands on top of his head, fingers intertwined. Then he sat up again. "Secretary Mullhouser, we'll have to continue this at another time."

  "Of course, Mr. President."

  Callaway and Wang walked briskly toward the Oval Office. "All the interruptions—I feel as though I never get to finish what I’ve started. Is that one of the Presidency’s traditional hazards, Eric?"

  "I suspect it is," Wang said.

  President Exley was sitting on a couch, displaying his famous hayloft of orangish-brown hair, a color seen only on men approaching 80, and his trademark Steinway smile, complete with 50 or 60 blindingly white teeth, probably not the originals.

  He rose when Callaway and Wang entered the Oval Office and extended a hand, which Callaway shook.

  "To what do we owe the honor, Howard?" Callaway asked.

  "I just happened to be in the neighborhood, Charlie," Exley said, grinning.

  "Any trouble getting in?" Wang asked.

  "I know the doorman."

  They sat. "So, Mr. President," Callaway said, "I thought you'd had enough of this place."

  "Just a few things to clean up," said the former President, in his famous rumbling bass. "Then I'm headed to Hawaii and I'm not coming back."

  "Howard Exley the beachcomber?' Callaway joked.

  "Something like that. Anyhow, my conscience has been bothering me."

  "Really? Why? Did you feed me too much Republican propaganda?"

  That got a laugh. "Not enough, probably. But no. I just feel I have an obligation to warn you."

  "About what?"

  "Well, I've been listening to you talk about bipartisanship and I admire what you've been saying. I know the difference between truth and bullshit, and I know you mean what you've said..."

  "But?"

  Exley ran a hand through his age-appropriate hair. "It's just this, Charlie, I want you to know that your chances of getting
real cooperation from my party are somewhere between zero and none."

  "We're not so sure of that, Mr. President," said Eric Wang. "I've been talking to the Republican Congressional leadership and Leader Wendell has given me solemn assurances..."

  Exely was shaking his head. "You don't understand, Eric. That's just duplicity and deception. Wendell is a weasel. I wouldn't believe him if he told me it was Tuesday. I endorsed him for President, but I’m glad he lost. Now, his only purpose is to shut down our friend Charlie, here. He and the others have promised themselves your Boss will be a one-term President..."

  Callaway smiled. "I may have something to say about that, Howard."

  "Well, I hope so, Charlie, for your sake. All I can tell you is that they're going to bust a gut trying to make you look like Benedict Arnold, a black Benedict Arnold, if you'll forgive me. "

  Callaway shrugged.

  "President Exley," Wang said, "With all due respect. I don't think any reasonable person is going to be fooled by that."

  "I know," Exley said, "but they're not going to be appealing to reasonable people. They're going to be appealing to the morons and miscreants among us."

  "A small fraction, thank God," Callaway said.

  Exley looked at his successor almost tenderly. "Ah, Charlie. You have so much to learn, and you surely will. Just be prepared for the shit storm that is about to rain down on you."

  "I'll keep my umbrella at the ready, Mr. President," Callaway said with a grin.

  The former President slowly got to his feet. "Well then, Charlie, message delivered. My conscience is clear."

  "Thanks for the warning," Callaway said. "And thanks for dropping by."

  The two Presidents shook hands again. "Don't worry about me, Charlie, I know the way out."

  Callaway and Wang watched him depart.

  "What do you make of that, Eric?"

  "Decent man, trying to make himself useful. But I wouldn't take him too seriously."

  "Do you think he's going to make a habit of just dropping in?"

  "God, I hope not," said the President's Chief of Staff.

  Lunch with the German Ambassador went well, although it might have gone better if Callaway's German was as good as Ambassador Puttkamer's English. Still, there was promising talk of trade deals and increased German buying in the NAU and a brief discussion of a possible Callaway visit to Berlin, to meet Chancellor Walther Wohler.

  The meetings with Congressional leaders from both sides of the aisle were as friendly as birthday parties, but then they were solely intended as meet-and-greets. The subject of bipartisanship never even came up.

  Toward the end of the afternoon, the Chief of Staff fielded two cell phone calls of enough interest for him to inform his Boss. "The British Ambassador is begging off tea this afternoon," Wang reported. "His secretary says he's under the weather."

  "Under the table, more likely," Callaway said.

  "Be nice now," Wang said.

  "Do I have time to go upstairs and canoodle with Julia?"

  "Unfortunately no. As delightful as I'm sure that might be, you have another unexpected visitor and this one is much stranger than the ex-President."

  Callaway shot him a skeptical look. "And who might that be?"

  "An emissary from Buddy Bourque. At least that's what he says he is."

  "Buddy Bourque? President of the Confederate States Buddy Bourque? You're pulling my leg, Eric."

  "They've checked his credentials," Wang said. "Evidently, he is the real thing."

  "And he just shows up here? No request from their Ambassador?"

  "He says he's on a confidential mission. Their Ambassador isn't in on it."

  Callaway frowned. "What does he want?"

  "He wouldn't say," Wang said. "Except that he wanted to see you."

  Callaway sighed. There was no getting out of it. "I assume he's been through the magnetometer."

  "And a full body scan," Wang assured him.

  "What's his name?"

  "Roy Pickett."

  "Never heard of him."

  "He's a long-time Bourque associate, but his role isn't exactly clear. Some say he's Bourque's body man, others say he's a close advisor. By the way, he’s a Black man.”

  "Hmmm." Callaway checked his watch. "Well, since the British Ambassador canceled, I do have a few minutes. Might as well hear what he has to say. Where is he now?"

  "Reception."

  "Well, go get him. Bring him to the Oval office."

  "Make it your private office, Mr. President," Wang said. "This isn't a state occasion."

  "Ok. Make it happen, Eric."

  President Callaway was standing at a bookshelf in his private office when Eric Wang walked in with Roy Pickett. The two men stood face to face, taking the measure of each other, both Black, handsome, about the same height, dressed well—one face world-famous, the other unknown. They shook hands rather formally.

  "Mr. Pickett," acknowledged the President.

  "Mr. President," Pickett responded.

  "What can I do for you?"

  Pickett wasn't ready to say. He was drinking in his surroundings. "Very impressive, all this," he said, with a little wave of his hand. "A lot of people in my country would be amazed to see it—I mean, a Black man occupying a very powerful office, surrounded by all the trappings, with platoons of white men ready to do his bidding."

  Callaway, as usual, fielded the remark deftly. "A couple of years ago, I would have had trouble imaging it myself."

  "Our countries are very different," Wang observed rather sharply.

  "Can't argue with that," Pickett admitted.

  "I must say, Mr. Pickett, when I heard that we had a visitor—an emissary from President Bourque—you were not what I pictured,” Callaway said.

  Pickett laughed. "You expected a weather-beaten cracker with straw in his hair?"

  "Not exactly," Callaway said. "But not a young Black man either."

  "Yes, I can understand that," Pickett said. "Not a lot of Black people in the Confederacy’s political establishment.”

  Wang looked at Pickett curiously. "No. Except, evidently, for you."

  "Yes, except for me. President Bourque and I go way back. I'm kind of a special case." He turned slightly and took a closer look at a bookshelf. Callaway and Wang exchanged glances.

  Callaway took a book out of the shelf and handed it to Pickett. "This volume comes from John Adams’ personal library," he said.

  "John Adams," Pickett said. "You know, he's a part of our history too. President Bourque sometimes speaks of him."

  "Yes," Callaway said. "We have a lot of history in common. Why don't you take that, as a gift for President Bourque? That's ok, isn't it Eric?"

  "I doubt it," Wang said. "But you can probably get away with it."

  "Thank you very much," Pickett said.

  "Mr. Pickett," Wang continued, "You're here because President Bourque wants something from us. Would you be kind enough to tell us what that might be?"

  " President Callaway, President Bourque would like to arrange a face-to-face meeting with you. A confidential meeting."

  "A meeting?" Wang asked, "A summit?"

  "A confidential one, yes." He opened the book. "My God," he said, "this has an Adams bookplate in it. Is that his signature?"

  Callaway glanced down at the book and blinked. "I believe it is," he said.

  "You're sure you want President Bourque to have this?" Pickett asked. "I mean, well, considering the relationship between our countries.”

  "A friendly gesture never hurts," Callaway said. “So, tell me Mr. Pickett, why does your President want to meet with me?”

  “I assure you he has a very good reason, but he prefers to tell you himself.”

  “Um hmm,” Wang said, suspicious. "Are you at least willing to tell us when he hopes to have this confidential summit meeting, the one whose subject he isn’t ready to reveal?"

  "As soon as possible," Pickett said, ignoring Wang’s snide tone. "He'll arrange
his schedule to fit yours and he'll come here or anywhere else you choose."

  Wang parked his arms across his chest, body language screaming absolutely not, no chance, isn’t going to happen. "Hmmm," he said.

  But Callaway seemed intrigued. “The meeting must be very important to him, if he’s willing to be that accommodating.”

  "Look, Mr. Pickett," said Wang, "this is something we're going to have to discuss at some length. Give us a few days. We'll get be touch."

  Pickett considered Wang's offer. "How about this," he said, finally, "I'll talk to President Bourque tonight, see if I can convince him to give you an idea of what he's thinking, then I'll come back tomorrow and fill you in."

  Wang shook his head. "We're going to need some time..."

  "What am I doing tomorrow morning at, say, 11 o'clock," Callaway asked Wang..

  "Meeting with the French Ambassador I believe," Wang said.

  "Reschedule him, Eric."

  "O-kay," Wang said, sounding a little put out.

  Pickett broke out into a broad grin. "Thank you very much, Mr. President."

  They shook hands again.

  Wang pushed a button and a college-age young man appeared at the door, ready for escort duty. Pickett said his goodbyes and departed.

  "Get hold of Arthur Schwartz," Callaway told Wang. "We need a CSA polling data summary. On this desk by tomorrow morning at 9 a.m."

  Chapter Three

  The old gentleman raised his hand to knock on the door, then paused. He smoothed out his green uniform jacket, raised one leg at a time to shine his shoes on the back of his pants and brushed back his mustache.

  "How's his mood this morning, Rosalita?" he asked the pretty, dark-eyed secretary, who was busily filing an elaborately-decorated fingernail.

  "'Comme ci comme ça," she said with a shrug. "I haven't heard any shouting yet, but you know..."

  "Yes," the old gentleman said. "I know." He drew himself up to full height, took a deep breath and knocked timidly. There was no response. He knocked again, louder.

  "What?" a loud, gravelly voice called out. "Who's there?"