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

  "It is I, Estavan Sandoval, your Excellency" said the old man, "I am here for our weekly conference."

  "Just a moment, Minister Sandoval."

  Minister Sandoval obediently stood at the closed door, waiting for permission to open it. After two humiliating minutes, it came. "You may enter, Minister Sandoval."

  The old gentleman nervously cracked open the door and peered inside. Twenty paces away, a big bear of a man with a black eyepatch, wearing a uniform heavy with ribbons and medals, sat behind a marble-topped desk the size of a ping pong table. He was buttoning the top button of his pants. "Come, come, come, Minister," he said. "I haven't got all day."

  "Yes, El Presidente Garcia." He walked up to the President's desk, across a rug so thick his shoes almost disappeared.

  "Sit, sit, sit," said Presidente Garcia, impatiently gesturing at a narrow, straight back wooden chair. Minister Sandoval swiftly obeyed.

  "Tell me," Garcia asked, "At what price are we currently selling oil to the North American Union?" It seemed a benign inquiry.

  "Sixty-seven dollars," said the Minister of Petroleum.

  Garcia spun around in his chair, so that he was facing a floor-to-ceiling window, out of which, on a relatively unpolluted day like this, he could see Popocatépetl, the 17,800 foot tall volcano, Mexico's second highest mountain. It had erupted quite spectacularly a couple of years ago and was even now belching thick black smoke.

  El Presidente twirled around to face his oil minister once more. "I want you to raise the price, to $70 a barrel, starting next Monday."

  The Minister of Petroleum blinked in surprise. "But Excellency, we are already two dollars over the world price at the well head. There will be protests."

  "Oh, they will object, Minister Sandoval. They will squeal like pigs. And so, after two or three months, we will slowly begin to reduce the price—but not before we have added $10 billion to our revenue stream."

  "There are the Arabian discoveries," Minister Sandoval warned.

  "Yes, but it will be years before they can be fully exploited, and who knows if the estimates are accurate."

  Sandoval considered this. "The NAU is debating nuclear power, your Excellency. If we raise the price of oil, we will encourage its proponents."

  "I just want to give them a sharp little squeeze, Minister," El Presidente said, grinning, his voice gruff. "I want to remind their new President of their dependence—without frightening them too much, of course."

  Minister Sandoval anxiously tugged at his mustache, then stopped when he realized what he was doing. "Still," he said, "I am concerned."

  El Presidente fixed his single eye on his subordinate and the gap between his eyebrows—two bushy black caterpillars—closed significantly. Among his associates this was considered an unmistakable evidence of vexation.

  "On the other hand," Sandoval hastened to say, "Your plan should raise the revenue you mentioned quite easily."

  Garcia smiled, then stretched mightily, the medals on his uniform tinkling musically. "Good. Then we are agreed."

  "Yes, El Presidente, of course."

  "Issue the order, Minister Sandoval."

  "Certainly, your Excellency."

  Garcia made a motion with his fingers, as though he were brushing lint from his perfectly-pressed uniform. Sandoval stood, offered something between a bow and a nod and awkwardly backed out of the room. He stepped right into the path of a middle-aged bureaucrat, with heavily-gelled glossy black hair, a somewhat portly fellow, who generated an aura of considerable self-importance. This one wore a spotless white silk suit

  "Watch yourself, old man," said Mr. Silk Suit. He looked into Presidente Garcia's office. "Are you ready for me?" he asked with an obsequious smile.

  Garcia trained his good eye on his new visitor. "Ah, Minister Villarreal. Yes, yes, yes. Come in. Take a chair."

  Trade Minister Villarreal did as he was told, planting himself in the same, straight-backed wooden chair Petroleum Minister Sandoval had just vacated.

  "Where is the report?" Garcia asked. "You did bring the report, didn't you?"

  "Yes, of course. Of course." Villarreal nervously slipped a hand into his inside jacket pocket and came out with a couple of printed pages, which he handed to El Presidente.

  Garcia slipped on a pair of heavy horn-rimmed glasses, which magnified both his eye and his eyepatch. He studied the report carefully, chewing his lower lip, frowning. "This stinks," he growled. "You promised—promised—much more.”

  "Yes, your Excellency, I know," Villarreal said, "but I have a good explanation."

  "I sincerely hope you do."

  "On the plus side, we have increased manufactured goods exports by 2.3%, and profits by 4.5%," Villarreal said. "This is short of the 10% I promised, but as you know, we had an usual number of hurricanes in the Gulf this fall. Acts of God."

  Garcia leaned back in his ergonomic desk chair, which perfectly supported his bulk and its peculiarities, and mulled over what his trade minister had told him. "You had better keep a tighter rein on God this coming summer," he warned. He tore the report in half and handed Villarreal both pieces.

  "I'm sure we will do better this year," Minister Villarreal said.

  "Is that your promise?" Garcia asked.

  "Well, yes. Certainly," Villarreal said. "Although if we had ports on the Atlantic..." He stopped with he saw Garcia's expression tighten up. "Will that be all, Presidente Garcia?"

  El Presidente observed his minister for several disquieting minutes. "For now," he said.

  Villarreal departed. The back of his silk suit was accordioned with sweat-generated wrinkles. El Presidente noticed this and smiled.

  Ten minutes later, another person approached Garcia's door—Hector Herrera, Mexico's director of central intelligence, a slender, well-dressed man with delicate features and a neat goatee. He was wearing sunglass with tiny, oval lenses barely large enough to cover his eyes.

  "Is he alone?" Herrera asked Rosalita.

  "Yes, Minister Villarreal just left. Shall I tell him you're here?"

  Instead of answering the question, Herrera removed his sun glasses, opened Garcia's office door and walked right in.

  "Good morning, Miguel," he said.

  "Ah, Hector, Hector, Hector," Garcia said, sighing.

  Herrera took a seat in a club chair near Garcia's desk.

  "Hector, I am surrounded by morons and incompetents."

  "It is one of life's more annoying burdens," Herrera said, sympathetically.

  "I keep reliving old disappointments," Garcia said.

  "I understand," Herrera said. "But new triumphs may lie ahead."

  "I am getting older," Garcia complained.

  "Nonsense. You are still at the height of your powers."

  "Perhaps, but for how long? I am having pains in my hips."

  "You're still twice the man anyone else is, Miguel," Herrera said. "And I'm sure Rosalita agrees with me, not to mention Abrille and Guadalupe."

  Garcia laughed. "I pay them to talk about me," he said. He swiveled around toward the window, just as Popocatépetl let loose an enormous burp of black smoke. They watched together, waiting for another, but volcano decided to take a few minutes off.

  "It's going to be 15 years since New Orleans," Garcia said, leaning back in his chair and assuming a contemplative pose." And we haven't done a thing."

  "We couldn't," Herrera said. "Since they built the Bourque Line, their defenses..."

  Garcia's head snapped around. His face had turned the color of cordovan. There were two names one didn’t mention in his presence, that of Buddy Bourque, the Confederate President, and that of Estelle Garcia, El Presidente’s beloved young daughter, who died in a fire at the age of eight, an even which triggered her mother’s suicide.

  "I'm sorry, Miguel," Herrera said quickly. "I'm an idiot. I didn't mean to mention his name, it just slipped out. I..."

  "When I hear that name, it is like a scab being ripped off my private parts. I feel that the wound
will never heal."

  "I'm truly sorry, Miguel."

  El Presidente shrugged, resigned to his fate. "Ah, it is already forgotten. But tell me, Hector, how is our little project coming?"

  "No real progress yet," Herrera said. He took a critical look at his sun glasses and began polishing them. "Three of our people have applied for West Wing jobs, but so far, we haven't been able to place anyone. Of course, we maintain good contacts in the NAU House and Senate. But the election cleared out two of our best agents."

  "What about that woman you used to get to President Exley, Hector?"

  "You mean Carmen Gomez? You have seen pictures of Callaway's wife, haven't you?"

  "Hmmpf. Yes, I have seen pictures. She could use some more meat on her bones, in my opinion, but..."

  Herrera smiled. "Yes, I remember. You prefer the juicy ones."

  "And the loud ones," Garcia added.

  They smiled at shared memories.

  "I do have some good news for you," Herrera said. "We have succeeded in getting a man into our CSA friend's inner circle."

  Garcia sat up straight. "Really? How close."

  "He rides in the Presidential limousine and accompanies the President almost wherever he goes," Herrera said proudly.

  "Impressive," Garcia said. "You mean the President's driver?"

  "Guess again."

  "His secretary," Garcia said, his eye twinkling.

  "Try again."

  El Presidente studied the man sitting across from him, as though he might find clues in his face. "His physical trainer?"

  "I doubt he has a physical trainer."

  "Then who?"

  Herrera smiled. "His biographer, Gerard Pinckney. His mother is...oh, you wouldn't want to know."

  Garcia laughed and clapped his hands in delight. "Wonderful!" he said. "His biographer! You are a genius, Hector. No. I am a genius—for making you chief of intelligence."

  Herrera held up a hand and retrieved his vibrating cell phone from an inner jacket pocket. "Diego," he said, annoyed, "I told you to hold my calls. I am in conference with El Presidente. What? He said what? What were his exact words?" Herrera listened for a few moments, shaking his head in surprise. "Tell him we need that confirmed," he said. Finally, he hung up and turned toward Garcia in a mixture of delight and disbelief. "Timing," he finally said.

  "What?"

  "We have gotten our first report from biographer Pinckney. And it is a great surprise."

  "Must I torture you to find out what he said?" Garcia asked, only half-kidding.

  "He said that he is certain that Buddy Bourque—excuse the name—is terminally ill."

  El Presidente stared at his intelligence chief. "Say again."

  "He believes Bourque—pardon me—is dying."

  "Bourque told him that?"

  "No. He's pretending he's fine. But Pinckney went with him to a doctor's appointment, and from Bourque's mood and remarks afterward, he thought it was pretty obvious."

  Garcia put his hands together, almost in prayer. "Is he positive—or just guessing?"

  "He says he's 99% sure. I've ordered him to confirm his suspicions."

  "Tell him how important it is that we know for sure," Garcia instructed. "Tell him that if Bourque doesn't die, he will. And very painfully. Frighten him."

  Herrera smiled. "Consider it done."

  "If this is true, Hector," Garcia reflected, "it may change everything."

  "I understand."

  "It may even alter the past."

  They sat there, lost in thought, contemplating the enormity of what they had just learned, how it might change their fate and the course of the world.

  El Presidente Garcia touched a button on his intercom. "Rosalita, tell General Espinosa I would like to see him immediately."

  Fifteen minutes later, in walked General Carlos Espinosa, chief of staff of the Mexican armed forces, a large man in all respects. Even on a cool day, when he was at rest and calm, Espinosa tended to sweat a lot. Today, being rather warm, and since he'd been summoned without explanation, and had to race to comply, his green dress uniform was dark with sweat and his broad upper lip was dripping.

  "Come in, General Espinosa," Garcia instructed. "Have a seat."

  Espinosa obeyed warily, and nodded at Hererra.

  The two men told him the news and he immediately grasped its implications. "This man's death may also be a mortal blow to the Confederacy. He's been holding it together with his bare hands for years, and there is no one to succeed him."

  "Exactly so," said Presidente Garcia. He handed Espinosa a perfectly-folded snow-white handkerchief and fluttered his fingers near his lips. Espinosa wiped himself and offered to return it, but Garcia declined.

  "We may have an exceptional opportunity," Hererra said.

  "But the window may be brief," Garcia said. "The Norteamericanos may also see this as an opportunity."

  "That is true," said Hererra. "Especially if we do not move quickly."

  "This is why you have summoned me, Presidente?" Espinosa asked cautiously.

  "Yes," said Garcia. "I want to know if you've completed the invasion plans I ordered you to draw up when I promoted you. And I want to know how long it will take you to set them in motion."

  El Presidente and his intelligence chief looked expectantly at Espinosa, who was forced once more to wipe his upper lip.

  "I do have a plan, Presidente," said General Espinosa. "It is an excellent plan. Of course, I am not prepared to present it at this moment—all of the maps and diagrams are in locked filing cabinets in my office..."

  "No matter," Garcia said, "I do not need to see the exact details, at least not now. But I would like you to give us an overall picture of what you have in mind. Use my wall maps."

  Espinosa wiped his upper lip. "As you wish, Presidente." He made his way to the roll-up maps hanging from the office's south wall, found one marked Confederate States of America and pulled it down. Suddenly, the pull-down bar slipped out of his sweaty hand and the map re-rolled itself with a resounding thwack. Espinosa wiped his hands on his pants and tried again, this time with success. He looked back at Garcia and Hererra and smiled nervously.

  "Now here," Espinosa said, sweeping a hand down the border between Texas, on the one hand, and Arkansas and Louisiana on the other, "now here, we have the Confederacy's primary fortifications, an impenetrable line of pillboxes and thousands of artillery pieces and anti-aircraft guns."

  "I hope you're not suggesting a direct attack," Garcia said.

  "No, Presidente, of course not," General Espinosa explained. "If we massed our forces and our mechanized units, I think we could break through the Bourque line—excuse me. But the casualties would be unacceptable."

  "We have all assumed that for many years," Hererra said dryly.

  "And correctly," Espinosa said. "And down here, we have the port of New Orleans. As we know, a naval attack on New Orleans is, at best, problematic."

  "What makes you say that?" Garcia asked. His voice was toneless.

  Espinosa now realized his mistake. "Well, history shows us..."

  "Shows us what?"

  "I mean, when we tried..."

  Garcia gazed at the man. "Let me ask you a question, General Espinosa. Do you think that what happened at New Orleans has—how shall I put it?—slipped my mind?"

  The sweat rolled off Espinosa's lip and he dabbed at it ineffectively. "No, of course not," he said. "We all remember the great courage you showed in the face of impossible odds."

  El Presidente, who knew when he was being worked, decided to let the man off the hook. He smiled slightly. "So, General, does your plan consist of telling us what we cannot do?"

  "No, your Excellency, of course not. What I'm saying is that my plan avoids these Confederate strong points. Instead, we shall stage amphibious landings at four separate locations—first Panama City, then Pensacola, then Mobile and finally Gulfport."

  "In that order?" Hererra asked.

  "Yes—but four ho
urs apart. The first three are feints. Our real objective will be Gulfport."

  "Interesting," said Garcia. "Why the feints?"

  "To draw Confederate troops east, away from the Bourque line, and also to force them to rush reinforcements from the population centers on Eastern seaboard."

  "Ah, I see," Garcia said. "But you said your real objective was Gulfport. What did you mean?"

  Espinosa turned back to the map. He put a finger on Gulfport, then traced a line north, than west. "From Gulfport, we will advance to the north and west, and cut New Orleans off from the rest of the Confederacy."

  "Nothing naval?" Garcia asked.

  "Well, we might send a naval force from Port Arthur, but I don't think it will be necessary."

  "Why not?" Asked Hererra. "The Confederacy's forces won't be strong enough to handle the attack from Gulfport?"

  Espinosa smiled. "They'll have something else to worry about. A day after we attack the Gulf coast, we'll stage amphibious landings on the Atlantic coast as well. They won't know what to protect. And they won't be able to get European help, since they won't control their own ports."

  Garcia considered the plan thoughtfully. "I like your basic idea, General, but there is another way to do it."

  "I am always most grateful for your suggestions," Espinosa said, much relieved.