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

  Garcia went to the map. "I'm thinking we could simply reverse the order of the attacks—hit the Atlantic coast first, get them moving their forces east, then, just before they get there, hit the Gulf coast with everything we have."

  "Yes," Espinosa said, excited, "that would work perfectly. The whole idea is to get them running from east to west, while we close the pincers around New Orleans. When they send forces to lift the siege, we capture all the population centers on the East Coast. Game over. And before the NAU knows what's happening."

  Garcia turned to Hererra. "What do you think, Hector?"

  "I am..." He paused, trying for the right word, "I am intrigued," he said.

  Espinosa beamed. He waited for a compliment from Garcia.

  Instead, he got a question. "If I gave you the green light today," said Presidente Garcia, " How long will it take to assemble, train and equip the invasion force? How soon could we strike?"

  Espinosa's face took on a cunning expression and the wheels inside his head began spinning in high gear. "Well," he said, "that's a complicated question. Since, um, New Orleans, our forces have been in a defensive posture—as you ordered. We've fortified our coastlines and built anti-aircraft batteries around all of our major cities. Our entire army is committed to manning these defenses."

  "I am aware of this," Garcia said.

  "What about the navy?" Hererra asked.

  "I have strictly obeyed El Presidente's orders," Espinosa said. "After New Orleans, we decommissioned our ageing warships and concentrated on building up the Coast Guard—new torpedo boats, anti-submarine vessels, fast cruisers for coastal defense."

  Hererra shot Espinosa a contemptuous look. "You fear a Confederate submarine attack?"

  "I follow orders," said Espinosa.

  "We're off the subject now," Garcia said. "How soon can we be ready to attack the CSA?"

  Espinosa went into calculation mode again. "We have to build a fleet of landing craft," he said. "We need at least 400. Right now, we have just two."

  "We will mass-produce them," Garcia said.

  Espinosa thought a moment. "We will need at least 100,000 men well-trained in assault tactics. We barely have enough instructors to train them."

  "We will quadruple our recruitment program and double enlistment bonuses," Garcia said. "We will intensify training..."

  Hererra regarded El Presidente with interest. "You've already made a decision?"

  Garcia stopped in mid-sentence. Then he smiled. "I believe I have, Hector. In fact, I know I have. Are you with me?"

  "Miguel, you needn't even ask the question."

  "I know, I know," Garcia said. "You have never failed me Hector."

  "And that is because you have never failed me," Hererra said.

  Espinosa tried not to listen to the friendly banter.

  "General Espinosa," Garcia said, turning back to him, "when can you be ready?

  "Maybe a better question is, how long will Bourque live?" Hererra said.

  "Finding that out is your job," said Garcia. "And the sooner you do, the better."

  "Agreed."

  Presidente Garcia once more turned to General Espinosa. "When?" he asked, with just a trace of annoyance.

  "Six months at the earliest—if we make an intense, all-out effort."

  "And if I ordered you to do it in four?"

  "Then I would be two months late."

  Garcia spun around again, and gazed out toward the volcano. A thin dribble of black smoke meandered into the stratosphere. After a few moments, El Presidente swiveled around once more. "The timing might be just right," he told Hererra.

  "That's a good possibility," Hererra agreed, "If he's seriously ill now, he's going to be really sick in six months, should he live that long."

  "Maybe he'll be in the hospital, or in a coma," Garcia mused. Then he had another thought. "But wait. When he dies, someone will take his place, or try to. Who?"

  Hererra contemplated the question. "Well, there's the Vice President, Kooter Barnes. He's first in the order of succession."

  Garcia grinned. "Bourque's sidekick? Isn't he mostly deaf? Anyhow, he couldn't even govern a Boy Scout troop. And everyone knows it. I doubt he'd even take the job."

  "You're probably right," Hererra agreed. "The next guy in line would be their House Speaker, Isaac Honaker."

  "Honaker…didn't he just have a heart attack? Or was it a stroke?"

  "A stroke. He's hanging on by a thread."

  "I don't think we have to worry about him," Garcia said.

  "Yeah, probably not. Then there's the majority leader, Billy Belcher. But I don't think the Confederacy would accept him."

  Garcia inclined his head toward the intelligence chief, curious. "And why is that?"

  "Remember the scandal about him and the young boy?"

  "Yes—but wasn't he cleared?"

  "He bought his way out of trouble that time, but there's more on the way. Worse, according to my sources."

  Garcia grinned again, then turned to his military chief. "General Espinosa," he said, "Are you sure we'll be ready in six months?"

  "I can practically guarantee it," Espinosa said.

  Garcia fixed his gaze on Espinosa, and when he spoke, his voice was like ice. "Practically isn't good enough, Carlos. I need to be absolutely certain. Tell me you are absolutely certain."

  Espinosa wiped his upper lip again and swallowed hard enough to make his Adam's apple bounce. "Yes, Presidente, I am certain"

  "Absolutely certain."

  "Yes. Absolutely certain."

  "Good," Garcia said, throwing up his hands in a gesture of satisfaction. "That wasn't so difficult, was it?"

  Espinosa shook his head in the negative.

  "We do have one problem," Hererra said. "We must find a way to do this that doesn't make us look like vultures."

  Garcia grinned. "But we are vultures, Hector. Are we not?"

  "We are. But I don't want the world to think of us that way."

  Garcia shrugged and leaned back in his chair. "Neither do I. But the strong swallow the weak. It is a law of nature."

  Hererra nodded. "Of course, but we must give the rest of the world an acceptable reason to forgive our aggression. If we do not, the League of Nations might condemn us and public opinion might force our trading partners to boycott us. We might even face economic sanctions."

  Garcia was sitting up straight again, and frowning. "What can we do? The truth will be obvious."

  "We can make the Confederacy seem like the aggressor," Hererra suggested. "We can make our invasion look like justified retaliation."

  "Will anyone really believe that?" Garcia asked.

  "Probably not. But they will find it convenient to say that they do."

  Garcia considered the idea. "And just how will we do this, Hector?"

  Espinosa spoke up. "An incident in the Gulf would do it. An 'unprovoked' attack on one of our ships."

  "You see," Hererra said to Garcia. "It is a simple matter."

  "Tell me more," Garcia instructed General Espinosa.

  "We send an oil tanker into the Gulf, blow a hole in it, get on the radio and say we've been attacked by a CSA warship, then let the tanker sink. All aboard lost—50 men, let's say. And a huge oil spill."

  "We kill 50 men?" Garcia asked.

  "Of course not. We have only a couple of men aboard and they get away before the bomb goes off."

  "I see," said Garcia. "Then we make a lot of noise about Confederate aggression, demand restitution, even territorial concessions. And Bourque will refuse and deny everything."

  Espinosa grinned. "Yes, exactly. Then we stage another fake attack. When Bourque denies that one too, or his illness becomes public, that's when we strike."

  Garcia exchanged glances with Hererra. "What do you think, Hector?"

  "I think we have to be careful not to be caught," Hererra said. "But if we can pull it off, no one will protest our, um, retaliation."

  "Set it up, General Espinosa. Make it
foolproof."

  Chapter Four

  When Callaway got to his private office at 7:30 the next morning, a slim, loose-leaf binder was sitting smack in the middle of his desk. Someone had written "CSA polling data" on it, in longhand.

  He opened the binder and slowly started leafing through it. A few minutes later, Eric Wang walked into the room, an identical binder under his arm.

  "'Morning, Boss. Find anything surprising there?"

  "Hey, Eric. No, it's about what I expected—our people aren't terribly fond of President Bourque and his country. He gets a 27% approval rating from NAU residents. And the Confederacy doesn't do much better—32%."

  "Well, there's a lot to dislike," Wang said. "The segregation, the terrible schools, border, the overpowering religiosity…"

  Callaway held up a hand to stop him. "Yeah, I know, I know, grits, country music and red necks. But looking down on the CSA is a pretty cheap way to feel superior."

  "Nevertheless, it's a goddamned national sport. Has been for as long as I can remember."

  "I know." Callaway acknowledged. "But it does us no credit."

  Wang wasn't finished. He opened his binder. "Just look at this—'Favors increased trade with the CSA: 11%. Favors increased cultural exchanges: 9%.' Sounds to me like we don't want any part of them."

  "I take it you'd like me to turn down Bourque's offer to talk?" Callaway asked.

  "It's really a no-brainer," Wang said. "There's nothing to be gained. And plenty of opportunities to do yourself damage."

  Callaway was not so easily put off. "You're sure nothing good could come it? You aren't even curious?

  "Hah! Of course I'm curious," Wang conceded. "To my knowledge, this is the first time they've asked for a Summit meeting in the—how long has it been?—150 years we've been two separate countries. But I have a pretty good idea what Bourque is after."

  "Please. Enlighten me."

  "He wants money," Wang said. "Probably a lot of money. I think they had another crop failure."

  "Good season for polyester?"

  "Something like that."

  Callaway thought a moment. "What could we get in return?"

  Wang laughed. "They don't have much. Their infrastructure is barely functioning. Their military is a generation behind. They do have that Seven Mile Bridge in the keys, but what are they going to do, sell it to us?"

  "Maybe Bourque will offer us Miami Beach." The President joked.

  "What for? We already occupy it, at least during the winter."

  "So, you think we should tell Pickett thanks, but no thanks?"

  "That would be my advice, Mr. President." He looked at the President hopefully, thinking that might settle it. But Callaway was a master at concealing his inner thoughts, which is why he'd made a fortune at poker in law school.

  Callaway weighed Wang's comments. "I wonder if Veronica would agree with you," he said, surprising his chief-of-staff. "Anyhow, this is her area. We'd better consult her."

  "I already know what she'll say," Wang said. But he decided not to argue. He flipped open his cell and made the call. "Just happens she's in the West Wing," he said. "She'll be up in a moment."

  And in a few moments, she was, preceded by a fraction of a second, by the Grand Tetons. "Good morning, Mr. President," she said. "hello, Eric."

  "Good morning, Veronica," said Callaway. "Have a seat."

  She settled herself in the room's most comfortable guest chair. "What's up?"

  "Something's happened that's in your area, Veronica." Callaway said.

  "It's probably not all that important," Wang said, "But we thought we should consult you."

  "Consult away," she said.

  "Well," said Callaway, "how would you characterize Buddy Bourque?”

  Her eyebrows went up. "Buddy Bourque? Hmmm. That's a question I certainly didn't expect. He’s very shrewd, very popular too. He’s a war hero, you know. And he has the pedigree—he’s a Lee. He runs the country pretty much the way he wants, with a nod here and there to democracy. Still, I think he’s going to be President for life.”

  "So he’s a dictator,” Wang said.

  Ms. Tennenbaum smiled benignly. "I wouldn’t put it that way, Eric. He’s really devoted to his country. He doesn’t have any serious opposition, but that’s because he’s so well loved.”

  "Well I guess that’s a diplomatic way of putting it," Wang said.

  “I am a diplomat, Eric,” Veronica pointed out.

  “I know. But I’m not.”

  President Callaway sighed. "Ah, Eric, Eric. Never fear. No one would ever mistake you for a diplomat."

  "I’ve seen how he operates," Wang said sharply. "I was Sen. Downey's chief of staff during the flu epidemic. He—and I—put together a group of Senators and we convinced Exley to issue an order opening up our hospitals to the CSA. The flu had hit them much harder than it hit us. Anyhow, they brought us their sickest patients. But not one of them was Black. Not one. That’s the Buddy Bourque I know.”

  "As I recall,” Callaway said, “Bourque was under a lot of pressure from his own people. Some of the bigger cities were dealing with civil unrest. Anyhow, that was then. This is now."

  "You may be wrong about that," Eric Wang said.

  "Don't tell me you're considering an overture…"

  "It's not us, Veronica," Callaway said. "It's Bourque."

  Her eyes, which had benefited from a nip and a tuck and some artfully applied mascara, now widened. Then she grinned. "You're shitting me," she said.

  "He sent an emissary," said the President. "We talked to him, yesterday just before dinner."

  "The Ambassador?"

  "No," said Eric Wang, "a private messenger from the man himself. A young Black fellow."

  Ms. Tennenbaum's eyes widened again. "Black, you say?"

  "Man named Roy Pickett," Wang said. "Name familiar?"

  She gave it some thought. "Vaguely. He's been with Bourque a long time. I always thought he was just a body man. A glorified servant. He wasn't asking for asylum or anything?"

  "He was here to deliver a personal message to me from Bourque," Callaway said.

  "Which was?"

  "Bourque wants to meet with me. Confidentially."

  "Confidentially? He wants to meet confidentially?" Ms. Tennenbaum said, dumbfounded. "What century is he living in?"

  "Maybe he could pull it off in the Confederacy," Wang said.

  "Well, it's out of the question here," Ms. Tennenbaum said. "I'm not even positive we can keep this conversation secret."

  Wang laughed, then stopped abruptly when he realized he was the only one who was amused.

  "What do you think, Veronica?" Callaway asked. "Should I break bread with him?"

  "Look, off the top of my head, I'd say no. I mean, what for? What could we gain? And I can just imagine how smiling Jack Sullivan would ream you out on The Edge."

  "Yeah," Wang said, imitating Sullivan's theatrical television voice, "Callaway's agreement to meet with Bourque is just more proof that our new President condones racism."

  "Well, maybe he'd have a point," Callaway said. "But Veronica, you said 'off the top of my head.'"

  "Yes. And I do have a second thought. I'm curious. What does Bourque want?"

  "Money, we figure," Wang told her.

  Ms. Tennenbaum turned the idea over in her mind. "I’m inclined to agree. Anyway, I can't speak to the domestic side, but as your Secretary of State-designate, if you met with Bourque, it would make my life harder. I'd have to do some serious 'splaining to our friends. Lotta downside, no upside that I can see."

  "That's just what I thought you'd say," Wang told her, pleased.

  "Thanks for your advice, Veronica," said the President. "What you say makes a lot of sense."

  "Thank you Mr. President," Ms. Tennenbaum said, beaming. Then she turned to Wang. "Now do you think you can get me confirmed before the end of the month."

  "I'm sure going to try," Wang said.

  "You do that, dear," Ms. Tennenba
um said, putting a firm but motherly hand on Wang's shoulder. Then she headed out of the door, and both men, being polite, turned their eyes away from her departing figure.

  "So what do you think, Mr. President?" Wang asked, trying to read his man. "Are you ready to make a decision?"

  "Almost," President Callaway said. "But let's give this just a little more thought. Are we absolutely sure Bourque wants money from us? Couldn't he have something else in mind? Maybe we should at least listen to him."

  "Charl…Mr. President, there are just too many ways it could go wrong. It could be some kind of trick, meant to embarrass you or the administration. Maybe it's a political power play for his home audience. I don't know. But I'm pretty sure that if you meet with him you're going to end up with egg on your face."

  "You're probably right, Eric, but still—it's such a surprising offer. It would be a shame to let the opportunity slip away if something good could come from it."

  "Mr. President, you are at the very beginning of your administration. If you and Mr. Buddy Bourque meet and it all goes wrong, you could blow your whole agenda. You'd be putting everything we've been hoping to achieve in jeopardy."

  Callaway smiled. "Eric, that's a bit of an overstatement, don't you think?"

  "Not really. Look at it this way, Mr. President," Wang said. "Do you really want to risk your hard-won political capital by meeting with the much unloved President of our least-liked neighbor and listening to him beg?"

  "He's only unloved here, Eric. Veronica says he's very well-regarded in the CSA."

  Wang frowned. "I really think we should get Marty Katz's reading on this. We need to discuss the political ramifications."

  "Good idea," President Callaway said. "Call him."