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

  "I begin to understand why you think this is so urgent," Wang admitted.

  The President took a deep breath and folded his arms across his chest. "So you're saying that Bourque's death will impact us too?"

  "I'm just asking you to consider what a Mexican takeover of the Confederacy would mean to your country—economically and politically."

  For a moment, they considered. Then Wang spoke. "Why didn't you tell us about Bourque earlier?"

  "Because I had hoped to persuade you without revealing all of our secrets," Pickett said.

  "Is that the last one?" Wang asked.

  "Yes. You know everything."

  They sat there, the three of them, saying nothing, not even looking at each other. Not a word for what seemed like several minutes.

  It was Callaway who spoke first. "There's just one thing," he said, addressing Pickett, "It can't be confidential. We have to meet openly. If we don't, it is bound to leak and we'll both be accused of making secret deals. And that would be a disaster."

  "Hey! Wait just a minute," Wang objected. "This needs to be discussed—and in private."

  "There'll be plenty of time for that," Callaway said.

  Pickett was holding his breath now. "Do I understand you right, Mr. President?"

  "You're very persuasive, Roy," said President Callaway. "Bourque chose you well."

  Pickett leaned back into the couch, closed his eyes and exhaled, totally spent.

  "Mr. President," Wang said almost angrily. "If you've really made this choice, you're going to have do a whole lot of persuading yourself."

  "I know."

  Pickett recovered a bit. "Can I convince you the meeting should be secret?"

  "No. You're going to lose me there. We can't just present the public with a fait accompli. Maybe President Bourque could get away with that, but not me. I need public support for whatever I do."

  "Wait a minute. Just what are you agreeing to, anyway?" Wang asked.

  Callaway turned to face his Chief-of-Staff. "It's a meeting, Eric," he said. "Nothing more, nothing less. A publicly announced meeting."

  Wang didn't let up. "Meetings have results, Mr. President. Something comes out of them. Something good…or something bad. What do you expect from this meeting?"

  "Hmmm," said the President. "Am I on the witness stand now?"

  Wang backed down instantly. "I'm sorry, Mr. President, I'm just, well, trying to understand what's happening here. Thinking about goals, you know."

  "I see," Callaway said. He was still a little annoyed. "Well, I think that CSA and the NAU might both benefit from a friendlier, closer relationship."

  "A trade deal and cultural exchanges?" Wang suggested.

  "Perhaps," the President said. "And maybe ways to strengthen North America's political stability."

  Wang was unwilling to push Callaway any harder, so he turned to Pickett. "What about you, Mr. Pickett? I can see what the Confederacy might gain from a Summit, but what could we get out of it?"

  Pickett didn't flinch. "I think the President and I are on the same page, Mr. Wang. President Bourque too. Agreements in our mutual interest."

  "Yes, I get the mutual interest part," Wang said. "But what if we want something tangible in addition?"

  "Tangible?" Pickett asked, suspicious. "Like what? I've already told you we're broke."

  Wang cocked his head reflectively. "Well, maybe some trade concessions—most favored nation cotton prices, for example. Or…" he had a new thought, "Maybe you could disarm that border between our countries and let people come and go as they like. Regardless of color, that is."

  Callaway looked at Wang with surprise. "Eric, how very Dudley Doright of you," he said. "But let me add to the list: Perhaps we could gain some social concessions—full citizenship for Blacks. Voting rights."

  This time, Pickett grinned broadly. "Well, I'm not empowered to negotiate," he said. "But I think we could talk about it.”

  "Could President Bourque sell it to the Confederacy?"

  "Mr. President," Pickett said, "Buddy Bourque could sell steak tartare to the founders of the International Vegetarian Society."

  Callaway laughed. "I think this will be even more difficult than that—not just for him, but for me."

  "You're absolutely sure you want to do this?" Wang asked the President.

  "I am. Are you with me on this one, Eric?"

  "Am I with you? Of course I am. Somebody's got to protect your ass."

  "Good. Eric, I'd like to introduce you to someone," Callaway said. "This is Roy Pickett. You can call him Roy. He's a smart guy. Dedicated. Doing something that's almost impossible. You're going to be his partner in this little enterprise we've been cooking up. You two are going to make it happen, and as soon as possible."

  Pickett caught Wang's eye and nodded.

  "And Roy, this is Eric Wang—Eric to you. He's an ornery son-of-a-bitch, hard to like sometimes, but whatever needs doing, he can get it done—no matter how hard it is. I'd like you to work with him. He has my full confidence and my authorization to do whatever is necessary."

  "It would be my privilege, Mr. President," Pickett said. "And Eric." He extended a hand to Eric Wang, who shook it, grinning sheepishly.

  "Well, Roy, I guess we'd better get to work," Wang said.

  Chapter Five

  Eric Wang's office was only a few steps down the hall from the Oval Office, but the two could hardly have been less alike. The Oval Office had an intrinsic serenity. It was stately, even regal. Wang's office looked like someone's spare room. Books and papers sat on the floor, in teetering piles. Leaking cardboard coffee cups, crumpled fast food wrappers and orphaned paper clips littered the desk.

  "I know, it's a mess," Wang told Pickett. "Sorry about that. But have a seat." Pickett looked at the guest chairs. All three of them were piled high with folders and files. "Just put the stuff on the floor, and make yourself comfortable," Wang instructed.

  Pickett chose the least cluttered chair and did as he was told.

  "I suppose you have an office something like this back at The Plantation, Roy," Wang surmised. He rose and closed his door, hoping to keep the West Wing commotion out of his office.

  "I have a little table in the vestibule of Bourque's office," Pickett said.

  "And yet…"

  "And so I hear everything he says and see everything he does."

  "I see. I guess you two are pretty tight."

  "Not many secrets between us," Pickett said, without explaining.

  "I see," Wang said. Then he asked, "So, tell me, will he be willing to go public?"

  "He won't like it. But yes. He'll listen to me."

  Wang nodded, impressed. "I wish I could say that about Callaway."

  "The President doesn't always do what you suggest, Eric?" The remark was accompanied by a slight smile.

  "Hah!" Wang said. "If he did, we would have turned you down."

  Pickett was surprised. "Even after I told you about Bourque? Do you still think he should have declined our offer?"

  "The answer is no. We have to meet. Bourque's death is going to change everything and we've got to be prepared."

  "That's a relief," Pickett said. "I don't know if I have any more persuading in me."

  "You'd better," Wang said. "You're going to have to help me persuade a nation. Two nations."

  Pickett nodded wearily. "Yeah. I know. So where do we start? Want me to make the travel arrangements?"

  "Travel arrangements?" Wang said. "You're worried about travel arrangements? That's the only thing I'm not worried about. The White House has a whole staff to take care of that."

  "You're worried about the negotiations."

  "Haven't even given them a thought, Roy. I'm worried about rolling out the announcement and not getting killed in the media. I'm worried about screwing up all the things Charlie Callaway and I want to do while he's President. I'm worried about Bourque. I'm worried about Mexico. And most of all, Roy, I'm worried about the morons and miscreants in
both countries who'll be outraged by the meeting and desperate to sabotage it."

  "That's a heavy load," Pickett admitted.

  "Well, fortunately, I have someone to help me carry it," Wang said. He smiled.

  "I'll do anything I can."

  "Yeah, well, thanks to your silver tongue, Roy, you have gotten both of us into the biggest, most complicated frickin' mess of either of our lifetimes. If we can pull this off it'll be a miracle—and we are going to need all the help we can get."

  "So how do we start?"

  "I was hoping you knew."

  They laughed.

  "I guess the arrangements and the announcements come first," Pickett said.

  "Let me ask you a question," Wang said. "What happens to the CSA if Mexico attacks tomorrow morning?"

  "I already told you—we can't defend ourselves."

  "Right. Now, what if Garcia knows that?"

  '"If he attacks now, we're finished," Pickett admitted.

  "Right. So the very first thing we have to do, and by 'we,' I mean the NAU, is to reinforce your military so that it will at least be able to give Mexico a good fight."

  Pickett looked at Wang in surprise. "I didn't expect that."

  "Yeah, well, maybe it's just temporary, but we don't want to find ourselves holding a summit with someone fleeing from the Mexican invaders of his own country."

  "I may have been wrong about you, Eric."

  Wang took off his glasses and polished the lenses with his tie. He held them up to the light and polished some more. Finally, satisfied, he put the glasses back on and blinked. The perfectly round lenses contrasted oddly with his almond-shaped eyes.

  "Okay," he said, blinking again, "I'll talk to the Secretary of Defense and get him moving. Meanwhile, we should be started on the announcement."

  "That's a little premature, you know," Pickett said.

  "How so?"

  "Well, I haven't yet gotten Bourque's approval for a public announcement, for one thing."

  Wang raised an eyebrow. "I thought that was a given."

  "It is. But I need to actually do it. I also need to tell him that President Callaway has agreed to a meeting."

  "Yes. I imagine he'll want to know."

  "And about the military aid."

  "Hah! Yes, he'll want to know about that too, I'm sure."

  "You have an empty office where I can use a phone?"

  "We can do better than that," Wang said. "Do you guys have Skype?"

  "Yeah. Bourque has used it a couple of times to talk to his daughter when she's on the road. But in general, he doesn't get along well with computers."

  "I'll set up the two of you."

  Wang got up and Pickett followed him out of the office, into the controlled chaos of the West Wing's main hallway. It was a scene familiar to Pickett from his life at The Plantation, only everyone here was younger, better looking, better dressed and moving at about twice the speed of his or her Southern counterpart. They scarcely noticed his presence.

  Wang led Pickett into a small, empty office at the far end of a secondary hallway, which was equipped with a desk, a couple of chairs, a telephone and a computer with a huge monitor. "You know how to do this?" He asked.

  "Not exactly."

  Wang sat down in front of the computer and turned it on. "What's Bourque's Skype name?"

  "Skype name? Ah, I don't know it.'

  "O-kay," Wang said. "How about his e-mail address?"

  "I think I know that one," Pickett said. "It's [email protected]."

  The computer had booted up by now and Wang typed in Bourque's e-mail address. They waited for someone to pick up at the other end.

  The Skype splash screen disappeared, and was replaced by a rectangle of black snow. "What? What?" A male voice said. "Who's on the damn line? Who's calling?"

  The Skype splash screen reappeared, this time with a small rectangular image of Pickett's face, or most of it, in one corner. And then there was music—a girl singing.

  "That's odd," Wang said. He clicked on a couple of buttons, but the music continued.

  "That's Delphine Bourque's voice," Pickett said. "We're connected, but there's no picture."

  "Who the fuck is trying to call me?"

  Wang gestured toward Pickett, who said "It's me, sir. We're working on it. Picture should be up in a minute."

  "Roy? That you? It says White House."

  "It's me. Hold on…"

  Suddenly, Bourque's face appeared on the monitor, crystal clear and seriously perplexed. "Roy?" he said. "It says the White House is calling? Is this the White House?"

  Wang surrendered his seat to Pickett. "It's me, sir. At the White House."

  The singing continued. "Wait a minute," Bourque said.. "Let me turn off the damn CD machine." His face disappeared from the monitor, leaving a picture of an empty chair. After a moment, the music stopped, and Bourque reappeared.

  Pickett looked at his image on the screen and moved his head around, in an attempt to get his face centered.

  "Jesus H. Christ, Roy," Bourque said, "I didn't know you knew how to Skype. You're in the White House?"

  "Yes I am. Just left Callaway's office."

  "Yeah? So how did it go? Is he up for the meeting?"

  "Yes, sir. He said yes. Took some convincing, but he said yes."

  "I don't know whether to say 'no shit' or 'thank God.'"

  Pickett laughed. "They're both appropriate."

  "Roy, I swear you could talk a cat outta a tree, and I want to thank you. I don’t know how you did it. But I have a feeling there just might be a weevil in this can of corn."

  "Little one," Pickett admitted.

  "Well, spit it out, Roy. You're givin' me the fidgets."

  "They say the meeting can't be a secret."

  "So what do they want us to do, have a picnic lunch on the mall, in the shadow of the Washington Monument?"

  "Not exactly. But they're afraid that the secret would leak and raise all kinds of suspicions and objections. Make everything harder."

  Bourque rubbed his chin thoughtfully, whiskers crackling. "Hmm. I do believe they have a point," he admitted.

  "I knew you'd see it that way," Pickett said.

  Bourque grinned. "Roy, you working me?"

  "Who, me?"

  "All right, all right, I give in. I wasn't born on Crazy Creek."

  This time, it was Pickett who smiled.

  "So how is all this gonna happen?"

  "The President has me partnered with his Chief-of-Staff, Eric Wang. We're working on the details. He's in the room with me right now."

  Wang stuck his face into the frame. "Pleased to meet you, President Bourque," he said grinning.

  Bourque sat up, surprised. "Ah, Mr. Wang. Glad to see you. I didn't know Callaway had a Chinese Chief-of-Staff."

  "Born and bred in Sandusky, Ohio," Wang said. "Third generation."

  "But…"

  "My great-grandparents were Korean."

  "Ah."

  Wang grinned.

  "So you and my boy Roy making out okay?"

  Wang hesitated at boy. "He's a good man," he said. But he realized Bourque didn't mean anything by the word.

  "Damn, Roy, you're living on the lucky side of the road."

  "There's more to tell you," Pickett said.

  "More? What? Am I gonna have to squeeze it out of you?"

  "They're worried about our military situation."

  "What did you tell them?"

  "The truth."

  "Jesus H. Christ, Roy. You're scarin' the pudding out of me."

  "It was the only way, sir."

  Bourque sighed and nodded. "Well, you're eyeball to eyeball with them. I take your word for it. Now what's this 'more' you mentioned? You hearing me, Roy?"

  Pickett shifted his eyes to the webcam, remembering that looking at Bourque's face on the monitor wasn't the same as eye-to-eye contact. "Yes, sir. The North Americans fear that Mexico could move against the CSA at almost any moment."

  "W
ell, I can't argue with that," Bourque said.

  "So they're ready to give us some military aid."

  Bourque gasped in surprise. "What? Military aid? What kind of military aid? When?"

  Wang stuck his face in front of the webcam. "Right now, President Bourque. I'm going to speak to the Secretary of Defense about your needs this afternoon and he'll call your military chief, probably tomorrow morning—Boynton, isn't it?"

  Bourque closed his mouth, which had been ajar. "Yes, General Arthur Boynton. I'll alert him. Thank you Mr. Chang."

  "It's Wang, but you can call me Eric."

  "Eric it is then," Bourque said warmly. "That's generous and unexpected. I am grateful to you."

  Wang shrugged. "Had to be done," he said.

  "Listen, Eric," Pickett said, "could you give me and the President a few minutes…"

  "Alone?" Wang said. "Of course. When you're done, click on this button to hang up and meet me back in my office. Your badge gives you free West Wing access."

  Pickett waited until Eric had left before he turned back to Bourque. "He's gone," Pickett said.

  "Well now," Bourque said, "I don't know how you did it, but it seems to me that you've got that Chinaman roped and tied and ready to ride."

  "You know, he could be listening in," Pickett warned.

  "Yeah, well, if he's eavesdropping, he can't complain about what he hears, can he?"

  "Maybe not, but I don't think it's a good idea to make them mad."

  "So what do you think of Callaway—and the Chinaman—can we trust them?" Bourque asked.

  "I think so," Pickett said. "Callaway's a straight shooter. Wang pretends to be a son-of-a-bitch, but I don't think there's a dishonest molecule in his body and he's intensely loyal to Callaway. Anyhow, what choice do we have?"

  Bourque nodded in resignation. "You're right. We're as helpless as a turtle bottom up."

  "What kind of military help should we ask for?"

  President Bourque considered the question. "Best thing they could do for us, militarywise, is to keep an eye on our Atlantic coast. We're very vulnerable there. If they could station four or five of those missile frigates 20 or 30 miles out, that might discourage Garcia, without ruffling any feathers on our side."

  "I'll let 'em know."