ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? (17 page)

"Three days ago, we were told—not asked, but
told
—that our newly
elected President had agreed to meet with the long-time leader of the most
racist, most-backward, nation in the Western Hemisphere, a nation that
exemplifies everything we hate. Our President consulted no one on this decision
except his own cronies.

"Since then, one of these cronies, the President's Chief Political Advisor
has appeared on a Sunday morning talk show to explain just why our President
had decided to take such an unprecedented step," Sullivan said, acid in
his voice. "He told us that it was all in the cause of keeping our air and
water clean and our cotton and fish prices low. He told us it was all in the
interest of a better understanding." Sullivan paused and looked down,
mournfully, holding the pose for two full seconds. Then he looked up again and
resumed

"I think we already understand President Buddy Bourque
quite
well
and—until Charles Callaway became President of the NAU—I thought the
Confederacy understood
us
equally well. We both understood a vast and
unbridgeable gulf separates us. We both knew that when President Lincoln let
the South secede in 1860, and we went our separate ways, one of us became Dr.
Jekyll. The other became Mr. Hyde. I don't think I have to tell you which is
which.”

Sullivan cleared his throat, then went on, his voice overflowing with concern.
"I believe that President Callaway and his advisors are misleading us,
perhaps lying to us. Consciously and willfully. I believe that they have plans
that go far, far beyond a simple meeting, but they are pretending it's all
quite innocent. Why would they do such a thing? Two reasons: First, our
idealistic young President wants to free his own people. A noble aim, right?
Well, maybe not so noble when you consider that every refugee from the
Confederacy will be a vote for Callaway.

"I believe I understand quite well how this all came about. Buddy Bourque,
his country sinking into bankruptcy, came begging to President Callaway,
looking for a bailout. Callaway is clearly considering his request, or there
would be no meeting. But Callaway wants
his
reward. He wants to set his
people free, to make his mark on history. And the Progressives will applaud
him, because it will help assuage the guilt they feel toward the Blacks of the
Confederacy, whom they abandoned to a fate barely better than slavery."

Sullivan looked down at his desk for a moment, as if gathering strength, then
back up at the camera. “Ladies and gentlemen, we elected Charles Callaway
President of the United States. He has just taken office. He may be
well-intentioned—I am willing to give him that much—but compared to Bourque, he
is hopelessly naïve. He is also evidently under the impression as President, he
can do whatever he wants. He seems to think we elected him king, not just
President. But his decisions directly affect us, so he needs to listen to us,
because
we
…are the people. Call the White House. Call your Senator. Call
your Representative. Tell them
no
. Tell them that we the people do not
approve. Tell them that the meeting with Buddy Bourque must be cancelled,
immediately."

Sullivan paused dramatically, then resumed. "This has been an
Edge
Editorial by yours truly, Jack Sullivan. Thank you ladies and gentlemen. And
remember: the time to act is now."

*

In the Eagles Aerie, Metzger raised his remote control, pushed a button and
gazed without interest as the thin, 65" television screen quietly rose
toward the ceiling and disappeared into a narrow slot. "That was quite
good," he said to Robert W. Wade, his right hand man, a dead ringer for
the famously corpulent 1930s movie actor, Sydney Greenstreet. Wade was lolling,
somewhat uncomfortably, in one of the black suede beanbag "chairs"
casually scattered around Metzger's office.

"The way he read it or the way I wrote it?" Wade asked.

"Your words, Robert. You have the common touch. And Sullivan reads
well."

"He told me he models himself after Billy Graham."

"You make my point," Metzger said.

"What now?" Robert asked.

"Well, this was a start," Metzger said. "But I want the whole
company involved." Grunting, Robert somehow contorted himself
into what passed for a sitting position and pulled a small, gilded,
leather-covered notebook out of a pocket. Then he fished around in his jacket
and came up with one of those gigantic, gold-nibbed pens made for men who
rarely use them except to sign checks on hedge fund deals. "Okay," he
said, writing, "I'll meet with the anchors and the commentators and lay
out the campaign for them."

"We need a guest list too," Metzger said. "Heavy hitters. Talk
to the Chamber of Commerce. Get some clergy, big-name if possible. "

Robert jotted down notes.

"I want to hit Callaway with this again and again and again, Robert. I
want to hit him on every news show, every talk show, every commentary show and
every call-in show. Stage the callins if you have to. Get our newspapers
and our radio stations involved too. I don't want to hear one good word about
this unholy meeting our
schvartze
President plans to have with
das Arschloch
Buddy
Lee Bourque. I want to go all out on this. We may never get a better chance to
destroy that empty suit in the White House. I won't be satisfied until that
obszön
basketball court in the White House
is permanently cemented over."

Robert was writing furiously. "Yes, Helmut. I will see to it."

"And put out a poll that shows most Americans disapprove of the meeting.
Especially the
schvartes
and the liberals. Put that on air before the
White House can release its own polls."

Robert jotted down his Boss's words. "I'll tell Hendrickson what we
want."

"Good," Metzger, and his eyes took on a twinkle. "And see to it
that we are always neutral and objective."

Wade shot an amused look at Metzger, who smiled innocently.

Chapter Eight

"You had no word of this, this meeting?" asked
El Presidente
Garcia, his single eye malignantly fixed on his intelligence chief, Hector
Herrera. "No sign, no hint, no indication, no forewarning?" He
ground out his cigar in a heavy crystal ashtray, which didn't matter much,
since the room was already full of noxious fumes.

Herrera offered up a nervous smile. "Nothing,
El Presidente
. I was
just as surprised as you were." He adjusted his slim sunglasses, which had
slipped down his nose a bit. "We have not yet infiltrated the new
administration."

With surprising grace, Garcia lifted his bulk out of his fancy modern chair,
walked around his desk and stood over Herrera, a towering black cloud
threatening a torrential downpour. "How much do I pay you, Hector?"
He inquired.

"$5 million pesos a year," Herrera said. "Why?"

"That is a great deal of money to pay someone who missed the most
important foreign development in a decade," Garcia observed. "Think
of what I could buy myself for $5 million pesos."

"I wouldn't say that the announcement of a meeting between Bourque and Callaway
was the
most
important foreign development…"

Garcia bent down, until his face was only a few inches from Herrera's, enough,
despite the cigar smoke, to totally envelop the intelligence chief in the
pungent aroma of garlic that
El Presidente
customarily emitted..
"You disagree with me?"
El Presidente
asked. He reached down
with a fat-fingered paw and gently patted Herrera's cheek.

"Of course not," Herrera said, shrinking in his chair. "Your
knowledge of world affairs is far superior to mine. I just…"

Garcia interrupted. "You just want to apologize to me and tell me that if
it ever happens again, you will present your resignation immediately. Am I
correct?”

Herrera swallowed audibly. "Yes, that is exactly what I meant to say. I
deeply regret my failing and I hope that our long friendship will lead you to
give me another chance."

Garcia straightened up and rubbed his stubby fingers over his grizzled chin,
apparently contemplating Herrera's request. "A second chance, eh?" He
folded his arms across his chest, causing his medals to tinkle. "Hector, I
would hate to
remove
you," he said. "But if, for the safety of
our great nation, I have to…"

"You needn't do that,
Presidente
. I will redouble my efforts
to find out what's going on between Bourque and Callaway. I promise."

Garcia affected a kindly, paternal expression. "Ah, Hector, Hector. You
have made my life more difficult, and you know how hard it already is to rule
this country and its colonies. I am constantly subjected to stresses and
strains. But I will take you at your word. I will give you a second chance. If
you fail again, however—well I hope I do not have to say what your fate
will be."

"No,
Presidente
, I understand. And thank you. I will send more
agents into the field, both in the NAU and the CSA. Better agents. We will find
out what's going on, I assure you."

"Good," Garcia said. "One thing puzzles me, however. That
biographer-spy you planted in Bourque's household? He goes to the doctor with
Bourque but he doesn’t have the slightest idea the man is planning an
unprecedented meeting with President Callaway?"

Herrera cautiously embarked on an explanation. "I had him interrogated at
length," he said. "He is more certain than ever about Bourque's
terminal illness, but he hadn't heard even a whisper about any meeting with
Callaway. He insists that no one else at the Plantation knew about it."

Garcia frowned. "And you believe him?"

"It was not a gentle interrogation."

"I see. I hope you did not injure him badly enough to compromise his
usefulness."

"I left no scars."

“Good.”

“And he promised he will do his best to go to Washington with Bourque and
report back anything he discovers.”

Garcia sighed. He slowly twirled his chair around and observed
Popocatépetl for a few
moments, presenting his back to Herrera. The volcano was sleeping. When
El
Presidente
turned to face his intelligence chief again, his beetle-brows
were clenched so tightly that they were abutting each other. His anger had
turned into concern. "The meeting announcement changes everything,"
he said.

"I know," said Herrera. He resisted the impulse to call Garcia by his
first name.

"It must be connected to Bourque's health,"
El Presidente
went
on. "But I don't understand how."

Herrera had an idea. "Bourque may be asking for money," he said.

Garcia nodded. "Or military help, or even some kind of alliance. Against
us
."

"Miguel, those two countries have distrusted each other for nearly 150
years. They're not going to kiss and make up overnight. If they want to ease
tensions, they're likely to start with sports or cultural exchanges."

"If I were a smart man," Garcia said, "I'd cancel all our
plans.”

Herrera decided to be bold. "If you were a
weak
man," he said,
"that's what I'd advise you to do. But you are
not
a weak man. And
we both know this is the best opportunity we've had for decades to achieve our
national destiny."

Garcia tilted back in his chair and studied his intelligence chief. "In
some ways, Hector, we are very much alike," he said. "Once we've got
hold of something, we are very reluctant to let go of it."

"We get emotionally involved," Herrera agreed.

Garcia raised an eyebrow. "What?"

Herrera shrugged. "Once we start something, we don't stop until it all
plays out."

"I just said that."

Herrera let it pass. "So what are we going to do?" he asked.

Garcia leaned back in his chair, slipped off his big, muddy boots and put his
stocking-clad feet up on his desk, adding yet another olfactory note to the
room's pungent bouquet. "Why don’t
you
tell
me
?"

Herrera pondered the question. "We're going to do what we
have
to
do," he said after a few moments.

"Which is what?" Garcia was puzzled but interested.

"These two countries really dislike each other…"

El Presidente
grinned. "How true. Their mutual hostility has been
entertaining to watch. And useful."

"Exactly. So our job now is to make sure they never forget how much they
hate each other."

Garcia cocked his head, curious. "And how do we propose to do that?"

"Well, plenty of people in both countries will be against any kind of
agreement between Bourque and Callaway."

"Very likely," Garcia agreed, nodding. "So?"

"We
incite
them. We
help
them. Secretly, of course. We goad
them into violence, if we can. We let
them
kill any Bourque-Callaway
agreement. And we just sit back and watch, and pretend it's not our business."

Garcia rubbed a hand over his chin again, "Interesting," he said.
"
Very
interesting. Who should we help?"

"I don't know yet," Herrera said. "But I'll find out." He
was feeling confident again. "Maybe the old line plantation families who
hate the NAU's civil rights. Maybe the NAU liberals, who can't stomach the idea
of their new Black President negotiating with the leader of the most racist
nation in the Western Hemisphere, and treating him like an equal. We'll find
who's against the idea and we'll help them in any way we can."

"With money?"

"Yes, with money. Secretly funneled to the right groups."

“How much?” Garcia asked his intelligence chief.

“Well, two or three million…”

Garcia frowned. “I am not a bank, Hector.”

“No, of course not, but…”

“One million, Hector. That should be more than enough,” said
El Presidente
.
“And I want an exact accounting.”

“As you wish, Miguel,” Herrera said. “But there is one other problem we should
discuss."

Presidente
Garcia folded his arms across chest with a sigh, and looked
at Herrera with suspicion. "Take off the sunglasses, Hector. You're
inside."

"The glare from the big windows…"

"Take them off. I want to see your eyes."

"As you wish, Miguel." Herrera said, removing the sunglasses and
revealing a pair of wolf-like pale grey eyes

Garcia looked into Herrera's eyes, his gaze steady and searching. "Now,
another problem, Hector? Not of your making, I sincerely hope."

"No. I've been asking myself how our allies—and our enemies—might react
when we attack the Confederacy," Herrera said.

"And?"

"And I think we could have a problem with Germany?"

"Germany? Explain," Garcia said, unfolding his arms and leaning
forward.

Herrera, blinking in the office's bright sunlight, glanced at the sunglasses in
his hand and looked up to Garcia again.
El Presidente
waved a hand
impatiently, and Herrera slipped the fashionably thin sunglasses back onto his
face. "Well, we both know that the Germans have a vested interest in
keeping the CSA afloat."

The light dawned. "Ah," said Garcia, understanding. "Yes.
Bourque owes the Germans vast sums of money."

"Billions," Herrera said.

"And if the CSA goes down, they'll never get a penny of it. The Kaiser
will not be pleased.”

"Exactly," Herrera said, pleased that his Boss agreed. "But it's
even worse than that."

"How so?"

"As you have so often observed, the arrogant Germans see themselves as the
world's police force. So, when we attack the CSA, they will be sorely tempted
to intervene, to order us to stand down. They might set up an embargo. Maybe
they'll even send warships."

El Presidente
's face turned glum. "We can't fight the
Germans,"
El Presidente
said. He thought a moment. "But…I
think I know another way to deal with them."

"What's that?"

Garcia grinned. "I think I'll keep that to myself until it's a done deal,
if you don't mind, Hector."

"Certainly not."

Garcia rose, and Herrera had no choice but to do the same. "Hector,"
said
El Presidente
, "thank you for putting up with my, um,
disappointment. But please, no more mistakes. Okay?"

"You have my word, Miguel," said Herrera.

"Good," Garcia said. Then he waved his hand in dismissal. "Good
bye now."

When Herrera was gone, Garcia picked up his phone. "Rosalita," he
said, "see if you can get the German ambassador to come see me tomorrow.”

"You mean Friedrich von Zimmerman," she asked.

"Yes, Von Zimmerman,” said Garcia, showing impatience. “I want to see him
here tomorrow. Morning would be best."

"Of course,
Presidente
."

"And one more thing," said Garcia. "Summon General Espinosa. I
want to see him immediately."

Ten minutes later, Espinosa chugged into Garcia's office, puffing and sweating
piggishly, as usual. "Your Excellency? You wished to see me?" His
eyes had a furtive look.

"Yes," Garcia said, pointing carelessly at the guest chair, inviting
Espinosa to sit. The General did just that.

"General Espinosa,"
El Presidente
said, "We need to
change our plans for the Confederacy…"

"Our preparations are coming along on schedule, Excellency. Military
training is going well and we've started mass producing the landing
craft…"

"I want to move everything up by a month," Garcia said.

The general's mouth dropped open.

"Money is no object," Garcia went on. "And if you need more
officers for training, you have my authorization."

"But why…"

"You know about the upcoming meeting between Bourque and Callaway, I must
assume."

"Yes, but…"

"We have to strike before Bourque convinces Callaway to agree to some kind
of alliance."

Espinosa was dumbstruck. "An alliance? Between the NAU and the CSA?
Impossible!"

"Herrera and I believe that is Bourque's purpose, Carlos. We will do what
we can to prevent it, but we cannot take the chance that Bourque will somehow
succeed. We must move up our operations."