ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? (22 page)

When he'd first realized there might be a problem, he'd almost put in a
telephone call to Reverend Baldwin. But he couldn't be sure who'd be listening
in. The Reverend Frederick Langston Baldwin was the Confederacy's most
prominent Negro clergyman, and in the eyes of many, the most dangerous. The
AWCP—the Association of White Confederate Partisans—had almost certainly tapped
Baldwin's telephone.

So this was going to be a face-to-face conversation, which was just as well.
Reverend Baldwin was a wonderful man, an inspiring leader, but very stubborn
and more than a little deaf. Pickett had known him since his childhood and the
old man had never stopped trying to lure him away from Acadia and the Bourque
family and join the church. Well, that wasn't going to happen.

But now Reverend Baldwin and his huge congregation posed a serious threat to
Bourque's audacious maneuver. Somehow, Pickett had to make the old man
understand that no matter how noble his motives were, he could very easily mess
up
everything
.

He drove at the speed limit during the entire trip, and he refueled at a gas
station in a Negro neighborhood. Then he left the truck in a big discount
store's parking lot, several blocks from the stately but decrepit Heritage
Baptist Church, and walked the rest of the way. It was a brick building,
complete with brick steeple, but the white wooden trim was peeling and it
needed extensive dental work—bricks were missing here and there, leaving gaping
cavities.

Pickett walked up to the front door, a normal-sized portal in a huge,
high-arched wooden entryway and was about to grab the handle when it suddenly
opened, inward, and he found himself face-to-face with a very large black
woman, probably about sixty, wearing a huge blue straw hat and dress decorated
with bright, yellow, out-of-register sunflowers.

"Well, hello," she said, with a broad, warm grin. "Dere's no one
in dat church but de reverend, 'Corse, you're welcome t'go in and jes' sit ifn
you want."

"Thank you," Pickett said. "I think I'll do just that."

He found Reverend Baldwin just off the nave, in a small office stuffed with
books. Baldwin was sitting at his desk, an ancient fountain pen poised over a
blank sheet of paper, snoring. He'd gained weight since Pickett saw him last,
and lost hair. What remained was grey, going on white.

Pickett laid a hand gently on the old man's shoulder. "Reverend
Baldwin?"

No response.

Pickett raised his voice. "Reverend Baldwin?"

The old man stirred, revealing a few unshaven white hairs beneath one ear.
"What?" he said, "Who?"

"It's me, Reverend Baldwin, Roy Pickett."

Reverend Baldwin sat up and considered his visitor. A smile slowly lit up his
face and he extended a hand, which Pickett shook. "Well, if it isn't Roy
Pickett," he said. "It's sure been a long time. Pull up a chair and
sit down."

The only other chair in the room was an old wooden captain's chair, unsteady
and missing a few rungs. But Pickett pulled it over and sat down. "You're
looking good, sir, if you don’t mind me saying so," he said.

"Well, young man, if you're going to flatter me, you can say
anything," Baldwin said.

They laughed.

"So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your presence, Mr. Pickett? Have you
decided to leave Arcadia and come here to work for me?"

"Ah, not exactly."

"No. I didn't think so. Anyway, it looks to me like you were right after
all. Your master has apparently come to his senses at long last. When I heard
he was going to see President Callaway, my first thought was that these old
ears of mine were giving me some new kind of problem." The reverend smiled
broadly. "But I guess it's actually happening."

"Yes it is, sir. And that's why I'm here. I need to talk to you about
that."

"You don't have to say a word, young man. I've already started things in
motion."

"How so?" Pickett asked, fearing the worst.

"Well, the moment I got the word," Baldwin said. "I called a
meeting of all the important Negro pastors in the South, all of the ones with
big congregations, I mean."

"You did?" Pickett said, dismayed.

"Yes, sir, I did. And they'll all be here on Tuesday, sixty or maybe even
seventy of them. All I had to do was put out the call. They still listen to the
old man."

"That's no surprise," Pickett said. "You're the most respected
preacher in the Black community. And you will be until the day you die. You
know, decades from now."

"You’re spreading the butter pretty thick, Mr. Pickett,” Baldwin said. “I
just got me a feeling you want something."

Pickett took a deep breath, then exhaled. "I want you to cancel your
meeting."

Reverend Baldwin blinked a couple of times. "Say what?"

"I want you to call it off."

The reverend started laughing, chuckles quickly evolving into guffaws.
"Roy Pickett," he said, wiping the tears from his eyes, "you
have a truly strange sense of humor."

"I'm not joking," Pickett said.

"Eh?"

"I said I'm
not
joking."

The laughter was replaced with a cold stare. "Did Bourque send you?"

"Nope. Doesn't even know I'm here."

"Then why do you want me to cancel the meeting?" Baldwin asked, truly
puzzled. "I plan to tell all the preachers to take to their pulpits and
raise their voices in support of President Bourque and his mission to the North
American Union. I want to show him—and everyone else in the Confederacy—that
the Negro community is 100% behind him."

Pickett sighed deeply. "Do you want the Callaway meeting to be a
success?"

"Of course I do, Roy. Even if nothing comes of it, the whole Confederacy
will see Buddy Bourque and Charles Callaway speaking to each other as
equals
.
Treating each other as equals. It is a lesson that will not be lost, either on
the Negro community here, or on the white community. It's a major step forward
for us."

"I understand where you're coming from," Pickett admitted.

The old man smiled. "So, if you understand, why would you ask me to cancel
my meeting?"

"Not just the meeting, Reverend Baldwin," Pickett said. "I want
you to forget about telling people to publicly support Bourque. I don't want to
hear a word about the Callaway meeting from the Negro community, pro or con.
And if someone should happen to ask, I want you to say, 'Well, we'll just have
to see what happens.'"

Baldwin's mouth fell open. "Why in the world would I do that, Roy?"
he asked. Then his expression turned shrewd. "Are you trying to sabotage
Bourque in some way?"

"No!" Pickett said, recoiling. "No! Just the opposite. You have
no idea how important this mission is, Reverend Baldwin, and how much it could
benefit our community. And I can't tell you. But I will say this. I intend to
do everything in my power to make sure Bourque succeeds. I'm willing to risk
everything to make that happen."

Reverend Baldwin gazed at Pickett without comprehension. "And yet you want
me to call off my efforts to support him."

Pickett thought a moment. "Reverend Baldwin, how do you think the white
community would react if the Black community loudly and publicly came out in
support of President Bourque? If you were a cracker, what would you make of
that?"

Baldwin thought a moment. "Hmmmm," he said, drawing it out, then
exhaling. "Hmmmm. I begin to see your point."

"Thank God."

"God. Yes."

"You see, if you came out in support of Bourque and the meeting, the
whites would think the fix is in. They'd think you and Bourque made some kind
of a deal and…"

"You can stop with the explanations, Roy."

"Sorry."

"So what was it you wanted me to say, you know, instead?"

"
'Well, we'll just have to see what happens
.'"

"And if some hot-shot reporter keeps pushing it?"

"You shrug, you say, '
It's not my business
.
I don't know
anything about politics
.'"

"Lord won't like it if I lie." Baldwin said.

"You're telling me now that you understand politics?"

They laughed. Together.

"You know you've given me a lot of work to do."

"You mean calling it off? Notifying everyone?"

"Yeah. Lotta telephone calls. You gonna help me, Roy?"

"Sure," Pickett said.

Baldwin rummaged around in a desk drawer, looking for something, failing to
find it, searching another drawer, finally coming up with half a dozen sheets
of rumpled paper.. He handed one to Pickett. "There's another phone behind
the pulpit," he said.

As Pickett was making his way out of Baldwin's little office, he came face-to-face—again—with
the fat lady in the sunflower dress. She was carrying a little brown paper
sack.

"Hello again," she said. "You been talking to da reverend?"

"We're old friends."

Reverend Baldwin appeared at the office door. "Ah, Amelia."

"Got your sandwich, and the root beer," she said.

"No pie?"

"Oh, don't you fret. I got your pie. They din have no apple so I got you
cherry."

"Cherry's good." Baldwin took the sack. "Amelia, I know I said
you could take the afternoon off, but it turns out we got a little work to
do."

She inclined her head toward Pickett. "His fault?"

"In a way."

Chapter Twelve

The announcement was accurate—as far as it went. It sounded so routine that the
only paper to print it was the 'newspaper of record,'
The New York Times.
And
even there, it got only a single paragraph on the 14th page of the second
section.

Dover, DE—The NAU Second Fleet today announced that units of the CTF-26
Expeditionary Task Force have departed Port Mahon, for the annual early Spring
military exercises off the Atlantic Coast. Depending on the weather, the
exercises are expected to last about a month.

Rear Admiral Arthurert F. Broadwell, at 37 the youngest and perhaps the
handsomest man ever to achieve the rank, sat in his plush chair on the bridge
of the DDG-103, otherwise known as the
SS Truxton
, one of the NAU’s
newest and most formidable destroyers. He read the announcement again and
frowned.

Bob Broadwell was annoyed. He was annoyed he would be missing Gracie's ballet
recital. He was annoyed it might be six months before he could sleep with Echo
again. He was annoyed he wouldn't be accompanying Todd to opening day at
Fenway, and that his golf skills, acquired and maintained only with constant
effort, were certain to fade away. He was annoyed his life had been upended.

But he was also pleased—pleased the NAU Navy brass had singled him out to
command the six-ship task force assigned to protect the CSA's Atlantic coast.
He was pleased he had one more chance, an unexpected one, to rise to two-star
admiral. And he was certainly pleased that his best friend, Drew
Wasserman, had agreed to serve alongside him, as captain of the
Truxton
,
the task force's flagship.

Broadwell crumpled up the press release and tossed it, jumpshot-style, into a
grey metal wastebasket under a control panel. Then, grabbing his cap, he walked
outside. The ocean was fairly calm, but at 31 knots, the wind was stiff.
Bending his 6'2" into it, he raised his binoculars to his eyes and scanned
the horizon. All present and accounted for:
The Preble
,
The Farragut
,
The Gridley,
and
The Decatur—
the first shift, to be rotated out,
like
The Truxton
, and replaced by five others after two months on
duty.

What could not be seen, but what Broadwell knew was there, far below the
surface, was the SSN-753, the nuclear-powered attack submarine
Albany
,
easily keeping up with the rest of the task force, brandishing a formidable
complement of torpedoes, Tomahawk and Harpoon missiles and quite capable of
killing anything that floated.

"So, Bob," said Captain Drew Wasserman, coming down the deck and
sidling up to his old friend, "surveying your forces?" Wasserman was
a short, heavily muscled man with a startlingly deep voice and a gap-toothed
grin.

"Something like that, Drew." Broadwell said. A gust of wind grabbed
his cap and he grabbed it back.

"Like what you see?”

"Yes, except for
The Decatur
. It's lagging by about 400
yards."

"Trouble with the #3 gas turbine," Wasserman said. "Should be
fixed soon."

"So I've been told. So I was told yesterday, in fact."

Wasserman nodded, accustomed to his friend's almost obsessive attention to
detail. "They're keeping up pretty well, considering."

"Umm-hmmm."

"Anyhow, we should on station by 7 p.m."

"Better be."

Sometimes, Wasserman reflected, it was possible to get more than three words
out of Bob Broadwell. And sometimes it wasn't. He tried again. "What do
you think of our mission, Bob? Think there's any real chance we'll see combat?"

"Not really," Broadwell said. "We're just here to short-circuit
Presidente
Garcia if he's dumb enough to attack the CSA’s Atlantic Coast. Just being here
ought to do that."

"I agree. Which is why I'm confused about the secrecy," Wasserman
said. "Could you explain it one more time?"

Broadwell took a deep breath. "All I can do is repeat what
CINCLANTFLT
told me.
The
mission is a secret because Callaway's Congressional and media enemies would
scream like banshees if they knew about it. And the people in the CSA would go
crazy too, if they thought Bourque had invited us to save their bacon."

"Okay," Wasserman said. "That I get. One last question, then
I'll shut up: how the hell can we deter Garcia if he doesn't even know we're
there?"

"Oh, he'll know, Drew," Broadwell said. "One of his recon planes
will spot us. And if it doesn't, we'll intercept one of his assault
ships."

Wasserman grinned. "I'd love to see the look on their commander's face
when he realizes what's between him and his objective."

That got a snort from Broadwell. "Yeah," he said, "just five
fast, stealthy 500 foot-long destroyers, each one bulging with missiles,
torpedoes and Phalanx Gatling guns and carrying two pesky and
very
well-armed helicopters. And then there’s the sub.”

"Hah! That would certainly send
me
into full retreat,"
Wasserman said. "But this sounds like permanent duty to me, Bob. I know
we’ll be rotating in other ships, but what’s the exit strategy?”

"Good question." Broadwell put the binoculars to his eyes again and
looked out to the
Decatur
, which was closing the gap. "I
guess that depends on when and if Callaway and Bourque make a deal—and on what
the deal is."

A young petty officer, blond and gangly, popped through the bridge hatchway and
exchanged salutes with his superiors. He turned to Captain Wasserman.
"Sir," he said, "we've made radio contact with the
Baton
Rouge.
They've been briefed and they're awaiting our arrival. They're
faxing updated mine dispersal charts now."

Wasserman nodded. "Good. What's the captain's name?"

"Joshua Peyton."

"Okay. Tell Captain Peyton that our ETA is 7 p.m. Tell him he can count on
that. And tell him to relax. We've got his back."

*

President Callaway stretched out and parked his stockinged feet on the living
room coffee table, earning a look of disapproval from his wife. "How would
you like it if some stranger came into your house and did that?" she
asked.

Callaway reached for the remote control. "I've had a tough day, Julia. How
about giving me a break?"

She shrugged and he turned on the big TV.

Nightly News Anchor Tom Braden appeared on the screen. "…so far, most of
the public reactions to the announcement seem to be positive, except for some
rumblings among union leaders. There've been rallies of support at Harvard, the
University of Chicago and UC Berkley, among others. And Senate Majority Leader
Ed Lockett,

praised Callaway's boldness.
Several other members of his party have endorsed the meeting, as have a number
of church groups. And now, we have the results of the first NBS-Washington
Journal polls since the announcement. NBS Political Director Mark McClarty has
the numbers. Mark?"

The view switched to a two-shot, embracing both the wise news anchor, with his
studied gravitas, and the eager, apple-cheeked political director. "Tom,
according to our poll results, 53% of the electorate has a positive attitude
toward the meeting, while the rest is split pretty evenly between the 'don't
knows' and the 'don't approves.'"

"So the approval matches Callaway's percentage in the Presidential
election?"

"Almost exactly," McClarty said. "But the internals paint a
slightly different picture."

"How so?"

"The ethnic mix is different. The Black support is off 10%, but the white
support up about 5%."

"What do you make of that, Mark?"

"Well, clearly Blacks are less enthusiastic about the meeting than they
were about voting for Callaway. This may mean that they distrust President
Bourque. But evidently that isn't true for the whites."

"Very interesting. How do you expect this to play out, as the meeting
approaches?"

"I think that's still in doubt, Tom. But we'll be tracking it."

"Thanks, Mark," Tom said. Then it was back to a one shot. "And
that's it for this evening. Thanks for being with us."

Callaway hit the remote control and the TV set went dark.

"I take it you don't want to see what INN is saying," Julie said.

"Not all that much, no."

Julia Callaway assumed a perturbed expression, wrinkling her forehead.
"Who was it who said 'know thine enemy'?"

Callaway knew he was trapped. "That's a misquote of something Sun Tzu
said, in
The Art of War
. The actual quote goes like this:
"'If you know yourself
but not your enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a
defeat.'"

"Aha," Julia said, smiling.

Callaway sighed, picked up the remote and turned on the TV again.
"704?"

"704."

He switched the channel.

*

At the same moment, on the 43rd floor of the INN tower in midtown Manhattan,
the gnarled forefinger on the gnarled right hand of Helmut Metzger hit a button
on his desk. A giant plasma television screen dropped noiselessly from the slot
above his head, positioning itself for his perfect viewing pleasure. It turned
itself on without further intervention and automatically settled on channel
704.

"This should be good," said Metzger’s chief factotum, Robert D. Wade,
who was reclining on a nearby black suede beanbag chair. He tried to pull
himself into a sitting position, a nearly impossible task, given his size and
shape.

"It will be just what we want," Metzger told his number two, grinning
with malicious anticipation. “I guarantee it.”

A picture appeared on the television screen.

"Well, hello, America! Welcome to the Gary Hobart show," chirped a
cheerful, round-faced man with a blond buzz cut. He was dressed in what he
evidently considered a natty outfit: an eye-watering mélange of pinstripes,
paisley and plaid. "I'm glad you tuned in, ladies and gentlemen because
what I am going to tell you tonight…well, this may just be the most important
show of my entire career. And the future of our great and exceptional nation
may depend on how you react to what you hear. So listen up."

Hobart smiled grimly, then walked back to the studio's mock desk and took a
seat. "You know what I'm talking about," he said, lowering his voice
as though he was telling a secret. "I'm talking about the
meeting
.
Yes, that's right. The sweet, innocent and totally harmless meeting between our
shiny new President and that lovable old man from the Confederacy—what’s his
name? Burke? Broke?”

He paused for dramatic effect, to the count of three.

"I'm here to tell you that apparently risk-free meeting is the greatest
threat to our country since the Great War, which, thanks to ordinary, patriotic
people like yourselves, we were able to stay out of. I'm here to tell you. The
greatest threat to our nation," he repeated, his voice cracking slightly.

At the White House, Julia nudged her husband. "Watch. He's already on the
verge of tears."

"Amazing."

“What’s amazing is that it doesn’t embarrass him,” Julia said. “Makes me wish
for the good old days.”

“The good old days?”

“Yes, love, when men didn’t cry in public.”

In the Eagle's Aerie, Metzger glanced at Wade, who was still struggling to sit
up straight. "I don't know what it is," he said, "but the man
has some kind of peculiar emotional appeal."

"Peculiar is right," Wade agreed. “I think that guy is right on the
edge and he could go over at any minute.”

“When he does, I’ll cut him loose,” Metzger said. “But for now, he’s still
useful.”

On screen, Hobart was on his feet again and walking toward the back of the set,
which consisted mostly of a wall of whiteboard panels surrounded by a thick
border of diffused red neon lights. He picked a fat dry-erase marker out of a
plastic bucket full of them, and managed somehow both to face the camera and to
put the marker on the whiteboard behind him.

"Now here we have our beautiful country, the North American Union."
He drew what, without explanation, most people would have seen as the outline
of a misshapen potato. "And here we have the Confederate States of
America, the rump country that was mid-wived by our much-maligned but
extraordinarily courageous President, Abraham Lincoln." He drew
another misshapen potato, a smaller one.

"This one," he said pointing to the NAU, "has a gross national
product of more than $10 trillion dollars. That’s
trillion,
folks, not
million or billion. And this one" –he pointed to the CSA--" has an
annual GNP of barely over
one
trillion dollars." He wrote the
numbers inside the potatoes, then turned to face the audience head on.

"Now," he said, "let's look at
these
numbers.” He
scrawled 225 million in the big potato, in red marker, and 75 million in the
smaller potato. “That’s the population of the two countries,” he said. Then,
off to one side, he wrote another number, very large:
1/3
.

“What do all these numbers mean?” He asked, grinning as though he and only he
knew the secret word. “I’ll tell you what they mean. The NAU has
ten times
the GNP of the Confederacy—but only three times the number of people.”