Veronica stood, displaying her paisley caftan at full billow. “Gentlemen, shall
we retire to my office?” She glided toward the door.
“Veronica,” Callaway said.
She stopped and looked back at him, while the Vice Presidents walked on. “Yes?”
“Thank you.”
“You owe me one,” she said,
sotto voce
, over her shoulder. And she was
gone, closing the door behind her.
That left four of them: The two Presidents, Roy Pickett and Eric Wang.
“That Vice President of yours,” Bourque said affably. “Seems to me his engine
is running but there ain’t nobody driving. ‘Course I could be wrong.”
“You are talking about the Vice President of the North American Union,”
Callaway said, feigning offense. “But I’m aware of the problem. And speaking of
Vice Presidents…”
“I know. Mine’s a good ole’ dog, but he’s not much for hunting.”
“So I guess it’s up to us,” Callaway said.
Bourque shrugged. “Never thought any different.”
Silence reigned for a few moments, while each side waited for the other to
speak first. Callaway volunteered. “I’m going to cut through the persiflage,
Mr. President, and get down to what we like to say is where the rubber meets
the road. What do you want from us and what are you prepared to give to us in
return?”
Bourque grinned. “Mr. President, you have a turn for getting to the point of
the matter. Tell ‘em what we want, Roy.”
Pickett would have swallowed his gum if he’d been chewing any. “Well,
I…um…there are two areas…I mean, the military and the economic points on the
agenda…”
At that moment, Pickett’s cell phone rang—tinkled, actually. “That wasn’t
supposed to happen,” he said, fumbling for it, embarrassed.
The next moment, another set of melodious tones interrupted the
proceedings—Eric Wang’s cell phone. “No it wasn’t,” he said, pulling the gadget
out of a pocket.
The two men twisted around in their chairs, in the vain hope of gaining some
privacy. “Boss, we got a problem,” Pickett said to Bourque.
“What?”
Before Pickett could answer, Wang spoke to Callaway. “Linus Hawke is in the
hall. He wants to see you. Something about Mexico. Says it’s urgent.”
The two Presidents exchanged significant glances.
“I have a feeling we’ve just got bit by the same Chihuahua,” Bourque said.
Callaway nodded in agreement. “Eric, ask Linus to come in.”
Wang spoke a few words into his cell and in walked Linus Hawke, the Director of
Central Intelligence, courtly and contained as usual. He surveyed the
conference room occupants dispassionately. “I need to see you privately, Mr.
President,” he said.
“President Bourque, Mr. Pickett,” Callaway said, “This is my DCI, Linus Hawke.
Linus, please meet President Bourque of the Confederate States of America and
his assistant, LeRoy Pickett.”
They all shook across the table.
“Linus, lets go out into the hall,” Callaway suggested. “You can tell us what’s
on your mind and our guests can discuss the phone call they just got.”
“That would be good,” Pickett said. He glanced at Bourque, who nodded.
“Of course,” Hawke said and headed for the door, Callaway close behind.
“You’re with us, Eric,” said the President.
They left the room, closing the door behind them.
“Up there on the left,” Wang said pointing. “Unoccupied office.” He led the
way, closing the door after Callaway and Hawke entered. It was in this room
that Howard Exley had kept his collection of antique firearms. The walls were
covered with empty gun-racks, and a sturdy wooden table nearly filled the room,
as did the faint aroma of gun oil. The three men found seats in the thickly
upholstered chairs that surrounded the table.
“So, Linus,” Callaway said. “What’s this all about?”
Hawke reached into his inner suit pocket and withdrew some papers and began to
read. “At 11:15 this morning, the Mexican National News Service announced that
a Mexican flag tanker, the
SS Tampico
, had been sunk in the Gulf. The
Mexican government says this was the result of an unprovoked attack by a
torpedo boat flying the flag of the Confederate States of America.”
He paused and glanced at the President, who was stony-faced. He took another
breath and continued. “Although an intensive search is underway,” he said, “it
is believed that none of the
Tampico’s
fifty man crew survived the
attack. While no video of the event exists, the tanker’s captain did manage to
radio his home port and describe the attack as it took place. His last
transmission ended at 9:43 a.m.”
“Jesus Christ,” Wang said.
Callaway just shook his head. “This is not good news,” he said.
“No,” Hawke agreed.
Eric Wang chose that moment to get furious. “We offered them help. Shit, we
gave
them help and they betrayed us. They
used
us.”
“Do we have any hard evidence?” Callaway asked. “I mean other than the Mexican
broadcast. Any proof?”
“A couple of airline pilots called in a thick plume of smoke coming from the
western end of the Gulf,” Hawke said. “Then there’s the distress call. We
picked it off Mexican radio. It’s about 10 minutes long—the ship’s captain, evidently,
describing the attack, pleading for help, telling his crew to abandon ship, an
explosion. Then silence.”
“I think we should immediately recall the task force we sent to guard the CSA’s
Atlantic Coast,” Wang said. “We’re just asking for trouble.”
Callaway sat back in his chair and considered the matter.
“I don’t want to say it, but I told you so,” Wang said.
Callaway shot him a look. “If you really didn’t want to say it, you could have
kept your mouth shut, Eric.”
“I think you may want to cut the Bourque meeting short, Mr. President,” Hawke
said. “Otherwise,
his
problem could become
our
problem.”
Callaway fixed his cool grey eyes on Hawke’s. “You know,” he said, “it is
possible that there’s less to this than meets the eye.”
“Explain, “ said Hawke. “I mean,” he continued quickly, and less imperiously,
“what are your thoughts on the matter?”
“Well, it raises a question,” Callaway said. “Why would Bourque do such a
thing. It’s against his interests. I’d think the last thing he’d want to do is
to kick that Mexican hornet’s nest—and endanger
these
talks.”
“Hmmm,” said Wang, not convinced.
“What he says makes sense, Eric.” Hawke said. “I can’t see what they’d have to
gain by attacking a Mexican ship. Can you?”
Wang thought about this, his anger starting to cool. “Maybe a pre-emptive
attack?” he suggested.
“If they’d wanted to launch a pre-emptive attack,” Callaway pointed out, “they
would have hit a military target—not a tanker.”
“Maybe they are hoping to drag us into a shooting war with Mexico,” Wang said
without much conviction.
“If they’d been aiming to do that,” President Callaway said, “that torpedo boat
would have been flying an NAU flag the size of a garage door.”
“He has a good point,” Hawke told Wang.
“Okay,” Wang said, “the CSA wasn’t involved. I buy that, I guess. So what the
hell happened to that tanker and why?”
Hawke’s cell phone beeped and he checked out the screen. “Text message coming
in,” he said. He waited for a count of four, then started reading. “In a TV
address to the Mexican nation, President Garcia calls on CSA to apologize, pay
damages for attack on tanker or face retaliation.”
“Ah. I begin to understand,” Callaway said.
“We’ll have the video and a transcript in a couple of hours,” Hawke said. “But
I think it’s pretty obvious what Garcia is up to.”
“Looking for a way to blame the victim,” Callaway said. “Trying to justify an
upcoming attack—make it look like retaliation.”
“That’s my guess, Mr. President.”
“Shit,” Wang said. “Now I’m feeling pretty stupid.”
Callaway tried to let him off the hook.“You made a reasonable guess.”
. “I jumped to conclusions,” Wang said. “Sorry about that, Mr. President.”
“Well, at least you didn’t say all that in front of Bourque and Pickett,”
Callaway said. “They might have concluded you didn’t trust them.”
“Yeah,” Wang said, chastened. “That would not have been useful.”
“You think President Bourque has the same information we have?” Callaway asked
Hawke.
“Well, there was that call,” Hawke remembered. “So I think it’s almost certain
that he does.”
Callaway looked at Wang and raised an eyebrow. “What would you suggest we do
now, Eric?”
“I suggest we go back into the conference room and see how we can help
President Bourque,” Wang said.
“Good,” said Callaway. “That’s exactly what I was hoping you’d
say.”
They walked back to the conference room. Wang decided it might be a good idea
to knock, which is what he did.
“Come on in,” Bourque boomed up.
The Americans rejoined the Confederates.
“Seems like I have a problem,” Bourque said.
“What have your people told you?” Callaway
asked.
“We’ve heard the Mexican radio announcement, got word of airplanes sighting a
plume of smoke and we’ve heard a translation of the distress call,” Pickett
said.
“Sounds like you have everything we do,”
Hawke said.
“Oh, we have one thing extra,” Bourque said. “We’re the ones who are being
blamed for it. We’re the ones who have to apologize and pay restitution.”
“Even though we didn’t do it,” Pickett said.
“Yes,” said Wang, “we figured that out.”
“What do you think happened in the Gulf?” Callaway asked Bourque.
“I’m just as blutterbunged as you are,” Mr. President. “This is none of my
doing. If I’d been thinking along those lines, I would have tried to drop a
bomb on Garcia’s office.”
Callaway couldn’t resist a smile. “Not surprised you feel that way,” he said.
“But I think we have a problem. What are we going to do about it?”
“We?” Pickett said, surprised.
“Well, I don’t see how we can deal with the, ah, bigger issues before this gets
taken care of. So, if we can help…”
“I don’t know how,” Bourque said. “Seems like it’s on my head.”
“What will you do?” Wang asked.
“That’s what we’ve been discussing,” Pickett told him.
“I’ve made a decision,” Bourque announced. “I’m gonna deny everything at the
top of my lungs and call Garcia a big fat liar.”
Callaway frowned. “I think that’s the reaction he’s hoping for, Mr. President,”
he said.
“Oh, I know that,” Bourque said. “I’m just shootin’ off my
mouth.” “Should I
call the military to the situation room, Mr. President?” Wang asked.
“Hold off on that for a minute, Eric,” Callaway said. “Let’s think this thing
through.”
Bourque leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin. “Well, since we know I’m
not lying” – he looked at Callaway with an ironic twinkle—“Then, Garcia must be
the liar here. Phony outrage, phony distress call, phony attack—although maybe
they did sink something out there.”
“Yes,” Callaway said, “that was our thought as well.”
“Who’s he trying to fool?” Wang asked. “And why?”
“First of all,” Bourque said, “he’s trying to fool
you
. Second, he’s
trying to fool the rest of the world—Germany and the League of Nations in
particular. He’s trying to give himself cover. You know, a justification for
attacking us, I mean the CSA.”
Callaway and Hawke exchanged glances. “We reached the same conclusion,” said
the President.
“Do you think he’ll strike now?” Wang asked. “I mean, if President Bourque
denies complicity?”
Bourque considered the question. “No. Not yet. One incident won’t do it. He’ll
have to stage a second one. That’ll give him all the excuse he needs.”
Wang had an inspiration. “What if you immediately apologize, pay restitution
and promise it will never happen again?”
Bourque laughed. “Mr. Wang, you are a good deal more devious than I imagined.”
“Clever idea,” Callaway said, “but it wouldn’t work. He’d just claim the
apology was insincere and insulting and stage another incident.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Wang said,
disappointed.
DCI Hawke crossed his legs, flashing a brilliantly-polished cordovan loafer.
“Mr. President,” he said, “Do you mind if I ask President Bourque a few
questions—intelligence questions?”
“You ask me any question you want,” Bourque said. “I’ll tell you whatever I
know.”
Callaway gave Hawke a nod of approval.
“Okay,” Hawke said. “Do you have any radar showing Gulf traffic, anything you
might have on tape?”
“Hmm,” Bourque said. “Not that I know of.”
“We have weather radar,” Pickett said.
“I’m afraid that’s a little too…primitive…to be useful,” Hawke said. “What
about automatic radio intercepts?”
“We don’t have that technology,” Pickett said.
“We have it,” Bourque said, surprising Pickett “But we can’t afford to deploy
it.”