ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? (30 page)

“The tanker sinking was convincing, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, but…

“Come with me,” Herrera said, leading Garcia toward one of the vans. He swung
open one of the rear doors and pointed inside.

“My God,” Garcia said, awed, “where did you get all that luggage? You must have
cleaned out every discount store in the country.”

“Didn’t cost us a dime,” Herrera said, beaming. “This is three years worth of
lost luggage from all of our major airports. Already stuffed with clothing and
cosmetics and everything else.”

“Impressive. But perhaps not impressive enough.”

“Not enough?” Herrera said, echoing his Boss and grinning. “You think we’re
missing something really important, something that will make it believable?”

“People, Hector,” Garcia said, annoyed. “We’re missing people.”

Herrera closed the door of the luggage truck and walked toward another vehicle.
“Maybe not,” he said. He opened the rear door of the other truck, a
refrigerated van, and gestured for Garcia to take a look.

Garcia did just that. His mouth fell open and he made a futile effort to say
something. Finally, a single word popped out: “Where…”

“All of the unclaimed bodies from four different morgues,
Presidente
,”
Herrera said. “We’ll put some in flight uniforms, the rest in clothes we got
from Goodwill, about 120 passengers in all. We’ll throw in some paperbacks and
MP3 players too. What do you think? Sound believable?”

“I’m impressed,” Garcia allowed. “But what’s that up front—that cage?”

“Coupla dogs. Dead dogs.”

“Hector, you have a ghoulish imagination. It’s one of your best traits.”

Herrera permitted himself a smile.

Garcia pointed to the armored munitions truck. “Bomb in there?”

“Yes. It has an altitude fuse. It will explode when the plane reaches 30,000
feet.”

“Which will be where?”

“The way we’re setting the auto pilot, it should be right between Mexico City
and Havana. Over the water, of course.”

They walked back toward the Mercedes. “Well, you were right, Hector. This is
going to be better than the tanker, more spectacular, more horrifying. And an
even better excuse for me to teach Mr. Buddy Bourque the lesson of his life.
Remind me to give you a raise.”

“Your pleasure is all the raise I need,” Herrera said.

Garcia nodded. “I’ll drive this time.” They got into the car and
El
Presidente
, feeling very satisfied with himself, drove out the same gate by
which they’d entered. “Got everything set up for the terrorist or the spy or
whatever you’re calling him?”

“We’ve found the perfect mark,” Herrera said. “CSA émigré living in
Cuernavaca.”

“Giving him a fake background, I assume?”

“Hardly have to,” Herrera said. “He’s one of Bourque’s distant relatives and a
former member of the CSA Special Forces. Been here about three years. We’re
going to make him look like a sleeper, let him run, shoot him down before he
can talk.”

“The perfect patsy,” Garcia said, musing. “Like Heaven sent him.”

“And I found him.”

*

They drove back to the Capital building and left the Mercedes at the front
door, for the servants to deal with. A beetle-browed young officer in an
immaculate uniform was waiting for them at the door. He approached
El
Presidente.

“Yes?”

“We have news concerning President Bourque. He’s going to be addressing his
nation on television in about 35 minutes.”

“We will be able to receive the broadcast?”

“Yes sir. The video room is prepared for you.”

Garcia glanced at Herrera. “Would you like to join me for the show?”

“Can we have lunch delivered?”

El Presidente
gestured toward the young officer, who needed no further
instruction.

Herrera and Garcia entered the Presidential elevator. “So, Hector, what would
you say if you were Bourque?”
El Presidente
asked.

El Presidente’s
Intelligence Director thought a moment, as the elevator
rose. “He’s no dummy. He’s going to try to retake the moral high ground. He’ll
offer the Confederacy’s sincerest sympathies to the bereaved families and say
the CSA will be happy to cooperate in any investigation of this tragic
accident.”

“Hah! Yes,
accident
.” Garcia laughed. “Good, good.”

“And then he’ll say that Mexico is mistaken about the cause of the tanker
sinking—that the CSA had nothing to do with it, and therefore can’t be expected
to pay restitution or shoulder the blame.”

“He might get angry about our accusations…”

“I’m sure he’ll be enraged. But I’ll bet he doesn’t show it.”

The elevator door opened at the top floor and the two men got out. “I hope
you’re right,” Garcia said. “Because
I
should be the angry one. After
all, his torpedo boats sank our tanker.”

“Yes. And that was a heinous crime. Completely reprehensible.”

“And I’m going to call him on it,” Garcia said. He lowered his voice to a
hearty bass growl, rehearsing. “I demand restitution for the ship and
especially for its crew. I also demand extradition of the torpedo boat’s
captain and crew, so they can face Mexican justice. And if President Bourque
does not respond quickly and completely, I promise the dead and their grieving
families I will extract justice from the Confederacy. We will not let this
insult to our national honor go without retaliation.”

Herrera nodded in approval. “Don’t change a word. And the tone is perfect.”

“So then he denies everything again, right?”

“Right. And that’s when the plane explodes.”

*

LeRoy Pickett stood at a bedroom window of the Blair House, the classic mansion
across Pennsylvania Avenue from the White House that served as the President’s
guest house.

“What are you looking at?” President Bourque wondered.

“Marchers outside of the White House. There are thousands of them.”

“Marchers?”

“It’s a demonstration,” Pickett explained. “Listen, they’re chanting.”

Bourque strolled over to the window to see for himself. “What are they saying?
Can you make it out?”

“Not quite,” Pickett said. “But I’m sure the TV news is covering it.” He found
a television set hidden in a wooden cabinet and hit the on button. Up came a
view of the wrought iron fence in front of the White House, and the motley crew
of demonstrators, most of them older white men and their dowdy wives. Platoons
of policemen were watching them with wary eyes.

In front of the mob stood a dark-haired fellow, clean-cut, in his early 30s
—the on-location reporter, apparently—holding a microphone with an INN logo.
“…been here for about an hour now, and the number of protestors seems to be
growing.” he was saying.

A small assortment of protestors, noticing the camera, began converging on it
and chanting in ragged rhythm. “Bourque go home!” and “Just say NO to
Bourque!,” and they were soon joined by an even larger group shouting “Our
Country First!” and waving homemade signs with the same message.

The reporter grinned and raised his voice. “The leaders of the protest tell me that
they intend to keep demonstrating 24 hours a day until the Sunday after next,
when they plan to fill the mall with upwards of 200,000 members of the Our
Country First organization…”

Pickett sighed and found the off button.

“Well, that’s about as welcome as a skunk at a lawn party,” Bourque said,
frowning.

“Don’t let ‘em worry you,” Pickett told him. “Wang told me there’d be
protests.”

Bourque went back to the window and watched the protesters for a few moments.
“I ain’t gonna lose weight over ‘em, Roy, but that don’t mean I gotta like
‘em.”

There was a knock at the door, then Marty Katz walked in, cigar in place but
unlit. “They’re ready for you in the media room, Mr. President.”

Bourque straightened his string tie. “Let’s go,” he said.

“All the networks have signed on?” Pickett asked.

“Yes,” Katz said. “They’re ready to interrupt normal programming at our
signal—NBC, ABC, CBS, Canadia Broadcasting and the Confederate Broadcasting
System. Mexican TV will pick up the broadcast as well.”

Bourque had a thought. “Someone has alerted Garcia?

“I had our ambassador call his office.” Pickett said.

“See that, Mr. Katz,” Bourque said, “my boy here is as smart as a tree full of
owls.” He furtively slipped another Tum into his mouth.

Pickett caught the surreptitious movement. “You up to this, Boss?”

“My stomach’s punishing me some,” Bourque admitted, “but I still got plenty of
snap left in my garter.”

Katz checked his watch. “We’d better get moving.”

He led them through the long tunnel under Pennsylvania Avenue and into the
White House, to the television studio on the lower level. It housed enough
video and audio production equipment to arouse envy at a major network, and was
manned by a matched pair of geeky, bespectacled technicians and a blowsy,
wide-eyed make-up girl.

Adjoining the studio, and visible from the control room through a window, was a
mock executive office, complete with imposing desk, a background wall of books
and plaques and, this morning, a prominent but modest flagstaff flying the
Confederate colors. A video camera stood about 10 feet in front of the desk and
its operator was busily fiddling with the lens.

Eric Wang, who’d been arranging the desk’s generic knickknacks, looked up as
Bourque and Pickett entered the studio. “What do you think?” He said. “This do
the job?”

Bourque surveyed the set. “It’ll do,” he said. He pulled out the desk chair and
sat down heavily. The make-up woman was on him immediately, wielding a powder
puff, which she used to de-shine Bourque’s forehead and nose, a fuss he barely
tolerated.

“Where’d you get the flag?” Pickett asked Wang.

“The Smithsonian had one in the attic.”

“Very funny.”

“I had your embassy send one over.”

Bourque cleared his throat. “hello, hello, hello, testing one two three.”

One of the technicians in the control room gave him a thumbs up.

“What do I say when I want to cut to the video?” Bourque asked.
“You say,
‘Let’s cut to the video,’” Katz instructed.

“Got it.”

“Two minutes,” one of the technicians called out.

“Got the notes?” Pickett asked Bourque.

“They’re right here in my…” he reached for an inside jacket pocket, found
nothing and gasped. Then he laughed mischievously and took the notes out of
another pocket and spread them on the desk.

“Everybody’s a comedian,” Pickett said. “Okay, you’re on your own. Watch the
window. The technician will give you the start signal.” He closed the office
door and joined the others in the control room, leaving Bourque alone at the
desk, in full view, with the cameraman tightly focused on him.

Everyone kept an eye on the clock on the control room wall. When the second
hand hit 12, a technician nodded to Marty Katz. “Good morning. And now,
Virgil L. Bourque, President of the Confederate States of America, speaks
in response to the tanker sinking in the Gulf.”

Bourque looked into the camera lens, his expression grave. “Ladies and
gentlemen, citizens of the Confederacy, people of Mexico,
Presidente
Garcia and all my friends in North America…

“First, I want to say that I was greatly saddened when I learned that a Mexican
tanker had sunk in the Gulf of Mexico. This is a terrible tragedy for the
people who lost their lives, for their families and for Mexico. You all have my
deepest condolences.

“Second, I want to promise that the Confederacy will cooperate without
reservation in any investigation to determine exactly what happened and to
recover the bodies of those who went down with the ship.”

He paused and glanced at Pickett, who gave him an approving nod.

“Third, I wish to state categorically that neither the Confederate States of
America nor any of its agents, associates or friends had
anything
whatever to do with the sinking of the
SS Tampico
. I deny our
responsibility in the strongest possible terms. Let me repeat myself: The CSA
had nothing—
absolutely nothing
—to do with the sinking. In fact, we were
totally unaware of it until the Mexican Government announced the news.”

Bourque momentarily lost his train of thought and glanced down at his notes,
hoping to find his place. After a moment, he looked up again.

“Some of you watching me this morning may doubt I am telling the truth. Some of
you may believe the CSA sank a Mexican tanker in a pre-meditated act of
aggression. Some of you may have watched
Presidente
Garcia accuse the
CSA and believe what he said. Some of you may have listened to the distress
call from the tanker and come away convinced it was real.

“And I understand that. If I didn’t know better, I might have drawn the same
conclusions. But I know better. I know the CSA had nothing to do with the
tanker sinking. And thanks to some friends in Canadia, I can
prove
what
I say.”

He hesitated, still looking directly into the camera.

“That also bears repeating. I can
prove
what I have said. And I am going
to do just that, right now. Cut to the video.”

On the dozen monitors in the control room—and in the network feed—Bourque’s
face was replaced by a split screen. Half of it was black and the other half
consisted of a page of type.

“Okay. Is it up? Good,” Bourque said. “Now on the right you see a typed version
of the distress call, as the Mexican government released it. And on the left is
an image from the
Argos
, the weather satellite launched by Canadia last
Friday. It’s aimed at the last known location of the
S.S. Tampico
,
according to the Mexican government. Could you fix the contrast on that?”

On screen, the image’s left half brightened and a distant, but large,
ship-shaped object could be seen in the center of the picture. It was dark,
except for lights fore and aft and in the wheelhouse, high up in the
superstructure.