ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? (51 page)

Callaway shrugged helplessly. “I got five different ‘latest counts’, all
different.”

“Bowman was great,” Julia said. “That has to help.”

“Bowman was a gift from God,” Callaway said, “But…”

O’Neill was back on the screen. “Sometime tomorrow morning,” he said, affecting
gravitas, “Congress will cast what will certainly be one of the most momentous
votes in the history of the North American Union—whether or not to admit the
Southern states back into the union, after an absence of more than 150 years.

“How will that vote turn out. Let’s ask our chief Washington Correspondent,
Arthur Nixon. Arthur, what do you have to tell us?”

The sharp-faced, sharp-nosed man with the prominent incisors and beady eyes
took center screen. He was standing on the sidewalk, in front of the gleaming
white Capitol Building, wearing a dark-color raincoat despite the clear skies.
“Well, Sean, if you’d asked me this morning, I would have said that I didn’t
think the measure would pass, even though the Callaway administration is giving
it a full court press.”

“But you’ve changed your mind?”

“We’ve had two stunning developments today that have thrown all my careful
calculations to the wind,” Nixon said, demonstrating, once again, his habitual
and incurable fondness for clichés.

“The Bowman announcement?”

“Yes, it came like a thunderbolt, absolutely unexpected, not a whisper, not a
hint.”

“Surely the White House must have known,” O’Neill said.

“Of course,” said Nixon, “but there was no indication at all. I’m told that the
secret was held by a very small group, the President and his closest advisors.”

“How will the Bowman announcement impact the upcoming vote?” O’Neill asked.

“That’s just it, Sean—no one knows,” Nixon said. “When the Bowman announcement
came this morning, most members of Congress were at church, at home with their
families or otherwise unreachable.”

O’Neill put a forefinger to his ear and listened for a moment, evidently to his
producer. “Arthur, I’ve just gotten word that Lori Newbold has located Senator
Oliver Wendell, the Senate Minority Leader and the head of the anti-reunion
effort in Congress and will try to get a statement from him. Lori?”

A somewhat frazzled Lori Newbold appeared on the screen, standing near the
front door of a fancy Washington, D.C. restaurant. “Good evening, Sean,” she
said, “I’m here at Marcel’s Restaurant in Washington, where, I believe, Senator
Wendell will be arriving momentarily. In fact, I think that’s his car now.”

A big, black Mercedes pulled up to the curb. A finely-dressed Senator Oliver
Wendell emerged from the driver’s side, and the restaurant’s liveried valet
held the passenger door open for his wife, a glamorous, silver-haired woman in
her 60s whose face seemed untouched by age.

“Senator Wendell,” said Lori Newbold, intercepting him, sticking her microphone
in his face, “could I have a word?”

The Senator glared at pretty reporter as though he were being accosted by
muggers. “I’m going to have dinner with my wife,” he said, in a tone of voice
colder than liquid nitrogen His wife watched from a distance, equally annoyed.

“I wouldn’t bother you Senator, but this is such an important issue…please…just
one question?” Lori Newbold said. She was almost pleading.

Wendell took note of the television camera and forced a smile. “Okay,” he said,
sounding trapped, “one question.”

“Thank you,” she said. “How do you think Canadia’s offer will affect the
reunion vote tomorrow?”

“I couldn’t say,” Wendell said. “I haven’t had a chance to talk with my caucus
yet. We’ll just have to see.” He took a step toward the restaurant, but Lori
Newbold put a hand on his sleeve. He looked at her as though she were a disease
carrier.

“Another question, Senator, if you don’t mind,” she said.

“I do, but go ahead.”

“You have often said that reunion will never take place as long as you live,
and that you will lead a Senate filibuster against it. Is that still your
intention?”

Wendell smiled thinly. “Well, we’ll just have to see what happens tomorrow,
won’t we?”

Newbold wasn’t ready to let go. “Has Bowman’s offer changed your
personal
opinion about reunion?”

“I have to give that some thought, but as you know, I have many objections to
reunion,” Wendell said, pulling away. “Have a nice evening.”

The camera lingered on the restaurant until Wendell and his wife had disappeared
inside. “And there you have it, Sean,” said Lori Powell.

On the screen, her image was replaced by that of Sean O’Neill “No doubt,
Senator Wendell—and the White House as well—are looking at the polls, trying to
gauge public opinion. Well, at INN, we have one of the best poll watchers in
the business, Carl Raposo. What do the polls say about tomorrow’s vote, Carl?”

The screen split, with Sean O’Neill face on one side and, on the other, the
innocent countenance of young Carl Raposo, the network’s statistician, a recent
college graduate. “Well, Sean, I can tell you that public approval of President
Callaway’s reunion plan has been slowly fading and that yesterday, for the
first time, it fell below 50%.”

“Very interesting, Carl. What impact have today’s events had on the polls?”
Sean O’Neill asked.

“We’re not going to know anything until we get the overnights tomorrow morning,
Sean.”

“Could you give us your best estimate, Carl?”

Raposo smiled, his cheeks bunching up with baby fat. “In my profession, Sean,
estimates are a no-no. I’ll give you the numbers and I’ll tell you what they
mean, but not before I have them.”

For just a moment, Sean’s standard expression—that is, pleasantly
objective—disappeared and his annoyance was clearly visible. But he caught
himself and smiled. “Thank you, Carl. We’ll be looking forward to your next
report. We’ll be back in a moment.”

Sean O’Neill’s face faded out and a jaunty car commercial came on in his place.

In the White House living room, Julia turned toward her husband. “Wendell
didn’t look very happy,” she said.

“No he did not,” Callaway said thoughtfully. “And that’s a good sign.”

“Think he’s already talked to his caucus?”

“Hah!” said Callaway. “He knows when his people need to take a pee.” He drained
his glass and set it down on the coffee table in front of him.

“More?”

The President shook his head.

“I was surprised Raposo didn’t have new poll data,” Julia said.

“He probably does. But he doesn’t have any confidence in it,” Callaway said.

“Like us,” Julia observed.

Callaway gave his wife a look. “Sometimes I wish you weren’t quite so smart.”

“He’s back on,” Julia said, pointing to the television set.

“Reunion,” Sean O’Neill was saying. “Yea? Or nay? Let’s go back to Arthur
Nixon at the White House. Arthur, I believe you mentioned
two
stunning
developments in connection with the reunion, Arthur. The Canadia proposal was
the first. Could you tell us about the second?”

“Certainly, Sean,” Nixon said. “I’m going to ask the cameraman—Herb?—to
pan over toward Pennsylvania Avenue, to the iron fence that surrounds the White
House. At the moment, you can see a few people walking down the street, a bit
of light automobile traffic, but just a few hours ago, you would have seen one
of the largest demonstrations in the history of Washington, D.C., an estimated
quarter of a million people at the Our Country First demonstration against
President Callaway’s reunion plan.

“This morning, you would have seen this huge crowd, watching and listening to
Ms. Phyllis Iserbyt’s passionate anti-reunion address on the loudspeakers and
the enormous television screens set up along Pennsylvania Avenue, a speech
which was being broadcast nationally on the INN and several other networks.”

While Nixon spoke, INN rebroadcast a clip from the rally, showing thousands
attentively listening to Phyllis Iserbyt, then to the Gordon Bowman’s special
announcement. In the next shot, the crowd puts down its signs and begins to
dissolve.

“And then, suddenly, Gordon Bowman in effect interrupted Ms. Iserbyt’s speech
and she lost the crowd’s attention, then the crowd itself. It was a highly
dramatic and totally unexpected end to the rally.

“And what impact do you think that might have on the reunion vote?” O’Neill
asked.

Arthur Nixon shrugged. “I don’t think we’ll know that until tomorrow.”

The image of Sean O’Neill filled the screen again. “We tried to contact Ms.
Iserbyt to talk to her about this,” he said, “but she was not available for
comment. However, her organization, Our Country First did issue a statement.”
He picked up a piece of paper. “It reads as follows: Our Country First was
thrilled with the record turnout at our Washington rally today. America spoke
and we are confident that every member of the Senate will heed its voice.”

O’Neill looked directly at the camera again. “What we have here,” he said, “is
not only one of the most important stories of our time, but also one of the
most dramatic. Three nations are waiting to find out what happens Monday.” He
paused. “And now to the other news of the day…”

Callaway grabbed the remote control and turned off the television set.
“Enough,” he said.

“It was a fair report, for a change,” Julia said.

“Caught INN at an off moment,” Callaway said. “I’m sure Jack Sullivan will make
up for it tomorrow night.”

“Maybe he’ll try to,” Julia said, “but the vote will be in by then.”

Callaway looked at his wife, really looked at her, for the first time that
night. “You know,” he said, smiling, “you’re right.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Senate Majority Ed Lockett (D-Pa) was among the first to arrive in the Senate
Chamber on Monday morning, the 27
^th
day of June, 2012. He’d been in
politics for forty years, the better part of his life. Still, every time he
stepped inside this particular room, especially when it was empty, he found
himself taking an extra breath. For some reason, it had just never become
routine.

This was a majestic place—there was no other word for it. First of all the room
was huge, more than 100 feet deep and twice as wide, the massive floor covered
by semi-circular rows of burnished wooden desks, the ceiling 30-feet high to
the top of the recessed oval in its center. Then there were the rich
green marble panels and great swaths of blue and gold carpeting and a gallery
running around the room at balcony level.

The way he felt now---this is how the ancient Greeks must have felt when they
entered the Parthenon, he thought. They must have been almost overcome by awe
and by the weight of responsibility. True, there was nothing openly religious
about the room where the Senate did its business. But it was a kind of modern
equivalent of the house of the gods and goddesses.

Today, he had an additional reason for feeling the weight of responsibility. On
this day, the Senate would be deciding the fate of two nations, three really, a
decision that would impact millions of people and possibly change the world.
Did any of Athena’s priests have to confront decisions of that magnitude, he
wondered. Well, maybe they did, or thought they did.

The other Senators began slowly to filter into the chamber and Lockett’s
reverie was interrupted by an almost endless stream of handshakes and hellos,
some of the greetings quite awkward when they came from anti-reunion Senators
or those unwilling to reveal how they would vote.

At the same time, the television camera crews were finishing their setup. The
entire proceeds would be broadcast not only on C-SPAN2, but on every existing
American broadcast and cable network, with the exceptions of the Animal
Channel, the Golf Channel and the Cartoon Channel, as well as by several
foreign networks. Hundreds of millions would be watching.

Lockett sat down, pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and smoothed it down
over his desk. This was the list, the famous list the media kept joking about—all
the Senators’ names, accompanied by boxes, some of them checked, some with
question marks, some unmarked.

Lockett figured he had maybe twenty-eight sure votes in favor of reunion—five
more just last night, after the amazing offer from Gordon Bowman. . He needed
twelve additional votes for a simple majority—40 out of 78. But if Wendell made
good on his filibuster promise, he’d need nine more. Worst case: he’d have to
reel in 19 out of the 22 who still hadn’t announced. Even in the best case,
he’d need twelve, assuming none of the others came unstuck.

The one bright spot in this dismal picture, Lockett reminded himself, was that
his esteemed friend and colleague, the leading contender for the title of the
Senate’s most arrogant member, that is Oliver Wendell (R-Ok), the Senate
Minority Leader, who recently lost the Presidential election to Charles
Callaway, was facing almost exactly the same problem. In fact, if all of
Lockett’s scribbled calculations were right, Wendell was one vote behind.

At that moment, Wendell walked past Lockett’s desk. He paused. “Good morning,
Ed. Having fun yet?”

“Getting a lot of pressure from the White House, Oliver,” Lockett said. “They
want to know how this thing is going to turn out.”

“Hah!” Wendell said. “Let me know when you find out.”

He walked on.

The Senate was really beginning to fill up now, on both sides of the center
aisle that separated the opposing parties. Lockett watched, trying to assess
the mood and he wasn’t happy with what he saw—uneasiness, grumbling, confusion,
earnest conversations between Senators each trying to figure out how the others
intended to vote. He had a nagging feeling this was going to be a very bad day.

Lockett surveyed the galleries. Despite having to go through the metal
detectors, the visitors already were beginning to fill the place. It was a
highly eclectic group—young and old, black and white, male and female. He
wondered if there would be any shouting today, or people hanging signs from the
railings. Those fools were forever sabotaging their own cause.

And then, there he was, the man himself, Vice President Darren Garvey in the
flesh, an athletic, if not august, presence. The big grinning blond,
glad-handing everyone within reach, including the clerks sitting at the
marble-paneled podium at the edge of the well. It was a rare moment, seeing him
here. He only presided on special occasions.

It was a funny thing about Vice Presidents. According to the Constitution, they
had only two duties—to take over if the President died or was disabled, and
serve as President of the Senate, sans vote, except in case of a tie. And this
time, Lockett realized, Garvey’s tie-breaking vote could be absolutely
critical. So he might be dependant on man. And wasn’t that just swell?

Lockett watched as Garvey ascended to the highest point on the main floor, the
rostrum against the front wall, all the while nodding, smiling and occasionally
pointing, in recognition real or feigned. The Vice President sat down in the
big chair and assessed his kingdom. They were all there now, seventy-one men,
mostly in well-tailored dark suits and red ties, the majority in their sixties,
plus seven women of the same age, in either red or blue. All but three Senators
were white.

Lockett checked his watch. Wouldn’t be long now. He felt a hand on his
shoulder—Tom Poulos. “Hey,” Lockett said.

“How does it look?”

“Thunderstorms, chance of hail. What’s your take?”

“About the same. We gonna make it, Ed?”

“Damned if I know, Tom. Half our guys have lockjaw. I know we have defectors,
but I’m not sure who or how many.”

Sandy Salkin sidled up to the Majority Leader and his second-in-command.
“Gentlemen,” he said. He took a closer look at the two men. “Ah, so it’s not a
done deal.”

Lockett shrugged.

“We’re working on it,” Poulos said.

“I see. Has the Canadia thing helped?”

“Some,” Lockett said.

“You knew about it in advance?” Salkin asked.

“Not me. I guess I wasn’t one of those with a need to know,” Lockett said.

There was a buzz from the gallery and the three Senators glanced up. “Good
grief!” said Tom Poulos.

An elderly man, with a hayloft of orangish-brown hair, a color nature had never
imagined and probably abhorred, was finding a seat in the gallery’s front row.
He was accompanied by a patrician, silver-haired woman in a turquoise suit,
obviously his wife. Two standard-issue, black-suited Secret Service agents were
playing bookends..

“That’s Howard Exley!” Sandy Salkin said, astounded. “Did we know he’d be
here?”

Lockett gaped at the man in the gallery. “No,” he said slowly, “we most
certainly did not.”

“The last thing we need,” Poulos said, “is a cheerleader for the wrong side.”

Up on the high rostrum, Vice President Garvey had also spotted the former chief
executive, looking larger than life. He smiled broadly and pointed. Exley chose
not to acknowledge him.

Garvey shrugged and checked his watch. He put his hand over his
microphone. “Time to get this show on the road,” he said to the recording
secretary sitting at the podium below him, a dark-haired man in his 40s, whose
white shirt was much too big for his neck. “Yes, Mr. Vice President,” he said,
getting a nod from the clerk. “All set here.”

Garvey stood, extending himself full height. He banged the gavel once, making
little impression on either the Senators at their desks, conversing with each
other, or the gallery crowd, which was equally restive. He banged again. This
attracted the attention of a few Senators, who disengaged themselves from each
other and adjusted themselves in their chairs.

Vice President Garvey—President of the Senate Garvey on this occasion, he
reminded himself—banged the gavel again, louder this time. “Ladies and
gentlemen,” he said into his mike, “It’s 10 a.m., time to begin.” He banged the
gavel a fourth time and was pleased when the room finally went silent and all
eyes were on him.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I declare the Senate of the United States in
session. I am Darren Garvey, the Vice President, and I will be presiding. On
the docket today is a vote on the Bill of Acceptance, House #2845, which
provides for approval of the petitions of the ten Southern states and would
result in the reunion of the North American Union and the Confederate States of
America, individually. Clerk, have any Senators requested a hold on the vote?”

This was a crucial moment. Senator Lockett, who, as Majority Leader, occupied
the first seat in the first row on the left side of the aisle, leaned forward
unable to contain his anxiety. He didn’t expect a hold. He hadn’t heard that
anyone was going to put a hold on the legislation. Still, if someone did, at
this—the very last minute—the vote would be postponed until who knows when.

“We have no holds, President Garvey,” said Alvin Gribbish, the chief clerk. He
was a little grey, elderly-looking man of the sort who had probably been born
old. Adolescence had failed to complete its job with his voice, which was high
and squeaky

“Okay,” Garvey said, “the Chair will now entertain a motion to proceed with the
vote. Do I hear such a motion?”

Lockett rose from behind his desk. “I move that we proceed on House #2845. I
ask for the yeas and the nays.” He said, speaking rather loudly.

“Is there a sufficient second?” Garvey inquired, pro forma. He glanced around
the room and saw several Senators briefly raise their hands. “Okay, we have a
sufficient second. Now let us proceed to vote. The clerk will read the roll.”

This was the second crucial moment. Any Senator who wanted to—and Oliver
Wendell in particular—could rise now and ask that the debate be extended.
Because of Senate rules, this would stop everything until and unless proponents
could muster forty-seven votes for cloture. It was filibuster time, if there
was going to be one.

Even the gallery realized what would happen if someone moved to extend debate,
but nothing of the sort occurred. No one rose in an attempt to prevent the
vote. Either those inclined to filibuster were confident they had enough votes
to defeat the bill and prevent reunion, or they’d decided they couldn’t win a
filibuster vote. Ed Lockett glanced at Oliver Wendell, trying to figure out
which was the case, but Wendell just smiled cryptically.

So now the process had reached its third critical moment, although moment
wasn’t really the right word for it. What was about to happen would take at
least an hour, maybe longer. There was no way to hurry it up. It was the roll
call.

With the vote only minutes away, the entire world—well, at least North America
and parts of Europe—had turned on its television sets, in numbers dwarfing the
combined total of the last two Superbowls, the day the brave German Celestrians
first set foot on the Moon fifteen years ago and even the ostentatious nuptials
of
Princzessin
Carlotta of Bavaria and
Fürst
Heinrich of Lower
Saxony. It was a Big Deal, whatever the result.

Alvin Gribbish thumped his microphone a couple of times, and cleared his throat
noisily. “Okay,” he squeaked. “Mr. Abbott?”

Normally, even in a roll call vote, Senators cast their ballots electronically,
by pushing a button, or they stroll up to the recording secretary’s desk and
quietly deliver their verdict in person. But because of the historic nature of
today’s roll call, the Senators had decided to rise at their desks and cast
their votes orally.

Mr. Abbott, the junior Senator from South Dakota, a prim, priestly sort, who
was sitting on the right side of the aisle, near the back of the chamber, rose
slowly and blinked. “I vote yea,” he said.

Both Wendell and Lockett ticked boxes on their lists, then glanced at each
other. Lockett smiled, Wendell shrugged.

“Mr. Alvarez,” Gribbish said.

A short, chubby Latino with slicked-back black hair, sitting on the left side
of the aisle, in the middle, rose. “I say aye!” He announced enthusiastically.

The two Senate leaders ticked boxes again, this time refraining from looking at
each other

“Mr. Aronofsky,” said Gribbish.

A tall, thin man with a receding hairline and prominent ears got to his feet
near the front of the room, left side of the aisle. He grasped his desk-mounted
mike and leaned down to speak into it. “With great pleasure,” he said, “I join
my friends in voting yea for reunion.”

“Mr. Aronofsky votes yea,” Gribbish confirmed. “Mrs. Wilkinson?” he inquired, in
a voice momentarily soprano.

An fashionably-dressed woman with salt-and-pepper hair who was sitting in the
middle of the front row, right side of the chamber, rose gracefully, exuding
dignity and power. She turned toward Sen. Aronofsky and offered him a faint
smile. “And I will nullify the vote of my esteemed colleague from West
Virginia,” she said. “I vote nay.”

Up in the gallery, ex-President Howard Exley stood up and began applauding
slowly and ostentatiously. Other began to join in.

Vice President Garvey snatched up his gavel. “I would remind the gallery that
in accepting the privilege of attending this session of the Senate, you have
agreed to express neither approval or disapproval of the proceedings. If there
are further demonstrations, I will be forced to have the Sergeant-at-Arms
remove the offenders.”

Exley smiled and waved to the Senators below, several of whom happily returned
his greeting. “And when I say ‘offenders,’” Garvey continued, “I mean offenders
of
any
rank.” He smiled and Exley returned to his seat, undefeated.
“Continue the roll,” Garvey said.