ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? (56 page)

Gribbish stretched stiffly. “Mr. Volovitch, aye,” he said. “Mr. Wendell.”

Wendell rose from his seat, turned toward Sen. Lockett and smiled. “Pass,” he
said. Lockett shook his head, as if to say
what kind of a game is he playing
this time?

“Mr. Wendell, pass,” Gribbish repeated.

*

Somewhere over the Atlantic, a two-engined, silver-colored Messerschmitt 676
corporate jet slipped smoothly through the lower reaches of the stratosphere at
better than 600 miles an hour. Inside, Robert D. Wade lay sprawled on a couch,
gazing out the window, and Helmut Metzler sat in one of the lounge chairs,
staring, without interest, at a P and L report.

In the middle of the passenger compartment hung a large screen television set,
which was tuned to INN. The screen was filled with a wide shot of the US
Senate. Arthur Nixon, the network’s sharp-featured Washington correspondent,
was describing the action in the hushed tones of an awed witness.

“Now this is a surprise,” he said. “Sen. Wendell is the most prominent opponent
of reunion and his nay vote could have tied the count, at 33, but he decided to
pass, apparently for strategic reasons. I don’t know how this will affect the
final vote, but Wendell is known as one of the Senate’s shrewdest Parliamentary
strategists…”

“Turn that fucking thing off,” Metzger ordered.

Wade slowly began to rise from the couch. “But maybe Wendell…”

“Off!” Metzger screamed. “Off! Off! Off!”

*

Alvin Gribbish glanced at his register. “Mr. Whittaker,” he said, unmoved by
Wendell’s surprising pass.

Sen. Kendall Whittaker (R-RI), whose descendants came ashore at Plymouth Rock,
or so he claimed, was another member of Taft’s crew of Neanderthals. “Nay,” he
said.

“Mr. Whittaker, nay,” Gribbish intoned. “Mr. Wittgenstein.”

“Mr. Wittgenstein nay,” said an academic-looking older man, whose hair fell
slightly below his ears. He’d risen quickly, and now he sat just as quickly.

“Mr. Wittgenstein, nay. Mr. Wollenstone?” Gribbish inquired.

Sen. Alistair Wollenstone (R-WY), a Hitchcockian figure who, for some reason,
was oblivious to the sprinkling of dandruff that could always be found on
his shoulders and lapels, rose ponderously, pronounced the word “nay” with his
idea of a British accent and sat, relieved to have taken his turn.

“Mr. Wollenstone, nay,” Gribbish said. “Mr. Yeakal?”

Bruce Yeakal (R-WA), inventor of a waterproof fabric that allowed perspiration
to escape, but prevented rain from penetrating, and a member of the Senatorial
freshman class, stood at his desk. “Nay,” he said.

“Mr. Yeakal, nay.”

*

Count Friedrich von Zimmerman stood quietly in the foyer of his Yucatan
mansion, two commodious calfskin Louis Vuitton suitcases at his feet. He
checked his gold Sky Moon Patek Phillipe watch and frowned. “Miranda,” he
called up the stairs. “The limo will be here soon. You need to hurry.”

Moments later, Miranda glided down the tiled staircase, one hand on the wrought
iron banister, the other lugging another overstuffed Louis Vuitton bag, part of
the set. She was an eye-watering vision of teenage beauty, face-of-an-angel,
body-of-a-vixen variety.

“I still don’t know
why
we have to leave, Father,” she said petulantly.

“I’ve explained again and again, sweetheart,” Zimmerman said, trying to be
patient. “The Chancellor has asked me to return for, um, consultations,” he
said. He resisted the urge to tell her the truth, since he didn’t want to dwell
on anything unpleasant.

Miranda offered a hopeful smile. “I could stay here,” she suggested.

Zimmerman sighed. “We’ve been through that, haven’t we, honey? I can’t leave
you unsupervised, especially since I’m not sure when I’ll return.” Or
if
,
he thought.

“I hate you,” she said, without much passion.

“Yes, I know.” He looked out the window. “Here comes the limo.”

They picked up their suitcases, Zimmerman expending considerable effort, and
started for the door. Outside, an impossibly long black limo pulled up to the
portico. A mustachioed chauffeur hopped out and opened the trunk and the rear
door.

And as he did, they could all hear the car radio. The voice of a radio
newsreader wafted out into the cool Mexican morning. “…Senator Bruce Yeakal’s
nay makes the count 32 for reunion, 37 against—just three short of defeat, with
only nine Senators left to vote. It’s beginning to look like reunion is dead.”

Count von Zimmerman dropped his bags and smiled. Then he chuckled. He tried to
suppress a giggle, but failed and started laughing almost uncontrollably.

Miranda regarded her father with concern. “Father?” she said. “Daddy?”

*

Gribbish checked his register. “Mr. Yerkin?” he asked.

Sen. Yerkin (D-NV), 47, had been the COO of Myface.com in its earliest days,
leading the company to what was, at the time, the most successful IPO of its
time. He stood. “Yea,” he said. “And I wish I could say it twice.”

“Mr. Yerkin, yea. Mr. Young?” Gribbish asked.

Sen. Young (R-UT), who suffered from a severe case of Parkinson’s disease,
although his mind remained sharp, stood at his desk, shaking. “A-Aye,” he said.

“Mr. Young aye,” Gribbish said. “Mr. Zanger.”

Sen. Zanger (D-WY), 68, former publisher of the Casper Star-Tribune, a man with
a beard Santa Claus might have envied, stood and rendered his verdict. “Aye,”
he said.

“Mr. Zanger, aye,” Gribbish repeated. “Mr. Zubkus?”

Arlo Zubkus (D-ND) willingly defied his party from time to time—“on matters of
conscience,” he said, a construction which Lockett found extremely irritating.
And now, Lockett was sure, the man was going to stick it to him again. “Aye,”
said the Senator, causing Lockett to light up in surprise and delight. He
caught Zubkus’s eye and gave him an approving nod.

*

The
SS Truxton
and the other vessels of the NAU task force were holding
station in quiet seas, 30 miles off of the South Carolina coast, as they had
been for the last several weeks. Inside, in the Captain’s ready room, Rear
Admiral Robert F. Broadwell and Captain Drew Wasserman were focused intently on
the portable TV set on the desk.

“Well, that’s it for the roll call,” the announcer was saying. “Now it’s time
to get to the passed votes—five of them. With the current count 36 for reunion,
37 against, it could still go either way. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this
much suspense in the Senate Chamber.”

“He’s talking about our fate, you know,” Broadwell said, speaking over the
announcer.

Wasserman looked at his old friend. “Meaning?

“Well, it if passes, I think we go home. Mexico is never going to attack a
country with the combined might of the NAU, the CSA and Canadia. But if it
fails, we’re gonna have ships here on station for, well, pretty much forever.”

“Yes—or until
El Presidente
decides to attack.”

*

Gribbish fiddled with his papers. He’d run through the alphabet, but five
Senators had passed. It was time to call them again. It was time for them to
commit. While he arranged to record the passed votes, a low buzz arose in the
gallery. Some of the more naïve spectators had expected that the alphabetical
end of the roll call would bring a decision. Now they realized it did no such
thing.

Gribbish was ready now. “Mr. Connelly,” he said.

“Nay,” said Sen. Connelly.

Lockett made a tick on his list. They were down two, with only four to go. If
he didn’t get three of them, it was all over. Done. Finished. He took a deep
breath and tried to calm himself.

“Mr. Connelly nay. Mr. Jefferson?”

“Yea,” said Jefferson.

Lockett made a tic. The sweat was dripping down his sides and soaking his
shirt.

“Mr. Jefferson yea. Mr. Miller?”

“Yea,” said Miller

“Miller, yea,” Gribbish noted.

Okay, Lockett thought. That ties it up. Two votes left—Svenborg and Wendell.

Wendell was a lost cause, of
course. But Svenborg—he
had
to get Svenborg. He suddenly realized he was
holding his breath.

*

The rusty old pickup truck was parked on a small rise, underneath one of the
ancient live oaks that shared St. Mary’s cemetery with the dead and their
gravestones. On the driver’s side, the door was open. The radio was on. “…And Miller’s
vote ties it up again at 38,” the announcer said. “There are only two votes
left and it’s
still
too close to call. The Senate Chamber is absolutely
silent now. Nobody is even breathing.”

A few yards away, Chief Warrant Officer James Frontenot was lying in the grass,
straw hat protecting his eyes from the sun, leaning against a grey tombstone so
weathered it was unreadable. He coughed once, sighed and, without another
movement, expired.

*

Gribbish checked his ledger. “Mr. Svenborg,” he called out, voice breaking
between the
syllables.

“
Mr. Svenborg?” Gribbish called out.

“I vote aye,” Mr. Svenborg said firmly.

“Aye for Mr. Svenborg,” Gribbish said.

Lockett forced himself to tick Svenborg’s box, then his mind went blank. Was it
over?

*

“God damn!” Veronica said

“That’s it!” Katz said, breathing an enormous sigh of relief. “We’ve won!”

“We’ve won?” Wang said. “Wait—don’t you remember? Wendell hasn’t vote yet. He’s
going to tie it up, 39 to 39. You watch.”

Katz looked at Wang in disbelief. “You mean you don’t understand what just
happened?”

“Of course I do,” Wang protested. “The Vice President is going to break the tie
and make it 40-39 in favor. I was just doing the play-by-play. You know, it’s
not over until it’s over.”

“
Oy
, Eric. It’s done. It’s over,” Veronica said, exasperated. “I’m not
thrilled by the margin of victory though.”

“Yeah, one vote is not exactly a rousing endorsement,” Katz agreed.

“It was the best we could do,” Wang said. “We should be damn glad we did it.”

Veronica turned back to the TV. “Here comes the end of it,” she said.

*

Gribbish studied his list. “Mr. Wendell?” he said, looking at the Senate
Minority Leader.

Oliver Wendell rose and slowly surveyed the Senate chamber, making eye contact
with several of the other members, especially those on his side of the aisle.
And when he had concluded that sweep, he looked up at the gallery and did
something very similar, exchanging a significant but cryptic look with Howard
Exley.

“Mr. Wendell,” Gribbish repeated, tonelessly.

Wendell swallowed hard. “Ladies and gentlemen, I ask that we suspend the rules
and accept the motion by
acclamation
,” he said. “I may not love or even
approve of reunion, but we can’t go into it half-assed.”

The Senate chamber went suddenly and completely silent. Senators looked at each
other in total confusion. The visitor’s gallery crowd seemed paralyzed.
Something had happened, something big, and they just couldn’t wrap their minds
around it.

“I want to say a word to all of those courageous Senators who voted to oppose
reunion,” Wendell said. “We did our best, for a cause in which we believe. But
we lost. And now, we must join with our friends across the aisle. We must come
together as one, as one country. I release all of those who voted with me and I
ask that we approve the bill by acclamation.” He
sat.

Vice President Garvey stared at Wendell in disbelief, and spoke before he could
restrain himself. “What?” He said. “What do you mean?” The parliamentarian
pulled on Garvey’s sleeve and whispered to him urgently. Garvey seemed
unconvinced, but at last he shrugged and spoke. “Go ahead, Mr. Gribbish.”

Gribbish cleared his throat, hoping to avoid more unintended squawking. “We
have a motion for a vote by acclamation. Any objections to the vote?” He gazed
around the room, ready for a response, but there was none.

“Okay,” he said, jotting down a note. “Any seconds?”

Lockett was one of the few who had grasped what had happened. “I second the
motion,” he shouted quickly, as if he thought Wendell might change his mind.
Several other Senators added their seconds.

Half a dozen Senators on both sides of the aisle called out, “Second.”

Gribbish nodded. “Ok, approval by acclamation, moved and seconded. In favor?”

After an awkward moment of silence, the Senators found their voices. Most of
them said yes, almost in unison. After a few seconds, the rest, the stragglers
joined in.

Gribbish coughed and blew his nose. “Are there any Senators in the Chamber
wishing to vote or to change their vote?” He looked around, very briefly. “Then
the ayes have it,” he announced. “The motion is carried by acclamation, 78 yea,
zero nay.”

This was followed by an instant of shocked silence—everyone was trying to come
to terms with what had just happened—and then the applause began, first in the
gallery, then on the Senate floor itself. People began standing, and then the
clapping turned into cheers, cheers of triumph, of relief, of joy, of wonder.
During the commotion, Howard Exley managed to disappear.

Vice President Garvey stood, uncertain of what to do next. Finally, he banged
his gavel. “Okay,” he said, “the motion has passed. Is there a motion to
adjourn for the day? I move we adjourn.”

The parliamentarian tugged at Garvey’s jacket sleeve again, but the Vice
President shook him off. Garvey looked around the room, hoping for help.

“There’s a motion on the floor to adjourn,” Gribbish said, taking control. “Do
I hear a second?”

“Second,” said half a dozen Senators almost
simultaneously.

“Moved and seconded,” Gribbish went on calmly. “All in favor?”