ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? (8 page)

Callaway found himself taking a step back from the screen. "Tell me,
General Hutchison, is there any possibility Bourque wants military help from us
for some reason? And, if he does, should we consider it.?"

Hutchison chuckled. "No and no. Well, wait—he could be worried about
Mexico. After New Orleans, there's plenty of bad blood. But I think the
Mexicans would be nuts to try anything now. The Bourque Line is
impregnable."

"So we shouldn't consider giving them any military aid?"

"Bottom line, sir? I don't see any military reason for you to meet with
Bourque. And even if Mexico attacked, I doubt the American people would be
willing to come to the Confederacy's defense."

Wang chuckled. "I'd say you have a good point there."

"I agree," said Callaway. "Unless the NAU were genuinely
threatened."

"Which is
very
unlikely," Hutchison declared. "But of
course we're ready for anything."

"I expect no less," said President Callaway. "Thanks for the
briefing."

On the video screen, the Major General's image was replaced by the Presidential
logo, leaving the President alone with his Chief of Staff.

"Looks like it's pretty unanimous," Wang said. At that moment,
his cell phone decided to vibrate. He answered it and listened briefly.
"That was reception," Wang told Callaway. "He's just
arrived."

"Damn," said the President.

"Shall I have him sent up here?"

Callaway shook his head. "Let's make it the Oval Office. Better this time
to have a formal setting I think."

"I assume you're going to decline Bourque's request," Wang said,
still trying to nail it down..

Callaway reached over to the far edge of his desk, picked up a small, exquisite
millifiori
crystal paperweight, no doubt the gift of some notable White
House guest from the past, its provenance long ago forgotten and he gazed at it
for a moment. Then he shrugged. "Well, according to the advice I’ve been
getting, it isn't worth the risk."

"I concur," Wang said, hoping Callaway had really decided.

"But let's not make an enemy out of Mr. Pickett, Eric. Who knows, we may
have reason to change our minds in the future. Let's let him down easy."

"You want anyone else in the room?"

"Beside you? No. He might find that humiliating," Callaway said.
"No photo op either."

"Goes without saying."

President Callaway was sitting behind the Presidential desk and Eric Wang was
perched on a nearby couch when a chirpy, attractive dark-haired girl, an
intern, ushered LeRoy Pickett into the Oval Office. He was wearing the same
suit he'd had on yesterday. Callaway came out from behind his desk and there
was more handshaking.

Then all three of them took seats on the twin couches in the middle of the
room, in front of the President's desk. "I've seen pictures of this
room," Pickett said, "but it's much more impressive in person. I'm
intimidated."

Callaway laughed. "I feel the same way," he said.

"We haven't had a chance to redecorate," Wang said. "All this is
Howard Exley's vision."

"It looks like the trophy room of some 19th century explorer,"
Pickett said.

"Mrs. Callaway can't wait to get her hands on it," the President
said, smiling. "She thinks it would benefit from a woman's touch."

Pickett held up a hand. "Please, gentlemen, I appreciate the small talk, I
really do, but maybe it's better for all of us if I get down to business."

"Good idea," Wang said. "You've talked with Bourque? You can
tell us more about his request?"

Pickett took a deep breath. "He said he wants to talk with President
Callaway about a broad range of issues. He wants to improve the relationship
between our two countries. He used the word 'revive.' "

"That's an admirable goal," Callaway said, sounding friendly. "A
little vague, though."

Wang reacted with a kind of negative neutrality. "We'd all like better
relationships with our neighbors," he allowed.

"Enough to give a go-ahead to a Summit meeting?" Pickett asked.

"Mr. Pickett," Wang said, "I think we're all practical men here,
and as a practical matter…"

Wang paused and Pickett finished his sentence for him. "As a practical
matter, you're ready to praise the idea and then make sure it never
happens."

"I didn't say that," Wang objected.

"Mr. Wang, I've spent a lifetime reading between the lines. I understand
exactly what you're saying—what both of you are saying."

Callaway tried to be diplomatic. "I must tell you, Mr. Pickett, when I was
elected, it never occurred to me that I'd be fielding an offer from Buddy
Bourque."

Wang chose the blunt approach. "The fact is, Mr. Pickett, your request is
unprecedented and somewhat disconcerting. It has many serious ramifications,
foreign and domestic. And to be really frank, I can't see any advantage
to granting your request."

"Of course it's unprecedented," Pickett said. "And that's
exactly why I thought you'd seriously consider it."

"Maybe if the CSA made a formal proposal, something we could read and
debate," Callaway suggested.

Pickett got to his feet, slowly walked to the bay window behind the President's
desk and gazed at the immaculate grass of the South Lawn. The President and his
Chief of Staff waited him out.

"No can do, gentlemen," he said, finally turning back toward them.
"No formal proposal."

Callaway hadn't been President long, but he still expected others to accept his
suggestions with alacrity. "Why not?"

"Because it's just a way of delaying your response. We won't be able to
get you a formal proposal for a couple of weeks, and you'll send it to the
State Department and they'll debate it for a couple of months and then they'll
pass it on to some other agency and by the time you've decided, it will be too
late—and that's assuming you'll say yes, which I doubt.

"So you have it all figured out then," Callaway said.

"Pretty much."

Wang looked at Pickett with open curiosity. "What do you mean by too late?
Too late for what?"

Pickett met his eyes, took a deep breath and made a decision. "President
Bourque has not authorized me to say this. I'm not even sure he'd admit it to
himself. But I can say it because I've seen it with my own eyes: The
Confederacy is at the end of its rope. We're pretty much finished."

Wang's eyebrows rose. "Well now, Mr. Pickett, as negotiating ploys go,
that's a doozy."

The President was also surprised. "What do you mean, Roy?"

"I mean that we're just about bankrupt. Germany—if Germany weren't loaning
us money, we wouldn't have anything. And I'm not just talking about the
government, I'm talking about the country. We're in the third year of a
recession. Long tunnel ahead. No light."

"I'd heard about the German loans," Callaway said, "I didn't
realize how dire things were."

"It's a well kept secret, except for the people without jobs or homes or
people mired in poverty.
They
know."

"What caused the recession?" the President asked.

"Crop failures," Pickett explained. "Cotton. Three years in a
row. The land is exhausted and so are the people."

"Would agricultural aid…" Callaway asked.

"Not anymore. Maybe if we'd asked a decade ago."

Wang sat back, gazing steadily at his opposite number, as if visual inspection
might reveal whether or not Pickett was telling the truth. "So what's the
bottom line here, Pickett," he said. "Are you looking for money? For
humanitarian aid?"

"No, I am not," Pickett said, rather fiercely. "I'm here to set
up a meeting."

"I'm sure that we could provide a reasonable amount of food and medical
supplies, you know, on a humanitarian basis," Callaway said. "Even
funds to keep the government functioning—as a loan, of course."

"That's not what we're looking for," Pickett said. "Even as a
gift."

"Then what?" Wang asked.

For a moment, Pickett seemed to struggle with his temper. "I haven't told
you everything," he finally said.

"You have more secrets?" Wang said sarcastically, earning a reproving
glance from Callaway.

Pickett paused for a long time and when he spoke, it was clear that the effort
had cost him a great deal. "Yes. More secrets."

"Mr. Pickett—Roy—I don't know if this will help," the President said,
"but I promise you that what you say here will
stay
here. Right,
Eric?"

The Chief of Staff hesitated as his mind clicked through a series of scenarios.
"You're the Boss," he said.

They both looked at Pickett expectantly.

"If we were attacked—militarily—we couldn't defend ourselves,"
Pickett said.

"What?" Wang said, astonished. "What do you mean? You have an
army and a navy, don't you? You even have a air force, maybe it's small,
but you have one, right?"

"We have all of these things, yes. But much of the equipment is rusted or
non-functional. And we have hardly enough fuel or ammunition to train our
soldiers."

Wang was stunned. "The Bourque Line…"

"It's a sham," Pickett said. "I didn't know it until recently,
but it's just a long row of crumbling concrete pillboxes and guns so old and
corroded they'd probably explode if you tried to fire them."

"So you fear an attack from Mexico." Callaway said.

"Hold on," said Wang. "According to our military experts, Garcia
wouldn't dare take on Bourque again. Not after Bourque kicked his ass at
New Orleans."

"That was a long time ago," the President observed. "A lot has
changed since then."

Wang had another thought. "Wait a minute—does Garcia knows how defenseless
you are?"

"Well,
you
didn't—if you're being honest with me," Pickett
said. "And if you didn't know, Garcia probably doesn't know
either—yet. But if he finds out…"

"I assure you," Callaway said, "we had no idea it was that bad.
The Confederacy has been hiding its failings pretty well."

"Yes," Pickett admitted, taking no pleasure from it. "Our
security system is still working."

“I’m surprised you’d tell us all this,” Wang said. “You make me wonder about
your loyalty to your President.”

“I’m telling you
because
of my loyalty,” Pickett said. “He told me to
tell you as little as possible, but as much as necessary. And that’s what I’m
doing.”

Wang had another question: "So what do you expect from us? Are you hoping
we'll give you tanks and guns?"

Pickett was very cool. "I don't think that's what President Bourque is
looking for."

The President got up, went to the coffee pot, poured himself a cup and took a
sip. "You told us you were poor, then denied you wanted money. You told us
you were defenseless, then denied you wanted arms. What
do
you want, Mr.
Pickett? What does President Bourque want from us?"

Pickett shook his head. "I've already said more than I should," he said.
"All I can add is that President Bourque believes that a Summit conference
would be to our
mutual
benefit."

"Mutual?" Wang asked. "What do you mean."

"That's for President Bourque to say, not me."

"You're being pretty cagey, Mr. Pickett, if you don't mind me saying
so," Wang said.

"If you can't be any more specific, Pickett," Callaway said, "I
don't know how I can grant your request. I'm sorry."

For a moment, Pickett seemed on the verge of an angry retort. He settled for
sarcasm. "So, you've reached a decision?"

"I'm not dismissing the idea entirely," Callaway said. "If you
send us a proposal, I promise we'll give it serious consideration."

Pickett met Callaway's eyes and nodded once, sharply, in acquiescence. Then he
rose and extended a hand. "Thank you for hearing me out. It's been a
privilege to speak with you. Perhaps we will talk again."

Callaway stood and shook Pickett's hand. "I hope so, Roy."

Pickett took four steps toward the door, then stopped. He slowly turned back
toward his hosts, surprising them. He looked at them, weighing them in the
balance. "There's one more secret," he said.

Wang frowned. "Yet another secret? And you think it might change our
minds?"

"Perhaps."

"Please go ahead," Callaway said, trying to encourage the young man.

Pickett was not about to be hurried. He walked back to the couch and sat down
again. "Bourque is going to have my head for telling you this." But
he stopped there.

Wang's expression turned conspiratorial. "Does he have to know?"

That suggestion took Pickett off guard. "Maybe not," he said.
"Maybe not."

"So?" Wang asked. "So what's the secret?"

"President Bourque is dying," Pickett said quietly, although he
couldn't have gotten a stronger reaction if he'd shouted it out at the top of
his lungs.

"No shit," Wang said, absolutely shocked.

"You're sure?" Callaway asked.

"I was with him at the doctor's office."

Even Wang was impressed by that.

"Who else knows?" the President asked.

"No one, at least not yet, except his daughter Delphine. Nothing escapes
her. And they’re totally devoted to each other. But no one else knows."

"So, how long does he have?" Wang wanted to know.

"A year, if he's lucky. Last few months won't be pretty."

"We have some great doctors," Callaway said.

"It's pancreatic cancer."

The three of them sat in the Oval Office, silent, considering the
implications..

"Who will succeed Bourque when he dies?" the President asked.

"I guess George Barnes, the vice president."

Callaway turned to Wang, seeking information. "Kooter Barnes," Wang
said. He shook his head in the negative. Kooter Barnes wouldn't do.

"There's no one else?" Callaway asked.

It was Pickett's turn to shake his head no.