ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? (9 page)

Wang asked the obvious question. "So what will happen to the Confederacy
when Bourque dies?"

Pickett smiled slightly. "I have a question for
you
, Mr.
Wang," he said. "How would you feel about a Mexico that's 30% larger,
has a population 40% greater and commands a string of modern ports up and down
the Atlantic Ocean? How would you feel about a Mexico that's the biggest, most
powerful country in North America?"

"You're saying that's what will happen when Bourque dies?" Callaway
asked.

"I think it's inevitable, Mr. President," Pickett told him. "The
only question is how long Garcia will wait before he strikes. Not very long,
I'd say."

"I begin to understand why you think this is so urgent," Wang
admitted.

The President took a deep breath and folded his arms across his chest. "So
you're saying that Bourque's death will impact us too?"

"I'm just asking you to consider what a Mexican takeover of the
Confederacy would mean to your country—economically and politically."

For a moment, they considered. Then Wang spoke. "Why didn't you tell us
about Bourque earlier?"

"Because I had hoped to persuade you without revealing all of our
secrets," Pickett said.

"Is that the last one?" Wang asked.

"Yes. You know everything."

They sat there, the three of them, saying nothing, not even looking at each
other. Not a word for what seemed like several minutes.

It was Callaway who spoke first. "There's just one thing," he said,
addressing Pickett, "It can't be confidential. We have to meet openly. If
we don't, it is bound to leak and we'll both be accused of making secret deals.
And that would be a disaster."

"Hey! Wait just a minute," Wang objected. "This needs to
be discussed—and in private."

"There'll be plenty of time for that," Callaway said.

Pickett was holding his breath now. "Do I understand you right, Mr.
President?"

"You're very persuasive, Roy," said President Callaway. "Bourque
chose you well."

Pickett leaned back into the couch, closed his eyes and exhaled, totally spent.

"Mr. President," Wang said almost angrily. "If you've really
made this choice, you're going to have do a whole lot of persuading
yourself."

"I know."

Pickett recovered a bit. "Can I convince you the meeting should be
secret?"

"No. You're going to lose me there. We can't just present the public with
a
fait accompli
. Maybe President Bourque could get away with that,
but not me. I need public support for whatever I do."

"Wait a minute. Just what are you agreeing to, anyway?" Wang asked.

Callaway turned to face his Chief-of-Staff. "It's a
meeting
,
Eric," he said. "Nothing more, nothing less. A publicly announced
meeting."

Wang didn't let up. "Meetings have results, Mr. President. Something comes
out of them. Something good…or something bad. What do you expect from this
meeting?"

"Hmmm," said the President. "Am I on the witness stand
now?"

Wang backed down instantly. "I'm sorry, Mr. President, I'm just, well,
trying to understand what's happening here. Thinking about goals, you
know."

"I see," Callaway said. He was still a little annoyed. "Well, I
think that CSA and the NAU might both benefit from a friendlier, closer
relationship."

"A trade deal and cultural exchanges?" Wang suggested.

"Perhaps," the President said. "And maybe ways to strengthen
North America's political stability."

Wang was unwilling to push Callaway any harder, so he turned to Pickett.
"What about you, Mr. Pickett? I can see what the Confederacy might
gain from a Summit, but what could
we
get out of it?"

Pickett didn't flinch. "I think the President and I are on the same page,
Mr. Wang. President Bourque too. Agreements in our mutual interest."

"Yes, I get the mutual interest part," Wang said. "But what if
we want something tangible in addition?"

"Tangible?" Pickett asked, suspicious. "Like what? I've already
told you we're broke."

Wang cocked his head reflectively. "Well, maybe some trade
concessions—most favored nation cotton prices, for example. Or…" he had a
new thought, "Maybe you could disarm that border between our
countries and let people come and go as they like. Regardless of color, that
is."

Callaway looked at Wang with surprise. "Eric, how very Dudley Doright of
you," he said. "But let me add to the list: Perhaps we could
gain some social concessions—full citizenship for Blacks. Voting rights."

This time, Pickett grinned broadly. "Well, I'm not empowered to
negotiate," he said. "But I think we could talk about it.”

"Could President Bourque sell it to the Confederacy?"

"Mr. President," Pickett said, "Buddy Bourque could sell steak
tartare to the founders of the International Vegetarian Society."

Callaway laughed. "I think this will be even more difficult than that—not
just for him, but for me."

"You're absolutely sure you want to do this?" Wang asked the
President.

"I am. Are you with me on this one, Eric?"

"Am I with you? Of course I am. Somebody's got to protect your ass."

"Good. Eric, I'd like to introduce you to someone," Callaway said.
"This is Roy Pickett. You can call him Roy. He's a smart guy. Dedicated.
Doing something that's almost impossible. You're going to be his partner in
this little enterprise we've been cooking up. You two are going to make it
happen, and as soon as possible."

Pickett caught Wang's eye and nodded.

"And Roy, this is Eric Wang—Eric to you. He's an ornery son-of-a-bitch,
hard to like sometimes, but whatever needs doing, he can get it done—no matter
how hard it is. I'd like you to work with him. He has my full confidence and my
authorization to do whatever is necessary."

"It would be my privilege, Mr. President," Pickett said. "And
Eric." He extended a hand to Eric Wang, who shook it, grinning sheepishly.

"Well, Roy, I guess we'd better get to work," Wang said.

Chapter Five

Eric Wang's office was only a few steps down the hall from the Oval Office, but
the two could hardly have been less alike. The Oval Office had an intrinsic
serenity. It was stately, even regal. Wang's office looked like someone's spare
room. Books and papers sat on the floor, in teetering piles. Leaking cardboard
coffee cups, crumpled fast food wrappers and orphaned paper clips littered the
desk.

"I know, it's a mess," Wang told Pickett. "Sorry about
that. But have a seat." Pickett looked at the guest chairs. All
three of them were piled high with folders and files. "Just put the
stuff on the floor, and make yourself comfortable," Wang instructed.

Pickett chose the least cluttered chair and did as he was told.

"I suppose you have an office something like this back at The Plantation,
Roy," Wang surmised. He rose and closed his door, hoping to keep the West
Wing commotion out of his office.

"I have a little table in the vestibule of Bourque's office," Pickett
said.

"And yet…"

"And
so
I hear everything he says and see everything he does."

"I see. I guess you two are pretty tight."

"Not many secrets between us," Pickett said, without explaining.

"I see," Wang said. Then he asked, "So, tell me, will he be
willing to go public?"

"He won't like it. But yes. He'll listen to me."

Wang nodded, impressed. "I wish I could say that about Callaway."

"The President doesn't always do what you suggest, Eric?" The remark
was accompanied by a slight smile.

"Hah!" Wang said. "If he did, we would have turned you
down."

Pickett was surprised. "Even after I told you about Bourque? Do you still
think he should have declined our offer?"

"The answer is no. We have to meet. Bourque's death is going to change
everything and we've got to be prepared."

"That's a relief," Pickett said. "I don't know if I have any
more persuading in me."

"You'd better," Wang said. "You're going to have to help me
persuade a nation. Two nations."

Pickett nodded wearily. "Yeah. I know. So where do we start? Want me to
make the travel arrangements?"

"Travel arrangements?" Wang said. "You're worried about travel
arrangements? That's the only thing I'm not worried about. The White House has
a whole staff to take care of that."

"You're worried about the negotiations."

"Haven't even given them a thought, Roy. I'm worried about rolling out the
announcement and not getting killed in the media. I'm worried about screwing up
all the things Charlie Callaway and I want to do while he's President. I'm
worried about Bourque. I'm worried about Mexico. And most of all, Roy, I'm
worried about the morons and miscreants in both countries who'll be outraged by
the meeting and desperate to sabotage it."

"That's a heavy load," Pickett admitted.

"Well, fortunately, I have someone to help me carry it," Wang said.
He smiled.

"I'll do anything I can."

"Yeah, well, thanks to your silver tongue, Roy, you have gotten both of us
into the biggest, most complicated frickin' mess of either of our lifetimes. If
we can pull this off it'll be a miracle—and we are going to need all the help
we can get."

"So how do we start?"

"I was hoping you knew."

They laughed.

"I guess the arrangements and the announcements come first," Pickett
said.

"Let me ask you a question," Wang said. "What happens to the CSA
if Mexico attacks tomorrow morning?"

"I already told you—we can't defend ourselves."

"Right. Now, what if Garcia knows that?"

'"If he attacks now, we're finished," Pickett admitted.

"Right. So the very first thing we have to do, and by 'we,' I mean the
NAU, is to reinforce your military so that it will at least be able to give
Mexico a good fight."

Pickett looked at Wang in surprise. "I didn't expect that."

"Yeah, well, maybe it's just temporary, but we don't want to find
ourselves holding a summit with someone fleeing from the Mexican invaders of
his own country."

"I may have been wrong about you, Eric."

Wang took off his glasses and polished the lenses with his tie. He held them up
to the light and polished some more. Finally, satisfied, he put the glasses
back on and blinked. The perfectly round lenses contrasted oddly with his
almond-shaped eyes.

"Okay," he said, blinking again, "I'll talk to the Secretary of
Defense and get him moving. Meanwhile, we should be started on the
announcement."

"That's a little premature, you know," Pickett said.

"How so?"

"Well, I haven't yet gotten Bourque's approval for a public announcement,
for one thing."

Wang raised an eyebrow. "I thought that was a given."

"It is. But I need to actually do it. I also need to tell him that
President Callaway has agreed to a meeting."

"Yes. I imagine he'll want to know."

"And about the military aid."

"Hah! Yes, he'll want to know about that too, I'm sure."

"You have an empty office where I can use a phone?"

"We can do better than that," Wang said. "Do you guys have
Skype?"

"Yeah. Bourque has used it a couple of times to talk to his daughter when
she's on the road. But in general, he doesn't get along well with
computers."

"I'll set up the two of you."

Wang got up and Pickett followed him out of the office, into the controlled
chaos of the West Wing's main hallway. It was a scene familiar to Pickett from
his life at The Plantation, only everyone here was younger, better looking,
better dressed and moving at about twice the speed of his or her Southern
counterpart. They scarcely noticed his presence.

Wang led Pickett into a small, empty office at the far end of a secondary
hallway, which was equipped with a desk, a couple of chairs, a telephone and a
computer with a huge monitor. "You know how to do this?" He asked.

"Not exactly."

Wang sat down in front of the computer and turned it on. "What's Bourque's
Skype name?"

"Skype name? Ah, I don't know it.'

"O-kay," Wang said. "How about his e-mail address?"

"I think I know that one," Pickett said. "It's
[email protected]
."

The computer had booted up by now and Wang typed in Bourque's e-mail address.
They waited for someone to pick up at the other end.

The Skype splash screen disappeared, and was replaced by a rectangle of black
snow. "What? What?" A male voice said. "Who's on the damn line?
Who's calling?"

The Skype splash screen reappeared, this time with a small rectangular image of
Pickett's face, or most of it, in one corner. And then there was music—a girl
singing.

"That's odd," Wang said. He clicked on a couple of buttons, but the
music continued.

"That's Delphine Bourque's voice," Pickett said. "We're
connected, but there's no picture."

"Who the fuck is trying to call me?"

Wang gestured toward Pickett, who said "It's me, sir. We're working on it.
Picture should be up in a minute."

"Roy? That you? It says White House."

"It's me. Hold on…"

Suddenly, Bourque's face appeared on the monitor, crystal clear and seriously
perplexed. "Roy?" he said. "It says the White House is calling?
Is this the White House?"

Wang surrendered his seat to Pickett. "It's me, sir. At the White
House."

The singing continued. "Wait a minute," Bourque said.. "Let me
turn off the damn CD machine." His face disappeared from the monitor,
leaving a picture of an empty chair. After a moment, the music stopped, and
Bourque reappeared.

Pickett looked at his image on the screen and moved his head around, in an
attempt to get his face centered.

"Jesus H. Christ, Roy," Bourque said, "I didn't know you knew
how to Skype. You're in the White House?"

"Yes I am. Just left Callaway's office."

"Yeah? So how did it go? Is he up for the meeting?"

"Yes, sir. He said yes. Took some convincing, but he said yes."

"I don't know whether to say 'no shit' or 'thank God.'"

Pickett laughed. "They're both appropriate."

"Roy, I swear you could talk a cat outta a tree, and I want to thank you.
I don’t know how you did it. But I have a feeling there just might be a
weevil in this can of corn."

"Little one," Pickett admitted.

"Well, spit it out, Roy. You're givin' me the fidgets."

"They say the meeting can't be a secret."

"So what do they want us to do, have a picnic lunch on the mall, in the
shadow of the Washington Monument?"

"Not exactly. But they're afraid that the secret would leak and raise all
kinds of suspicions and objections. Make everything harder."

Bourque rubbed his chin thoughtfully, whiskers crackling. "Hmm. I do
believe they have a point," he admitted.

"I knew you'd see it that way," Pickett said.

Bourque grinned. "Roy, you working me?"

"Who, me?"

"All right, all right, I give in. I wasn't born on Crazy Creek."

This time, it was Pickett who smiled.

"So how is all this gonna happen?"

"The President has me partnered with his Chief-of-Staff, Eric Wang. We're
working on the details. He's in the room with me right now."

Wang stuck his face into the frame. "Pleased to meet you, President
Bourque," he said grinning.

Bourque sat up, surprised. "Ah, Mr. Wang. Glad to see you. I didn't know
Callaway had a Chinese Chief-of-Staff."

"Born and bred in Sandusky, Ohio," Wang said. "Third
generation."

"But…"

"My great-grandparents were Korean."

"Ah."

Wang grinned.

"So you and my boy Roy making out okay?"

Wang hesitated at
boy
. "He's a good man," he said. But he
realized Bourque didn't mean anything by the word.

"Damn, Roy, you're living on the lucky side of the road."

"There's more to tell you," Pickett said.

"More? What? Am I gonna have to squeeze it out of you?"

"They're worried about our military situation."

"What did you tell them?"

"The truth."

"Jesus H. Christ, Roy. You're scarin' the pudding out of me."

"It was the only way, sir."

Bourque sighed and nodded. "Well, you're eyeball to eyeball with them. I
take your word for it. Now what's this 'more' you mentioned? You hearing me,
Roy?"

Pickett shifted his eyes to the webcam, remembering that looking at Bourque's
face on the monitor wasn't the same as eye-to-eye contact. "Yes, sir. The
North Americans fear that Mexico could move against the CSA at almost any
moment."

"Well, I can't argue with that," Bourque said.

"So they're ready to give us some military aid."

Bourque gasped in surprise. "What? Military aid? What kind of military
aid? When?"

Wang stuck his face in front of the webcam. "Right now, President
Bourque. I'm going to speak to the Secretary of Defense about your needs
this afternoon and he'll call your military chief, probably tomorrow
morning—Boynton, isn't it?"

Bourque closed his mouth, which had been ajar. "Yes, General Arthur
Boynton. I'll alert him. Thank you Mr. Chang."

"It's Wang, but you can call me Eric."

"Eric it is then," Bourque said warmly. "That's generous and
unexpected. I am grateful to you."

Wang shrugged. "Had to be done," he said.

"Listen, Eric," Pickett said, "could you give me and the
President a few minutes…"

"Alone?" Wang said. "Of course. When you're done, click on this
button to hang up and meet me back in my office. Your badge gives you free West
Wing access."

Pickett waited until Eric had left before he turned back to Bourque. "He's
gone," Pickett said.

"Well now," Bourque said, "I don't know how you did it, but it
seems to me that you've got that Chinaman roped and tied and ready to
ride."

"You know, he could be listening in," Pickett warned.

"Yeah, well, if he's eavesdropping, he can't complain about what he hears,
can he?"

"Maybe not, but I don't think it's a good idea to make them mad."

"So what do you think of Callaway—and the Chinaman—can we trust
them?" Bourque asked.

"I think so," Pickett said. "Callaway's a straight shooter. Wang
pretends to be a son-of-a-bitch, but I don't think there's a dishonest molecule
in his body and he's intensely loyal to Callaway. Anyhow, what choice do we
have?"

Bourque nodded in resignation. "You're right. We're as helpless as a
turtle bottom up."

"What kind of military help should we ask for?"

President Bourque considered the question. "Best thing they could do for
us, militarywise, is to keep an eye on our Atlantic coast. We're very
vulnerable there. If they could station four or five of those missile frigates
20 or 30 miles out, that might discourage Garcia, without ruffling any feathers
on our side."

"I'll let 'em know."

"This is better than I thought, Roy."

"You have to say one thing for the North Americans," Pickett said.
"They don't do things by halves. It's all or nothing with them."

Bourque closed his eyes and took a very deep breath. He seemed to slump in his
chair.

"Sir?"

Bourque opened his eyes and sat up. "I'm fine, Roy. Just tired. They're
coming at me from all directions."

"I understand."

"But you've just given me the best possible news. You're the only star in
the sky, Roy, but you sure are burning bright."

When Pickett got back to Wang's office, Wang was just hanging up the phone.
"Everything copacetic?" He asked. "That was my first look at your
President. He seems to be feeling reasonably well."

"He's okay. Tired, but okay."

"Good. Listen, Roy, I've made a couple of calls, asked some people to help
us out with the announcement. We'll be meeting with them here at 2 p.m. Now
it's getting to be lunchtime. How about if I call down to the kitchen and have
them send up some burgers?"