The Land of the Free (3 page)

When Jackson Torres was under
stress, it was well known that he favored golf as an escape from his problems. 
What was not well known was that his favored golf partner and mentor Carson
Stahl was perhaps the biggest single influence in his life.  Stahl was a
pragmatist who had left wing tendencies in his younger days but had evolved
over time into a pragmatic power broker.  He had a knack at posing the right
question to an opinion poll and getting an answer that could be exploited in an
election.  But more importantly, Stahl knew the people who represented the big money,
the people you had to make the deals with if you wanted to be elected to higher
office.

When the two played golf, they
would often sit and talk in the cart for long periods of time, even when they
had arrived at the golf ball.  The Secret Service gave them their space, but
they instinctively did most of their talking in the cart.

“I’m burning out, Carson,” said
Torres.  “Power is an illusion in my office.  You showed me how to get elected,
how to raise the money needed from the owners and gain acceptance with their
lackeys in the media.  But now I’m their employee, and my job is to protect
their interests from the people.  They even put the Cobra in there to supervise
me, to keep me in line.”

“Jackson, that’s the reality of
power,” said Stahl, standing up from the cart and barely increasing his
elevation, standing at only 5’5”.  Stahl was wise, but he did not look the part
enough to be elected to public office himself.  “You don’t think they’d let an
outsider like yourself upset the apple cart, do you?”

“But they helped me get elected,”
said Torres.

“Think of it as a rich man who has
a vast estate.  He hires a manager, whose job it is to keep the peasants happy,
and yet keep the estate operating profitably.”

“That’s different,” protested
Torres.  “That manager was hired over the peasants.  I was elected by the
people.”

“No, it’s not different,” said
Stahl.  “A resourceful landlord will stage an election, and the peasants will
pick his manager, or one of two candidates he nominates for manager.  But in no
case will he let something as unpredictable as the will of the people affect
how the estate is run.  That could lead to his ruin.”

“So I’m just a clerk?” asked
Torres.

“Well, yes,” said Stahl.  “You get
to fly around in your own, private 747, and host state dinners.  You look to
the rest of the world like the leader of the free world.  Do your part, and
your reward for faithful service will be a retirement where you’re paid half a
million per speech.  I’d say that’s a good way to be a clerk.”

“Honestly, it doesn’t feel that way
when the Cobra’s in my office, browbeating me over what an idiot I am for not
understanding ahead of time what the owners want me to do.”

“There’s intense competition for
your job, even with its downsides,” said Stahl.  “The owners, as you call them,
will invest heavily in order to maintain the illusion of democracy.”

“Illusion?” asked Torres.

“When you run for election with a
clearly defined platform, and then take office and abandon it completely, in
favor of an agenda foisted on you, that’s not democracy,” said Stahl.  “When
there’s absolutely no connection between what the people vote for and what they
get, other than the man in charge, that’s an illusion.”

Torres looked at Stahl fearfully. 
Stahl continued, “And be glad that they want to maintain it.  Because one day,
they’ll decide that it’s not worth the trouble.  And you won’t like what comes
after that.”

Torres was shaken, pondering
Stahl’s warning.  Changing the subject, he asked, “Have you heard of Yu-Xin
Zheng?”

“Sure.  He’s a star not only in
Chinese politics but also on the world scene.”

“He’s paying me a visit tomorrow.”

“It’s a safe bet that it won’t be a
trivial matter.  Zheng’s a heavyweight.  Good luck with that.”

Dawn in the northern Mexican desert
brings cool and even slightly moist air, compared to the dry heat of mid day. 
The sunrise is pink, fading to blue across the vast expanse of sky.  The stars
begin to fade and daylight takes hold.  Cam Burrows awoke in his Border Patrol
Chevy Tahoe and stepped out to get his bearings.  He briefly took in the beauty
of the moment before hardening his determination to pursue the people who
almost killed his friend Jason Gilbert. 
I hope Jason wakes up to this
beautiful morning.

As he had hoped, extricating the
Tahoe from the gully was not much of a challenge, but the terrain was as bad as
ever as he moved forward, following the still legible tracks of the armed
vehicles.  Even had they faded, Burrows was now confident that the tracks led
to the airport he had been watching.  The planes kept coming and going
uninterrupted, as frequently as if this had been a major US commercial
airport.  He had the impression that the flow of air traffic never stopped, not
even at night.

As Burrows made slow progress
toward the airport and what was obviously a large scale operation, he wondered
what he was going to say once he got there. 
Hello, I’m from the US Border
Patrol and I really shouldn’t be here but I was just wondering what you guys
are doing here in Mexico, sending cargo aircraft in and out to the southwest to
make sure we can’t see them in Texas.  I hope you don’t mind letting me see
your facilities. 
He chuckled at the absurdity of the idea, and continued.

He came to a dry riverbed and saw
that the airport was straight ahead, just over a rocky ridge.  His GPS showed
the location as San Gustavo.  He zoomed out and noticed that Laughlin Air Force
Base in Texas was barely 25 miles away. 
Wouldn’t they know what was going
on over here?
  The ridge ahead was too steep for the Tahoe to climb, and in
any event it would be too visible from the top.  He backtracked slightly across
the dry riverbed and parked the vehicle amid some scrub, in a gully that seemed
to be a tributary to the dry river.  He cut some brush, which he threw on the
roof of the Tahoe to cover its markings and lights.  The beige color of the
rest of the vehicle would now blend in with the desert.

Burrows began his hike up the ridge
near mid day, and found himself going through his water faster than he had anticipated. 
He approached the top of the ridge, weary from the heat and questioning why he
had ever done this.  As he crested the top, his reasons hit him in the forehead
like an errant baseball bat.  This was not just an airport.  It was a massive
complex of hangars, fuel depots, barracks and endless storage warehouses. 
There were two long runways on the outside edges of the complex, running not
quite parallel, diverging slightly to the southwest.  The northeast ends of the
runways were connected by four taxiways, so the planes could both take off and
land to the southwest.  There were several cargo planes unloading as he stood
there.  Using his binoculars, he saw armored personnel carriers coming off one
plane and into some sort of hangar.  To the left he spotted another plane
unloading its cargo, backed up against an open hangar.  He could not see the
cargo, so he decided to take a closer look. 

As he descended from the ridge,
Burrows could finally appreciate the size of the complex.  It would dwarf Laughlin
AFB, of that he was sure.  The tops of the buildings were painted in
camouflage, and everything looked brand new.  Any older satellite images would
show nothing.  There were people everywhere, busy unloading the constantly
arriving cargo jets.  Another jet pulled up to a fuel cistern, and instead of
fueling up, it connected a hose to its belly. 
A tanker?  They’re flying in
fuel.  Doesn’t Mexico have plenty they could truck around?

The edges of the complex at San
Gustavo were only loosely ringed with fencing.  There was a ring of razor wire
at the top, but the bottom was sloppily put together, leaving large gaps under
the chain link fencing.  Burrows had no problem slipping under at one spot, but
he failed to notice the trip wire just inside the fence, and his foot pulled it
decisively.  He approached the runway, not daring to cross it, as he was sure
the staff in the control tower would see him.  He stayed off to the side and
positioned himself to see into the hangar receiving cargo from one large jet.  
Fighters
! 
They were unloading fighter jets. 
What the hell?  Since when does Mexico
have fighters like that?  And do they not fly?  Why do they have to ship them
in like this?  I need to get back and tell someone what I’ve seen.

Torres spent a half hour reading
the news on his computer.  He enjoyed the coverage given him by the corporate
media, but was far too intelligent to treat those obsequious reports as
indicative of how the people saw him.  He knew too well that there would be
suspicious and critical coverage linked from aggregator web sites, so he
checked every day to see what his political adversaries were saying.  Sometimes
the attacks were simply laughable.  But he had a problem with those who called
him a socialist, and could not bring himself to understand what their problem
was.  The word socialist was a pejorative in America, but he was sure that deep
down, most Americans were socialist in a limited sense, regardless their
discomfort with the label.  Nearly every Representative and Senator from both
parties voted for progressive social programs to varying degrees, so what did
they consider themselves?

Torres’ private time was
interrupted when the intercom buzzed.  “Mr. Zheng has arrived at the White
House.”

“Have him escorted to the Map Room,
in the Executive Residence.”  Torres felt this would be more personal than the
Oval Office or the Diplomatic Reception room.  They would serve Zheng some tea
and let him make himself comfortable for a few minutes.  Torres finished his
last cup of coffee, shut down his computer, and paced around the office
anxiously, trying to gather his thoughts and his wits.  He did not want to
appear agitated at the meeting, but as usual he’d had too much coffee this
morning.  It was easy to do when they kept offering him more.  He imagined the
nerves that Zheng must be feeling, and reminded himself that he always
projected authority well.  He took a deep breath, checked himself in the
mirror, and said, “It’s show time.”

Now cheerful and energetic, Torres
opened his door and walked the colonnade to the Map Room.  “Welcome to the
White House, Mr. Zheng,” he radiated, giving the visitor a firm handshake.

Zheng had been chosen as much for
his comfort with the English language and American customs as for his
negotiating skills, which were considerable.  His family was originally from
Shanghai, but Yu-Xin Zheng had grown up in Beijing, with stints in Australia
and Canada where his father was assigned as a diplomat.  His English was
consequently very strong, with only the softest Mandarin accent.  “Thank you
for receiving me at this time, Mr. President.”  Zheng smiled at the President
and sat down in the chair that had been prepared for him across a small table
from Torres.

“Your people said it was urgent,”
replied Torres, looking Zheng in the eye.  “I can’t stress enough how much we
value our relationship with the Chinese people.”  Torres consciously used the
word “people” rather than “government” when speaking of China, a detail that
did not go unnoticed by Zheng.

Zheng sat down in his chair, still
holding his teacup in one hand, the saucer in the other.  He began.  “I was
asked to come here on behalf of the representatives of the Chinese people, Mr.
President, who have been America’s largest foreign creditors for some time.”

“As America is China’s biggest
customer,” retorted Torres, hoping Zheng remembered that the customer is always
right.

“Mr. President, a conservative
estimate of America’s total debt and social obligations is in excess of 100
trillion dollars.  The Chinese are concerned about America’s continued
solvency.”

Torres frowned and objected.  “Just
a second.  Our debt to China is less than a trillion, and our total debt is
only around 10 trillion.”

Zheng avoided eye contact and
continued.  “Mr. President, 10 trillion does not count your social obligations
to your seniors.  It is simply implausible to assert that you can keep all your
promises moving forward.  And that brings us to China’s special concern.  In a
default, we expect to be the first to lose.”

Torres leaned forward across his
desk and waved the pen in his hand at Zheng, who recoiled slightly in his
chair.  “I’ll say it again, Mr. Zheng.  The US government will never default on
its obligations.  We are the most reliable financial entity in the world.”

“Forgive me, Mr. President, but I
must speak the case I was sent to make,” replied Zheng, now conscious of
Torres’ irritation.  He put his saucer on the table and wiped the palm of his
hand on his pant leg, picked it up again, then continued.  “Whether the default
comes overtly or as a devaluation of our holdings by inflation, it is
unavoidable.  The American economy simply cannot generate enough value for it
to be otherwise.”

Torres remained silent for some
time, then stood, walked to the window, looked outside and ignored his guest
for the better part of a minute. “We’ll just have to disagree on economics.  My
advisers are unanimous in their advice, which differs markedly from your
argument.  But the reason you came here was to make a case for your
government.  If it was as you say, a question of inflation or default – which I
do not concede at this time – which would be less objectionable to the Chinese
government?”

Zheng tensed, gripping his tea cup
so tightly it rattled against the saucer in his other hand.  He quickly put
both on the desk, but he had betrayed his tension, and indicated to Torres that
this was the moment when Zheng would deliver the crux of his message.  Zheng
stood and walked to the end of the room, glanced at the art on the walls, then
continued.  “The representatives of the Chinese people want neither option, as
either one would destroy the United States as customer and world power.  We
would like to pursue an alternative form of compensation, that does not damage the
United States.”

“I don’t follow.”

Zheng took a slow step forward, now
sensing that he had an opening in the conversation.  “China has strategic
objectives in the international arena, and the United States is often a major
obstacle to their achievement.  We wish to expand our sphere of influence, with
your acquiescence.  In exchange we will forgive your debt.  I’ve been asked to
invite you to negotiate these items with representatives of the Chinese
people.  Upon your agreement to negotiate, we will appoint a team to come to
Washington to work out the specific details to be in play.  We ask that you
consult with whomever you need to consult, and let representatives of the
Chinese people know your willingness to negotiate in one week’s time.”

“So you’re giving me an ultimatum,”
said Torres in a subdued voice, still standing at the window.  “We turn our
backs on our allies for money.  And if we refuse?  Are you going to make the
threats, or will those come at a later date?”

Zheng moved slightly closer to Torres
but stopped at about the middle of the room.  “Mr. President, I am but an
envoy, and in any event it is the fervent hope of China that it never comes to
that.  The Chinese people are faced with the danger of losing the value of
their hard earned assets.  The money that has gone to China has been
accumulated by many formerly poor families, at rates of pay Americans would
find unlivable.  If this value were lost, it would cause such social
instability in China that my government is frightened at the possibilities.  So
we are looking for an alternative arrangement that would avoid the financial
ruin of America while giving China something tangible.  Something of value that
could create the right circumstances for us to stabilize our society in the
difficult years to come.”

“In that case, Mr. Zheng, I thank
you for your visit.  We will be in touch through the Chinese embassy,” said a
highly irritated Torres.  “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he said as he quickly
shook Zheng’s hand, feeling the sweat on the envoy’s palm.  He walked out of
the room and down the colonnade back to the oval office.

Back in his office, Torres sat down
and started to review the implications of the meeting with Zheng. “China wants
us to sell out our allies, possibly Taiwan, in exchange for wiping out our
debt.  No threats have been expressed yet, but they have something up their
sleeves, I can be sure of that.  He typed an email to Mansour Kurdistani
instructing him to convene his advisory council for 2 pm that afternoon. 
Attendance would be mandatory and any conflicting appointments were immediately
to be canceled.  Kurdi was also told to arrange a working meal at around 6 pm,
with everyone notified that it could be a late evening of work.  He signed off
and added, “Count me among your attendees.”

Torres then called an all-cabinet
meeting for the following afternoon at 3 pm.  Attendance was again mandatory,
and all conflicting appointments had to be canceled.  He did not want to face
the Cobra, so to ensure his unavailability until the cabinet meeting, he called
up Carson Stahl for a morning game of golf.  He then called his chief of cyber
services, instructing him to place the audio recording of his meeting with
Zheng in his secure folder on the White House server.  Finally, he walked back
to the Treaty Room that he used as his study, ordering his lunch in there. 
This would give him some quiet time to collect his thoughts and review the
recording of his meeting with Zheng, to make sure he had correctly understood
everything the envoy had said.