National Burden (13 page)

Southgate tried to smile, but it came across as more of a grimace. “I’d like that, sir.”

Zimmer nodded. “We may not always see eye-to-eye on everything, but that’s okay. When was the last time anyone in Washington agreed on anything? The point is we need to have a strong working relationship, you representing the old guard and me the new generation of political leadership. Is this making sense to you, Senator?”

“I…I think so, Mr. President.”

“Good, because I wouldn’t want any more misunderstandings about where my intentions lay.” Zimmer threw a wink at the old senator for good measure. This was not an ass-kissing session. It was a strategic alliance born out of a need to bind two recent enemies to a common cause. “Did you ever think about running for president, Senator?”

Southgate sat back slightly, suddenly befuddled, wondering if Zimmer was asking him an innocent question or framing an accusation. “I’ve been very happy with my position in the Senate, Mr. President. Besides, I’m not sure I have the best face for television.”

He’s right about that
, thought Zimmer.
He looks more like an ornery headmaster
.

Zimmer chuckled, more at his thoughts than Southgate’s attempt at humor. “Assuming we work together…how would you propose we do that?”

The question caught Southgate off-guard. He’d assumed the president would make his demands and send him on his way. “Well…I…I can assist you in any way you would like, Mr. President.”

“Like how, specifically?”

Southgate squirmed in his seat, the room feeling smaller, the fire hotter by the second. “I could help you shore up any…how should I put it…lack of support within the party.”

“That would be helpful. I’m not sure everyone thinks I’m the best man for the job.” Another wink from Zimmer, another short exhale from Southgate. “What else?”

Southgate felt like he was coming unglued from the inside out. As an only child he’d withstood hours of grilling from his mother and father, one a teacher, another a preacher. All for the sake of his ‘education.’ Some days it was questions on history, other days it was rote retelling of passages from the Bible. Young Milton resented the after school studies, and the lashings even more. Once he’d had a taste of political power, where he held the might to pass judgment on others, he’d slammed the door on the uncomfortable memory from his youth. Sitting across from the president, the same feeling he’d felt as a child boiled to the surface.

“Mr. President, maybe if you tell me how I might be of assistance, I can do everything in my power to help.” His eyes pleaded. Zimmer relented, almost feeling sorry for the old man. Almost.

“I’ll be honest, I’m not sure about most of the staff around here, and I get the feeling that a handful of my cabinet members resent the fact that I’m their new boss. How about you help me figure out which ones to keep and which ones to replace? I’m sure you’d have a lot of ideas that would help.”

The idea perked Southgate’s interest. It was something he could do, despite his heavy workload. “Yes, Mr. President. That’s definitely something I could help you with.”

Zimmer clapped his hands. “Good!” Then his brow furrowed. “Are you sure you’ll be able to fit it in? I mean, with everything you already…”

“Yes, sir. I’ll make the time.”

Zimmer sat for a moment, wondering if Southgate could see what was coming. The only feeling he got from his guest was that he either wanted to piss his pants or run away as fast as his legs could take him. Zimmer snapped his fingers, sitting straight up. “I’ve got it!”

“What’s that, Mr. President?”

“I know how we can make this happen.”

“But, I thought…”

“Senator, I’m going to ask you a very big favor, something that I’ve been trying to figure out for the past few months.”

It felt to Southgate like the president was playing tug-a-war with his brain. “Sir?”

“I think I know how to not only repair our relationship, but to make sure we capitalize on our alliance. Senator, I’d like for you to be my new vice president.”

“He did what?” Cal blurted, grabbing the car door for support. He, Daniel and MSgt Trent had just arrived at the Nashville Airport to meet Leo Martindale’s jet. Wind swept through the nearly empty parking garage, a testament to the recent weather and the endless list of cancelled flights. One lone traveler walked past them, braced against the wind, face covered with his hand, pulling a carry-on suitcase.

Cal pressed his ear to the phone, trying to shield it from the powerful gusts so he could hear Travis. “Did you say he made Southgate his vice president?”

“I know it sounds crazy, but I really think it’s brilliant.”

“Cuz, I don’t know what you’re smokin’, but that might be the dumbest--”

“Hear me out, Cal. It would’ve been stupid to cast Southgate aside. For all we know he could’ve been an innocent participant in what he did.”

“He told Brandon to resign! How the hell was that innocent?”

“Will you just shut up and listen. Jeez. Now look, I’m not a fan of the guy either, but we’re running with the whole ‘keep your friends close and your enemies closer’ scenario. This way we can keep an eye on the guy. If he’d have gone back to the Senate, he would’ve been back on his home turf. The vice president is as powerful as the president allows him to be.”

Cal hadn’t thought about it that way. His snap judgment had been to can the guy, maybe even have him thrown in some high level federal prison. But then again, that’s why he did what he did and never wanted to be in politics, a game where you were surrounded by your enemies every single day. “I’m not saying you’re right, but maybe, just maybe, it’s a smart thing to keep him under your thumb.”

He could barely hear Travis’s chuckle on the other end, another snow-laced gust stinging his face. “Don’t worry, we’ll keep him busy. What about you? What’s this I hear about you going to New York?”

“Marge can’t go, so she asked me.”

“That doesn’t sound like you. If I ever asked, you would’ve given me the finger.”

“What can I say, cuz? She’s just a better boss than you.”

“Fuck you, Cal,” Travis answered with a laugh. “Have a good trip. I’ll call with any new developments.”

“Cool. Watch your six, Trav.”

+++

En-Route to Paris, France

The customized Boeing 737 was Secretary of State Dryburgh’s usual mode of travel when going overseas. Outfitted to his standards, high polish yet low-key, the seats rearranged at his own expense to look more like the small groupings of collaborative pods one might see in a tech company’s headquarters, Dryburgh sat hunched over a table talking to a man roughly ten years younger, and a full head shorter with a mop of thinning hair. The man sipped his champagne thoughtfully, mulling over Dryburgh’s offer.

“I thought you just wanted me along for the ride, Geoff. You know, to see Paris and all.”

Dryburgh laughed at his friend’s disarming way of downplaying his importance. Jonas Layton had been a billionaire since the age of thirty. He’d been one of the cocky young guns to take Silicon Valley by storm. They’d met five years earlier when Layton swept into New York to buy Dryburgh’s booming brewery business. It hadn’t panned out, with Dryburgh wisely holding on to his asset that was now worth almost double what it had been at the time, but the two had struck up a casual friendship. What started as a mutual admiration based on business savvy, soon turned into a bond built over trips to Vail, sails to Bermuda and jaunts to Southern Italy.

Both men had come from nothing, and now ruled their hard-earned empires with pride.

“Do you really think that’s possible?” asked Layton.

“I’m not sure. That’s why I’m asking you.”

Layton closed his eyes, running a finger along his lower lip. “Do you know what that would do to the markets?”

“In the short term, yes.”

“I don’t understand. Why are you looking at this?”

Dryburgh shrugged, taking a pull from his always stocked stash of Dryburgh Beer. “I won’t always be secretary of state.”

Layton leaned forward, quickly glancing over his shoulder at the staffers across the row. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Another shrug and another swig from Dryburgh. “I’m not sure if Zimmer will make it.”

“And why would you say that? I hear his approval ratings are going up every week. Hell, I think I even like the guy.”

“I’m not saying I don’t like him…but there are others who don’t think he should be sitting in the Oval Office.”

Jonas Layton sat back against the white leather, staring at his friend. He wasn’t stupid. With an IQ somewhere over 200, how could he be? There was something Dryburgh wasn’t telling him. It was like getting a nibble of the carrot and not getting to see who was holding it. “Then why are you telling me? Shouldn’t you be telling the president?”

“He knows. Hell, it was a shitty position to be thrown into. The poor guy probably wants to quit!”

“Now you’re fucking with me.”

Dryburgh smiled. “Sure. What politician in their right mind wouldn’t hang on to the presidency for dear life? I know I would.”

Layton tipped his glass toward Dryburgh. “So why the first question? What does it have to do with me?”

“I just thought that with your connections in the financial markets…”

“Geoff, I only dabble, I don’t--”

“Don’t give me that, Jonas. You probably understand it better than the guy that invented the market. Weren’t you the man who developed the software that predicted what consumers would do based on a given advertisement?”

“Sure, but--”

“And aren’t you the guy who’s picked every congressional and presidential election correctly for the last four years, just for fun?”

“But--”

“Come on, Jonas. If there’s anyone that can predict public sentiment, it’s you.”

Layton nodded. Of course he was the best. He didn’t go around bragging about it, but Dryburgh was right, Jonas Layton was the master of predictions, so much so that many in the tech world had taken to calling him “The Fortuneteller.”
Time
magazine had even done a recent article on Layton’s second rising, from businessman to prognosticator. Companies were clamoring for his insight, often paying millions for him to run his analysis, knowing that the fee was a small price to pay in order to avoid failure.

He’d slowly made his way into the government, helped in no small way by Geoffrey Dryburgh, who’d introduced him to key contractors around the globe. He was a handy tool for politicians judging the landscape for an upcoming election or a parliament looking to craft the perfect piece of legislation the public could embrace. Then there were the highly classified consultations with intelligence agencies that were increasingly using artificial intelligence, much of it being developed by Layton’s company, to automate the tracking of terrorists and criminals. If someone wanted a crystal ball, Jonas Layton was the closest they’d get to holding one in their hands.

The trip to Paris included three such introductions to European conglomerates looking to have just five minutes with the famous American. Layton didn’t like being in anyone’s debt, but considered Dryburgh to be one of the few exceptions. They were close, and as far as he knew, the politician was more than clean; he was sterling. An anomaly in the political game.

“I still don’t understand why you need me for this. You know what’ll happen if what you say will happen actually does.”

Dryburgh downed the rest of his beer and set it on the side table, grabbing another from the ice bucket near the window. “Imagine what we
could
do if we
did
make it happen.”

The Gulfstream lurched to a halt, throwing the three companions forward in their seats. A moment later the co-pilot walked back into the wood-paneled cabin. “Sorry about that landing, gentlemen. Some idiot thought it would be funny to taxi before the tower gave them permission. We wanted to let you know that we do actually know how to fly.”

The crew had been more than accommodating, each taking the time to walk back to the cabin and introduce themselves. It turned out that the lead pilot was a former Navy helicopter pilot, and he’d been delighted to have Marines onboard.

“Don’t worry about it. Us Marines have been through our share of shitty take-offs and landings,” said Cal, unstrapping himself from the oversized leather seat.

The co-pilot chuckled. “I’ll bet you have. Oh, almost forgot, Mr. Martindale’s assistant said there will be a car waiting for you at the terminal. They’ll take you to the hotel.”

Trent stood, stretching his huge frame, having to slouch to keep from hitting his head on the ceiling. “You mind if I ask where we’re staying?”