ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? (24 page)

“And died in her bed,” Julia said. “Of natural causes, so they say.”

Callaway smiled. “Yes, frostbite.”

At the Eagle’s Aerie, Wade had a question for his Boss. “Do you think she’ll
get much of a crowd for that rally at the Mall?”

Metzger raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I don’t know how popular she is…”

“Robert,” Metzger said, patience frayed, “you do know that I am supporting
her.”

“I know you agree with her,” Wade said.

“We’re going to publicize her rally,” Metzger said. “And I’m going to finance
it.”

“Ah,” Wade said, finally understanding.

Hobart’s image reappeared on the screen. “Welcome back,” he said. “Now, ladies
and gentlemen, I promised you some important breaking news and as you know,
when Gary Hobart makes a promise, he delivers.”

Hobart sat down at his desk, picked up the piece of paper he’d indicated
earlier and cleared his throat. “What I have here,” he said, gazing at the
paper judicially, “is the just released results of the latest Symington Poll,
which asked citizens of the North American Union how they felt about the
meeting between Buddy Bourque and President Callaway.

“Question 1: Do you favor a meeting between Presidents Bourque and Callaway.
No, 51%, yes 34%, don’t know or no opinion, 15%. If you add together the nos,
the don’t knows and the no opinions, that’s 66% of the people who do
not
favor the meeting. That’s two-thirds of the country. Are you listening, Mr.
President?

“Question 2: In regard to the meeting between Presidents Bourque and Callaway:
Do you feel all of the important details of the meeting have been made public?
No, 83%, yes, 9%, don’t know or no opinion, 8%. We all know you’re keeping
secrets from us, Mr. President. What are you hiding and why?

“Question 3: In regard to the meeting, etc., etc., do you believe that the
North American Union will benefit from this conference? No, 79%, yes 11%, don’t
know or no opinion.10%. Do you hear that, Mr. President? You haven’t
fooled anyone, or very few of us. We know you want to bail out Buddy Bourque.
And we won’t let you—not with
our
money we won’t!

Hobart put down the paper and gazed soulfully into the camera. “I hope you’ve
watching, Mr., President, because what I’ve been bringing you is the voice of
the people. The American people, the honorable citizens of the North American
Union. They’re asking you to stand tall and tell Mr. President Buddy Bourque
no, we don’t want any, he’s knocking on the wrong door, whatever he’s looking
for, he isn’t going to get it here.”

He paused for the count of three, then continued, smiling a charming but
crooked smile, as though he were embarrassed by what he’d just said. “Ladies
and gentlemen… thanks for watching.”

His face faded out, and was replaced by
another aging movie actor doing commercials, the man’s once thick head of black
hair now totally white, what was left of it. He was displaying a handful of
gold chains. “You may not know it,” he said, “but there could be money in your
drawers.”

High in the Eagle’s Aerie, a blue light on Metzger’s desk flashed three times.
Metzger raised an eyebrow and picked up his phone. “Metzger,” he said--as if
anyone else might dare to use the instrument.

“Helmut, it’s Phyllis,” came the voice, cultured and domineering. “I assume you
saw me on the Hobart show?”

“I did indeed. And you were splendid, as expected.”

“Thank you, Helmut. The man’s an ass, you know. And possibly certifiable.”

“Yes, but we need the eggs.”

“Beg pardon?”

“It’s an old psychiatrist joke, Phyllis. Man tells a therapist that his uncle
thinks he’s a chicken. Therapist says, ‘Bring him in, I think I can cure him.”
Man says, “I would, but we need the eggs.”

“Haha,” Phyllis said, humorlessly.

Metzger changed the subject. “Have you made the bus company arrangements?”

“Yes. We’ve leased nearly every bus east of the Mississippi. The bills will be
going to you, as you asked.”

“To the Liberty Eagle account, right?”

“Yes. And you’ll be promoting the march on all of your shows?”

“Just as I promised,” Metzger assured her. “And if there’s any other way I can
help, just let me know.”

“Thank you, Helmut. You are a true friend.”

“We share the same cause, Phyllis,” Metzger said.

“I hope more than that.”

“You know how I feel about you,” Metzger said, his tone warm, his words subject
to interpretation.

“That was unbelievable,” Julia said,
disgusted. “Why do we let people get away with saying things like that?”

Callaway hit the mute button. “It’s that ole freedom of speech thing,” he said.

“But outright lies should be outlawed,” she persisted.

“I agree,” said the President, “but who decides what’s true and what’s a lie?”

Julia reached over and smacked her husband on the shoulder.

“Hey!” he objected.

“Well, stop with the Democracy 101 clichés.”

“Yeah, well, some clichés have a lot of truth to them,” Callaway said. “That’s
how they got to be clichés.”

“Is that question going to be on the test, Professor?”

He offered a rueful smile and shook his head. “Now who’s testing?”

“But seriously,’ Julia said, “Are you just going to let Gary Hobart get away
with his lies?”

“We have things in the works.”

“Like?”

“Well, Marty has put together a consortium of church groups. They’ve raised
nearly $10 million for a TV campaign saying that Christ would have met with
President Bourque and treated him charitably. I’ve seen the spot. It ends with
a strong catch phrase:
Can we do any less
?”

“That’s a start, I guess,” Julia said, without enthusiasm.

“And they’ll be rallies in favor of the meeting at Harvard, at NYU, at
Northwestern, at Berkeley and many other colleges.”

“Media coverage?”

“Marty says everyone except INN.”

“That’s right,” Julia remembered. “When the time comes, they’ll be in
Washington with Hobart and that woman.”

“Iserbyt. Yes.”

Julia took her husband’s hands. “Will it be enough?”

“Of course it will,” he said with a certainty he did not feel.

She rose. “Time to turn that thing off,” she said, pointing to the muted TV
set.

“Yeah.”

“Coming to bed?”

“In a minute,” Callaway said. “I gotta make a call.”

“Don’t be too long,” she said. She smiled, but he was already looking up a
phone number. She left him to it.

“Hey, Gordon,” he said, speaking into the phone. “It’s Charlie. I just wanted
to touch base, see how things are going.”

“They’re moving right along here,” said Gordon Bowman, the Canadian Prime
Minister. “But it looks like
you’ve
got your hands full.”

“You were watching Hobart?”

“Last half.”

“First half was just as bad,” Callaway said.

“I guess it goes with the territory.”

“Yeah, you could say that. Metzger’s my cross to bear. But he’s not going to
stop me.”

“I’ve seen that for myself, Charlie. Not much can stop you, once you make a
decision. And I hope you know not much can stop me either, certainly not
Metzger.”

“I know. But it’s good to hear the words. “

“Actually, I’ve been making pretty good progress,” Bowman said. “Everyone’s on
board, except for Macomber and Ryan. I’m going to make this happen.”

“Hah!” Callaway said. “The last time I heard you say that was when we were at
McGill.”

“Yes. And I was the one who got the girl. Don’t you forget that.”

“I am somewhat reassured,” Callaway admitted.

“Good,” Bowman said, laughing.

*

Fifteen miles from the famous Glass Church, Junior—that is, Harlan Hurbuckle,
Jr.—sat by himself in his modest little house, in his modest little living
room, staring at his modest little television set, ruminating on what he had
just seen and heard.

Every word and picture on the Gary Hobart show confirmed what he had long
believed: the NAU had nothing to offer the CSA but contempt and disgust,
its hatred was permanent and implacable, and any meeting between Buddy Bourque
and the President of the NAU could only bring shame and embarrassment.

But that was a great relief. It was a relief to see people protesting the
meeting—people from the NAU, people who were angry, determined and powerful.
They would stop Bourque from betraying the Confederacy. He was sure of that.
And he wouldn’t have to do anything at all.

Chapter Thirteen

A small, black helicopter came over the ridgeline, hovered over the concrete
landing pad just off the Gulf shore, and landed. After a moment, the door on
the passenger side popped open and, with considerable effort,
Presidente
Miguel Garcia hauled himself out of his seat and hopped onto the concrete.
Hector Herrera followed, exiting from the other side of the aircraft. He
slipped on his stylish sunglasses.

As the helicopter blades slowed, a welcoming committee—half a dozen
high-ranking men in carefully-pressed uniforms—hurried to greet them.
"Good morning,
Presidente
Garcia," said Admiral Rueben
Diaz, “hello Director Herrera.” Diaz was a tall, distinguished looking man with
a chest full of ribbons. "I am happy to welcome you to the Esperanza Naval
Base." He smiled broadly and extended a hand.

Garcia gave the offered hand a single perfunctory shake, as did
Herrera.

"Where's the
ship, Diaz?" Garcia asked, peering at him with his single eye.

"Tied up on the other side of the warehouses."

Diaz led the way, following a broken asphalt pathway through some low weeds and
between two rusty Quonset huts, Garcia at his elbow, winded but impatient,
Herrera following. Up ahead was a narrow channel, befouled with oil, bordered
in ragged bushes, at which was docked one of the world’s most decrepit oil
tankers, a sad, corroded vessel streaked with rust and listing a good seven
degrees to starboard.

On her bow, faded
white lettering announced her identity. She was the
S.S. Tampico
, 52
years old, 350 feet long, with a 30 foot beam, an enormous, decaying steel
bathtub with a lid—the deck—which was topped by a three-story superstructure
that contained crew facilities and the captain’s bridge. Though her bilge pumps
were noisily sucking at the grungy liquid down below, she was barely afloat.

Garcia eyed the vessel with suspicion. “This piece of shit is going to steam
across the Gulf?”

“Our finest engineers assure me that she can make the trip,” Admiral Diaz said.
“She is taking on water, but her turbines are in running order.”

“Running order,”
El Presidente
repeated, unconvinced.

“I talked to the engineer myself,” Herrera told him. “He understands how
important it is.”

“Do you wish to go aboard, sir?” The Admiral asked.

Garcia walked up to the dock and took a long look at the tanker, then turned
his single eye toward the Admiral. “It will carry our weight?” he inquired.

“Oh yes,
Presidente
,” Admiral Diaz said, then saw the light. “Of course
you’re joking. Aren’t you?”

“I wish to board this bucket of rust, God help me,” Garcia replied. “Lead the
way.”

Admiral Diaz did just that, walking down the pier to the gangway, which was
little more than an armload of planks haphazardly nailed together. It creaked
with his weight and even more with Garcia’s and Herrera’s.

They boarded the vessel at midship, and up close, it did not disappoint. Most
of the bridge windows bridge were broken. In some spots, the decks had been so
eaten away with rust they were no thicker or stronger than aluminum foil. And
there was a stink about the ship, not just the pungent odor of petroleum, but
something more ominous, something truly disgusting.

“Is it carrying any oil?” Garcia inquired.

The Admiral chuckled. “No,
Presidente
. Her oil transport days are well
behind her. As you can see, she is riding high in the water. That will lessen
the load on her engines and allow her to travel a bit faster.”

“Faster?” Herrera said. “What is her top speed?”

“Ten knots. Perhaps twelve, if she gets a following wind.”

“She is not a ship,” Garcia said with contempt. “She is a turtle with
propellers.”

The Admiral shrugged. “Her speed is sufficient for the mission. Besides, even
when she was new, she was never able to exceed 15 knots.”

“Well, she will be no loss, will she.” Garcia said.

“A more worthless vessel would be hard to imagine,
Presidente
,” Diaz
said, smiling.

“So, Hector,”
Garcia said. “Tell me how the mission will work.”

“It is all quite simple,” Herrera assured him. “The ship will steam out to the
appointed location and stop. A speedboat will follow. At the given moment, the
tanker’s small crew will be taken off the ship, finding places in the
speedboat.”

“Yes,” Garcia nodded. “And then?”

“And then the speedboat will pull a safe distance away from the tanker…”

“I assume explosive charges will have been planted aboard the Tampico…”

“Yes,” Herrera said. “And they will be triggered by remote control, from the
speedboat. The
Tampico
will sink within five minutes, but before it goes
down, the flames should reach hundreds of feet in height and be visible for 200
miles in all directions.

“In fact,” said the Admiral, “the explosives are already in place—enough to
blow out the ship’s bottom and cremate the superstructure.”

Hererra found this curious. “Already in place, you say?”

“Yes. After all, the mission will begin in three hours.”

El Presidente
headed back to the gangway, followed by Herrera, both of
them walking rather briskly, in fact leaving the Admiral behind. Diaz scurried
to keep up. “Would you like to see the speedboat,
Presidente
?” he said,
oblivious.

“Yes, yes, of
course,” Garcia said, annoyed. He hopped off the gangway, no small feat in his
case, and faced the Admiral. “Where is it?”

Diaz pointed to
the most distant of the Quonset huts. “Of course, since it uses secret
technology, we keep it away from prying eye.”

“I would hope so.”

The Quonset hut
concealed not only the speedboat, but a small dry dock, which connected with
the tanker’s channel. The speedboat, an odd-looking craft shaped more or less
like a dart, made only with flat, triangular surfaces, lay within the dry dock,
which was, at the moment, flooded. The boat floated idly, low in the water, a
crocodile ready to lunge.

“It looks fast,” Garcia observed.

“It is
very
fast,” said Hector Herrera, slipping off his sunglasses. “It
is can maintain 80 knots in calm waters, and more than 50 knots in the choppy
waters that can be found in the Gulf tonight. Would you like a test ride?”

“That is not necessary,” Garcia said.

“What makes this vessel different from most speedboats is that it is totally
invisible to radar.” Herrera said.

“Ah,” Garcia said. He bent down and touched the glistening fiberglass hull.
“Very impressive. You seem to have thought of everything, Hector.”

The Mexican intelligence chief smiled. “I try to do my job as well as
possible.”

“If this works as we have planned,” Garcia said, “you will be rewarded
appropriately.”

“It will work perfectly,” said Herrera. “You have my guarantee.”

“Oh?” Garcia asked. “And it fails, what are you prepared to forfeit?”

*

Anthony Zolli sat behind his desk, his feet propped up on an open drawer. “Read
that to me one more time, Alice,” he told his secretary, a birdlike woman in
her late 30s.

“Of course,” she said. “
The International Brotherhood of Truckers’ today
announced that it is planning a work stoppage that would shut down all
container delivers going in or out of the New York container terminal
throughout the NAU.”

She looked up to see if Zolli had any corrections. His chin was in his hand and
his eyes were closed. “Go on, go on,” he said.

Alice read.
“The work stoppage is a protest against the meetings between CSA
President Buddy Bourque and the President of the NAU, Charles Callaway.
According to Union President Anthony Zolli, the action will take place unless
President Callaway breaks off the talks with his southern counterpart and
pledges not to resume them
.”

She looked up at Zolli, who was not watching her closely. “Yes,” he said,
“that’s fine. But I wanna add another sentence.”

Alice got out her notebook.

“Add this and make it a new paragraph,” Zolli instructed.
“If President
Callaway does not break off all contact with President Bourque, Zolli said, the
union will consider work stoppages in other locations and other industries.
Among those under consideration are interstate trucking and the airline
industry.”

Alice continued writing in her notepad for several seconds, then looked up.

“You got that?” Zolli asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Give it to the PR guy and tell him to send it out. He got questions, he
should gimme a call.”

*

Phyllis Iserbyt shifted carefully in her desk chair, hoping to find a more
comfortable position. Ever since she started the Our Country First crusade, her
hemorrhoids—a lifelong problem—had been acting up. Today, she was in agony.
She was about ready to call it a day and go home and soak in a steaming hot
bath. That was the only thing that had ever helped. You could take all those
creams and lotions and throw them down the toilet. And surgery—well, the
thought made her physically ill.

She was on the verge of getting up when there was a knock on her office door.
She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to forget the stabbing pain
in her nether regions. “Come in,” she said, looking up again.

The door opened and a woman in her late 50s walked in, another thin,
grey-headed woman gone blonde, dressed in a bright red business suit and
wearing lipstick to match. “Good morning, Phyllis,” she said. She was carrying
a black leather briefcase.

“Hello Sharon,” Phyllis said through clenched teeth.

Sharon Hunt noticed the pained expression. “Bad day?”

“You could say that.”

“Well, I have some news that should make you smile.”

“Fundraising is going better?” Phyllis asked. “That would be a relief.”

“Still getting $10 and $20 donations for the most part,” Sharon said. “But
something came in this morning…well, see for yourself.”

She snapped open her briefcase, pulled out a FedEx envelope and handed it to
Ms. Iserbyt, who took it and looked at it with curiosity.

“What is this?”
She said, suspicious.

“Open it up,
Phyllis,” Sharon instructed.

Phyllis Iserbyt
reached into the envelope and withdrew two pieces of paper, one a check, the
other a note. She read the note out loud. “In support of your good works,” it
said. “A friend.”

“A friend?”

“Look at the damned check.” Sharon said recklessly. “Please.”

Ms. Iserbyt fixed her fundraising chairman with a cold stare and a raised
eyebrow. Then curiosity got the better of her. She picked up the check and took
a look at it. And a second look and a third look. She held it up to the light,
as if that might reveal something. “What is this?”

“Well, to me, it looks like a certified check for half a million dollars. What
does it look like to you?”

Phyllis studied the check. “It looks like a certified check for $500,000.”

“That’s exactly what it is, according to Morgan National Bank.”

“You asked them?”

“I called the main office as soon as I opened the mail. Read them the amount
and the account number. Faxed them the signature. It’s perfectly legal and
perfectly valid. In fact, the Vice President I talked to assured me that the
account holder had a very large balance and often wrote checks of this size.”

Phyllis looked at the check once again. “Frank Thomas? Who the hell is Frank
Thomas? That can’t be anyone’s real name.”

“No, I don’t think so either. But the Vice President wouldn’t tell me any more.
Could it be another one of Metzger’s accounts?”

Phyllis shook her head. “He doesn’t play games like that. He doesn’t need to.
He gave us $1 million and 120 promo spots on INN and told me not to come back
for more.”

“Maybe this is his way of adding to your war chest without embarrassing
himself.”

“Mr. Metzger doesn’t get embarrassed,” Phyllis said. “No. This check comes from
someone else and I want to know who.” She squirmed in her chair again, praying
for relief, but not finding it.

“Well, we’ve hit a dead end,” Sharon said, as if that was that.

“
You
’ve hit a dead end,” Phyllis said tartly. “I haven’t.” She picked up
her phone. “Get me Gwynn Aldrich,” she said. “The President of Morgan National
Bank,” she explained to Sharon Hunt.

That surprised the fundraiser. “You know Gwynn Aldrich?”

“At my level,” said Ms. Iserbyt, putting a hand over the receiver, “we all know
each other.” Then she pressed the speaker button and spoke into the phone.
“Gwynn, it’s Phyllis Iserbyt.”

“Hi, Phyllis,” said a cultured male voice, “what can I do for you today?”

“Well, my organization—you know, Our Country First?—received a big donation and
we don’t know who gave it to us.”

“I see. So how can I help you?”

“The signature on the check was Frank Thomas.”

Aldrich didn’t respond.

“Gwynn?”

“Frank Thomas, you say?”

“You didn’t hear me?”

“No,” Aldrich said, “I heard you. I just wanted to be sure.”

“Well, you’re sure now, right?”

“I can’t tell you that, Phyllis. It’s strictly confidential. Big-time.”

Phyllis turned coquettish. “Gwynn, you know me. I won’t say a word. I won’t
tell anyone who told me.”

“Phyllis, I can’t. I could get in trouble with the government.”

“The government? Someone from the government signed this check?”

“No. Well, not
our
government.”

Phyllis exchanged glances with Sharon. “Oh, another government then.”

“I never said that.”

“Oh, of course not, Gwynn,” Phyllis purred. “Which country?”

“Stop interrogating me, Phyllis. I can’t tell you.”

Phyllis muffled the receiver with her hand. “It has to be the Western
Hemisphere,” she said to Sharon. Then she spoke into the phone. “Just tell me
this,” she said, “North of the border or South of the border?”