ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? (3 page)

The big oak door swung open and Delphine Bourque walked in, red-haired,
green-eyed, young and gorgeous. "Hi, Daddy," she said cheerfully.
"Hi, Roy."

"Ah," said Bourque, "the Songbird of the South and my favorite
daughter. Come hug."

Delphine did just that.

"How was Atlanta?"
Roy asked.

"We had almost 2500 people. They wouldn't let me off the stage—three
encores."

"Sing anything from the new album?" the President asked.

"Just one number—
Waitin' For You To Come Home
. They really liked
it."

"They'd better, if they know what's good for 'em," Bourque said.

"Anyhow, I just wanted to tell you that I'm back," she said, glancing
at Pickett. "I'll be here until Friday, then it's off to Savannah for a Saturday night concert."

"That's my girl," Bourque told Pickett, who nodded.

"How was the doctor's appointment, daddy?"

"Ok. I'll tell you all about it at dinner—you'll be there, right? In the
living quarters?"

"I'll be there," Delphine said. She left the office, leaving faint
tracings of honeysuckle in her wake, and both men gazing at her.

"Where were we?" the President asked Pickett.

"Talking about Kooter."

"Man ain't got the sense the Lord gave an ant."

"How about Speaker Honaker?" Pickett asked.

"He's older than baseball. I'll probably outlive him."

"The majority leader?"

"Belcher? He's a fairy. You know I don't have anything against fairies,
well not too much, but I can't see a fairy as President. Can you?"

Pickett shook his head no.

The President got up and opened up a built-in cabinet, withdrawing a bottle of
Dickel 12 year old Sour Mash Whiskey and a bottle of club soda. He made two Old
Woodies and handed one to Pickett. "Beginning to see my
problem?" He asked, sipping.

"The country's problem you mean?"

"The very same," Bourque agreed.

"So what's the solution—and how do you plan to involve me? Surely you
don't expect me to take over after you..."

"What? God damn it, Roy,
I have cancer, not Alzheimers. Do I have to remind you that you are a
full-blooded member of the nigra persuasion? Do I have to remind you that means
you cannot vote, you cannot serve on a jury, you cannot bring a lawsuit against
a member of the white race and that holding office is totally out of the
question?"

"No, Mr. President," Pickett said. "You don't have to remind
me."

Bourque was on a roll. "Do I have to remind you that except in special
cases, such as yourself, your people are not welcome in our institutions of
higher learning? Do I have to remind you're risking your life if you even run
your eyes over a white woman, much less commit the mortal sin of
miscegenation."

Pickett threw up his hands. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, I get it."

"Jesus, I'm sorry Roy,"
said the President. "Sometimes, my mouth starts running and I forget to
turn it off."

"That's all right. I know you're not feeling well," Pickett said.
"But you're right. I'm not the man for the job. I don't know who is."

Bourque took a long draw of his Old Woodie. "Roy, we've stood by ourselves for 150 years.
Proudly. But I think our run is over."

"Sir..."

"No, listen," said the President, reflecting, "I'm not talking
about me dying now. I'm talking about the whole country. We can't stand by
ourselves any longer, and if we insist on trying, those of us who survive'll
end up jabbering in Spanish, going to Mass three times a day and stuffin' our
faces full of tacos and tortilla chips morning, noon and night. We'll be
strangers in our own land, Roy.
Everything we are will be swept away."

Pickett took a drink. "So that's it?"

"No, that's
not
it, not if I can keep up my strength, not if I live
long enough, not if you're willing to be my point man."

"Of course I'm willing, sir. You know that."

"What I have in mind is nigh on impossible," Bourque said. "And
it would put you right in middle of some damn serious crossfire."

"Been there, done that."

"The way I figure it," Bourque went on, "We got one slim little
chance, about as big as a bedbug."

"And that is?"

Bourque smiled ruefully. "To ask our neighbors up north to give us a
hand."

"What?" Pickett said, incredulous.

"I've been ruminating over it for months, Roy. There's no other way."

"They loathe us, y'know," Pickett pointed out. "And when people
down here find out, there'll be a full-scale revolt. It won't work."

"Nonetheless." The President said with finality.

Pickett looked him in the eye a good five seconds. "What do you want me to
do?"

"I want you to get into your best Sunday suit, go see that new President
of theirs, Callaway, and tell him I'd like to parlay with him, face to
face," Bourque said.

Pickett stared at him in disbelief.

Chapter Two

"Dammit," said Julia Callaway, "they're running it
again
!
I don't believe it!"

Charlie Callaway opened his eyes with an effort—it had been a
very
late
night. His wife was sitting on the bed, her world-famous figure in full view,
her lovely legs dangling over the edge of the mattress. She was watching
one of the four large-screen TVs that covered the wall. "Who's running
what?" He asked.

"The INN—the 'neutral and unbiased'
International News Network," she said. "They're running that
despicable documentary again, the one you keep missing."

Callaway groaned, turned over and put a pillow over his head.

"Charlie look at this—or at least listen," Julia implored.

He chose to listen.

"...although there is no documented evidence for the claim, his father,
Charles Callaway Sr., always said he was a Southie, a former Mississippi house
servant who'd braved trigger-happy border guards and land mines to illegally
escape to the North..."

"Illegally," Julie repeated angrily. "Did you hear that?"

"Mmmm."

"...his mother was a domestic at the home of a Philadelphia
family, whose wealth and political connections were instrumental in getting her
young son into Princeton..."

"Damn them!" Julie said. "Those
mumzers
make it sound
like you needed help getting into school."

"Not the worst thing that's ever been said about me," Callaway
observed.

"
...became a lawyer specializing in environmental issues, then was
appointed to fill out the term of a Brooklyn, New York city councilman who'd been arrested
for taking bribes..."

"Bribes," Julia said. "Why do they even have to mention
that? You had nothing to do with that."

"Well, it is INN," Callaway said. He
sat up, with some effort, got out of bed and walked into the bathroom.

"
...began his meteoric political rise, mastering the rough-and-tumble
of New York City machine politics, got himself elected to the New York State
Assembly, then the New York State Senate, and become the youngest Borough
President in Brooklyn's history..."

"There they go again," Julia complained, "Machine
politics."

Charlie stopped brushing his teeth for a moment, looked into the mirror and
experimentally flashed his brilliant smile. "Girl, you're going to have to
grow a thicker skin or stop watching INN and
reading the
New York Mail
."

She laughed. It was a pleasant, tinkley sound. "I know. But every
time Helmut Metzger or his hired guns takes a pot shot at you, I want to take a
pot shot at him. Why couldn't he have been content to corrupt all the
newspapers in Berlin, Paris
and London?"

Callaway picked out a shirt and tie, and showed them to Julia, who nodded her
approval. "Because men like that can never have enough power," he
said.

"Very insightful," Julie said with a grin. "Especially coming
from you."

"Touché, my dear," Callaway said, smiling.

"...Today, President Callaway begins his first day in office, after an
evening of lavish, even excessive celebration. Will he govern from the center,
as he has promised, or will he drift toward the far left, as his history
suggests. Tune in 'The Edge,' tonight, for Jack Sullivan's analysis, neutral
and unbiased..."

“Did you know,” Julia said, “That Helmut Metzger has cloven hooves?”

“Say what?”

“It’s true,” she said. “I have friends who’ve seen him in a swimming pool.”

“Very funny,” Callaway said, grinning and shaking his head.

“Well he might as well have.”

Callaway considered the remark. “That would explain a lot,” he
mused.

"So, Mr. President," Julia said, changing the subject, "it's
your first day in office—are you going to wear the new suit?"

"I think not," Callaway said. "Let them see me as I am."

"You mean as Gucci, and not as Dolce & Gabbanna?"

"If I were you, I wouldn't tease anyone about designer clothing."

They both laughed.

And the telephone rang. "No rest for the wicked," Callaway said,
picking it up. "Hey, Eric," he said. "Yeah, got a couple of
hours. My feet are killing me and I'm fighting a hangover. Gimme 10 and I'll
meet you in the private office. No, not the Oval office, the other one."

There was a knock on the door. "Just a minute," Callaway called out.
Julia headed for the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

The President opened the door to find Karen Tumulty, his matronly-looking
long-time secretary standing there, her chubby arms overflowing with printed
emails, letters. and various other documents. "My God," she said,
amazed, "you're already dressed."

"You expected to see me in my skivvies?" His cool grey eyes twinkled.

"One can always hope," she said dryly.

"So, what do you have there?"

"The usual exercises in flattering insincerity—that is, congratulatory
messages from Presidents, Kings, Prime Ministers and others of their ilk."

"Ah, okay. Well, write them all warm personal messages from me and, if
it's appropriate, say that I hope to see them soon. And give me a list of who's
checked in."

"You don't want to see the messages yourself?

"Not unless someone is offering something or making a threat,"
Callaway said.

"Gotcha," she said. "I'll have them answered by sunset."

"You're an amazing woman, Karen."

"Don't spread that around," she said, departing.

Callaway stepped back into the bedroom and closed the door. "Olly olly in
free," he called. Julia emerged from the bathroom, now clad in a huge
white bath towel, and Charlie posed in front of her. "What do you
think?" He asked.

"Very presidential," she said. She gave him one of her 'deluxe
kisses,' as she called them, and for a few seconds, it was satin black skin
against worsted wool pinstripes.

"Thanks," he said. "I needed that."

"Me too," she said.

"Well," he said, "here goes nothing." He let Julia slip
away and walked down the hallway, a couple of well-tanned marines snapping to
attention as he passed.

When Callaway got to his office, Eric Wang, his short, bespectacled chief of
staff was already there, making notes. "Good morning, Mr. President,"
he said.

"Eric, of all people, you can call me Charlie—at least in private."

"No I can't, Mr. President. It's going to be hard to break the Charlie
habit, but I don't want to take a chance slipping in public."

"Ok. Just don't expect me to call you
Mr
. Wang," Callaway
said.

A smile broke across Wang’s broad, Asian face. He handed Callaway a piece of
paper, typed single-spaced. "Your schedule for the day, Mr.
President."

"Hmmm...National Security Council meeting in..." he checked his watch
"fifteen minutes. Meet with Council of Economic Advisors 11 a.m. Lunch
with the German ambassador. Meet with Republican Congressional leadership at 1:30.
Press conference at 2:30. Meet with Democratic Senatorial leaders at 3:30. Meet
with Democratic House leaders at 4:30. Tea with the British Ambassador at 5:30.
Tea, Eric?"

"Well, it
is
customary."

Callaway sighed deeply. "Can I have
coffee?"

"I'll check with protocol."

Callaway glanced back at the schedule. "Dinner with the editorial staff of
the
New York Times
?"

"I know, I know, but it was either them or the
Wall Street Journal
.
Maybe by the end of the week, you and Julia can have an evening together."

"Well, I can't complain, I guess. I asked for it." Callaway said.

"Asked for it? You fought for it, begged for it, cajoled for it,
maneuvered and manipulated for it. You worked your ass off for it. And now that
you've got it, you'd better enjoy it."

"Yes, sir."

The phone rang and Eric Wang picked it up. "Wang here," he said. He
listened for a moment and passed the phone to Callaway. "It's Bowman,
Canadia’s Prime Minister."

"G'morning, Gordon," said the President. "You’re up a little
early, aren’t you? What is it in Vancouver,
6 a.m.?"

Callaway listened for a moment and laughed. "Well, you succeeded—you're
the first foreign leader to call me."

He listened some more, laughed again, and then grew serious. "I feel the
same way, Gordon. I think we have an excellent chance. I'm going to call you
sometime next week, after I get my feet wet here, and we can talk about
it."

Callaway said goodbye and hung up.

"What was that all about?" Wang asked.

"It's a little project Gordon and I have been cooking up. I'll tell you
more about it later."

Wang shrugged, then checked his watch. "Time to meet with the National
Security Council, Mr. President."

"I think I'm beginning to understand our new relationship, Eric. I'm the
horse and you're the driver."

"Giddy up," Eric said.

A few minutes later, they walked past a brace of well-armed marine guards into
the Situation Room, in the White House basement—a high-ceilinged windowless
chamber the size of a theater lobby, its walls covered by video screens showing
the weather worldwide, foreign military bases, the disposition of navy ships at
sea, television news channels from all around the world, and the current
location of the country's communication satellites.

In the center of the room was a big walnut conference table, around which were
sitting a selection of Very Important People:

* Vice President Darren Garvey, ex-governor of Ontario, a former NFL
quarterback, a man with a rocket arm, aw-shucks charm and a weakness for women,
chosen mainly to balance the ticket geographically;

* The grandmotherly Secretary-of-State designate Veronica Tennenbaum, who was
generally considered to be the smartest woman in Washington;

* Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Major General Richard Hutchison,
square-jawed, keen-eyed and pompous, the very model of a modern major general;

* CIA Director Linus Hawke, scion of an old, rich, socially prominent Philadelphia family, a
mossy but elegant holdover from the last administration; and

* Dr. Sidney Burton, National Security Advisor-designate, a bearded,
balding celebrity professor fresh from the Ivory Towers and Ivy-covered walls
of Cambridge, one foot in MIT and the other in Harvard.

The table itself was littered with their notebooks, briefcases, speaker phones,
laptop computers and binders, as well as coffee cups, small plates and
carefully folded damask napkins.

Two huge sterling silver chafing dishes sat in the middle of the table, one
holding a heaping platter of fine pastries, the other incongruously bearing a
large, garish box of Dunkin' Donuts, well known to be the Chief Executive's
favorites.

President Callaway slid into the deep red leather chair at the end of the
table, exchanging nods, hellos and handshakes with his high-ranking co-conspirators.
Wang took a seat at his elbow. "Well," said the President, "here
we go. Director Hawke, do we have any international emergency situations in
progress?"

"Not at the moment, but there's always tomorrow," Hawke said. He
spoke with a slight upper-class British accent, acquired long ago at a New England prep school and never abandoned.

"We should discuss the Mexican situation," said Dr. Burton, the
National Security Advisor-designate. "It worries me."

There were nods all around the table. "Yes," said General Hutchison,
clearing his throat impressively. "I've spent a lot of man-hours worrying
about how to deal with
Presidente
Garcia. He is quite a piece of
work."

Callaway nodded, unsurprised. "In our opinion, General Hutchison, does he
still have territorial ambitions?”

"Damn right he does. He doesn’t conduct those annual military exercises
just to entertain himself," Hutchison asserted.

Callaway glanced at his National Security Advisor. "Dr. Burton?"

Burton put on
his glasses and stood, as though addressing a class. "Well, let's take a
look at history," he said, "Back in 1861, when we and the CSA
separated, Mexico snatched up Arizona and New Mexico before anyone knew what
was happening."

"Yes, yes, we know all that," said the President. ”But what about
now
?"

Burton was not
easily interrupted. "And then, in 2005," he went on, "while
Garcia and the Mexican Navy were attacking New Orleans,
the Mexican army seized Texas,
as we know. It's a miracle the CSA survived."

"Thank God for little hurricanes," said Eric Wang.

"And
now
?" This time the question came from Secretary-of-State
designate Tennenbaum. "Does Garcia pose a threat today?" She fumbled
around in the Dunkin' Donuts box and found a sugar-coated jelly donut.

Callaway, deciding to share the guilt, got himself a cruller.

"A threat?" the DCI asked rhetorically. "Well, there's nothing
to make us think
El Presidente
is planning any surprises for us,
but..."

"...but he isn't spending all those billions his defense budget for no
reason." General Hutchison interrupted.

"Could
we
be his target, now or in the future?" Callaway
asked.

"Oh, I don’t think he’s looking in our direction,” Hawke said, with easy
confidence. "He’s obsessed with the Confederate States of America, which
is why the CSA built the Bourque Line on the Louisiana-Arkansas border."

"Just a minute now," said Vice President Garvey, holding up a hand.
"I don't get it. Why would Mexico
attack the CSA? It's poor, socially backward, undereducated. What does the CSA
have that Mexico
might want?"

Eric Wang sighed, then pushed the speakerphone's intercom button. "Lt.
Parkington, could you put up a continental map on the main video screen?"

One of the giant screens on the wall blanked out briefly, then lit up again
with a map of North America, showing state and
national boundaries.