ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? (49 page)

“We, the elected and duly sworn representatives of the government of Canadia
have voted to petition the Congress of the North American Union, to join with
you and to be admitted into your nation, as separate states, coequal with the
existing states, in permanent and perpetual union.”

Bowman paused, briefly, and encored his winning smile. And in the White House,
the President’s advisors let out a collective gasp of surprise.

Bowman continued. “We are presenting this petition because we have determined
that a union between Canadia and the North American Union would create a
country with the world’s largest economy, just ahead of Germany, an export
powerhouse, a political counterweight to Europe, with one language and common
values, an even greater force for freedom and democracy than we are
separately.”

He paused again, to give his audience a chance to absorb his words.

“We are making this proposal because we believe that Canadia’s vast oil fields,
natural resources and wide open spaces are a perfect fit with the NAU’s
technological expertise and manufacturing muscle, and because our laws and
governments are based on the same principles and ideals. And we are more than
willing to make any adjustments necessary to conform to the NAU constitution.”

On Pennsylvania Ave., the enormous crowd of people gaped at the TV screens that
had been set up for them, absolutely fascinated by what Bowman was saying.

“Union with America has long been a dream of mine, a dream I shared with
Charles Callaway when we were roommates at McGill University, nearly three decades
ago,” Bowman went on. “Even then, we were convinced a union between our
countries made perfect sense in every respect—economic, political, societal. We
believed no border between us should have ever existed. And when New France
broke away from the rest of Canada, reunion seemed inevitable. Of course, we
had no idea then that we might someday be in a position to help make it
happen.”

The crowd along Pennsylvania Ave. was now completely silent, stunned by what
they were hearing.

Bowman took a deep breath and went on. “My efforts to make union a reality
began last year, when I took office, but I have not discussed the possibility
in public because I didn’t want to raise false hopes. I had to find out if my
government, if our elected officials, and if our people agreed with me.”

At the White House, Marty Katz was shaking his head in awe. “You and Bowman—you
planned
all this?”

“Shhhh,” Callaway said, stifling a smile.

Meanwhile, Bowman continued. “…I had to find out if President Callaway’s
instincts and mine were supported by the facts. We needed to be certain that
both nations would benefit from a union. In order to determine that, I asked an
elite group of economists, sociologists, political scientists to study the
question.

“These experts spent nearly a year years sifting through the data,” Bowman
said, “and they concluded a union of our two countries would result in a new
entity significantly stronger and more viable than either one of us
separately.”

On the rally platform, Ms. Iserbyt was no longer berating Lori Newbold. She had
taken a seat beside Ed Poindexter. Both were watching Bowman, dumbfounded and
helpless. Ms. Iserbyt looked particularly uncomfortable, as though she were in
pain.

“In addition,” Bowman said, “In addition, we did extensive political polling on
the idea of union, without revealing who was asking or why. I would now like to
make public the results of those polls. In our territories, 76% of those polled
viewed union favorably, while 18% were opposed. In our more populous areas,
between 81 and 84% of those polled approved of union.”

At the White House, Katz was just shaking his head. “I am truly astounded, Mr.
President. I don’t think I’ve ever been this surprised in my life.”

“You didn’t see fit to tell us?” Katz said. It was more an observation than a
question.

“Don’t go getting all insulted. I wasn’t sure it was going to happen until
yesterday,” Callaway explained. “And you didn’t really need to know. Besides, I
thought you might enjoy the surprise.”

“I wonder how Phyllis Iserbyt is enjoying it,” Wang said.

“Take a look,” the President suggested.

Wang walked over to the window and picked up the pair of binoculars that were
sitting on the sill. He focused on the platform on the other side of
Pennsylvania Ave.

“What’s happening out there?” Katz asked. “The old hag having a conniption?”

“She just sitting there. She looks like she’s been beaten.”

“That’s because she has,” Katz said.

On the screen, Bowman paused for a moment, took a sip of water and continued.
“Working in great secrecy, I shared this information with my cabinet,
parliamentary leaders from both major parties and the governors of every
province in Canadia—British Columbia, Alberta, Saskatchewan, Manitoba, as well
as the Yukon and Northwestern Territories and presented my plan for union. Last
week, we reached unanimous agreement to go ahead.”

On Pennsylvania Ave., the demonstrators began dropping their signs. A few
started drifting away, walking toward the buses, or wherever it was they’d
managed to park their cars.

“And now,” Bowman continued, “President Bourque and the Confederate States of
America have given us an extraordinary opportunity to complete—to expand—our
dream of a unified English-speaking nation in North America. As a result, I
asked our experts to expand their studies to include the CSA. I was gratified
to learn that this projected addition gives us all an even greater chance to
grow and prosper. It has great advantages for all of us.”

He stopped for a moment, looking directly into the camera, his expression his
face practically filling the screen. “What we have here is a perfect fit, like
the joining of three neighboring pieces in a jig-saw puzzle,” he said
earnestly. “It will create a nation that stretches from the Arctic Circle to
the Gulf of Mexico, and Alaska will no longer be cut off from the rest of
the country.”

Bowman paused again, once more letting the words sink in. Then he resumed,
gaining speed.

“ My friends, Canadia has vast natural resources and millions of square miles
of sparsely-populated wilderness ready to be developed. The North American
Union has the technology and the manufacturing capacity to make use of our
resources and a huge population that could use the room to expand. The CSA has
tens of millions of under-utilized workers and it offers a enormous nearly
untapped market for manufactured goods. It’s as though we were always intended
to be one country.”

In the White House, Callaway and Wang exchanged meaningful glances. “He
certainly makes a good case of it,” Wang said.

“Been rehearsing for years,” Callaway said. “Decades.”

On screen, Bowman continued. “So here is our offer, America: We want to join
you—and the CSA—to build the greatest country on Earth. And we say to your
Congress, vote tomorrow to let the Southern states rejoin the union and then
approve our petition, so we can begin conforming our provincial constitutions
to yours. Let us join you, as soon as possible, in a new era of peace and
prosperity, for the good of all.

“And finally, let me say this: It is our hope that if you grant our petition
and the CSA’s, we can all agree to revive and adopt a great and revered name, a
name that echoes a glorious past, a name that will apply equally to all of us
and truly mean what it says: the United States of America.

“Thank you for watching. God bless us all.”

The SPECIAL BULLETIN graphic replaced Bowman’s face and the voiceover announcer
said, “That was Gordon Bowman, Prime Minister of Canadia, with a special
announcement for the citizens of his country and the North American Union. We
now return you to our regular programming.”

As is often the
case with such interruptions, the INN’s regular program, at least to start, was
a commercial, in this case for toothpaste.

In the White House, Marty Katz turned to President Callaway. “That was the
neatest political maneuver I have ever seen,” he said. “I am in awe of you,
sir.”

Callaway laughed. “There was a lot of luck involved, Marty.”

Katz just shook his head. “Yeah, luck. Right.”

“I think you just trumped the opposition, Mr. President,” Wang said. “I don’t
see how they can recover.”

“Certainly not before the vote,” Katz said.

“I agree,” said Eric Wang. ‘After hearing Bowman, and knowing that practically
everyone in America heard him, I can’t think of a single Senator who’d be
willing to risk a no vote on the reunion.

“I don’t know if I’d go that far,” Katz said. “But it’s certain to soften the
opposition.

The door burst open and Veronica Tennenbaum sailed into the room, wind filling
her sails. “
Mazel tov!
” she exclaimed. “That was absolutely wonderful!”
She hurried to the President, threw her arms around him and gave him the kind
of hug grandmothers give their newly
bar mitzvahed
grandsons. It came
with a warm nuzzling of the President’s cheek that left a distinct imprint of
lipstick.

Callaway tried to disengage. “Thank you, Veronica, but it’s Gordon who deserves
the credit.”

“Yeah, right,” she said. “How long have you two been working on it?”

Callaway shrugged “Well, I suppose we…”

“Hey!” Wang interrupted, even though the President was speaking. He was looking
through the binoculars, toward the Our Country First rally platform. “You gotta
see this.”

Callaway took the binoculars and gazed out the window. “God damn,” he said
quietly. “She’s having the mother of all hissy-fits.” He passed the binoculars
to Veronica, although Katz also had his hand out.

“Yep,” Veronica said. “Totally
fermisht
.”

“Not surprising,” Marty Katz said. “Look at the crowd. It’s just… melting away.”

They came close to the window and gazed at the scene. Katz got out a cigar and
lit up, attracting Wang’s attention. But instead of complaining, he smiled.

On the rally platform, Phyllis Iserbyt suddenly saw not only that Gordon Bowman
was no longer speaking, but that all of the television screens in view were
showing full-color, high definition view of her, scowling, snarling, waving her
hands in helpless rage, her hopes shattered, her dreams destroyed.

“Turn that off!” Ms. Iserbyt screamed at the defenseless Lori Newbold. “Get my
face off those screens! My God, is that picture being
broadcast
? Get
that camera off of me!” At that moment, she realized the Vicodin had worn off.
During the speech, she had felt nothing but a distant thArthurbing. Now, it
seemed as though her rear end was on fire.

Herb Czeckjo, intrepid cameraman first class, could hear all of this. He could
see the woman had come seriously unglued. He knew she was, well, no longer
camera-ready. He was even aware that Lori Newbold had ordered him to stop
shooting. He responded by zooming in on Ms. Iserbyt’s face, getting a
particularly delicious shot of her trying to hid behind her raised hands. No
one was going to shut him down.

Then—it seemed like at least five minutes, but it was really only about twenty
seconds—Phyllis Iserbyt’s face finally disappeared from the TV screens. It was
briefly replaced by a “stand by, technical difficulties” slide, then the
screens—at least the ones that had been brought in for the rally—went dark.

Ms. Iserbyt finally surveyed her surroundings. Ed Poindexter was shaking a fist
at Herb Czeckjo, who was laughing at him. Her ladies-in-waiting had fled.
Aside from a few dazed and confused die-hards, the crowd had pretty much
vanished, leaving an ugly stratum of debris on Pennsylvania Ave., mainly
cardboard signs, but also water bottles, Our Country First tshirts, several
sneakers and an auto baby seat.

*

If, as sometimes happened in cartoons, hot steam could actually shoot out of
human ears, Helmut Metzger surely would have accomplished the feat. His face
was practically purple with rage and his eyes were bulging.

“I
ordered
you to give Iserbyt and her rally
maximum
coverage,”
he told his second-in-command Robert D. Wade, his words dripping with acid. “It
was not a request. It was not a suggestion. It was an
order
.”

Wade stood in front of Metzger’s desk, trying to keep his composure. “I gave
your orders to the news producer. Word for word.”

“And he ignored them. He
interrupted
the woman. He cut away to that,
that Canadian Prime Minister. Who gave him the right to do that?”

Wade took a deep breath. If he didn’t sit down soon, he was going to fall down.
That’s what a giant belly did to a man. “He didn’t have any choice, Helmut. He
was acting in accord with our contract with the Canadia Broadcasting System. We
have to carry the Prime Minister’s national security speeches.”

“That contract is a fraud and a sham,” Metzger snarled. “I don’t know how you
could have agreed to it.”

“Actually, I was in France at the time,” Wade reminded his Boss. “Didn’t you
negotiate the deal yourself?” It was risky to tell Metzger an unpleasant truth,
but not telling him seemed even riskier, at least this time.

Metzger just growled.

“Furthermore,” Wade continued, multiplying the risk but unaccountably feeling
brave, “Every other network, broadcast and cable news, covered it live. If we
hadn’t, our viewers would have asked questions—if they hadn’t switched
channels.”

Metzger regarded his second-in-command with undisguised malevolence. “Get out,
Wade,” he said. “Get out of my sight. Send me Sullivan.”

Robert D. Wade momentarily considered continuing the debate, but his instinct
for self-preservation belatedly asserted itself. Even in the best
circumstances, Metzger’s mind could be changed only by heroic efforts. And in
his current mood, the attempt would be suicidal. Besides, Wade was really
getting tired now. He had to get back to his office and sit down, maybe lie
down. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Of course. I’ll get right on it.” He got in the
elevator and left.