ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? (31 page)

“Good,” Bourque said. “Now at the bottom, you see a time code on both halves of
the picture. It’s zeroed-out right now, but when the tape starts running, so
will the clock. It will begin at exactly the time—according to the Mexican
government—that the distress call started.

“So, on the right side, we’ll see the transcript of the distress call scroll
by, and hear the English translation released by the Mexican government, and on
the left, we’ll see what the satellite’s camera picked up at exactly the same
moment. We ready to roll boys?”

A control room technician gave Bourque a thumbs up. The image of the ship
remained relatively static, flickering slightly, but the distress call text
moved at reading speed.

“
S.S. Tampico
to base,” the translator’s voice said. “A small vessel is
approaching us at high speed, on an interception course. Please advise as to
how we should respond,”. The time code was at 8:37:10.

The satellite image flickered almost imperceptibly, but continued to show the
ship, by itself, with no other vessel in view. The time code was the same as on
the other half of the screen.

“
S.S. Tampico
to base. We are taking machine gun fire from the
approaching ship. Altering course to avoid attacker,” the translator read. The
time code was advancing past 8:37:40.

On the satellite image at that moment, the tanker was the only ship visible.

The transcript—and the time code—continued to roll, and two blank pages went
by. Then, at 8:38:50, the translator began speaking again. “
S. S. Tampico
to
base. We are being attacked by a torpedo boat flying a CSA flag. Repeat: We are
under attack by a CSA torpedo boat and we are taking machine gun and cannon
fire.”

At the same moment, the satellite image showed only the tanker, dead in the
water, lights still on.

At 8:40:05, after two more blank pages, the distress call transcript resumed
and the translator continued. “
S.S. Tampico
to base. SOS! SOS! We have
been hit by a torpedo below the waterline and we are starting to list.”

Meanwhile, however, the satellite view of the tanker, also at 8:40:05,
showed nothing unusual.

“SOS! SOS!
S.S. Tampico
to base. We are sinking by the head and have
lost power. Send help immediately. Oh my God, we’ve been hit by a second
torpedo! Abandon ship! Abandon ship! Oh my God! We have huge fires blazing fore
and aft.” The time code showed 8:40:30.

According to the satellite view, however, no fires had broken out on the ship.
But now something new appeared in the frame. A small speedboat approached from
the west, hove to on the tanker’s port side, and held its position for a few moments.
It was barely possible to see four or five people scrambling aboard. Then the
little vessel sped off, in the direction from which it had come.

At 8:40:46, the transcript stopped dead, but the translator continued to talk.
“At this point, we hear an enormous explosion, accompanied by screams and
sounds of falling debris. Then, the transmission ceases.”

But there was no explosion on the satellite picture. The tanker and its
lights remained as before. The only visible motion was the departing speedboat.
And at 8:41, it left the frame.

Now, the transcript half of the television picture went blank, but the
satellite image half continued, showing the tanker. Thirty seconds passed.
Then, a single huge explosion amidships split the tanker in half. It sank
almost immediately.

The transcript and satellite image split screen faded and were replaced by the
stern visage of President Bourque. “There you have it,” he said. “No attack. No
torpedo boat. No torpedoes. A mysterious evacuation by a speedboat. A distress
call that doesn’t match the actual events. The premature announcement of an
explosion, followed nearly two full minutes later by the real thing.

“What does all this mean?” Bourque asked. “It means that the tanker sinking was
staged, no doubt by the Mexican government. It was a fake, a phony, a hoax, or
as we say where I come from, a flimflam. It means the Confederacy had nothing
to do with what happened. It means, very probably, that no one died and that
some old rust bucket was sent to the bottom of the Gulf in hopes of…in hopes of
what?”

Bourque fixed his gaze on the camera, as if expecting an answer. Then he
continued. “Think about it, my friends. Why would Mexico stage a phony attack
and blame it all on the Confederacy? Only one explanation makes any
sense: Mexico wants to make us look like we’re warlike aggressors. They want an
excuse to attack
us
.

“This whole business—the bogus sinking,
El Presidente’s
puffed-up
hollering for my apology, his blatherin’ that we extradite the captain and crew
of one of our torpedo boats, you know what all of that is? It’s bad theater.
And it wouldn’t surprise me one darn bit if he isn’t planning a second act,
even though the first was a total flop.

“
Presidente
Garcia, it’s time for you to tell the truth, for a change.
Explain why you staged the fake tanker sinking. Explain that third-rate movie
script you tried to pass off as some kinda transcript. That’s
my
demand
and that’s my answer to your mendacious caterwauling. Tell the truth,
Presidente
!
The world is waiting to hear what you have to say.”

*

Miguel Garcia leaped to his feet, flinging away his lunch tray, food and plates
flying everywhere. Then, with an anguished roar, he hurled his drinking glass
toward the TV screen with all of his strength. His aim, fortunately for the
television screen, was poor. The glass hit the wall above the TV, shattering
and showering half the video room with broken glass.

Cursing and infuriated,
El Presidente
slowly turned toward his
intelligence chief, Hector Herrera, who was cowering in his chair. “You fool!”
Garcia bellowed. “You stupid, incompetent cretin! You have singlehandedly
destroyed the work of a lifetime. God curse you. And God curse me for ever
giving you responsibility, for ever
knowing
you.”

Herrera stared at his employer, eyes wide, cringing. “I did not know…”

“You did not know?” Garcia snarled, waving his clenched fists in Herrera’s
face. “You did not know? It is your
job
to know! I
depend
on you
to know. Are you the head of intelligence or a joke?”

“
Presidente
, when we planned this operation no one had satellite
coverage of the Gulf. The Germans had no interest in it. Neither did the
British. No one could have foreseen…”

“It was a
Canadian
satellite, Hector,” Garcia said, his single eye
glaring and fixed on his underlying. “A Canadian satellite you knew nothing
about—even though it was your job to know.”

Herrera was suddenly breathing hard and drenched in sweat. It wasn’t simply
that he had made a mistake, that he had overlooked something crucial, although he
certainly had. He wasn’t just risking the mother of all chewing outs, or that
his job was on the line, although that was true in both cases. It was that
Garcia had killed men for less. And he’d killed them without warning, with his
bare hands.

“They launched it only a few days ago,” Herrera said, painfully aware of how
lame he sounded. “I received no report from my Canadian agents.”

“And
that
is your excuse, Hector?” Garcia’s voice was dangerously
gentle. “I thought that speedboat was supposed to be invisible.”

“To radar, yes. It is. But not to a camera lens.”

“So you are trying to excuse yourself.”

“I have no excuse,
Presidente
. I have failed. I have failed you. I have
failed my country.”

“You are absolutely correct!” Garcia said, still infuriated. “I was generous
enough and trusting enough to give you a job of great importance, the greatest
in your lifetime, and you blew it. You have humiliated me in the eyes of the
world and ruined plans that have taken years to perfect. I should kill you now
and get it over with.”

Herrera tried to look at Garcia, but could not bring himself to meet the man’s
eyes. “I will accept any punishment…”

“Accept punishment?” Garcia was incredulous. “You think you have a choice?”

“Of course not,
Presidente
. How you punish me is entirely up to you.”

“I’m glad we agree on that.”

“
Presidente
,” Herrera said, at last getting some control of himself,
“this was a terrible failure, but it need not be the end of it.”

“What!? Surely you aren’t suggesting that we go ahead with the airplane
operation!”

“No, no,” Herrera said quickly. “No one would believe it. But I implore you,
Presidente
,
do not cancel the invasion. When Bourque dies, we will have a
once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

Garcia shook his head. “If we invade then, the world will condemn us. The
League will cut off our imports and stop our exports. Germany might send ships
to destroy our invasion forces.”

Herrera’s mind was racing, driven by fear and desperation. “When Bourque dies,”
he said, eyes agleam, “we will come in to restore and preserve order, we will
make sure the country continues to function. We’ll provide police and keep the
hospitals open and the supermarkets supplied. We’ll act as the government.
We’ll portray ourselves as humanitarians, on a noble and selfless mission.”

Garcia put a hand to his chin and rubbed his whiskers. “Hmmm,” he said. “And if
the Confederacy resists—what then?”

“Without Bourque to lead them? Not going to happen—especially when they see the
size of our invasion forces.”

“Hmmm,” Garcia repeated. “Hmmmmm. But Germany and the others—they will believe
we have humanitarian motives?”

Herrera managed a weak smile. “Of course not. But they’ll accept our
explanations, because they really won’t want to get involved.”

“I wish you’d thought of this before we sank the tanker,” Bourque said. “And by
the way, just how do you propose we deal with that? Everybody
knows—thanks to your oversight—that the whole thing was faked, and just an
excuse for us to attack the CSA.”

Herrara thought a moment. Then, inspiration arrived, and not a second too soon.
“This is what you do,” he said. “You blame
me
. “You fire me as publicly
as possible and tell the world I was acting on my own, in defiance of your
orders and against your wishes. Then you put me on trial. I’ll confess my
guilt, say that it was all my idea, all my doing. I’ll say I did it because
I’ve always hated Bourque.”

To Herrera’s great relief, Garcia smiled. “Then you’ll be convicted and go to
prison?”

“Yes,” Herrera said, “if that’s what you want.”

“Well, an execution would be more convincing.”

“Perhaps,” Herrera said, “but perhaps a touch too brutal. Anyway, if I’m alive
and in prison, you can mention me whenever you like, reminding foreigners of
how benevolently disposed you are to the CSA.”

Garcia sat back down in his chair and considered his options. “How about if I
turn you over to the CSA and let them do with you whatever they want?”

“If you’re giving me a choice,
Presidente
, I’d prefer a Mexican prison,
where I might be assigned to a nice cell in minimum security, perhaps given a
few privileges, maybe better food,” Herrera said hopefully. “Possibly released
when my failures no longer matter.”

El Presidente
pointed his single eye at his intelligence chief with
interest. “You failed me miserably, Hector. Still, you are a clever man.”

“Thank you,
Presidente
.” Herrera allowed himself a very slight smile.

“When do you think we should set this plan of yours into motion, Hector?”

Garcia asked kindly.

“Well, if I could have a couple of days, perhaps a week to arrange…

Garcia’s bushy brows knit in thought. “No,” he said slowly. “No, I think we
should do it immediately.” He picked up a nearby phone. “Rosalita, send a pair
of guards to the video room. Right away. Armed guards.”

*

In the White House video control room, Roy Pickett caught Eric Wang’s eye.
“Well?”

“Impressive,” Wang admitted. “He has lots of presence.”

“You should have seen him ten years ago.”

Wang glanced through the window, at the office set. Bourque was still sitting
in the chair. “Is he okay?”

They walked, perhaps a little too quickly, into the office set, and Bourque
looked up suddenly, curious. “Well,” he said, “how did I do?”

“You were great,” Wang said. “And I’m not buttering you up.”

Pickett studied his Boss for a moment. “You okay?”

“Tired,” Bourque admitted. “Talking on TV takes a lot outta ya. Gimme a
minute.”

“You really put it to Garcia,” Wang said. “I’d love to see his face.”

“I’d love to see his ass,” Bourque said. “So I could shove my boot up it.”

They laughed. But for Bourque, the laughing turned into a cough and he kept
coughing until he gagged. After a minute or so—much too long for Pickett and
Wang, who were watching with great concern—he caught his breath. Pickett
fumbled in a pocket and came up with a vial of pills. He handed a couple to
Bourque, who swallowed them quickly.

“I’m all right,” he said, waving them off with a limp gesture. “Just something
in my throat.” His face was white and his hair was matted with sweat.

At that moment, Charlie Callaway walked into the room, all smiles. “I think you
were terrific, Mr. President,” he said. “I can’t imagine how Garcia can…”
He stopped in mid-sentence, shocked.

Bourque waved both hands, feebly. “I’m okay, Mr. President. Just have to catch
my breath. And thanks for your kind words.”

“I think we should probably put off this afternoon’s session,” Wang said.

“No, no need to do that,” Bourque said. “I’m ready to go.” He pushed back
in the chair, as if he was about to stand.