Casing the Colors© Week 4

CASING THE COLORS : THE NEW AMERICAN REPUBLIC © by Casey Pops • • • CHAPTER 7 • As they drove across the Fourteenth Street Bridge and headed south to the Pentagon, Jim spoke almost inaudibly. At first, Kate thought he was trying to keep the driver from hearing, but she soon realized he was simply thinking aloud, not talking to her or caring whether anyone heard or responded. "What worries me," he mused, "is their belief that they're going to win. There's damn little assurance of a victory big enough to make any headway with reforms. Why can't they come to grips with the magnitude of the problem?" Then, turning to his daughter, he asked, "Can't you focus them, Kate? They should be responding, leading the show, not watching it on television." "I'll do my best, but what makes you think we'll lose? Speaking frankly, I'd say the rioting is a point in our favor," she added, hoping her father wasn't losing confidence in the coalition. "I've been involved in a lot of civil wars, honey, and the government never wins. Finally, people get tired of the killing and they begin to see the government's efforts to deal with insurgents as repressive. The rebels feed on public fear and ambivalence about violence. People forget which side they're on and everything comes unglued. The rebels win by being ruthless, clever and patient, qualities most elected governments just simply don't possess." "I'm not sure what you think we ought to do, Dad," Kate said quietly, wondering just what he expected and, more to the point, what she and the American Agenda coalition could deliver. "We have to deal with a President who doesn't even want to get on a plane and show himself, let alone fight. His display of executive temper last night was merely his injured sense of political privilege. He's not the guy for anything tough." "I know that only too well. Kate, I need an hour with the Joint Chiefs to get agreement on an action plan. Maybe we can muscle our way around the President's nerves." He asked the driver to get his deputy, General Philip Carlson, on the car phone. General Gordon told him to call the emergency meeting of the Joint Chiefs for 07:45. "We need to get the presidential campaign into full operation, too," Kate said, when her father cradled his car phone. "President Harper is absolutely right about that. Stu Wellford and Scott Bennett working together ought to be able to take the spotlight off the President and his weaknesses. That is, if you're not planning to eliminate Scott as a player," she added, hoping to get a clue about her father's private thoughts. General Gordon ignored the remark, his eyes moving rhythmically, as if reading secrets in the air in front of him. His daughter sat beside him, trying to imagine what he was thinking, confident that he would tell her when he was ready. Several minutes later, the limousine passed the security check point and pulled into the Pentagon underground VIP garage. The General tapped his code into the executive elevator console and motioned for Kate to enter before him. They emerged several stories above, in the wide, blue-carpeted corridor near his office. His chief of staff saluted as they went into General Gordon's office suite. "Sir, everyone is waiting in your conference room." General Gordon installed Kate at his desk and told her he'd be back in forty-five minutes. When he returned, he had the Joint Chiefs in tow. "We're on the President's calendar for 09:30," he told Carlson. "Get two limousines lined up downstairs, then phone Stuart Wellford at the White House. Tell him to attend the briefing," he barked, as if Stu were one of his junior aides to be summoned without notice or explanation. Kate rode with her father and Admiral Peter Harralt in one of the official Pentagon cars. In the other car were Marine General Michael Volti and Air Force General Anthony Barber. As the limousines cleared the Pentagon security gates, General Gordon said, "Kate, I told everyone that you'll attend the briefing, in case we need political input." General Gordon sat still in the limousine, trying to put together the best plan for presenting the joint Chiefs' program to the politicians. He wondered how much he could rely on Stuart Wellford, a man he viewed as competent and honest, but soft, the softness that comes from too much compromise and too little deep conviction, or perhaps too few tested opportunities, to be sure of one's own ability to choose the right course in the face of popular apathy or anger. He thought of his own life, full of such tests, often bitter both in choice and consequence, but nonetheless soul stiffening, delivering a firm sense of the logic of his analysis and of the correctness of his position. He didn't blame Stu, who was the best of a bad lot in his opinion. Did politicians simply never have opportunities for self-validation. Were they so accustomed to finding the route of least conflict that they finally became incapable of real decision making. Unanswerable questions, he knew. Kate was still at a loss about her father's intentions when the cars rounded the corner at Fifteenth Street and entered the south entrance to the White House. Stu Wellford was dutifully waiting for the delegation outside the Oval Office. "Do you have any idea what this is all about?" he asked Kate, pulling her to one side to get a few private words with her. "Beats me, Stu. All I know is that I'm here as a political resource. I guess you've been invited as President-in-Waiting," she added, unable to resist teasing him, even in the crisis. "Right, my dear," Stu answered, mockingly fluttering his eyelashes. The sound of Admiral Harralt's voice snapped them back to reality and they hurried into the Oval Office. Kate and Stu sat together at one side of the President's desk. The Generals sat in front of the desk facing the President, a daunting array of medals and service ribbons opposing his plain dark blue suit. "Mr. President," General Gordon began, "the Joint Chiefs met in emergency session this morning and are prepared to report to you." Kate watched and listened attentively as the meeting unfolded. Admiral Harralt, 65, had minimal experience with ground troops and would soon retire. He had been appointed to the Joint Chiefs after Iraq II, a reward for his success in keeping the Gulf open for the combined forces. Like the President, he was a compromise candidate. All the other members of the Joint Chiefs were better known to the public after their much more visible Iraq daring. General Barber, for example, was at 52 the youngest member of the Joint Chiefs, having been rewarded for his Air Force unit's remarkable record in the skies over the Arabian desert as the US defended the Middle East by air against terrorist groups. General Volti, a long-time family friend of the Gordons, was 60 years old and waiting with tasteful restraint to become the next Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Kate knew that he would have asked her father, who had no future career riding on the political reaction to their military plan, to carry the burden of the meeting. General Volti and her father had served together many times, were both expert troop commanders and ground force strategists, and would undoubtedly be in agreement about whatever plan had emerged from the morning's meeting at the Pentagon. The media that followed military events knew that when General Volti and General Gordon were involved in a problem, nothing was left to chance and nothing went wrong. Kate smiled to herself, remembering similar crack planning, often to the amusement or distress of children less attuned to military precision, for the Christmas vacations and beach weekends the two families had often taken together. In fact, Mrs. Volti was the one person who had been able to replace the mother Kate never knew. She heard her father's voice and focused tightly on the meeting. "Sir, we have prepared several proposals covering both the military and civilian aspects of the current situation." "Civilian aspects?" the President's voice rose in mock dismay. "I thought you were lecturing us at breakfast about the mess likely when the military meddles in political matters." "Mr. President," General Gordon responded dryly, "I am not talking about politics. It is a question of civilian support for a military campaign. We will divide the country into four sectors, each headed by one of us," he said, motioning to his military colleagues. "My deputy, General Carlson, will take command of my sector so that I can continue to provide overall command and liaison with you and the White House staff. General Bennett will serve as inter-sector field commander responsible for the campaign to end the rebellion. He will also continue to command the Ranger units, which will be fully integrated with the military to prevent private actions such as occurred last night. General Bennett will report directly to the Joint Chiefs so that his activities can be better coordinated within the strategic plan." "I agree," the President said, answering too quickly to have considered his response even cursorily. "I like the idea of controlling General Bennett while letting him get on with the military clean-up. What's your reaction, Stu?" he asked, deflecting the decision with a swiftness born of anxiety. "Why are you recommending the use of sectors, with direct responsibility resting in the members of the Joint Chiefs?" Stu asked. Jim Gordon ticked off the reasons. Military strategy and tactics combined in the office of the Joint Chiefs for unified command and control. Improved reaction time for the shifting of needed resources if one sector heated up. Immediate responsibility for a very sensitive campaign involving the civilian population, with little room for mistakes. Controlled use of General Bennett's popularity and skills. Immediate highest level access to civilian resources. General Gordon let the last sentence float like a fly line gliding over a trout stream on a spring day. The President straightened slightly in his chair, looking at Stu, hoping he would intervene. "Civilian resources?" Stu asked, emphasizing each syllable. "Police, courts, jails, media, transportation systems. Understand, gentlemen," the General said, "we are not simply responding to random violence. We are preparing to defend the United States against a well-planned, well-financed, intensifying rebellion. We will need to use civilian infrastructure before the campaign is over." General Gordon's voice had just the edge of authority necessary to prevent bickering from either Stu Wellford or President Harper. He watched, standing erect and still, to reinforce the aura of control he wanted to create, knowing that both men would acquiesce because they had neither another plan nor sufficient experience to argue with the one being proposed. "When do you expect to begin using civilian resources?" Stu's benign response, composed and quiet, told General Gordon he had won and he immediately pushed home his advantage. "We intend to treat each sector as a combat zone. We will need immediate authority to garrison troops outside regular stations, take control of State National Guards, and detain and process prisoners." "Process prisoners? The need hadn't occurred to me. You plan to arrest rebels and try them in military courts." "No," General Gordon replied. "We plan to arrest and forward them to civilian courts for trial after interrogation, but," he added, knowing it was better to have this matter cleared now before events made it a real time political issue, "if we get into a combat environment, we may need military courts in sectors where civilian order has collapsed. The key will be to get the rebels off the streets as we move through rebel strongholds. If we don't detain them, they will reorganize and attack again in a matter of hours." Stuart Wellford studied his hands, thinking, or perhaps praying. No one else spoke. President Harper gave a long, reverberating sigh, a muffled whistle of alarm. "There is absolutely no other way?" Stu asked, interpreting the President's sound. "No, Stu. Not in our opinion," General Gordon added for emphasis. "We can pursue the terrorists and rebels from street corner to street corner and from city to city until hell freezes over. But it won't stop them. Finally, we will have to arrest and try them, often in less than pristine legal circumstances. The US court system is not prepared to handle such matters and the military campaign will break down if the rebels are given full freedom to demand their constitutional rights and liberties. The longer we wait, the harder it will be to win. They will collect more money, more followers and more cities." "And, every day more Americans will be terrorized and killed," Stu added, finishing General Gordon's thought precisely as the General had hoped. "Every terrorist bomb weakens our authority and civilian support," General Gordon pushed home his advantage. "The terrorists know that and they will use it against us." "What's the bad news?" Stu asked sardonically. The General moved his hands in resignation, before starting to pick his way through the next chunk of information. "Right now, the rebels are using stick grenades, pineapple grenades for longer range fragmentation effect, AK47s and an assortment of small automatic, semi-automatic and other firearms bought here in the United States. They make incendiary bombs and ignite cars and gas stations as substitutes for bigger bombs. There are places in Europe, Asia and the Middle East where they can buy MANPADS, bazookas, anti-aircraft guns, bigger bombs with delivery systems, and whatever else they need. But, after we cut off internet sales, they will need to find a dependable supply line into the United States." "I'll talk to the Attorney General," Stu said, struggling to grasp the situation in its entirety. "I'll get your Executive Order in time for tonight's speech. If that timing's good for you," he added, turning to include the President, who said nothing as he watched, a bystander in the critical conversation that put the future of America in play. "Fine," General Gordon responded. "We'll start fleshing out the logistics." The other Generals nodded in assent. As everyone left the Oval Office, Kate knew America had a new President. He simply hasn't been elected yet. Because whatever else had happened in the meeting that had just ended, she knew that executive power had effectively passed from the President of the United States to Stuart Wellford, as yet unelected presidential candidate and leader of American Agenda. • • • CHAPTER 8 • The President was headed to Atlanta. Stu Wellford and Kate Gordon were in the travel party on Air Force One because President Harper wouldn't leave the White House without the pair he had adopted as his unofficial staff and protectors. "You may need a hero," he said, "but if things get rough, you're going to have to pinch hit for me." Reaching across the table to touch Stu's arm, he added, "I'm really worried about today." "The Atlanta Airport is miles away from the riot area," his chief of staff said, "and the highway into downtown is easy to patrol. You know what a coward I am, Sir. I wouldn't be going if I didn't think it would be safe," he joked, trying to shift the President's fear to himself. "We'll even have time to rehearse your speech after we get back to the White House," Kate added. "That's the beauty of Atlanta. Easy in, easy out and time to spare." "One city done well is better than three botched up by edgy mayors and media," the chief of staff offered. "Now, let's focus on Atlanta." Kate admired the man who had taken on the huge responsibility of managing a presidency far from popular, and a President Harper who felt more prisoner than leader in the White House. He handled the President with enthusiasism, always looking for the compromise that would let his boss survive, while saving face for the rest of the Republican establishment. He succeeded more often than not, but with such skill and modesty that he was seldom noticed, let alone rewarded. Kate had met hundreds of young politicians like him, dedicated, energetic and savvy. What happened to them as they advanced, she wondered. What happened to their resolve and dedication. Were they all eaten up by power and ambition. While the chief of staff and the President went over the Atlanta briefing book, Stu and Kate tried to find the right words to tell the nation that it was about to be put in a state of emergency, with the military having first call on most of the public services Americans took for granted. "Who's the biggest party contributor in Atlanta?" the President interrupted, peering out over his briefing book toward Stu. "Christ," Stu said, "you're not going to have time for a fundraiser with the mayor and his social set. A big piece of Atlanta is still out of control. He'll want to know what you're going to do about the rioters, not how much money the party needs." Stu stopped, sorry that he had let his anger overcome his judgment. "Great," the President answered sarcastically to Stu's rebuke. "And, if you just tell me what we're going to do, I'll gladly tell His Honor." "First," Stu sighed, "the troops stay in Atlanta for security. Second, there'll be lots of money for rebuilding. Don't mention the emergency orders. Just tell him the details will be in your speech tonight." "Look, Stu," the President said. "This is too much for me. It's gone way beyond politics. I don't want the country to fall apart and I certainly don't want Americans killing each other. But, I can't stop it. If it weren't for the fact that Vice President Wilson would take over, I'd resign today." The chief of staff quickly diverted the President from his nervous litany. "I've noted the points you listed, Sir," he said to Stu. "They're in the President's briefing book so we can go over them." "Thanks," Stu answered, picking up his pad and pen. "Where were we, Kate?" he asked, trying to settle back into the flow of their speech writing. But his mind wouldn't cooperate, wanting instead to consider why this particular man, whom Stu rather pitied, had somehow managed to rise to the pinnacle of power when he so obviously lacked the disposition to use it. Stuart Wellford found it hard to believe that the United States had been dealt such a weak President, but perhaps he was merely a reflection of his time. There had been other weak Presidents, to be sure, but most of them had followed crises instead of being forced into the teeth of them. General Grant came to mind. His problematic presidency followed the Civil War. Had President Buchanan been a weak President whose term precipitated the war? Stu shook his head; he didn't know. The next quarter hour was quiet. The President and his chief of staff huddled over their briefing books while Stu and Kate drafted the President's television speech. When Air Force One began its descent, the White House party saw clouds of smoke hovering over Atlanta, whose streets and highways were strangely empty except for military convoys. As the plane taxied along the runway, the mayor of Atlanta and his entourage stiffened against its noise and the need to be pleasant to the person they considered responsible for the disaster that had swept through their city the previous night. Behind them, cordoned off, were a huge number of reporters and TV cameras. Kate wondered why they were so far from the microphone banks set up for the President. Then, as she scanned the group looking for familiar faces to play to advantage later, she realized what was happening. "My God, Stu, it's Scott," she shouted above the jet engines' whine. There he was, in clean, pressed combat dress, talking to a cluster of reporters who were pushing each other to get their microphones close to his face. "Damn," Stu swore. "We should have known he'd be here to use the President's media attention." "Shit, now what am I going to do?" the President asked, throwing his briefing book toward his chief of staff in disgust. "Just what you planned to do," Stu answered. "Greet the mayor. Shake everyone's hand. Look presidential. Be solicitous. Give your prepared remarks. And leave General Bennett to Kate and me." Stu and Kate whispered as they waited for the President to deplane ahead of them. They followed, shaking hands with the mayor and his party. Then, Stu steered Kate toward Scott. She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him, a big apple pie kiss as if he'd just come home from a war. Flashbulbs popped and TV cameras focused in on the pair. Stu reached around both of them in a paternal gesture. "Baby doll," Scott said, looking into the cameras, "I'm okay. Don't worry." "Sweetheart," Kate whispered, so close to his ear the reporters couldn't catch it on tape, "if you muscle in on the President's show today, Stu and I will personally destroy you. Right here, in front of all the cameras. Trust me," she added, smiling toward the mob of reporters pushing to get close to them. Scott held Kate at arms length, looking from her to Stu, evaluating his position. Then, he grinned, knowing he had been temporarily out-maneuvered. "Yes ma'am," he finished, loud enough for the reporters' recorders to pick it up, "yes ma'am, I sure do love you." When a local high school band's rendition of Ruffles and Flourishes ended, the President stepped up to the microphone. General Bennett stood quietly between Stu and Kate listening to the President's remarks. Afterward, Stu took Scott to the VIP photo area to introduce the hero General to the mayor, who was Stu's friend but not his political ally. Each man was in his own way a symbol of black America's success, but Stu was mildly conservative and a member of the white establishment while the mayor was very liberal and an outsider to Stu's world. Watching the politicians and the General smile into the cameras, Kate made a mental note to use a photo of their meeting as publicity for American Agenda. When the official party headed into downtown Atlanta, the President and the mayor rode in the first limousine, following the larger than normal Fort Benning military escort ordered by General Gordon. Stu Wellford and Kate Gordon invited General Bennett to ride with them in the second limo. Sirens wailing, the motorcade pulled off the parkway south of Peachtree Street and moved slowly up the hill toward the convention center where most of the political power elite of Atlanta was waiting. The mayor had invited the city's black leaders to meet with the President, who was good at listenng and expressing support, as he promised relief for their biggest immediate problems and sympathized with their losses and fears. The mayor skillfully maneuvered the President toward the limousines, trying to get him away from the Atlanta politicians as fast as possible, to prevent sympathy from building for the admittedly difficult position the President was in. As the presidential party waited for the Fort Benning escort to form around it again, the Atlanta police chief tapped on the limousine window. "We're taking you to the edge of the riot area. You'll be able to judge the extent of the violence and evaluate the damage. Don't leave your limousines because we can't guarantee that the area is free of snipers." The sirens began their shrill whine as the motorcade headed down Peachtree Street toward the smoldering shell of what had been one of the hotels near the edge of the downtown. When the limousines circled around the gutted hotel and moved onto a nearby residential street, the first Army barricades appeared. Troops with weapons at the ready were patrolling along the edge of a clearing burned out by fire bombs and flattened by high angle fire. Rangers in strategic positions watched the unruly crowd milling around on the other side of the clearing. When the crowd saw the President's limousine stop behind the barricade, they began to chant and wave their fists menacingly. Older men and women in the crowd stood to one side, clustered, silent. Kate felt her stomach constrict and reached for Stu's hand. Safe behind the limousine's bullet proof windows, she watched a scene that seemed more like a TV clip from a third world barricade than a sunny November afternoon in Atlanta. Occasionally, someone would toss a molotov cocktail into the clearing, making the troops raise their rifles in an automatic reaction. On the military side of the no man's land, a first aid station was busy treating soldiers with minor injuries. The sun spread its warmth over soldiers and civilians alike, indifferent to their predicament. Kate turned her face away, remembering the black leaders at the convention center, well-dressed, educated and successful. How could they possibly represent this unruly mob of angry blacks, she wondered. Suddenly, General Bennett was out of the limousine, walking confidently along the edge of the clearing to punctuate his presence. The mob recognized him and began to hurl rocks and bottles. A molotov cocktail exploded in the center of the open space. General Bennett jumped up onto a tank parked along the troop line and waved his helmet. "Put down your weapons and go home," he shouted. "We want to help you." An older woman appeared at the edge of the crowd, her short gray hair pulled back tightly into a knot giving prominence to her facial features. She wore a nondescript flowered dress and a shapeless sweater. Young men lifted her up onto a burnt-out car. She waved her arms. "We can't go home. You burned our homes. Go away. Leave us alone." Her shouts became a roaring wave of noise. Television cameras caught it all, a poor black woman on a charred car and a dashing white General on a tank. The motorcade, the soldiers, all of America watched, spellbound by the scene's tragic combination of bravado and courage. The police chief, anxious to get the vulnerable presidential party away from the riot area and out of his sphere of responsibility, broke the trance, shouting the order for the limousines to move away. Scott, waving to his troops, jumped back into the car with Stu and Kate as it turned into place in the line of limousines. Stu put his arm around her, unconcerned about whether Scott or the media would note his gesture. As Scott turned toward the interior of the car, he saw how thoroughly the scene had shaken her. "Kate, don't lose your nerve." Stu said, looking at Scott for support. "That's what we've got to control, the America that believes the rebels and terrorists will save them." "But, Stu," Kate answered, instinctively seeking comfort from him instead of Scott, "they seem like frightened children. They need help, not artillery." "Don't back down, Angel," Scott answered, oblivious to her denial of his presence. "We can help them only if we can reach them. That means eliminating the terrorists and their followers first." "Kate," Stu added firmly, "Scott is right. The time for helping, as we could have twenty or thirty years ago, is past. We didn't act when we should have and so what's left is conflict, and suffering, on both sides." "But, my God, Scott, do you have to stand on a tank and wave your helmet like...like Patton?" Kate asked petulantly, angry at herself for being so easily influenced by what she had seen and angry at Scott and Stu for pointing out her weakness. "Sweetheart, I'm a soldier. I've got several hundred thousand other soldiers on battle lines all over the country because we think it is important to save America. Young Americans follow me because they believe in the United States. They follow me because I wear its stars on my shoulders. Isn't that how this started? If my troops don't see me, if they begin to think I'm just another Pentagon paper pusher, they'll lose their conviction and we'll lose the war and the United States." The three rode back to the airport in silence. When the President got out of his limousine, he was as pale as Kate had been earlier. "That's it, Stu," he said, his trembling voice trailing behind him as he hurried toward Air Force One. "No more front line trips for me. It's your show from now on."