Casing the Colors © Week 6

Casing the Colors © Week 6 • • • CHAPTER 11 • General Philip Carlson was an infantry commander. He had graduated from West Point with Scott Bennett and fought in the Middle East's various campaigns. He had been awarded the Distinguished Service Cross for field valor. Phil and Scott were friendly rivals from the day they met. When Phil Carlson was named General Gordon's deputy, it rankled Scott, who at the time was Pentagon liaison for troop training. Phil thought being deputy to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs would give him the inside shot at becoming a member himself. Scott wanted the deputy appointment for the same reason, but General Gordon told Scott it wasn't the right step for him. When the Middle East campaigns gave Phil and Scott their chance, it was Scott who won the day. American troops who had been trained under his rigorous system were superior, tough and battle-ready. When deployed in tactical units in strategic sectors, they responded superbly. Scott was recognized by the US military and allied leadership as an extraordinary troop tactician and began his climb up the ground command ladder with his success in ending the civil war in Syria. Finally, Phil Carlson had to be content to ride shotgun to General Gordon, watching Scott on television with the rest of the world. Carlson, slightly built but muscular and tanned with a dark brown crewcut, assembled General Bennett and the members of the Joint Chiefs at the table in General Gordon's Pentagon conference room for a Monday morning briefing in late January, 2023. Kate had given Stu quick backgrounder on General Carlson as they drove from the White House. The briefing was informal. Phil began by discussing the details of troop strength in his sector. He had more than a hundred thousand troops under his command, but they were spread thin, stretched along two thousand miles of Rio Grande border and deployed farther north in Houston, El Paso, Phoenix, Los Angeles and San Francisco. He also controlled several large Air Force bases, reaching from Texas to California. "We plan to use the Air Force both for cover and first strike sorties," he explained to the assembled group of civilian and military leaders. "It should give us a tactical jump start, because we don't expect Miguel's army in Mexico to have air capability for several months. It will take at least that long for the recruited Cuban and Mexican military commanders to make any headway in coordinating with the guerrilla specialists assigned from Cuba and Miguel's empire. Local intelligence confirms our satellite observations of heavy weapons being massed in Cuba and moved by boat to the Yucatan in Mexico. They plan to cache their armaments in readily accessible areas south of the Rio Grande. If we can prevent the constant trickle of small arms from Mexico, it will mean fewer snipers and armed guerrilla bands at our rear while we're concentrating on eliminating the larger weaponry cached in Mexico." General Gordon, who wanted to drive home to Stu Wellford the threat in practical terms, asked Phil, "What about terrorist activities in your sector?" "We've been watching the inter-sector flow of weapons and money, measured by riot activity and operational levels, for the past month. The pattern is west to east and south to north. FBI undercover work has verified that Raqqa's headquarters is in the Los Angeles area. We don't have a current photo of Raqqa but our independent data about money flow and ghetto unrest squares with FBI information. As you know, Raqqa is Syrian but he has ties to Iran, Algeria, Libya and Palestine radicals. He is particularly vicious and determined to recreate the world in his fundamentalist jihad image...and for his personal and financial glory. Syria and Libya deny helping him, but our operatives confirm that he receives money from Teheran through Damascus and trains his terrorists at sites near Tripoli and Teheran. He often works with Carlos Miguel, using his operatives to deliver drugs for Miguel in areas outside Miguel's direct control. Occasionally, Raqqa personally eliminates one of Miguel's particular enemies in return for very large cash payments. They have obviously found a common interest in fomenting a US rebellion." General Bennett displayed a map of the Rio Grande border region. "There are two relatively easy routes for delivering larger weapons across the border," he said. "The first is from Merida or Campeche in the Yucatan by boat to Matamoros on the Gulf Coast near Monterrey, then on to Nuevo Laredo and into the US for use as far north as Canada. The region north of Monterrey is flat, with innumerable border crossing possibilities." He paused to give his audience time to study the map and then moved his laser pointer across the Mexican terrain to a region south of Arizona. "The other likely marshaling area is in the Sonoran Desert south of Tucson. Our planning anticipates air delivery from Monterrey, landing in the desert where portable metal airstrips, easily put down by Miguel's unskilled recruits, would work. The weapons being amassed are powerful," he continued. "Tanks with missile delivery systems, manpads, bazookas, small artillery, anti-aircraft systems, and hand weapons" he said, flipping a chart showing the various weapons as he named them. "Bottom line," General Gordon summarized, "is that we are facing a well-financed, international terrorist coalition determined to take on the United States and win." "We've got to stop them," Stu said, his mental image of the terrorist threat and destructive capability vivid. "I could not agree more," General Gordon said. Her father's voice had the exasperated edge that Kate had sometimes heard as a child when he wanted the civilian world to march by the numbers he barked. "The campaign," the General continued crisply, "will be a combination of border strikes and commando raids to cripple the terrorists and their supply lines before they get dug in on US territory. We will also sweep across the American southwest to destroy terrorist cells. You had better inform the President because we're talking about civilian casualties and the possibility of a major military and diplomatic confrontation with the Mexican government." "How much time do we have?" Stu asked. "Not more than two or three days." "Serious civilian casualties," Kate repeated. "Do you mean mainstream Americans?" "Mainstream?" Stu stormed, "what the hell, Kate?" "How do I know who the hell will be killed," her father snapped, equally irritated by her remark. "Kate," Scott intervened, "you're asking a question none of us can answer." "I'm not trying to be difficult," she said, "but we need an answer, for our own political protection, before the TV cameras roll. Otherwise, the whole American Agenda show could blow up in living color." Stu spoke quietly in support of Kate, but everyone in the room felt his muffled anger. "Kate is right. We cannot sacrifice white Americans without at least some prior warning." "Warning?" General Gordon's voice was taut. "You mean a front page story that gives the street coordinates for our artillery targets?" "Wait, hold on," Kate said. "I simply wanted to know if we're going to target white residential areas. It makes a big difference politically." Kate could taste the venality of her words. She didn't want to start a war inside American Agenda, but she needed an answer to her coldly pragmatic question. "Listen, both of you," General Gordon said. "This is not going to be easy for any of us. Hell, Americans are going to be killed. Explain it to the President and to America any way you want. But just be damned sure you tell the President that Americans are going to die because the United States military is going after terrorists who live in American neighborhoods, feed American kids drugs and radical propaganda, and mean to take our country from us. If we don't have the courage to act, we had better know it now, and you can start writing the speech that begins, there used to be a place called America." "I hear you, Dad," Kate said. She knew from the tone of his voice that it would be useless to continue the discussion. "Give Stu and me two days. We'll bring the President around. But, it's not going to be so easy to get the media into the same lifeboat." "That's your job," Scott replied sharply, "and you are both experts. Just make it happen." As the briefing ended, Scott moved ahead of General Gordon to walk between Stu and Kate. "I'm sorry for snapping, Kate," he apologized. Turning to Stu, he asked, "do you mind if I borrow our guru this evening? I have a few free hours and I'd like to spend them with my girl." Without waiting for an answer, he said to Kate, "I'll pick you up at the White House at 19 hours." As Scott hurried down the corridor, Kate laughed quietly. "Can you believe that, Stu?" she asked. "He made a date for 19 hours, not 7 o'clock." And without even waiting for an answer, she noted mentally. • • • CHAPTER 12 • "It's almost noon," Stuart said as he smoothed his suit jacket and settled himself in the back seat of the White House limousine. "Let's have lunch before we go back to the Pennsylvania Avenue zoo. I need a break. I know a place up on Fourteenth Street." Their driver headed north, past the shopping area around the Marriott. Kate Gordon was quiet as she sat beside the man who would be President of the United States, if the tiny but powerful group of political insiders and military advisors she belonged to could deliver. The morning's Pentagon briefing assured her that the military was doing its part. She and the other politicians in the group would have to do the rest. But, as she reviewed the past several months, she knew that events were moving fast across a national and worldwide front and that as much luck as effort would be needed to cement their plan to replace the disastrous administration of President Carl Harper before the United States came completely unglued. "Where is this place, in Maryland?" Kate asked after fifteen minutes drive. "Here we are," Stu said. "I used to eat here often when I was simply a law clerk trying to make good." The limousine pulled into a restaurant parking lot far up on Fourteenth Street, in one of Washington's upper middle class black neighborhoods. The sign above the door read, TRACES. Inside, half the space was a dark piano bar with a low black ceiling. It reeked of stale tobacco smoke. Deep burgundy red cocktail stools matched the piano's padded bar extension. The rest of the space, separated from the bar by partially closed folding doors, was a dining room lightened by pink tablecloths and brightly patterned fabrics on the chairs and drapes. Kate quickly noted that hers was the only white face in the room. The owner recognized Stu and found them a table against one of the fake exposed brick walls. A tiny chrome lamp warmed a small area. "Welcome sir," the owner said. "Glad to see you." "Pay attention, Kate," Stu whispered after the owner gave them menus and left. "The customers don't know who I am yet, so my skin still looks black to them, but, as the word spreads that I'm Stuart Wellford, in their eyes I'll become as white as you." "Stu, what are we doing here?" Kate asked apprehensively. "Why did you bring me here if you're uncomfortable? I thought it was just a place where we could have an hour alone." "You need to feel what it's like to live in a world that's a different color," he said, "because then you just might be able to understand my position. I'm always in a world of a different color, no matter where I am. You talk about racism, but you don't feel it. It's simply a question of ethics for you." "I'm sorry, Stu. I try. It's important for me to understand," she said, fidgeting slightly in her chair. Kate wasn't used to being the uncomfortable person in a conversation and she didn't like it, especially when it was Stu making her feel that way. "I know, Sweetie. But no one can understand racism before they feel it. Maybe no matter how smart you are, you're just too young and too white to ever understand what I'm talking about." "Is this about the problem in the southwest, Stu?" she asked, searching to explain his unexpected peevishness and ignoring his remark about her age to avoid another round of bickering. "Do you want to call off the military sweep?" she asked, hoping he would say no. The morning meeting had cemented their plans to attack the terrorists in their stronghold in the southwest, and it needed Stu Wellford's political charisma to make it acceptable to the American public. "Hell no, Kate, I don't want to call it off. It's just that a citizen killed in this nightmare is not a bigger deal because he has white skin. Your father said it this morning, but it got lost in the tension. Americans of every color are going to be killed and I'm the guy with the political clout to hold things together while it goes down. At least that's what everyone tells me," he added, almost smirking at the idea that he could do anything either to slow down or stop what was going to happen. "Darling, you don't have to take this decision. We can pass it back to the President. You don't need to be involved in the deaths of black Americans." "Kate, quit trying to solve a problem that doesn't exist. I'm goddamned tough-minded enough to give orders that result in American deaths, but I won't do it if everybody around me thinks that a dead white American is a martyr while a dead black American is simply one less problem. I didn't take on this job to perpetuate the status quo. I can do what's required but, for God's sake, don't ask me to become a racist, too." "My God, Stu, I...we...didn't mean it that way. But the truth is that right now black deaths are less serious, especially now when the public is focused on blaming blacks for all our problems." Stu tried to clear his mind of its growing anger. "Look around," he said, carefully controlling his normally resonant and commanding voice. "Remember these people. They're black but they're Americans, mainstream Americans, eating lunch, going back to work, going home to their three bedroom bungalows tonight to face the same fears we're facing. They're the people you consigned to the Southwest killing grounds today. Remember these faces the next time you talk about the political backlash from media coverage of mainstream Americans being killed by the military." The pair sat silently, studying their menus and trying to let the air clear between them. Finally Stu made an effort to shift the conversation, "What's this I hear about you and Scott?" "Sheila promised not to tell you," Kate frowned. "It's nothing, Stu. I'm just not overwhelmed with physical desire for Scott, but that's not exactly breaking news for you." "Well, damn it, my dear, find someone you are overwhelmed by. There are other men in the world besides soldiers, you know." "Don't be so eager to get rid of me," she said, half in jest, half seriously. "Sweetie," Stu insisted, taking her hand, his voice apologetic, "Sheila told me about your talk with her because she's worried you're working too hard." Kate was sure that Sheila hadn't told Stu everything about the conversation, certainly not that she knew about his relationship with Kate. "You know I'll always love you," Stu said, "but I can't give you any of the other things love ought to lead to. Find somebody, Sweetie, and then tell me who the bastard is, so I can run the son of a bitch off," he said, with a hollow laugh that betrayed his misery. He patted her arm paternally, a movement that could not be mistaken for anything but friendship. The touch hurt Kate, with its inference of his need to be careful, to keep the world between them. She smiled blankly at him and withdrew her hand. "I adore you," he offered, "but you need someone who can hold your hand in a restaurant without worrying about reporters or rumors. I hate to be the realist, but we live in a fish bowl and that's never going to change. I don't know what in the hell to do, but I will not let your life be ruined by my selfishness." "Don't," she said, almost in tears. "Don't even think about it." Stu grimaced. "Did I say you haven't felt racism? Forgive me. Let's get out of here. It was a stupid idea." "Dad's not home. We can be there in twenty minutes or so." He tossed more than enough money on the table to pay for their aperitif and found their driver waiting in the parking lot. Less than a half hour later, they left him and the limousine in the driveway of her father's home and disappeared into the quiet interior. Kate walked ahead of Stu, straight to her bedroom. In seconds they were undressed and making love with the passion he had minutes ago told her she would have to find with someone else. The afternoon lost its sense of time or problems as they held each other and moved together. He held her smooth, naked body tight against his own, breathing life from her blond hair, its subtle rose and jasmine perfume mesmerizing him with its cool sophistication. Her sounds, soft at first and then rising, never failed to arouse him, exciting him each time as if he had never heard her moan before. If he lived forever, he thought, he would never forget her sounds, full of the joy and pain of their lovemaking. But, those brief moments of intimacy were always torture for him. Why, for Christ sake, couldn't she be black, he thought, cursing every color. He never asked himself why he couldn't be white. That was unthinkable. His blackness was as much a part of him as his mind or his muscles and in his less emotional moments he was too astute not to realize that her whiteness was just as much a part of her. She moved her body slightly, touching his dark shoulder. "We have to go," she said. "Why do we always have to go? I would like, just once, to stay with you for a whole night." "Don't, Sweetie," he said quietly. It was the only thing he ever said when she railed against their predicament. They dressed and headed back to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.