Fifth Saturday Fiction

Prologue [“The President”] of the novel The Board

By Ed Rogers

[Editor's note: The novel rests on the premise that a Republican was elected in the 2008 presidential election.]

John Cahill stepped from the shelter of the hotel and was greeted by a splash of rain water from the street. It was cold in Washington that first January morning he visited the Capitol. The rain had not been anticipated, the weathermen had called for light snow. John was dressed for warmth, not wet. He pulled his collar up in an attempt to keep the rain off his neck. The cold wind was waking the giant—the city was shuddering and shaking, trying to forsake the night and prepare to do battle with the new day.
    Discarded newspapers fluttered across the street and sidewalk, taking on the appearance of large black-and-white leaves fallen from the skyscraper trees along the sidewalks. They wrapped themselves around the fire hydrant and stuck to John’s legs. Set free, they rode the air currents to the top of the tallest building.
    People were huddled in their big coats, and their warm hats were pulled tightly against their heads. Those with umbrellas were fighting not only the rain and cold, but also the wind. It came roaring around the corners and rampaging through the alleys and streets like a flooding river that had broken through a dam.
    Stepping out of the protection of the building as he crossed an alleyway, John was hit by the wind-driven rain like projectiles fired from the host of heaven. John longed to be back in his warm bed, with only his demons to do battle with—a dream he could wake up from. This weather felt never-ending. John hurried on down the street. He looked up at the cold gray sky, with its snow-filled clouds hanging like a threatening knife over the head of the city—what a difference a few degrees made. The cold glumness of the day quickened his step.
    He thought about taking a cab, but decided to walk. The cold morning air was like a wake-up call, a slap in the face, or a strong cup of coffee. They were swearing in the new President of the United States today. John wondered why they had picked January instead of the fourth of July. It sure would have been warmer.
    He had over an hour before things would get started at the Capitol. There was no need to hurry—not to be able to stand around with strangers bitching about how cold the weather was. As he reached the corner of the block, the smell of breakfast filled the air. John looked at the steam-covered windows of the café and decided to kill some time eating. A big plate of pancakes was what he needed to warm him up.
    He sat at a window booth watching the city hurry past, each person in his own world and he in his, thinking about how cold gray days like this were always brighter when his family was together. John missed the laughter most. It would be nice to have his family here with him now. He wasn’t sure, but he didn’t think his wife had ever been out of Mississippi.

John was born in Mississippi, as was Sue Ellen and both of their kids. He and Elvis were born on the same day—different year but the same day, and in Mississippi. John had been born January 8, 1945, in a little hospital in the town of Pine Hill, Mississippi, population 1,321. He fell in love with Sue Ellen Wright in the six grade and married her right after graduation. They honeymooned in Memphis, Tennessee. They drove past Graceland two or three times, but did not see Elvis.
    In 1964, John received his draft notice. Rather than wait on the draft board to call him for duty, John volunteered, and by 1965, he was in the jungles of Vietnam. He did his first tour of duty with the 28th Infantry, 1st Army (the BIG BLOODY ONE).
    John liked the Army and felt at home in combat. He was suited for the outdoor life. He hated it in the barracks, but in the jungle it was as if he was on a hunting trip—except these deer shot back. He received a promotion to E-5 before shipping back to the States. The Army seemed to be an excellent opportunely for a boy from Mississippi. It got harder each year to pull a living out of a burned-out farm. Now with a wife and baby—well, there were worst things than the Army.
    John came home long enough to see his son, who had been born a month after John arrived in Vietnam. Sue Ellen had taken a picture of John as he came up the drive. Until recently, that picture hung on the wall in the hall of what was their home. It was a picture of a happy, proud young man. At six-one and one hundred-seventy pounds, John looked every bit the returning warrior.
    Then all too soon he was off to Vietnam once more. This time the Army assigned him to a special unit that was backing up Navy Seal Teams operating in the delta. These teams operated outside of the Chain of Command. They were to Search & Destroy and gather information. The delta had been overrun with Vietcong and North Vietnamese Regulars. No one seemed to care how the men on the ground accomplished their mission, as long as they got the right results.
    Each zone had two CIA agents assigned to it. They acted the part of the interrogator. John’s job, and that of the Seal Teams, was to kill and capture. After that, the Spooks would take over, and they had a trick where they took two VC up in a chopper. They asked one of the VC a question. If he did not answer, or they didn’t like the answer, they threw him out of the chopper. After that, you couldn’t get the other man to shut-up.
    John came home, and didn’t reenlist. He never spoke of Vietnam again.

He looked at the pancakes, the melted butter, the steam coming off them. The sight and the smell took him back to those wonderful Sunday mornings his wife would cook piles of pancakes for him and their two children. How could a memory, which felt so good, hurt so bad? Without eating any of the pancakes, John eased himself out of the booth and walked to the cash register. He paid his check and paused only long enough to assure the lady there was nothing wrong with the food.
    The weather was no warmer as he turned the corner onto Pennsylvania Avenue. If anything, the clouds had dropped and were more threatening. John had never been to a large parade outside the Army, and that was just a bunch of GIs forced to walk around in the middle of a field. This was something else entirely, and he wasn’t prepared for the crowd—there were more people right in front of him than lived in all of Pine Hill.
    John couldn’t believe the mass of people up ahead, he felt like a small pebble in a sea of boulders. He knew only luck would allow him to see anything, but that was all right with John. He never expected to see the President—it was about being there for the inauguration. He found a place at the back of the crowd, and stepped into a doorway out of the wind. John could hear someone at the microphone, but it was hard to make out what was being said. The noise from the crowd drowned out most of the speech.
    Suddenly, a large cheer rose from the front and rolled back over him like a wave, and he knew the President had arrived. The people around John became very quiet. The whole crowd seemed to push forward a little. It was like watching an ocean move. There were no individuals—just one large mass moving as one.
    John was so far back there was not much to hear, just a word now and again, but that was enough. John had heard it all before. Nothing ever really changed, just the name of the party in office, and that hadn't changed this time. These were just empty words to make the faithful feel good. John felt the cold on his cheek and knew it was a tear. He wiped his eyes, and slowly walked back to the hotel.

That day in Washington had been in another life. It seemed much longer than two and a half years since the President had taken office, but all the landmarks he had passed that day were still here. The smells were the same, but he no longer knew the man who had walked these streets that cold January morning. This was a new person who had come back to Washington, DC, one he was not sure he liked.
    John was staying at the same hotel, and once more he was waiting to see the President of the United States. Sitting on the bed, John went over every detail to make sure he had not forgotten anything. He had never stopped to ask why or question the choice the gods had made in picking him, a dirt farmer from Mississippi, to come together with the most powerful man in the world. That was just the way it was.
    Only as he closed his eyes to take a nap did his mind try to sort out the logic of the events that would find these two unlikely men meeting on this warm June night.

It had started shortly after Benton’s election. John knew the Iraq War was wrong, or at least the way we were fighting it made no sense to him. Benton made some good points for a slow withdrawal. “Once caught in quicksand, you need to pull your feet out slowly. You can’t jump out of quicksand.”
    Throughout the 2008 Presidential campaign Iraq was burning itself alive. Smoke and flames ascended toward the heavens from the many bombings that occurred daily. It was not safe to go into the streets. Neither was it safe to stay in your house. Two would-be presidents were murdered. After their assassinations, no one would run for the office, and what was passing as a government had fallen into disarray.
    The number of US casualties had risen to over four thousand, and the Iraqis in Baghdad were on their own. The American Army could do little to help anyone outside of the few blocks they controlled, called the Green Zone. The Green Zone was nothing more than a fortress in the middle of a hostile environment. To leave the zone was to invite death.
    In November 2007 the troops had been ordered out of Baghdad, and a large firebase at the airport became the home of Command HQ Iraq. One week later all of the American forces were ordered out of the cities and into the countryside. John had thought at the time it was the first steps towards a total withdrawal, but the new stratagem was to let the Iraqis fight it out among themselves. The Army’s job was to keep the oilfields and pipelines safe. Whoever came out the winner in the cities would deal with the Americans or die of hunger. The Americans were going to win. The only question was how many Iraqis would die before victory was declared.
    The Americans at home were fed up with the war. The problem was they couldn’t agree on what to do about it. A large number wanted to walk away. Let the Iraqis deal with the consequence of their own destiny.
    Other Americans believed we should stay in Iraq, no matter what the cost. The price in American lives was too great to just walk away. This group felt if we did not avenge our dead, the enemy would feel free to come to our shores and kill us at home.
    Then there was a third group—the one John felt best represented his own view. They wanted an answer that would put a stop to it all—the killing over there and the possibility of being killed in America. John and this group put their hopes and trust in the hands of one man, Ted Benton, who won on the promise to get the American troops out of Iraq with honor. “PEACE WITH HONOR.”
    Far too late to change his vote, John dug into the background of Ted Benton and his strange road to the White House. Theodore Allen Benton was born on a hot July 7, 1946, in Trenton, New Jersey. He had been born with the same silver spoon as the Kennedys, the Rockefellers, and the Bushes. He attended Yale, belonged to the same clubs, attended the same dances, and married within the same society.
    After graduating from Yale, Ted moved to Jersey City and ran for Congress. He never had a chance. The Democrat outspent and outfoxed him at every turn. He was beat like a stepchild. The shame and embarrassment he felt the night the votes were counted stayed with him all his life. He was outraged when his friends came up to him and told him how sorry they were he had lost. He made a vow that night—nobody would ever feel sorry for him again. He told friends and family he would not only learn to play hardball, he would become the best that ever played the game. Then he would teach them all a new game—one where he was the sole-survivor.
    At the time, 1970, John was on his second tour of duty in Vietnam and had never made any political decision in his life.
    Four years later Ted Benton was elected Senator from New Jersey. The lobbyests lined up around the block to get in and see Senator Benton. Ted let it be known, if you wanted a bill passed or influence on the Hill, you damn well better have your checkbook out when you came into his office.
    Benton served two terms as Senator. He made a ton of money and had some of the best contacts in the world. Then he went back to New Jersey and ran for Governor. He won the election by a landslide. Theodore Allen Benton had found the secret to running for public office. Have more money than anyone else in the race, and be willing to do anything to win.
    Ted weathered a recall election and there had been an attempt to impeach him, but his enemies had fallen on their own swords. Ted seemed to have it made. He could be Governor for life. The State House had done away with term limits. No Democrat would offer much of a challenge, and for a Republican to challenge him would be political suicide.

Then came that Sunday brunch after church. There were the usual money men, lobbing for favors. They met with Benton each Sunday and paid their tithes for doing business with the State of New Jersey.
    But this time along with the money men came Carl Rodman, the President’s point man.
    After handshakes all around and coffee poured, Ted looked at Rodman and said, “I’m sure you didn’t come all the way to New Jersey to have brunch with some old Governor and his friends. What can I do for the President?”
    “It is not what you can do for the President. It is what the President wants to do for you, Ted.”
    “Just what would that be, Carl?”
    Rodman drank some of his coffee and let the suspense build. Setting the half-empty cup down, Carl said casually, “The President wants you to run. He will give you his full backing, and we will clear the path of any Republican challengers.”
    “Hold on a minute. Are you asking me to make a run for President of the United States?”
    “That was accurately stated, Ted. You are the only one who can pull it off. We have looked at the numbers. It will be close, but if you can convince the voters you have a plan to get us out of Iraq with Honor, you can save the White House for us.”
    “I don’t know, Carl. I have it made right here. Why would I want to give this up?”
    “Ted, don’t bullshit me. You would give your eyeteeth to be President, and so would I.”
    “Let us say that is true. It takes a hell of a lot of money to become President. If you have some deep pockets lined up, I’ll want to meet them before I make a commitment.”
    “Will you be available for dinner at the White House next week? It will be you and your wife, the First Family, and some close friends.”
    “I will be delighted. Please thank the President for me.”

That was how it had started, a simple dinner party.
    The money was lined up. A staff, handpicked by some of the best political minds in the business. A platform that called for “a slow withdrawal of troops, with a mandatory disarming of known military personnel within the borders of Iraq.” Ted was able to sell it all to the voters and as Carl predicted, Ted won. Not by much, but a win by a little was still a win.
    John was dumfounded that none of the corruption from Benton’s past had come out during the election. John hadn’t looked closely at Benton because he wanted to believe, but someone should have said, “Wait a minute, disarming Iraq is impossible—the ratio of guns per person is three to one.”
    To be fair, President Benton did bring some troops home. With the withdrawal of American Forces from the cities, the number of troops required to keep order in the countryside was greatly reduced. The Americans had built a succession of fire bases, cutting the Iraqis off from the oil fields. There were no Search & Destroy missions. The Army put out the word: “Stay away and you will live. Go near the oil and you will die.”
    The Joint Chiefs estimated they could reduce America’s presence in Iraq fifty percent by the mid-term elections. President Benton was as happy as a five-year-old on Christmas morning. The American people may not like what he had planned, but they would never be able to say he did not keep his campaign promise.

Then, in March of the new President's first year in office, he and his Joint Chiefs met with the CIA for a briefing on Iran. Everyone in the world knew Iran was building a bomb and might even have one built. Each time the UN Inspectors got close to finding something, Iran kicked them out of the country. After a month or more of threatening boycotts and embargoes, the Iranians let the Inspectors back into the country. By then, they had moved everything, and the inspectors had to start from scratch. This cat-and-mouse game had been going on for years. It had slowed the Iranians’ progress, but it was just a matter of time. Everyone knew that eventually it would have to end.
    Under the Freedom of Information Act, the transcripts of the Senatorial hearings on Iran became available. John read every word—some of it he read two or three times. John never thought that after Iraq the President would attack another country, no matter what the reason.
    The transcripts were compelling and made a good argument for the attack. The CIA was not guessing this time. They had a man undercover within the Iranian nuclear program and they had pictures, and a time schedule. It was a quarter to midnight and the coach was about to turn into a pumpkin. In one month, the Iranian government would have the bomb. In two months, they would be ready to test the bomb. The CIA believed Iran would explode the bomb somewhere close to the Iraqi border. It would be a way of sending the US a message.
    Benton told his Joint Chiefs to come up with a plan to end Iran’s nuclear program. The President was given a folder with the proposal, which he took back to his office to read. One hour later Senator Wiegher was sitting on the couch across from President Benton in the Oval Office. The Senator was the Chairman of the Ways and Means Committee and even more importantly, he was the head of the newly formed Intelligence Oversight Committee.
    “Bo, you did get the copy of the intel report on Iran, didn’t you?”
    “Yes, I did, Mr. President. We cannot have Iran joining the nuclear family.”
    “I am glad we agree, Senator. I am going to need you to be out front on this for me.”
    “I will do what I can, Mr. President. What were you planning to do about this situation?”
    “We are going to bomb them, Bo. They have two plants. The bomb is in one of them and the material to build more bombs is in the other. We are going to take them both out.”
    “The world will know that we have done this deed, Mr. President.”
    “I know, Bo. That is why you need to get Ambassador White on board. They will try to eat us alive at the UN. White needs to be able to head them off before they create a storm we will not be able to stop. Tell him I’ll do what I can to blunt the attacks, but in the end it will be up to him to control the UN.”
    “I’ll take care of it, Mr. President. What is going to be our cover story?”
    “No cover story, Bo. Fuck those bastards. Let the world know this is how we deal with threats to our security.”
    “Are you going to call any of our allies before we drop the bombs?”
    “I’ll place those calls as the bombs are falling—not before. We are moving the 82nd and 101st Airborne and stationing them along the border between Iraq and Iran. I have the Aircraft Carrier John F. Kennedy on alert in the Gulf. Here in the States I have the Sixth Army on stand-by. If those bastards even look like they want to cross that border we well annihilate them.”
    “It’s all about that damn oil, Mr. President. Without that oil money, they would still be living in tents and fucking camels. After World War Two we never should have given control of the oil back to the Arabs. What we need is a way to turn their oil on and off. If we could control the flow of oil, Mr. President, we would have peace in the Middle-East.”
    “You work on controlling the flow of oil, Senator. It would be nice to have a club to hold over their head that did not explode. If you find something, let me know. It may save us from blowing up the whole damn Middle East.”
    The President sat at the big oak desk that was a gift from the people of Tennessee to President Jackson. Senator Wiegher said, “The Democrats claim Andrew Jackson as one of their own, but you and I, Mr. President, we know Jackson for the man, not the myth. You remind me of Jackson, Mr. President; he too felt rules were made for lesser men. Men like you and Jackson chart your own course.”
    “Thank you, Senator. I hope I may fare as well as he did in crisis. We are dropping the bombs at two o’clock this morning. I’ll see you to the door, Senator. Get some rest—you’ll need it. Tomorrow will be a long day and if the shit hits the fan, it may be a while before we rest again.”
    There was one more telephone call that had to be made before the President could turn in that night. A call John now knew about, but it showed up nowhere in the Senate report. “Si, I know who this is. How may I help you, Sir?”
    “Call the members of the Board. Tell the Brotherhood to stand by for a call from me at seven o’clock in the morning my time.”
    “It will be done, Mr. President. Goodnight, Sir.”

John awoke with a jump. The dreams, the rehashing of the past—it haunted him day and night. Each detail, examined over and over—he guessed it was his subconscious trying to justify what he was about to do.
    His body shuddered as he tried to get his eyes adjusted enough to read the watch on his left wrist—how long had he slept? He had planned only to take a nap. It was dark out, and he still had to get dressed for the party. He had a pass to get in the receiving line for the President’s arrival. He could not be late for this party.
    Having shaved and showered, John carefully took the uniform out of the closet. The silver Captain’s bars shone in the light. The creased uniform was so sharp, it looked as though it could cut you. He ran his hand over the ribbons, remembering how blood had paid for each one of them.
    After getting dressed, John pinned the black nametag saying Cahill over his right breast, and then put his hat on. At 68, John still looked like a returning warrior. Twenty pounds heavier and a little grayer, but if you squinted, you could still see the 20-year-old soldier. Standing at attention in front of the mirror, his eyes started to water. John shook his head and cursed himself. The time for crying was over. He had a party to attend.
    The doorman waved down a cab, and opened the back door. John thanked the doorman as he handed him a bill. The doorman was shocked at the size of the tip. Soldiers never tipped more than five dollars, if they tipped at all. But fifty?
    John closed the door and gave the cab driver the address. Then he sat back and relaxed. He watched the city go by, the busy people hurrying nowhere, the lights of the stores beckoning the passers-by to come in and spend their money. He thought of happier times far from this city.
    Security was very tight. The cab driver turned to John and said, “This is as far as I can go.” They had stopped more than a hundred yards from the receiving line. John paid the fare, generously tipping the driver, and walked toward the first group. The line was long and slow, but nobody was pushing, or even seemed mad at the slow pace.
    The first security checkpoint wanted your ID and pass. Welcome to the wonderful world of computers. The pass had a computer chip implanted in it. They matched the information on the chip to your ID. The computer was what was holding up the line. It was old and slow.
    The next group was looking for weapons. It was somewhat surreal watching all these women in their evening gowns being treated like common criminals. The women were a little unnerved by the process. The security people checked them for weapons, but they were good at their job. You would have a hard time getting anything past them.
    The third group of security, with dogs, were looking for explosives. Along with the dogs, they had sensors that could pick up the smallest amount of explosive. If you had touched a firecracker anytime during the past twenty-four hours, these sensors would be able to pick it up.
    Having gone through all the security, John made his way to the roped-off walkway. This was where the President would pass. Unlike the last time he came to see the President, the weather was much nicer and the crowd was much smaller. The people in the receiving line were not going to the party inside, but this did not stop them from dressing as if they were going to be the belled and beaus of the ball. John was glad to see he was the only one in the crowd wearing a uniform. He would have thought the guest list would include more military personnel. The President liked having his photo taken with men and women in uniform.
    The crowd pushed in on John as the President’s car pulled up. The President and the First Lady got out. The first Lady turned and waved at the people across the street. She must have said something to the President, because he stopped and waved across the street too. These were the uninvited. These were the people who would be asked to vote but would never get closer than they were right then to the President. Turning from the rubble across the street, the President and the First Lady started down the walkway.
    The men guarding the President made a wall around him. These men of the Secret Service—and they were all men, over six feet tall—were the best of the best. There was no way anyone could have got a shot at the President without hitting one of them. The President was waving at the invited guests between the guards, shouting greetings to them, and thanking them for coming.
    He was in a grand mood. He looked like a man who had the world by the tail, and everything was going his way. The big win in the mid-term elections had given him control of both Houses, and the future was his to shape the way he wanted. Everything was looking very good to him this night.
    As the President got close, John came to attention, saluted, and yelled as loud as he could, “Thank you, Mr. President, and God bless you, Sir!” He had the President’s eye, and like a moth to a flame, the President pushed his way pass the guards, and with his hand out in front of him, he headed straight for John.
    As John took the President’s hand in his, he looked right into the President’s eyes. At that second, the President knew what was about to happen. He tried to pull back, but it was too late.
    The sound of the explosion echoed for blocks around the hotel. The fireball consumed John and the President. Then, for what seemed an eternity, there was the quiet before the storm.
_______________
Copyright © 2013 by Ed Rogers

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