Patriot's Farewell

by Bobby Akart

  “Thank you, Tommy,” said the aristocratic woman dressed as if she’d just walked out of a Gone with the Wind showing at The Avalon on Connecticut Avenue. She removed her coat and Tommy immediately helped her with it.

  “You’re very welcome, Sarah. Will the senator be joining you today?”

  “Yes, Tommy. Would you be a dear and have someone bring me an Apple Blossom? I’m parched after my flight.”

  “Of course. Right away. Enjoy lunch with your son.”

  Within a minute, a sharply dressed waiter delivered Sarah Rutledge’s favorite libation when she visited The Palm—an Apple Blossom cocktail made with Buffalo Trace Bourbon, St. Germain liqueur, and apple juice, served chilled in a martini glass. It was a power drink befitting a power lunch.

  Sarah Rutledge was a descendant of Edward Rutledge, the first of the South Carolina delegation to affix his name to the Declaration of Independence. His brother, John Rutledge, possessed all of the qualities that a man born to win and command required. His branch of the family owned plantations stretching from Charleston to Savannah. After the Civil War, the Rutledges astutely made alliances with the Union Army to spare their homes and businesses in exchange for lucrative deals for cotton. The Rutledges had a nose for the changes in the political winds and were always carefully positioned on the right side of any bluster.

  Sarah was the first woman in the Rutledge lineage to make a name for herself in the world of finance and politics. She was the managing partner in the private equity firm of Windfall Inc., which had a net worth of $2.3 billion. Her late husband, Richard Windfall, founded the firm in the late eighties but could never take it to the next level. Sarah Rutledge took the firm from stagnation to Wall Street stardom.

  Her accomplishments earned her a place as one of the first female members of the Augusta National Golf Club along with Condoleezza Rice. She’s always been one of the most powerful women in American business, but she carried considerable influence in national politics as well. She was instrumental in getting President-elect Stanford Rawlins into office. Equally important, she was a big admirer and supporter of President Henry Sargent.

  “Hello, Mom,” said Senator Rutledge as he bent over and provided his mother a peck on the cheek. He pointed to the half-empty cocktail. “I see you’ve started without me.”

  “Good afternoon, Paul. You and I have turned more than a few heads in the last minute or so.”

  “I can only imagine. I’m sure messages are flying from cell phone to cell phone at a record pace. How was your flight?”

  “Fine, dear. I don’t like to make this trip in the wintertime, particularly with snow on the ground before Thanksgiving. One of these days, perhaps they’ll consider moving the capital to Atlanta.”

  Senator Rutledge laughed as a waiter began to approach their table. He leaned in and whispered to his mother, “The way this vote is looking, that time might come sooner than you think.”

  Sarah’s mouth opened wide and a look of surprise crossed her face. She was about to speak when the waiter interrupted them and took their lunch orders. After he was dismissed, the conversation continued.

  “Do tell,” she whispered across the table, suddenly aware that several sets of eyes were darting in their direction. Her son, as Senate Majority Leader, was one of the most powerful men in Washington and was likely to draw attention anytime he went to lunch. Their choice of The Palm for today’s lunch was clearly sending a political message—the power behind the nay votes was in town too.

  “In the last few days, it has become apparent to me that there are powerful forces at work pushing passage of the Pacific Statehood Act. They’ve been so bold as to send one of their minions to subtly threaten me to stand down as they make their backroom deals.”

  “Really?” asked Sarah with a tone of incredulity. “Who on earth thinks they could defeat you in Georgia?”

  “That attention whore—Congressman Rafael Sánchez.”

  “He’s a twerp, son. And he’s not even a Georgian. The good people of our state won’t elect a transplant from El Paso to statewide office, much less the sitting Senate Majority Leader’s seat.”

  “He’s from New Mexico, Mom.”

  “Whatever,” she said, brushing her hand in front of her as if she were sweeping a bread crumb off the white tablecloth. “Where did he get the gumption to challenge you?”

  Senator Rutledge leaned back while their lunch was served. He was about to reply when a reporter from the Washington Post walked behind him.

  “There goes the enemy,” he mumbled as he took in a spoonful of lobster bisque.

  “Aren’t they all?”

  He smiled and nodded before continuing. “I think he’s been promised the moon by the DNC, but I’ve seen this kind of thing before. This was not some type of bluff. This guy was too ballsy, excuse my French, Mom. The smug, arrogant little you-know-what was certain he could back up his demands.”

  “What exactly does he want?” she asked.

  “He’s certain the House will pass the bill this afternoon.”

  “No way. I’ll be back on a plane to Savannah before dinner.”

  “Mom, I’m not so sure. As you know, I try to stay out of the House’s affairs unless directly approached by their leadership. We have an understanding—they deliver their votes and I deliver ours.”

  Sarah finished her coconut-crusted sea scallops beautifully garnished with a watermelon jelly and asked, “What’s your gut telling you?”

  Senator Rutledge wiped his mouth and pushed his plate into the center of the table. “Two things. First, our friend in the Oval Office has a problem and he doesn’t know it.”

  “Should we warn him?”

  “That’s why we needed to have this discussion. I don’t think we can control or change this afternoon’s vote at this late hour anyway. Perhaps we should just wait and see the results.”

  “I can’t disagree with that. What is the second aspect of all of this to consider?”

  “Mom, I’ve been thinking. What is the worst-case scenario if the House passes the bill?”

  Sarah shrugged. “It goes to the Senate, where Pacific statehood goes down in flames.”

  “But what if it doesn’t? By that I mean, what if we were to get blindsided tomorrow and the Senate passes the bill as well?”

  “The four states come back in and force their political ideologies upon all of us,” she replied.

  Senator Rutledge nodded his head and his mouth formed into a devious grin. “And then the Southern states, the eleven within the original confederacy minus Virginia, led by this family, would band together and plan their exit strategy.”

  The matriarch of the family who made lucrative deals with the federal government in order to survive the end of the Civil War began to smile as well. “The president would never stand for it, especially since we agreed to help fund the Constitutional Convention.”

  “I love Sarge, but he’s a lame duck. I’m thinking about down the road, next term.”

  Sarah reached across the table and held her son’s hand. Her wrinkled, bony hands were still capable of holding a firm grip in many ways. “If it’s secession you want, the next president is our guy. He’ll never stand in the way. Heck, he might even pave the exit ramp for us!”

  Chapter 32

  Noon

  The Green Room

  The White House

  Washington, DC

  Julia bent down to adjust Win’s tie, which had already been yoked out of shape courtesy of her little angel—Rose the Barbarian. She had arrived in the Green Room early so Sarge wouldn’t be delayed. Originally used as a guest room before being turned into a dining room by Thomas Jefferson, the Green Room was used for small receptions and predinner cocktails for guests at state dinners. Julia thought it would provide a quiet setting away from the extraordinarily busy day within the White House.

  The West Wing was full of frantic staffers in preparation for the vote, and the Executive Residence was being prepared for their up
coming Thanksgiving dinner to be held in the adjacent Blue Room.

  “Mom, are they going to do a painting of us like they did of Dad?” asked Win.

  “I don’t think so, son. Portraits are for the president. Pictures are for the First Family.”

  “Didn’t they already do a First Family picture? It’s hanging upstairs.”

  Julia laughed. “They did, Win, but you were just a toddler, and since they took that picture, we’ve had a couple of additions to the family.”

  Rose and Frank were holding hands, skipping between the red Duncan Phyfe side chairs and around a table that had been in place for nearly two hundred years. “Frankie, Miss Rose, you two need to sit down. Your father will be here any minute.”

  Jon Madison, former editor of Time magazine and a well-known historian, was coordinating the effort to chronicle the Sargents’ final days in the White House. In addition to the official White House photographer, Madison always had a videographer alongside him. A hardcover book suitable for tabletop display would be produced from his efforts, as well as a documentary found exclusively on Netflix.

  Sarge had laughed when Julia had informed him of the Netflix appearance. “Great,” he’d said with a laugh. “They’ll be able to compare me with President Frank Underwood on House of Cards. I wonder who viewers will like more, Henry or Francis?”

  Her response was classic Julia humor. “Neither, it’ll be a battle between Claire and me, of course, for best-dressed First Lady.”

  “Good afternoon, everyone,” announced Madison as he and his team entered the Green Room and began setting up. He looked around the room for Sarge. “Will the president be able to join us?”

  “He’ll be here according to—” Julia started to respond before she was interrupted.

  “Daddddy!” Rose squealed with delight as Sarge entered from the Blue Room entrance. “You made it!”

  “Come here, my darling princess,” Sarge said as he stooped to one knee to prepare for the impact of the hard-charging Rose. He grunted as she flew into his arms full force. “Ugh.”

  She quickly pulled away and struck a pose. “Look at my new dress. Mom and Abbie picked it out for me just for this picture. What do you think?”

  Sarge began to laugh and looked at a beaming Julia. His daughter had grown so much. Life in the White House suited her just fine, especially being in the constant presence of adults other than her parents. She learned manners and respect. Further, she was treated like an adult in many respects, which made her more sociable. Rose did have a bit of an independent streak, but Sarge and Julia didn’t think that was unusual considering she was a middle child. She didn’t want to do the things her older brother, Win, could do. She wanted to make her own mark on the universe, at age five.

  Frank marched proudly toward his father in a three-year-old toy-soldier kind of way. As the youngest Sargent, Francis Steven Sargent was on a mission to prove that his bigger, faster, and smarter siblings were not necessarily the cat’s meow. He’d developed a rebellious streak, an I’ll show ’em persona that had turned him into somewhat of a monster.

  “Hello, sir,” said young Frank as he presented the Commander-in-Chief with a snappy salute.

  Sarge laughed and stood, proudly returning the salute to his young soldier. “Frank, you look very much like a naval commander. Very impressive, son.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The room erupted in laughter at Frank’s formality. Sarge leaned down and whispered into Frank’s ear, “You can call me Daddy, you know.”

  Frank whispered back, “I know, but only at home, okay?”

  “Okay, Frank. I understand.”

  Sarge shook hands with Madison and then walked over to give Julia a kiss. Win stood dutifully by his mom.

  “Nice tie, Win.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” Win said proudly. “Mom calls it a power tie. You know, I think it suits me.”

  Sarge burst out in laughter. “You think so?”

  “Yes, sir. It works for you.”

  Sarge, who continued to laugh, caught Julia’s eye, who was beaming at the family they had raised. “If your mom says so, then it is so, right?”

  “Right,” said Win, looking up at Julia for approval. She placed her arm around Win’s shoulder and pulled him tight against her. “Let’s get started, shall we? I think your dad’s pretty busy today.”

  Sarge looked around the room and determined they were setting up for a photograph of the family under the painting of Independence Hall in Philadelphia at the time the Constitution was signed.

  The striped settee was large enough for the five of them, although Madison wanted to position Frank on Julia’s lap and Rose on Sarge’s, with Win in the middle. After some jaw-jousting and near-nuclear negotiation between the two youngest kids, Rose landed on Julia, and Frank sat proudly on his father’s leg. Win, mature beyond his years at seven, sat steadfastly in the middle while an agreement was reached.

  The entire thirty-minute session was filmed, creating one of the more comical behind-the-scenes looks at President Sargent and the First Family. During the photo session, the business of Washington continued, and there wasn’t anything humorous in DC at the moment.

  Chapter 33

  11:30 a.m.

  The Oval Office

  The White House

  Washington, DC

  Sarge returned to the Oval Office and was greeted by his communications team and Donald. They’d been discussing messaging for the White House press briefing, which Ocampo would lead in an hour. Crepeau was coordinating the post-vote remarks to be made by Sarge. Also, it was agreed they wouldn’t waste any time trotting out pro-convention governors in front of the cameras in key swing states.

  “Anything new?” asked Sarge as he entered the room and removed his jacket. Ocampo politely took the president’s jacket and draped it over a side chair next to the bust of George Washington. His question wasn’t unusual despite only a thirty-minute absence. When you’re President of the United States, world events can transpire in the blink of an eye.

  “I have Congressman Trent coming in for one last head count before the vote,” replied Donald, who scrolled through his roster of congressmen on his iPad.

  “Does he think it’s necessary to get together again?” asked Sarge.

  “No, but I do. I’m leaving nothing to chance here. The morning after the election, I sat down with Trent and looked at every one of the four hundred thirty-five members of the House. We identified those who were retiring and lame ducks who just lost re-election. That group was quickly identified as wild cards. Then we separated from the pack the votes that were absolute yeas and nays. This enabled us to focus on the four dozen or so potential fence-sitters.”

  “I take it Billy has been on top of those fence-sitters.”

  “He has, and thus far with the exception of a few defectors, the rest have held true to their word,” said Donald.

  “Well, let’s wrap it up quickly because I need to make a decision on Taiwan.”

  “I agree,” said Donald. “I want Congressman Trent back in the trenches to make sure we don’t get blindsided. At noon, I’m conferencing into a meeting at the Pentagon led by Brad. They are going to agree upon and adopt a final proposed military solution to stymie the Chinese in any effort to invade Taiwan. Keep in mind, this operation is not designed to put us on a war footing. We’re simply going to show sufficient force to make them think twice about crossing the Taiwan Strait.”

  “Mr. President, if I might add,” started Crepeau. “My counterpart at State informed me a few minutes ago that out of an abundance of precaution, they evacuated Ambassador McBride from his hotel to AIT. Neither the Secretary of State, nor Ambassador McBride, I’m told, is interested in a repeat of Benghazi.”

  “What about tomorrow’s ceremony with the president?” asked Sarge. “This is just a dog-and-pony show anyway. They don’t need a media presentation for something that’s already been approved by both sides.”

  “That’s tru
e, sir,” said Ocampo, who was particularly astute in international relations. He was the grandson of the former United Nations Under-Secretary of Economic and Social Affairs. “However, the Taiwanese relish the opportunity to flaunt their relationship with the U.S. any chance they get. They’re very much like Kim Jong-un in that respect. They get immense pleasure in poking at the nation that could annihilate them.”

  Donald started to laugh. “Sometimes, you can needlessly anger or annoy your adversary. It’s kinda like road rage. You never know when the act of flipping someone off or blaring your horn at another driver out of anger might send them over the edge. The next thing you know, you’re fighting for your life with an enraged maniac.”

  “What are you saying, Donald? Should we cancel tomorrow’s signing?” asked Sarge.

  “No, I don’t think we need to go that far, but it’s a lesson the Taiwanese and North Koreans need to learn,” Donald replied. “Sometimes it’s better to lie low. When you poke the hornet’s nest, you better make sure you kill ’em all. If you don’t, you might get bit.”

  “Hey, I like that,” said Crepeau. “I might use that in a press statement.”

  “Yeah, it’s a great adage. I read it in a book once.”

  Sarge laughed and took a seat behind his desk. He unconsciously rubbed the palms of both hands to caress the leather inlay. This desk had been a source of inspiration for him prior to the collapse, and since then, it had given him confidence and strength.

  “Do we have anything else for the dynamic duo?” he asked, waving his fingers at the husband and wife communications team. Sarge was extremely proud of his former students, and himself, for giving them extraordinary access to the president, considering they had no experience in Washington. They had a great future ahead of them.

  “Just two things,” responded Donald. “If they ask whether the president will be making a statement this afternoon, tell them that hasn’t been determined yet. I don’t want to commit to anything in advance that we’d be locked into.”