The Liberty Intrigue

by Tom Grace

  “The best campaign investment I ever made.”

  “Perhaps,” Page said, “but how would you like to go one better?”

  The President studied his campaign manager curiously.

  “How so?”

  Page pulled an iPad from his briefcase, tapped the glass screen a few times, and held it up for the President to see. The grainy clip apparently shot from a cell phone camera showed a capacity crowd in an auditorium chanting a name over and over.

  “What am I watching?” the President asked.

  “A book tour event. The figure standing onstage leading the crowd is Xavier Mensah. The audio is a bit rough, but the audience is chanting for Ross Egan to run for president.”

  “It’s a stunt,” the President said dismissively.

  “From what I hear, it was totally spontaneous. A college student who had read their book practically begged Egan to do here what he and Mensah did in Dutannuru.”

  “But it won’t work here anymore. We’re past that.”

  “Maybe, but I think we can still use this expression of yearning on the right to our advantage. Polling of you against a nameless Republican has you behind by double digits. That’ll tighten up once your opponent has a name and we can go after him. You won your first term with fifty-three percent of the vote, and that was at the height of your personal popularity. If the election were held today, you would be lucky to hit the high forties.”

  “You got a lot of faith in me.”

  “You don’t pay me to lie to you—you pay me to win. A two-man race is won by taking a majority of the voters, but you can take a three-man race with a plurality.”

  “Egan didn’t strike me as political,” the President opined. “You think you can get him to come out as an independent this late in the game?”

  “He’s not political,” Page concurred. “He’s a patriot. Egan has tremendous name recognition right now, thanks in no small part to the Nobel Prize and Time naming him and Mensah their Men of the Year. The Dutannuru Miracle is still a top-five bestseller and their lecture tour is drawing sellout crowds at college campuses across the country. You may have lost some of the independents who voted for you last time, but the center-right voters are not wild about any of the choices they’re being offered.”

  “You sure that’s not just us?”

  “I can’t take all the credit for the lack of a GOP nominee. Everybody in the race has some political baggage, but Egan is a fresh face. An idealist. An outsider. Your core voters are solidly behind you, but the rest are up for grabs. If Egan runs, I bet he’d take a majority of the grassroots conservatives and split the right with the GOP nominee. Instead of losing by ten percent in a two-horse race, you could win by fifteen in a three-horse race. And this is with no change in the number of votes we expect to cast for you.”

  “Interesting,” the President said. “The trick, of course, is convincing him to run.”

  “The trick is convincing the kind of people who can bankroll an independent presidential campaign that Egan has a shot at winning. Those are the folks who’ll get him in the game.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  ON AIR

  MARCH 17

  “We are back for the third and final hour of our daily excursion into boisterous and brilliant broadcasting with me, your humble host, the gregarious Garr Denby. Now, I don’t often have guests on this program as the only opinions that truly matter here are my own, but from time to time I violate this self-imposed programming rule when it suits my purposes. Such is the power of the host.”

  “My guest today once again is Ross Egan, one of the architects of the Dutannuru Miracle and co-author of a book by the same name, Nobel Peace Prize winner, and recipient of more accolades over the past year than you can shake a stick at. Welcome, Ross.”

  “Glad to be here,” Egan said warmly. “And thanks for having me as a guest for a second time this year. That must be some kind of record.”

  “Indeed, and one that you can add to your growing list of honors.”

  “Not bad for a Yooper, eh.”

  “Not bad at all. And for you folks on the east and left coasts, a Yooper is someone who lives in the UP, which is shorthand for Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. I know this because I have seen Escanaba in da Moonlight.”

  “You saw it, but I lived it,” Egan said with a laugh.

  “Now, Ross, the reason I asked you here today is to discuss speculation swirling around the blogosphere and among columnists in the mainstream media that you intend to make a run for the presidency as an independent.”

  “While I am an independent, I have no intention of running for president.”

  “A handful of websites cropped up recently that are actively promoting your candidacy—”

  “They’re not mine,” Egan interjected. “This book tour I’m on is hectic enough. I can’t imagine what I’d have to endure to run for president.”

  “As a conservative, think of a media colonoscopy without the benefit of anesthesia.”

  “I’ve never run for anything and have no desire to be president. What I am very much looking forward to is returning to a quiet life in northern Michigan this summer.”

  “The surprising thing about these sites is that their traffic is very heavy, indicating a great deal of interest in you as a candidate. Some are even collecting names for petitions, both to encourage you to run and to use as a basis for placing your name on the ballot in every state.”

  “Again, I have nothing to do with these sites and I am not running for president. Honestly, though, I can’t complain too loudly. Our book sales are up and we’re back at number one.”

  “A second rumor has the GOP putting feelers out to you as a possible running mate for whoever wins the nomination.”

  “I hadn’t heard that one,” Egan laughed. “How can I be on their ticket if I’m not even a member of the party? And if recent history is any indication, the party elite don’t particularly like folksy candidates who hail from the heartland.”

  “The wrong pedigree to join the Washington ruling class,” Denby offered.

  “An engineering degree from Michigan Tech isn’t exactly a diploma from the Kennedy School of Government.”

  “Yeah, your education proves that you can actually do something productive, something that’s of real benefit to people,” Denby said.

  “I think this whole thing got started when an enthusiastic young lady down in Texas asked me to run for president,” Egan explained.

  “I believe that’s sound bite number three,” Denby said to the broadcast engineer.

  “My question is directed at you, Mr. Egan,” a woman’s voice said, her voice slightly muddy due to the poor quality of the recording. “Will you please run for President of the United States?”

  “That’s the one,” Egan agreed.

  “It has been watched over one million times. Also, your name has appeared in several recent polls.”

  “Oh, God,” Egan groaned. “How bad is it?”

  “You actually fared quite well. A Quinnipiac University poll shows your name recognition among voters is very high, especially among young voters.”

  “Probably all those tour stops on college campuses.”

  “Might be. Along with high recognition, these folks have a strong positive opinion of you.”

  “I’ll try not to let it go to my head.”

  “This is where the fun begins,” Denby continued. “These hypothetical matchups are like playing fantasy football—entertaining but utterly meaningless. All the polls show the President trailing in head-to-head matchups against all six of the GOP candidates, and trailing further against a generic conservative. That tells me that the American electorate learned their lesson and won’t repeat the same mistake twice.”

  “All the more reason for me not to run. The voters have plenty of choices already.”

  “Ross, your name has surfaced in the latest polls, and you are running very strong among conservatives and independents. Your numbers
are actually better than any of the GOP candidates among those voters, but the real surprise comes among traditional Democratic voting blocs. While black Americans are still solidly behind the President, they have a very positive view of you. In a head-to-head race against the President, your draw in this group is in the mid-twenties, which is better than Governor Oates’s, who is regularly savaged by the civil rights crowd as a sellout.”

  “Garr, this is a classic case of the grass being greener on the other side. The President was the new guy four years ago, and now he’s suffering from a case of familiarity breeding contempt.”

  “Oh, I had contempt for the President long before he got elected, and what many of his voters are suffering from is an acute case of buyers’ remorse.”

  “Exactly right. The voters are looking at what they got and wondering if they can do better this time around. I’m a fresh face with no political baggage, and I’m linked to something that everyone across the political spectrum agrees was a good thing. Who in their right mind can argue that a war between Safo and Dutannuru would have been better than peace?”

  “The arms dealers selling weapons to Cudjoe,” Denby replied, “but they don’t vote. And no one can say the people of Dutannuru are worse off now than they were a decade ago.”

  “Or even a year ago in the former Safolese parts of the country. If the US economy were humming along, we wouldn’t be having this discussion. Instead, the country is stuck in a stubborn recession with no apparent end in sight and that makes people consider alternatives. I’m nothing more than a political daydream. And I’ll bet none of the candidates, including the President, are wasting a moment’s thought on me.”

  “I am heartened to hear that you have no plans to mount a third-party run for president. Based on your strengths and ideological tilt, you’d siphon off more votes from the right than the left and almost assure us of four more years of utter failure.”

  “I think there’s enough contrast between the two parties to offer the voters a decent choice in November. For me to run, as you correctly point out, would be redundant,” Egan said. “Whoever wins this fall must win a majority in order to govern effectively in our current economic and political climate.”

  “Well said,” Denby replied. “Since you are not running for president, what’s next for you?”

  “Mensah and I take the book tour abroad to Europe, Africa, India, Australia, New Zealand, and Japan. After a little vacation to visit with some friends in Shanghai, I return to Michigan in May to deliver the commencement address at my alma mater, Michigan Tech. Then I’ll go back to work.”

  “In Dutannuru?”

  “Naw. I’ve been away from home for a long time and left Dutannuru in better shape than when my wife and I arrived. I’ve honored her dream, and now it’s time for me to find a new challenge.”

  “There you have it. Ross Egan is not running for President of the United States as an independent. We will be back after the break.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  DEVILS LAKE, NORTH DAKOTA

  APRIL 2

  “Just initial here, here, and here,” Pat McGivney said, indicating several clauses in the legal document. “And sign and date here.”

  Mike Unden did as instructed, numbly agreeing to portions of the contract with each stroke of the pen. With his signature, he conveyed title to the acreage of his family’s farm save for a small split of land immediately surrounding the house and outbuildings.

  As McGivney reviewed the closing documents, Unden stood up and walked slowly around the living room. His eyes stopped at the shadow boxes on the wall that contained the medals and campaign ribbons won by several generations of Unden men. In the center of his father’s box was the Medal of Honor. His gaze shifted from the field of stars on the medal’s ribbon to the triangular box that contained the flag that had draped Jacob Unden’s coffin.

  “Is this what you fought for?” Unden asked.

  “Huh?” McGivney asked, looking up from the papers.

  “Is this what my grandpa, my pa, and I all risked our lives for? How is it right for the government to take away my livelihood? Hell, some of my ancestors were on this land for centuries before the white man ever set eyes on it. They ain’t just taking my way of life, they’re robbing me of my heritage and, maybe someday, my legacy.”

  “You won’t get an argument from me,” McGivney replied. “Some folks in Washington think that nobody who manages to eke out a good living has the right to pass more than a few pennies on to their children. They say this death tax is only for the rich, but it’s killed a lot of family businesses and family farms around here. Frankly, the tiny amount of revenue they get from this tax can’t possibly justify the damage it causes to families and communities.”

  “Sure as hell killed my future.”

  McGivney nodded but had little to offer as consolation. He tucked several copies of the contract in his briefcase, then folded the last copy into an envelope and handed it to Unden.

  “Once you deposit that cashier’s check in your account, swing by the office and we’ll finalize your tax return. Then you can get on with your life.”

  “Yeah,” Unden said with a snort. “Get on with my life.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  ROME

  APRIL 9

  “Gratzi, that will be all,” the archbishop announced to bring an end to the public portion of the papal audience.

  As the flicker of flashbulbs ceased, the small group of reporters covering the meeting between the Holy Father and the two most recent Nobel Peace Prize winners murmured their thanks and moved en masse toward the door. When the last of the press had departed the papal library, the pope turned to his guests.

  “Gentlemen, now that the formalities are completed, let us sit so that we may talk.” The Pope extended his hand toward three chairs arranged for this meeting. “Please.”

  The three men sat in upholstered chairs around a low circular table. Atop the table’s ornate inlaid surface sat a silver tray with a pitcher of ice water and glasses. The Pope served his guests then poured a glass for himself.

  “Your Holiness,” Egan said, “I wish to thank you again for the courtesy extended to my parents and me yesterday. Attending mass at Saint Peter’s was always a dream for my mother, and to be so close to the altar for the Easter celebration and meeting you afterward was an experience of a lifetime. I think she’s still walking on air.”

  “It was a pleasure to meet your parents,” the Pope replied, “and I am delighted that they have found their visit to Rome so memorable. President Mensah, how are you enjoying your retirement from office?”

  “I am relieved to be an ordinary person once again.”

  “I envy you. My term of office ends when my employer”—the Pope pointed his finger upward—“summons me home. But the burdens of my office are very different from those of a temporal leader. To lead a nation on the verge of war with an aggressive foe—ach, the sleepless nights you must have endured.”

  “As I said, Your Holiness,” Mensah replied, “I am relieved. I also take great satisfaction in knowing that my country is a better place than it was when I was first elected.”

  “You have both done well in that regard,” the Pope agreed. “It is our duty as human beings to improve the world around us. In that light, I find your tour of Europe very interesting, especially with regard to you, Mr. Egan.”

  “How so?” Egan asked.

  “Over the past few weeks, you both have enjoyed the hospitality of several heads of state,” the Pope explained. “Many, myself included, have welcomed you with the same respect offered visitors with official standing. You have enjoyed tea with the Queen of England and met with my Buddhist counterpart, the Dalai Lama.”

  “I’m just riding on President Mensah’s coattails,” Egan demurred.

  “I recognize that this treatment is, in part, a swan song for President Mensah, who is departing the political stage. But in you, I sense an ascendancy.”

  Ega
n found himself at a complete loss for words while a wide grin broke across Mensah’s face.

  “Please,” the Pope continued, “do not let my words discomfort you. These are simply the musings of an old man who has seen much over many years. I do not know the path that God has chosen for you, but I believe you will continue to improve the world.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CAMBRIDGE, MARYLAND

  APRIL 10

  “… and I wish to thank the Dorchester County Sheriff and the State’s Attorney for their thorough and deliberate review of this unfortunate and extremely tragic hunting accident,” the Vice President said from the steps of the county courthouse. “Frank Crusca and I were friends for a long time—comrades in the noble struggle on behalf of the working men and women of this great nation. I grieve with Frank’s family and will feel his loss for the rest of my life. It is in his memory that I will continue to fight the good fight on behalf of the little guy.”

  “Mr. Vice President!” several reporters called out at the end of the formal statements.

  The Vice President glanced at his watch and nodded to the leader of his security detail.

  “I guess I have time for a few questions,” he said, and then he pointed to one of the reporters.

  “Mr. Vice President,” Wendy Fry began, “with this incident officially behind you, your attention doubtlessly is returning to the campaign.”

  “My attention is focused on doing my job,” the Vice President interjected. “Working with the President to bring about meaningful change and serving the working people of this country are the best ways I know to campaign for my job. But, please, your question.”

  “A recent poll shows the President in a dead heat with Ross Egan in a head-to-head matchup. Care to comment?”

  “On what? Egan isn’t running and polls like that are useless. Who cares about a hypothetical contest between the President and a guy who hasn’t run for so much as county dog catcher? Egan ran a power plant, for Chrissake. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing but respect for him and what he did in Africa, but it simply couldn’t work here in America. This poll you’re citing is about as useful as one that pits the President against Mickey Mouse.”