by Tom Grace
“It’s that time of year,” the Vice President offered. “I was at Annapolis and the President visited his alma mater, Columbia University. Commencement ceremonies are one of the more enjoyable duties of office.”
“The newest entrant into a still-crowded field of presidential candidates would certainly agree with you.”
“I assume you’re talking about Ross Egan’s announcement yesterday,” the Vice President offered. “It certainly helps when you’re in front of a friendly audience.”
“Any comment on Egan’s late entry into the race?”
“The President and I welcome the competition and see a vigorous debate of the issues as healthy for democracy.”
As he spoke, the Vice President noticed a crawl running across the bottom of the studio monitor:
TALKING POINT. VERBATIM STATEMENT BY PRESIDENT AND OTHER MEMBERS OF REELECTION STAFF. STATEMENT DOES NOT MATCH ACTIONS IN PREVIOUS CAMPAIGNS BY PRESIDENT AND VICE PRESIDENT.
“Historically, there has never been a successful third-party run for the presidency of the United States,” Zane continued. “Given Egan’s strong polling and the GOP’s failure to determine a nominee, should his candidacy be treated on par with those of the traditional major-party nominees?”
“Every viable candidate should be taken seriously,” the Vice President replied, looking past Zane at the monitor.
LOGICAL RESPONSE.
“If you’re asking about the presidential debates, that’s really a matter to be decided by the campaigns and the debate sponsors,” the Vice President continued. “If Egan continues to poll well nationally, I’d think he would have to be included.”
LOGICAL RESPONSE.
“Your tone toward Egan seems to have softened since last month.”
“A month ago, he wasn’t running and I was being asked to respond to a poll based on a hypothetical,” the Vice President replied.
“A poll that put Egan in a statistical dead heat with the President.”
POLL REFERRED TO WAS COMMISSIONED BY THE COMMITTEE TO RE-ELECT THE PRESIDENT.
“That’s a lie!” the Vice President blurted out.
“What’s a lie?” Zane asked, stunned by the outburst.
“Why are you running that crawl?” the Vice President demanded, pointing at the monitor.
Zane turned around, but the crawl was no longer on the screen.
“What crawl?”
“I’ve been watching it on that monitor for the past few minutes— you’ve been hacked by Who Is I!”
“Cut to commercial,” Zane ordered.
A moment later, the red lights on the cameras dimmed.
“We are off air, Mr. Vice President,” Zane said, and then he looked to the control booth. “Did they tap our broadcast feed?”
“If they have, we’re not seeing it in here,” the director replied.
“It appears that only that monitor was affected,” Zane assured the Vice President.
“We’re back in five,” the director announced.
Both the Vice President and Zane straightened up through the count to air.
“I apologize for that brief interruption,” Zane said to his television audience. “We were experiencing some technical difficulties here in the studio. On a related note, Mr. Vice President, the Who Is I? website’s popularity has grown tremendously since its launch at the start of the year. Do you see this development as positive or negative?”
“The site purports to provide only facts, yet if what I just saw on the monitor is any indication, it’s not foolproof. I have no problem with the truth and honest reporting, but I do have a problem with the behavior of those behind this site. Laws have been broken and their anonymity does little to inspire confidence.”
“So far, everything reported on Who Is I has proved to be correct.”
“That may be, but the New York Times and the Washington Post do their reporting out in the open. How can you trust the validity of a report without knowing its source? As to Who Is I’s popularity, or Egan’s for that matter, both are just the latest new things. And now that Egan is in the race, it will be interesting to see how he fares against the great Who Is I truth detector.”
“What do you mean?” Zane asked.
“What I mean is, let’s see how Who Is I treats him every time he gives a speech. I think it will be kinder.”
“On what do you base this suspicion?”
“Egan all but admitted yesterday that he was behind Who Is I, which makes it a partisan site and not the objective source everyone thinks it is. And if he is behind Who Is I, then he ought to be jailed.”
CHAPTER FORTY
MORAN TOWNSHIP, MICHIGAN
Wendy Fry followed the instructions of the rental car’s GPS unit, trusting that the friendly voice was guiding her correctly through what, to a city girl, was terra incognita. She had flown into a small airport outside of Traverse City, in what she charitably thought of as a bus with wings. From there, she followed the scenic drive to the top of Michigan’s Lower Peninsula, then across the Mackinac Bridge to the state’s rural Upper Peninsula. Michigan acquired most of the Upper Peninsula and statehood as a result of President Andrew Jackson’s negotiated settlement of the Michigan-Ohio War.
She was thankful to be navigating the stretch of winding, two-lane highway during the day. The sky was cloudless and bright blue and the green of spring was just now arriving at this latitude. As she drove, Fry caught glimpses of a glittering Lake Michigan through stands of birch and pine. Then she saw the wind turbines.
The GPS announced that she had arrived at her destination. Fry turned right off the highway onto a private road, passing a pair of stone pillars that bore the address and a name: EGAN. The road wound through a dense wood before reaching a clearing around a large log home. The round trunks that framed the walls were finished in a clear stain to emphasize the beauty of the wood and the gabled roofs were covered metal panels the color of the sky. A long-covered porch wrapped around the lower level of the home, its roof supported by columns fashioned from trunks that seemed to grow out of the ground. Rounded stones covered the base of the home and the soaring chimneys.
In addition to the main house, she saw several other buildings on the property, including a large barn. In the center of the circle drive in front of the house stood a flagpole with the US and Michigan flags fluttering in the breeze. Beyond the main house shimmered the placid waters of Brevort Lake.
A man dressed in hiking boots, jeans, a black turtleneck and gray fleece pullover stepped off the porch as she came to a stop in the circle drive.
“Ms. Fry, I presume,” Egan said warmly as she exited the car.
“Call me Wendy,” Fry replied.
She held out her hand and soon found it wrapped in his warm, calloused paw. Egan stood a full head taller than Fry, and looking up she was immediately struck by his green eyes and disarming smile.
“Welcome to my home,” Egan said. “Or to be precise, my parents’ home.”
“You live with your parents?” Fry asked, amused at the thought of a presidential candidate and Nobel Prize winner living with his mom and dad.
“When you say it like that, it sounds like I’m still single and living in the basement playing video games and leeching off my folks. I am a widower with no children and my last permanent address was in Dutannuru. And for the past eighteen months I’ve been on the road living out of a suitcase. For the sake of full disclosure, my father and I are renovating our old lake house for me. It should be ready by midsummer. Until then, there’s plenty of room in the main house.”
Fry nodded. “My editor was a little surprised when she received your call. Why me?”
“For the interview? Frankly, it was that run-in you had with the Vice President. I felt badly because you were asking him about me and that seemed to set him off. Now that I’m not a hypothetical candidate, I thought it only fair that you get first crack at me.”
“I certainly appreciate the opportunity.”
�
��Make the most of it. And if you don’t mind, my campaign photographer will be shooting some pictures as well. We’ll be happy to provide images for your article.”
“That would be great.”
Niki Adashi stepped down from the porch with a travel mug of coffee in hand and a camera and bag slung from her shoulder.
“Wendy, I’d like you to meet my photographer.”
Fry’s eyes widened with recognition. “You have a Pulitzer Prizewinning photographer on your staff?”
“Ross is the reason I have a Pulitzer,” Niki offered. “Anyway, I freelance and this opportunity sounded more interesting than the other assignments I was being offered. And with Ross, you never know when lightning might strike again. Oh, your mother has brewed a fresh pot and her amazing cinnamon coffee cake is just out of the oven.”
“How ’bout I give you the nickel tour of the place and then we set up on the porch?” Egan suggested.
“Great.”
Egan led the way down a gravel path toward the lake.
“So your bio says you were born and raised here,” Niki said.
“I grew up in that little house up ahead. That’s the original Egan homestead plus a few additions by subsequent generations. My people have been in this area about as long as Michigan has been a state. The Egan family tree is full of loggers, miners, and farmers in the early years. Some eventually set up shop in town and kids started going to college. Each generation doing a little better than the last—the way it’s supposed to be.”
“If the main house is any indication, your parents have done alright.”
“My folks worked hard all their lives and invested well. Did you see those wind turbines on the way in?”
“Yes.”
“That’s their wind farm. In his retirement, my pa is the largest green power producer in the UP”
“I guess it doesn’t hurt that his son knows something about making electricity efficiently.”
“Not a bit,” Egan said with a proud smile.
Near the old house, Egan pointed out the homes of his relatives around the large lake—mostly aunts and uncles, and a few cousins. His generation, Egan explained, was the first to spread far and wide beyond the UP, though most returned regularly for vacations and holidays.
“If you can figure out how to earn a living up here, it’s easy to have a good life,” Egan explained.
Along the shore, he picked up a flat round stone and sent it skipping across the surface of the lake. It hopped several times before disappearing with a splash. Niki captured Egan in profile with the rippled impressions on the glassy water beyond.
On the porch of the main house, Egan’s mother set out a tray with steaming mugs and coffee cake.
“Will your parents be joining us?” Fry asked.
“Later, if you like. Both are very private people, and politics, like this, is not really their thing. My pa served a few terms as a township trustee and ma was on the school board, but that’s about the limits of my family’s political ambition. We’re not exactly the Kennedys.”
“So the big question is, why do you want to be president?”
“I don’t,” Egan replied matter-of-factly.
“You don’t want to be president?” Fry asked, incredulous.
“What sane person would? I have no burning desire to wield political power, nor does my ego require the attention that comes with the office. I’m not running because this is something I want to do,” Egan explained, “but because I possess the knowledge and ability to do the job well I feel that this is something I have to do.”
“You say that as if you have no choice in the matter.”
“Oh, I have a choice, but the alternative is far worse.”
“What’s the alternative?” Fry asked.
“Four more years of what is arguably the most destructive presidency in the history of the United States. The damage that’s been done is bad, but it can be fixed. Four years from now, the job is going to be exponentially harder. As an engineer, I can see that it’s far more cost-effective to correct the problems now.”
“So you disagree with the changes the President has instituted?”
“I do, and so do a majority of the people in this country, including many who voted for him. I was abroad when the President was elected, but I know leaders like him. Africa’s chock full of them—populists who promise everything to get elected; who nationalize foreign investments; who redistribute the nation’s wealth. These are thieves who line their own pockets and those of their friends while the people starve. I’m not saying that our President is a murderous SOB like Cudjoe, but their ends are similar, even if they get there by different means. The only difference between a hard tyranny and a soft tyranny is whether or not the iron fist is wrapped in velvet to soften the blow.”
“Do you have a plan for America?”
“What I have is better than a plan,” Egan replied. “I have the original blueprints for this country.”
“You have what?”
“I’m a professional engineer,” Egan explained. “The founding documents of the United States—the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, the Federalist Papers, to name a few—are the blueprints and specifications for our republican democracy. The balance of power defined in these documents is no different than the fuel-air mixture for an engine. There’s a sweet spot on the power curve where an engine performs at its peak, and the engine that drives this country is sputtering and running way out of spec.”
“Despite your apparent popularity in the polls,” Fry said, “you must admit your campaign is a bit quixotic.”
“Great word, quixotic. And you may be right that I’m tilting at windmills like old Don Quixote, but what kind of a person stands idly by when they could have prevented a disaster?”
“Presidential campaigns are horrendously expensive and you lack major-party backing. Nearly two billion dollars were spent in the last election cycle. How will you fund your presidential run?”
“A mix of self-funding and donations from private individuals.”
“So you have some wealthy backers lined up?”
“No, there are no high rollers backing my campaign. I don’t need them. This is not to say that I won’t take their money, but their contributions will be limited to an amount that I believe every citizen can afford.”
“And how much is that?”
“Just-A-Buck.”
“One dollar?”
“One person. One vote. One buck. Just-A-Buck shows anyone who wants to support me that I’m putting my money, and theirs, where my mouth is.”
“Will you be taking matching funds?”
“No. My campaign will be funded solely with my money and the contributions from individual US citizens. No PAC money. No corporate money. No foreign money. No union money. And no redirected tax money.”
“Earlier you said you had to run. Why?” Fry asked.
“The Founders never envisioned political office as a career choice. In their mind, every individual would pursue their chosen occupation and build their fortune. Only in their later years, when the next generation had taken over the business, would these wizened elders then offer the wealth of their experience in public office as repayment to the nation for the opportunity to prosper. I have enjoyed an incredible career and profited well from my work. It is with profound gratitude that I offer the wisdom of my experience in public service.”
“So are you doing this to make some kind of statement?”
“Every action we take makes a statement, but implicit in your question is the belief that I have no prayer of winning the presidency,” Egan said with a wry smile. “But I’m in this to win.”
“It’s all set, Double H,” Deb McColl said.
Homer Hopps thumbed through the haunting bass chords of Pink Floyd’s “Money” with a mischievous grin on his face.
“Then by all means, my dear, open the President’s piggy bank.”
McColl typed a long string of alphanumeric
characters into her computer. The complex password triggered a cluster of programs nested deep within the servers of the President’s reelection campaign. These particular servers handled the on-line contributions from the President’s supporters. McColl’s cluster immediately began monitoring the incoming stream of money and diverting a portion of the funds toward the Egan campaign.
“Thank you, Mr. President, for your most generous support of campaign finance reform,” McColl said proudly.
“He has always supported the notion of spreading the wealth around,” Hopps agreed. “Only fair it should start with his.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
ON AIR
MAY 7
“Loyal listeners, I am in a foul mood today,” Denby announced to open his program. “And my mood has festered since Saturday, when two of the candidates who will, in all likelihood, be on the ballot this November delivered the commencement address at their respective alma maters.”
“The first was a stump speech by our dear leader to the latest crop of graduates at Columbia University. As he always does with the young skulls full of mush, the President encouraged them to aspire to careers in public service, doubtless working for the regime. Apparently, there can be no higher calling than to be a member of the ruling class. Graduates of the President’s alma mater have studied under the right professors and possess the correct pedigree to succeed in telling the unwashed masses how to live their lives.
“I noticed that the President and the rest of the dignitaries were seated in rather ornate chairs, thrones really, on the stage, and it made me wonder. Back in the thirties, the university enjoyed very cordial relations with the fascist regimes of Germany and Italy. The university president at the time, one Nicholas Murray Butler, said of Mussolini in his 1931 welcoming address to incoming freshmen, ‘the assumption of power by a virtual dictator whose authority rests on a powerful and well-organized body of opinion’ creates leaders ‘of far greater intelligence, far stronger character and far more courage than does the system of election.’
