[b]Washington D.C.[/b] Russell Reed glanced out the third-floor window of Blair House. The home's previous owner had been Washington legend Francis Preston Blair. Blair, a southerner and adviser to both Jackson and Lincoln, tried in vain several times to broker an early end to the Civil War to no avail. From the window facing out of Blair House, Russell had a clear view of the White House. The close proximity to the White House and West Wing eventually led to the government's purchase of the home. Today, it was used as a guest house for any heads of state who came to Washington. Two floors below in the parlor, Blair and a hodgepodge collection of Whig and Free Soil Party members formed the Republican Party. Russell thought it was an odd place for the current Democratic president to hold his weekly breakfast meeting with the Democratic vice-president. The two men sat at the dining room table and ate a simple breakfast of bacon, eggs, and toast with grapefruit and orange juice. The food was part of the president's effort to curb the weight gain that came with the transfer from military life to civilian life. By contrast, Russell always had a heavy breakfast of sausage, grits, and eggs with country gravy and a large mug of black coffee. He would always burn the calories in his day of constant motion, meeting and greeting and glad-handing nad never stopping until that night. The two men ate their meal in silence while they absorbed the news from that morning's east coast national papers. Russell handed Norman a copy of the [i]Boston Herald[/i] as he handed Russell a copy of the [i]Washington Post.[/i] "Seems your tour is in all the papers," Russell said as he flipped open the paper. "It's my first serious trip out of Washington since the inauguration," Norman replied. "It's bound to make at least passing news." Russell reread the details that appeared in the papers of Boston and New York. While Russell was doing whatever it took in the election down south, the White House had announced the president was going on a western tour of the country. He'd be going through the midwest and stop in Wisconsin to witness the groundbreaking ceremony on the Eric Fernandez Presidential Library. After that, it was off to California and up the Pacific Coast. The highlight of the tour would be Norman's return to the Cascadia Territory, his first time back there since the war. "And besides, Jim Sanderson's win is making news as well," the president said between bites of food. "I know you're glad to have him back in the Senate. I've heard that you and the former governor down there don't get along." "Hampton Taliaferro is a son of a bitch," Russell stated flatly. "Always has been. We've clashed more than once over the years, but I can't say I'm too broken up over the scandal. I hate the way Jim won, but I'm glad everyone knows what kind of son of a bitch Taliaferro really is." Russell did not show anything other than remorse at the circumstances surrounding the Senate race. Nobody had asked for a statement on it and he hadn't given one. As far as the public was concerned, he had stayed out of it leading up to the last week of the race. Nobody knew about Sledge's actions, Ash McCall's betrayal, and the relatively small amount of money it took to engineer the events in Macon. And nobody would ever know because everybody benefitted. McCall got the governor's chair, the members of the governor's security detail would quietly make rank in the Georgia State Patrol. Those that didn't get promotion got money. The two colored girls found with Taliaferro were now somewhere in Florida, laying low with a friend of Sledge's with a few hundred dollars in their pockets. "What about the blowback from your meeting in Tennessee?" Norman asked, looking over his reading glasses at Russell. "How bad do you think that will hurt you and the administration?" He tossed the Washington paper aside and picked at his food. "The people down south will rant and rave for a while, but they'll forget about it." Norman put his paper down on the table and looked at Russell. "I want to apologize about that, Russ. I know you've been taking a beating on it in the papers." "It's what the VP does, sir," Russell shrugged. "Sometimes I'm the hatchet man and sometimes I'm the fall guy. I was fully aware of the possibilities and limitations of the job when I accepted the nomination." He kept his feelings about being hung out to dry to himself. He fully knew that on a risky prospect like meeting with leaders of the burgeoning civil rights movement, the president couldn't risk exposure like the VP could. But Russell still felt slighted by not receiving even private reassurance from the White House. That was why he kept his promise to Wolde and the Calhouns to himself. If the president knew he had promised to push a civil rights bill through Congress on his own accord, the wrath of the White House would be far worse than anything anybody in the south could do. "I'm afraid this might rile up our southern friends in the Senate," said Norman. "I'm sorry I didn't take your advice sooner, Russell, but the fight over that NEWI bill showed me just how those old men can hijack legislation." "They are sons of bitches when it comes to working the Senate towards their advantage. The Ethiopian foreign aid bill is going to a vote in the House today, right?" Rusell asked. "I've read that you're marshaling all the Democratic forces behind it." "Your protegee, Clay, and the leadership team in the House are moving heaven and earth to make sure every House Democrat to vote for it." "Not an easy feat, but that won't work in the Senate. That shuffling sack of phlegm Wilbur Helms has made it crystal clear the price for southern cooperation in the Senate. Those old bastards will not be moved until we let them know we won't push for civil rights legislation. My trip to Tennessee will make them that much more adamant to get assurances." Norman flashed Russell a soft grin. "Divide and conquer, Mr. Vice President. Reach out to Pete Kelly and Rod Marston. Talk to them about getting Republican support behind the Ethiopian bill. I'll deal with Senator Helms and the old bulls." Russell chuckled and shook his head. "Wilbur Helms has served in Congress for sixty years. He's seen twelve presidents come and go. For you to tame that old man, it would be a minor miracle." "People said the same thing to me when I said I wanted Russell Reed as my vice-president," Norman said with a laugh. "'There is no way that man will ever step away from running the Senate to be vice-president.' But yet here we are. Give me some credit, Russ. I'm not the political neophyte you thought I was." "I've slowly realized the truth of that," said Russell. "And I've come to grudgingly accept it." "Thank you for your approval, however reluctant it may be." The president stood and checked his suit for any signs of food on them. Russell also stood, brushing toast crumbs from his lapel. "See about setting up a meeting with Kelly and Marston. Leave the southerners to me. You'll find my legislative strategy is just as effective as my military strategy." "Let's hope not," Russell quipped as they shook hands. "Because if it is, we'll be annexing the Senate in two weeks." ----- [b]Capitol Hill[/b] "Somebody find me that son of a bitch Rowe!" Traci Lord struggled to keep up with Congresswoman Jen Armstrong as they raced through the long hallways of the Capitol building. Traci was glad she took Armstong's advice and wore sensible shoes to the Capitol. Armstrong still wore black pumps as she hauled ass down the corridor. Today the House was voting on Harlan Lewis' Pan-African foreign aid bill. The article Traci had in mind for this installment involved following Majority Whip Armstrong and her team of deputies. It was an amazing study in contrast to see Armstrong at work. In most things, she had a sunny disposition that never seemed to falter. She was polite and always considerate, that was part of her charm in Congress. That attitude fit perfectly with her being a forty-something midwestern mother of four. But when there was a hint of weakness or dissent inside the Democratic ranks? "I swear to god, I will shove my foot so far up Dave Rowe's ass that he'll have stiletto marks on his tongue." The target of her discontent was David Rowe, a four-term congressman from Pennsylvania. Rowe was just one of two dozen Democrats the Whip team had drawn their sights on as the bill vote drew closer. Based on the vote counting and speculation, the vote was going to be landslide with both sides of the aisle voting but in favor of it. Even with the bi-partisan support there was no way it would be a unanimous vote. The large size of the House, along with the idiosyncrasies of its various members, would prevent that. Republican Congressman Ben Barker from Maryland was a devout Quaker that voted against any military measure no matter how small, and Barker made it clear on the floor debate that this foreign aid would prolong war. Barker was one of the few pacifists in the House. They and other hard-line isolationist congressmen who would either vote nay or abstain from voting altogether. That was fine for the Republicans, but Clay Foulke wanted to send a message. The Speaker wanted every single Democrat in Congress, all two hundred and fifty-four of them, to vote aye on the bill. He wanted to show Washington, the country, and maybe even the world that Republicans could write and propose legislation, but only Democrats could get it through the House. "Pursuant to the rules regarding House Appropriations Bill 2601, it is now in order to vote on the measure." The voice of the Speaker Pro Tempore filtered through the halls of the capitol thanks to speakers mounted on walls throughout the House of Representatives side of the building. "Voting will be opened up for a period of thirty minutes--" "C'mon, Traci," Armstrong shouted over the droning voice of the Speaker. "Pick up the pace!" The two women suddenly found themselves fighting against a current. As the voting on the measure opened up, congressmen and women began to head towards the House floor to vote. Traci stuck close to Armstrong as they navigated through the crowd. "Anyone seen Rowe out of Pennsylvania," she asked people as they went through the crowd. "Chance!" She snapped at another passing representative. "Remember what we talked about the other day? Vote that way." "You're very committed to your job," Traci said. "What do you think makes you work so well as Whip?" "I'm a mom to four boys," she said with a look back at Traci. "And being Whip is like being a parent more than an enforcer -- Preston! Hey, Preston! Yes, you! Don't back out on me-- you have to wear many hats, as a nice guy or a bad guy. The tone I use on the members of Congress is the same tone I use when I catch my youngest sucking on his thumb. You have to bully, flatter, cajole, and even shame people to get them to vote how you want." "And do you always get what you want?" "No, but I win more than I lose that's for sure." Armstrong took Traci by the wrist and they ducked into a side office. She caught the name on the plaque beside the door just as they went in. Congressman David Rowe, Pennsylvania 14th District. Armstrong walked past the secretary without a word and burst into the office of Rowe. They were greeted by a rail-thin man with a retreating hairline that would be non-existent within five years. He stood up, towering over both Armstrong and Traci, and gave them a puzzled look. "David," Armstrong said, placing her palms flat on his desk. "Don't know if you know this, but there's a very important vote on the floor at the moment." "I'm aware, Jennifer," Rowe said, stepping backward slightly. "I... don't think I'll vote." Armstrong walked around the desk and started to slowly encroach into Rowe's personal space. Traci watched with rapt attention as the little woman who was easily six inches shorter than Rowe, even in her heels, made him squirm. Armstrong was small, but the way she moved made her seem ten feet tall. "The Speaker passed word through all every caucus that the vote on this measure is to be unanimous on that front. Did you get the memo?" "I... I did, but I still can't vote for it." Armstrong placed a hand on the end of Rowe's tie and started to pull on it. Slowly, Rowe had to crouch forward and forward until he was hunched over and just inches away from Armstrong's face. "Why, David? Why can't you vote for it?" "This could lead to war, I don't want that. I fought in the last war we had and I don't want to send any other sons off to war." "Very noble, Congressman." Armstrong let the tie go. Rowe snapped back like his spine was a rubber band, bolting upright and again trying again to put some distance between him and her. Armstrong kept shuffling forward until Rowe was nearly backed into the far corner of the office. "If there is a measure to declare war, feel free to vote against it. But for this bill? This foreign aid bill to help starving people, you need to vote yes." "I'm voting my conscience," he stammered. "That's what you always tell us to do first, right?" "Right, but that conscience conflicts with what the party wants. And you owe the party for your reelection. You won reelection last time by just ten points, right?" "Twelve, actually." "Twelve points," she clicked her tongue. "And that was with the DNC's funding and backing. It's a hard district, lots of Republican voters. Now imagine what happens the next time you run for reelection when there is no funding or backing. Not only that, but the DNC picks a dashing young liberal to step up and run for Congress against you. You'd be a lame duck by the summer and forced to watch the general election from the sidelines." Even from across the room Traci could see the beads of sweat forming on Rowe's large forehead. He took a second to wipe them away with his sleeve and tried to find a response. None seemed to be forthcoming as he just stammered and tried to reply. Suddenly, a change came over Armstrong. The tough mask was gone. She reached out and placed a hand on Rowe's shoulder. "Easy, David. Come on, have a seat." Again despite their height difference, Armstrong seemed to lead Rowe towards his desk like the man was half her size. She helped him sit at his desk and took the seat from across it. "You're a smart guy, David, very smart. That's why we want you to vote for this bill. The Speaker sees promise in you being part of the leadership here in the House, maybe let you join my staff of whips, but that only happens if you can show the Speaker you're a loyal member of the party. That advancement can only come if you remain in Congress. If you don't like voting for this, then I understand it, but you have to understand the leadership's position. We're getting White House pressure to shove the bill through the House. So by voting with us on this, you'll show the Speaker and President that you're a team player, and you'll have the appreciation of both and the Speaker will owe you one. He's a good one to have owe you a favor, believe me." Rowe's face seemed to convey a half-dozen expressions all at once. Shock, amazement, concern, embarrassment, etc. The congressman ran his hands through his thinning hair and tried to come up with a response to all that had been thrown at him so quickly by Armstong. "Okay," he finally said. "I'll help you out." "Good," Armstrong said as she stood up. "You got twenty minutes to get down to the floor and vote. Move your ass, David." And like that, she was racing back out the office with Traci in tow. She checked her watch and cursed when she realized how little time was left before the voting finished. "Is that the usual force you apply in every situation?" Traci asked. "Depends on the congressman and the measure. Something like this, we have to go full for--" she stopped talking as she eyed one of her deputies coming down the corridor. "Kevin! What's the vote look like?" "So far it's two hundred and ten to ten," the deputy whip said as he rushed by. "All the nays have been Republicans. We've still got about a hundred Dems who have yet to vote." "Stampede them to the floor if you have to!" She yelled as he disappeared around a corner. "Cattle drive." Armstrong led Traci through the halls and out onto the House floor. The chamber was packed with members casting their votes with electronic signals, each one unique to the representative for accurate vote tallies. The big board on the wall read that Appropriations Bill 2601 had passed with a clear majority of House members, three hundred and sixty to fifteen. There were still sixty congressmen who had to vote, but it was mere formality at this point. The word stampede was right, Traci said to herself. The White House backing gave the Democrats impetus to vote in mass for it, and general public opinion on the bill mixed with the Republican authorship of the bill gave Republicans reason to vote for it as well. Traci looked across the way and saw Harlan Lewis holding court with a group of seven or eight congressmen. The Republican congressman who nobody knew was suddenly popular among his peers. She caught the man's eye and nodded to him. He smiled and waved before turning his attention back to the other men around him. "That's done," Armstrong said as she vote, sending the tally one more in favor of the bill's approval. "And here he comes..." They watched David Rowe walk down the aisles towards his seat. He sat down on the bench and picked up his electronic voter. He pressed a button. Both Armstrong and Traci looked towards the big board. The yay vote increased by one. Rowe put his voter down and left the floor as quickly as he arrived. "There you go," Armstrong said with a wink to Traci. "That's how the sausage gets made." ----- [b]Natchez, Mississippi[/b] James Calhoun dipped his paintbrush into the can of paint and pulled the brush out with its bristles coated in primer gray. He gently applied the paint down the side of his trick to cover up the horrible words that had been scratched into it. Sarah and the boys saw it and were mad. James got them to calm down, something that would have been damn near impossible if they knew about his meeting with Alex Miller, how that money the family need to live on had been denied. He told Whitney of course. She hadn't shown anger, just a slight sadness before it quickly disappeared and she nodded. She and James knew tough times, something that the kids never did. They were born during the Depression. Back then there was no times but hard ones, especially for the black people in the South. They'd survive, she knew it and he knew it as well. It'd be tough but they could do it. The sound of a car rolling down the long dirt road driveway made him look up from the truck. A long, black car came to a stop in the driveway. James let a grin slip from his face. He knew the car well. He'd ridden in it, hell he'd even drove it. Out from the car stepped Isiah Wolde, looking immaculate as always in his crisp black suit, black tie and black-rimmed glasses. He hadn't seen him since Memphis a few weeks ago, the man had let his hair grow out. It was all kinky and poofy, not kept short or straightened with lye like a lot of negroes in America. It reminded James of how the people in Africa looked. A lot of Wolde's followers were starting to wear it out like that, men and women. They called it a natural. Luckily Sarah still insisted on keepng her hair long and straight. "Isiah," James said as he put his paint brush down and approached the Ethiopian. "Nice hair, brother." They shook hands, Wolde smiling. "You like it? You should grow it out too. Solidarity with each other and the folks over in Africa. You know they don't try to make their hair look like white people." "That's a young man's game," James said, pulling his hat off and showing his short hair. "Y'all grow your hair out all you want, you got my solidarity in spirit." James led Wolde towards the front porch. The Ethiopian nodded towards his truck as they walked by. "Sarah told me," he said. "Scare tactics is all it is." "I know," James said before lowering his voice. "But they're using other tactics, brother. The bank I use to get my loan from denied me, the white man who runs it said I need to know my place. We use that money to live on before the harvest comes in." "Now Sarah did not tell me that." "That's because she doesn't know." James led them to a pair of rocking chairs on the front porch. "What brings you here, Brother Wolde? I thought you had business up north." "I did, and I met with some people who are firmly behind us. There are a lot of northern people, negroes and whites, who are sympathetic to our cause. We're planning something, James. A demonstration in Washington D.C. Russell Reed gave us a promise, but it's words. We have to show the entire federal government that we are here and we will not be ignored." "It's a good plan," James said before he scowled. "And I would love to be there. I just don't know if I can. I've got my boys working around town earning money, and I'm gonna have to join them to make ends meet. I won't have the time or energy to take part in any protests or marches." "What if I loan you that money?" Wolde asked, leaning forward in his rocker. "Whatever it was you were going to borrow, I can provide it." "I don't want to impose or--" "I have money, Brother James. Lots and lots of money." Wolde reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of bills. Big bills, James saw. He'd never seen so much money in his entire life. "Where did you get that?" "Those sympathetic northerners?" Wolde asked with a sly grin. "Those that don't want to march like to contribute with money. I can provide you some money out of the general fund to skate by. Besides, I feel bad because these people are doing this because you're affiliated with the movement." The two men looked as another car came down the dirt road. This one James also knew. It belonged to Mr. Birch from up the road. Behind the wheel was Birch's daughter Nadine, and in the passenger seat was Sarah. Sarah was out and running towards the porch before the car had stopped properly. She pounced on Wolde and hugged him fiercely, yelling in glee that he was here. James watched the scene with a sense of amusement, but that amusement quickly faded when he saw the looks on both Wolde and Sarah's faces. It was quick, and in a flash they were back to being friendly. But James caught the look. There was no doubt to what it was, because Whitney had looked at him the same way for over twenty years. It was a look of love. ----- [b]Vancouver[/b] Silas Crystal felt the lock give under pressure. He pulled his lockpick out and turned the knob all the way before standing and slowly pushing the front door open. Crystal pocketed his lockpick and reached into his jacket to pull out a pistol with a suppressor attached to the end. He loaded a round into the chamber before stepping through the threshold into the apartment. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness inside, but slowly shapes came into view inside the home of Arthur Stewart. The one room apartment was listed as the kid's address on his contact information at Simon Fraser University. The two CIA guys took Reg Boland's description of the two terrorists as college kids and ran with it. They made Boland sit in a chair and flip through photos of college students from all schools in the greater Vancouver area. The gun smuggler's eyes lit up when he came to the photo of Stewart, quickly pointing him out and declaring that was him. Unfortunately, Boland never saw anybody that looked like the Alex kid he said was running the Friends. Crystal stepped further into the apartment once his eyes were fully adjusted to the dim lighting. It was a studio apartment where the bedroom/kitchen/bathroom were all in the same place. The place was sparsely decorated with only a coffee table, two cheap wooden chairs, and a mattress and box spring resting on the hardwood floor. There wasn't much to the place, but Crystal could tell almost right off the bat Stewart hadn't lived here in quite a while. He ran a gloved hand across the coffee table and came up with a thick layer of dust on his hand. The fridge contained only a spoiled quart of milk and moldy Chinese takeout. There was no radio, television, or phone and no books or other keepsakes that a person would have in a home. He slid his gun back into its shoulder holster and did a quick search of the apartment. The few drawers the apartment had contained nothing but scratch sheets of paper and pens. Crystal flipped the box spring over and found a handful of pamphlets underneath the mattress. He picked them up and pulled out a flashlight from his jacket, clicking it on to browse the contents of the papers. They were political tracts calling for various things. One called for the withdrawal of US forces from the territory, another for an autonomous Cascadia that was under US protection, another the full blown return of the NWC, and even one that called for Canadian annexation of the territory. Crystal killed the light and tucked it back into his jacket along with the tracts. He left the apartment, careful to lock it back as he left. The apartment was on the third floor of a four-story walk up a half mile away from Simon Fraser University. The rest of Crystal's A-Team were searching for any trace of Stewart through the university campus. The Green Beret slipped a snap brim hat on his head and hurried down the flight of stairs towards the building's exit. He came out onto the street and climbed into a waiting car. The CIA field agent, the man Crystal knew only as Smith, pulled the car out into the street and glanced expectantly at Crystal. "So?" He tossed the pamphlets on to the dash and sighed. Smith's eyes darted back and forth between the pamphlets and the road. "What's that?" "That is the only trace we have of Arthur Stewart. Some crappy political tracts calling for all kinds of radical shit." "That's a start," Smith said as he pulled a cigarette out of his jacket pocket. "Radical shit is the FCB's milieu. If someone in the territory is printing this, then they'll have a lead on it. My partner has a contact inside the Bureau that can maybe give us a lead." ----- Hank Kelly sat in the rickety chair facing his desk, looking down at the two photos with a look on his face that could only be dread. The photos were the result of days worth of work. After Reg Boland identified Arthur Stewart, they went back to work on finding an identification for the man Boland knew as Alex. Hours and hours of searching through the rolls at local universities had come up with nothing, the same happened when Hank expanded the search to all higher learning institutes in the territory. Still nothing. He felt intuition gnawing at him, which was an odd feeling. It was Pat who was always the guy who acted on gut feelings, Hank always used facts and evidence and logic. Something was off about these people who called themselves the Friends of Northwest Sovereignty. Something that he couldn't quite place. And then that was when Hank remembered an operation Hank's Canada Section back in Alexandria worked on with the CIA's covert stations embedded throughout Canada. Copies of the Agency's files had been couriered up north after Hank appealed to the Deputy Director of Intelligence for them. The DD/I was hesitant at first, but soon came off of it after the Friends murdered a prominent politician, the head of the territorial legislature. Close to two thousand pages of documentation were flown to Fort Norman from the Campus. He'd absconded with it back to the makeshift headquarters in the former slaughterhouse. Hank spent the next few days hard at work. He combed through the copious amount of paperwork the way only a seasoned Washington bureaucrat could. And then he found something. He found two somethings. Operation Penalty Box was an intelligence-gathering mission that took place all throughout 1978 and '79. CIA operatives in Canada, Washington, and embassies across the world attempted to identify Canadian intelligence sources and operatives through electronic and human surveillance of Canadian embassies worldwide. The results managed to identify over a hundred men and women who were connected to the nation's Intelligence Branch in varying degrees. And there were still another three hundred suspected figures that could never be identified or tied to Intelligence Branch for sure. The results from Penalty Box were a closely guarded CIA secret, allowing the blown agents to work in the field oblivious of the fact they were known. Hank and Boland sat at a metal table and went through every single bit of photo from Penalty Box to try and find anything that seemed familiar to Boland. The man with the bandaged face and swollen jaw silently acquiesced to the long hours pouring over grainy surveillance photos. It wasn't like he had a choice. And Pat had promised him immunity if he cooperated, Hank only vaguely going along with it. They were intelligence agents and not lawyers. A US attorney and judge would work that out, but he might put in a good word for him when the time came. "That's them," Boland said after nearly nine hours of staring at the photos. "That's the guys. Both of them." Hank slid the photo over and looked down at it. It was dated August of 1979, a long-range photo of two men huddled together in a back alley. Hank skimmed the report that went along with the photo. CIA's Toronto Station took the photo after tailing a suspected intelligence officer through the city. The picture showed a short, long-haired young man in a jean jacket talking to a tall, blonde man who wore his hair in a short crew cut. "Who are these people?" Hank asked. "Tell me exactly." "The little guy, that's Alex," Boland said, tapping the shorter man with his finger. "And the big guy, that's my contact in Canada. Jones, the one who smuggled that biohazard shit through the DMZ." Hank grabbed the photo and quickly left Boland alone in the room. He felt like he was going to puke as he went back to the main files and found everything he could on the tall man. CIA files on him were incomplete, but every report confirmed he was a mid-level member of Intelligence Branch. The other man was an unknown person, believed to be the tall man's informant or agent working somewhere in Canada. Alex, whoever he was, had been in contact with Jones for quite some time... It was Jones who gave them what Hank and Pat believed to be some kind of deadly weapon, it was Jones who funded their weapons and paid Boland to smuggle it across the DMZ. It was all Jones who backed the Friends of Northwest Sovereignty... and Jones was a Canadian intelligence officer. Hank put his hands on his hip and looked down at the photo. Boland wasn't the most reliable source, but his implications would have major repercussions. Because if it were true, then that meant the Friends of Northwest Sovereignty were state-sponsored terrorists backed by Canada. Hank could see very clearly if it were true, where it would ultimately lead to, and that was the Third North American War.