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Authors: Stephen Woodfin
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were still at his side.
Before he stepped inside, he raised his gaze to the Washington Monument, now bathed in artificial light as it towered over the capital. He wondered how in the hell he came to stand at that spot at this time in history.
He turned his back on the splendor of monuments and went to his desk in the Oval Office where he began reading briefings about the events of the day just passed and the one to come. The routine of hard work, a retreat from a life without Maggie, was his firmest foothold against a world that otherwise would have driven him mad.
At the bell that afternoon, the Dow Jones average hit a five year low. In ten days, several states would hold secession conventions. In Detroit, half the city was burned-out rubble under martial law, while a few miles away in Dearborn Hills, auto executives were holed up in their palatial mansions. They hired private armies to guard their stashes of gold, cash, and priceless works of art. In an unheard of turn of events, they had cancelled the annual golf tournament at the country club, saying they did not want to appear insensitive at this time of great trouble.
“They’re scared shitless,” Bass said with contempt.
Deep into the night, he poured over reports, until about one o’clock. He hung his face in his hands, trying to rid his mind of all the country’s problems. He picked up the phone and dialed Ert Roberts. It rang three times before the attorney answered. He sounded tired, but not asleep.
“You think you could sneak out of the house for few minutes? I need someone to bounce a few things off of,” Bass said to Ert.
“I’m not sure how good my company will be, Mr. President. But I think Beth might let me out for a little while,” Ert said.
“I’ll have a car there in a few minutes,” Bass said.
While he waited on Ert to arrive, Whitfield stacked the reports to the side and dusted off an old Bible that always lay on the desk in the Oval Office. He wondered how many of his predecessors ever opened it.
“It’s been a while, old friend,” he said to the book.
He turned to a few familiar passages. Psalms 23 made him think of Texas cow pastures where he and his brothers used to pelt each other with cow paddies while they were supposed to be slopping hogs.
“Where is that red print?” he asked as he flipped towards the back of the book, looking for the words of Jesus. His finger fell on those enigmatic sayings from the Sermon on the Mount now called the Beatitudes, “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God.” He turned the pages, scouring here and there, absorbed until Nate buzzed him on the intercom.
“Mr. President. I have Mr. Roberts here to see you.”
“Send him in, Nate. Thanks for pulling the late shift.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. President,” Nate said. “I’ll be right outside the door if you need anything.”
When Ert entered, his eyes fell immediately on the Bible that Bass had in front of him. Without saying anything, he walked to the edge of the desk and leaned over to see what the President was reading.
“We can’t let something like this get out. Your critics might think you have lost your mind. It’s okay if they read that book, but they don’t want it to fall into the wrong hands,” he said.
“Comments like that make me proud I have you on my team,” the President said. “I can’t out-religion my adversaries, but that doesn’t mean I am unconcerned about matters of ultimate truth.”
“I know you have been processing a lot of things, Mr. President,” Ert said.
“The time is soon coming when I will have to decide the appropriate use of force necessary to preserve the union, Ert. I want my mind to be clear about that course of action and the moral underpinnings of it when the time comes.”
He looked down at the book again.
“Look at this: ‘There are three things that abide: faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love.’ Who can build a national
Before he stepped inside, he raised his gaze to the Washington Monument, now bathed in artificial light as it towered over the capital. He wondered how in the hell he came to stand at that spot at this time in history.
He turned his back on the splendor of monuments and went to his desk in the Oval Office where he began reading briefings about the events of the day just passed and the one to come. The routine of hard work, a retreat from a life without Maggie, was his firmest foothold against a world that otherwise would have driven him mad.
At the bell that afternoon, the Dow Jones average hit a five year low. In ten days, several states would hold secession conventions. In Detroit, half the city was burned-out rubble under martial law, while a few miles away in Dearborn Hills, auto executives were holed up in their palatial mansions. They hired private armies to guard their stashes of gold, cash, and priceless works of art. In an unheard of turn of events, they had cancelled the annual golf tournament at the country club, saying they did not want to appear insensitive at this time of great trouble.
“They’re scared shitless,” Bass said with contempt.
Deep into the night, he poured over reports, until about one o’clock. He hung his face in his hands, trying to rid his mind of all the country’s problems. He picked up the phone and dialed Ert Roberts. It rang three times before the attorney answered. He sounded tired, but not asleep.
“You think you could sneak out of the house for few minutes? I need someone to bounce a few things off of,” Bass said to Ert.
“I’m not sure how good my company will be, Mr. President. But I think Beth might let me out for a little while,” Ert said.
“I’ll have a car there in a few minutes,” Bass said.
While he waited on Ert to arrive, Whitfield stacked the reports to the side and dusted off an old Bible that always lay on the desk in the Oval Office. He wondered how many of his predecessors ever opened it.
“It’s been a while, old friend,” he said to the book.
He turned to a few familiar passages. Psalms 23 made him think of Texas cow pastures where he and his brothers used to pelt each other with cow paddies while they were supposed to be slopping hogs.
“Where is that red print?” he asked as he flipped towards the back of the book, looking for the words of Jesus. His finger fell on those enigmatic sayings from the Sermon on the Mount now called the Beatitudes, “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God.” He turned the pages, scouring here and there, absorbed until Nate buzzed him on the intercom.
“Mr. President. I have Mr. Roberts here to see you.”
“Send him in, Nate. Thanks for pulling the late shift.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. President,” Nate said. “I’ll be right outside the door if you need anything.”
When Ert entered, his eyes fell immediately on the Bible that Bass had in front of him. Without saying anything, he walked to the edge of the desk and leaned over to see what the President was reading.
“We can’t let something like this get out. Your critics might think you have lost your mind. It’s okay if they read that book, but they don’t want it to fall into the wrong hands,” he said.
“Comments like that make me proud I have you on my team,” the President said. “I can’t out-religion my adversaries, but that doesn’t mean I am unconcerned about matters of ultimate truth.”
“I know you have been processing a lot of things, Mr. President,” Ert said.
“The time is soon coming when I will have to decide the appropriate use of force necessary to preserve the union, Ert. I want my mind to be clear about that course of action and the moral underpinnings of it when the time comes.”
He looked down at the book again.
“Look at this: ‘There are three things that abide: faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love.’ Who can build a national
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