Politics

Chapter 105: Vacation

Tuesday, November 6, 1990

I should have expected what happened next, but I didn’t. Brewster’s cell phone rang and he held it up to his ear, and then his eyes got wide. He grabbed my shoulder and said, “Come on, back to the room!”

“What’s up?”

He slipped the phone back into his holster. “The President is going to be calling.”

I stared at him for a moment. “The President? You mean, the President?”

McRiley began dragging me out of the room, and the other pros and Marilyn followed me. Out in the hallway, where it was quieter, he said, “Yes, that President! Not the President of the Baltimore Elks Club, the President of the United States! He calls all the new Congressmen and congratulates them.” He kept hustling us back to the suite.

Once inside, I looked over at my wife, who looked as shocked as I did. For all my money and ‘power’, I had never even seen the President at any kind of event, only on television, and certainly never talked to him. Brewster’s cell phone rang and I jumped at the sound. I whirled to face him and he was speaking into it, and then he passed the phone to me. “Is it him?” I whispered.

He shook his head. “No, it’s Gingrich. Say hello.”

I took the phone. “Hello?”

“Carl, it’s Newt Gingrich. How are you doing tonight?”

“Pretty good, sir. Thank you for calling,” I replied.

“Congratulations on your victory. That was one nasty campaign. I’m glad you kicked his butt.”

“No more glad than Marilyn and I are. I think she was even angrier than I was.”

I could hear a chuckle. “When you come to Orientation, I’ll want to meet her, so she can tell me how bad it was. I’ll want to meet you again as well. We’ll need to figure out how to boot out some more Democrats.”

“You can count on me, Congressman.”

“I’ll let you go, Carl. You’ll be getting a lot of congratulations tonight. We’ll talk soon.”

I gave a good-bye and the phone call ended. I handed it back to Brewster. Almost immediately it rang again, and his eyes raised as he answered it. Then he looked over at me. “Is that him?” I whispered again.

He answered in a normal voice. “No, but it’s the White House switchboard. I’m under orders to keep the line open for the next ten minutes and he will pick up at some point. Don’t run to the bathroom in the meantime.”

I suddenly had an incredible urge to pee! Oh Christ! I ran across the room and went into the bathroom, dropped my trousers and pissed and took a dump. What if I missed the president of the United States because I was in the bathroom!? As soon as I could, I wiped my ass and pulled my pants back up, and flushed as I raced back out to Brewster. Marilyn was laughing her ass off against the wall. McRiley simply handed me the phone. “Here, you hold the damn thing! He hasn’t picked up yet.”

I stared at it and held it up to my ear, but got nothing but some Muzak. After a few minutes more a woman came on the line and said, “Hello?”

“Yes?”

“Please be prepared for the President to be on the line in one minute.” At that I got some more Muzak.

I swallowed hard and damn near came to attention. Then there was a click on the line and I heard George Bush — only he wasn’t talking to me! “Okay, which one is this one?” he asked, like he was talking to someone else, and there was a muffled reply.

Major buzzkill!

He came back on the line. “Congressman-Elect Buckman, this is George Bush. Congratulations on your victory tonight!”

I stood a little straighter, which I have since learned is pretty normal, and answered, “Thank you, Mister President.” I looked over at Marilyn and mouthed ‘The President!’ and pointed at the cell phone. She just laughed at me.

We spoke for just a couple of minutes, if that. Apparently it’s a tradition that the President calls every newly elected Congressman and Senator, so he probably had a bunch of calls to make. He made a pro forma comment about looking forward to working with me, and a few other pleasantries. I finished with, “It will be an honor and a privilege to work with you, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Brewster McRiley was giving me a big smile at that. “Laying it on a bit thick there, Carl?”

I smiled but shook my head. “That was the President of the United States, Brewster. It will be an honor and a privilege to work with him.”

“You really are a true believer, aren’t you?”

I had to laugh at that. “Very much so, I’m afraid.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll beat that out of you,” he replied. I laughed some more.

I also got congratulatory phone calls from Bob Michel, the Minority Leader, and Lee Atwater, the Chairman of the RNC. Even William Donald Schaeffer, the Democratic Governor of Maryland, called to congratulate me. I smiled to myself afterwards. If my mother knew I was being congratulated by the Democrats, she’d disown me all over again!

It’s a good thing I mentioned to Brewster that we were running off to Hougomont for the rest of the week, because he immediately began protesting loud and long! Wednesday he had a full schedule already planned for me! This involved two things, going on television and talking to reporters, and calling back everybody important and thanking them. He would allow us to vacation starting Thursday, but only after talking to every other human in the Ninth District before then.

It was after midnight when we got home. George Tilden had gotten one of his patrolmen to station himself at our door with a breathalyzer. He was pretty good natured about it, and we only had one guy get mouthy. We loaded him in a taxi and took away his keys. I kept an eye out for people and a few got sent home with somebody else driving. Interestingly, I was tested as well, and I passed, but Marilyn failed, which got her to giggling. The cop and I just rolled our eyes at that, and I loaded her in the car and took her home.

We went inside to find both her parents sleeping in our recliners. The only question I had was whether they fell asleep before or after the announcement. It was more than possible that they had fallen asleep ahead of time and didn’t know that their son-in-law was a congressman-elect!

Dum-Dum woke up and madly scrambled over, so I grabbed her leash and took her outside. The ruckus woke up Big Bob, and he started climbing out of his chair as I went outside. Dum-Dum didn’t take too long to do her business, and then we went back inside. She wandered back to Charlie’s room to sleep. Harriet was lumbering up out of her chair.

“You win?” she asked.

I smiled over at her daughter. “Let me guess. You two fell asleep before the announcement?”

Big Bob laughed and nodded. “I think so.”

“I won. I’ll be the next Congressman from the Maryland Ninth,” I told them.

They stared at me for a moment. “Huh. You know, it’s kind of hard to believe. I don’t know as I’ve ever met a Congressman before,” he replied.

“We’re pretty normal, Bob,” I said, grinning.

Marilyn laughed hard at that. “Don’t push your luck, Carl. You haven’t been sworn in yet!” Then she yawned.

“I need to get some sleep. Come on, Mother, let’s go to bed. See you in the morning. Congratulations.” He led Harriett down the hallway.

I followed my wife into our bedroom. “When do we have to be at the airport?” I asked. Marilyn had sorted it out with Taylor. “Oh, that’s right, we aren’t going to the airport.”

“As soon as we wake up, I’m calling Taylor and sorting it out,” Marilyn replied.

“Fucking Brewster,” I muttered. We both shook our heads at that one.

The next morning we explained to Big Bob and Harriet that we would be delaying our trip by a day, and they agreed to help. By breakfast time Brewster had called and set up a schedule with reporters and television stations, and both Marilyn and I were to be at headquarters ASAP! Or sooner! We finished breakfast, shaved and/or showered, and were at campaign headquarters by nine. We were greeted by more people than I would have expected, and were cheered as we walked in the door.

I waved to everybody and then was dragged away into my office by Brew. “What’s with all the people out there?” I asked.

“I asked a few people to come in, to help shut down and clean up. Be nice to everybody and thank everybody, and maybe they’ll help us out again in two years, right?”

Understanding dawned on me. “Right, so I make sure I call or speak to all the volunteers. Got it!”

I ended up driving into Baltimore to talk on camera to the various television stations, but I spoke to Fletcher Donaldson of the Sun by telephone. Yes, we were excited by the win. Yes, we had to thank all the people who supported us, with donations and with time. No, I haven’t talked to or heard from Andy Stewart. No, I haven’t heard what he was saying about us (he was damning me left and right, and some of his statements were almost certainly actionable!) I won, and it was all water under the bridge.

Yadda, yadda, yadda! Be polite, don’t say much of substance, thank everybody under the sun. In between interviews, Brewster had a list of names and times for me to call and say thank you, and some I had to promise to meet between now and when I was sworn in.

It was after dinner before Marilyn and I got back to the house. She was as frazzled as I was, but the day wasn’t over. Waiting for us in the driveway was the head of our security detail, Henry Donaldson.

I got out of the car, and said, “Henry, is there a problem?” I glanced at the house, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

Henry saw my look, and he simply shook his head, and replied, “No, not yet, but there will be. We need to talk.”

I stopped. “Is there a problem?” I repeated.

“Sorry. No, nothing is wrong with the kids or the house or your family. This is about the future.”

“Okay. Well, come on in. We can talk in the den.” I shrugged at Marilyn, and she gave me a perplexed look in return.

We went inside, to hear everybody clamoring that they saw me on television, and Big Bob indignantly commented about the bile Andy Stewart was still spewing. We laughed at it all. I told Big Bob that we had talked to Brewster McRiley about Stewart, and he was calling him in the morning. Andy got a one day free pass. If he said anything starting tomorrow, we were going to sue his pants off.

I made a round of drinks for everybody, including Henry, and then the three of us headed into the den. Charlie tried to follow us in, but we scooted his butt back out the door. Then we settled into chairs. “Well, what’s up?” I asked. “Everything seems okay.”

“We need to talk about your security situation. Congratulations on winning, but that just complicates things.” I tried to wave him off, but Henry was dead serious. “Mister Buckman, I’ve been doing this long enough to know what I’m talking about. I was on the Detail for President Reagan back at the beginning of his first term, right after the shooting. If you don’t mind me saying it, you’ve been lucky so far.”

I was really tempted to blow him off, but then I remembered something John had once said about listening to the experts you paid for. Henry Donaldson seemed pretty serious. “Okay, so explain that.”

“Sir, you are a billionaire and a politician. One or the other would be bad enough, but the two together? You are an incident just waiting to happen! Combine that with your penchant for rescuing people… what would have happened if it had been a gang and not just one guy at that diner? You run your personal security as if you were inviting disaster.”

“As long as Marilyn and the kids are safe, I can generally handle myself.”

“Sir, I beg to disagree with you. First, while your children and wife are generally safe when they are being tailed around by my crew, you usually dismiss them when you are there. You can’t be both husband and father and security. It won’t work. As for taking care of yourself, you are asking for trouble. All it takes is one insurance fraud crew managing an accident and you could be in huge trouble.”

“Insurance fraud?” asked Marilyn.

He nodded to her. “Imagine this — your husband is out driving home from somewhere when a beat up car full of people pulls up in front of him and slams on the brakes. Your husband rear ends them, and then they sue for all sorts of stuff. If they are really professional, they do it at a location where they have cameras, you know, ‘friends’ who just happened to be nearby. They will sue you for all sorts of medical bills, and then for causing the wreck, and traumatic this-that-and-the-other. It happens all the time.”

I glanced over at my wife, who looked horrified by the thought. “I’ve heard of that happening, but I thought it was just in books or bad television shows,” I said.

“It’s a multibillion dollar a year insurance problem. In your case, the danger is not in the insurance fraud aspect, which does not really affect you, but the publicity and the chance for blackmail.”

“I’ll be damned,” I said, to nobody in particular.

“So, what does this mean for us? What do you want us to do?” asked Marilyn.

“We need to treat security much more comprehensively. Both you and Mister Buckman need to handle security more professionally. There will be some changes, not so much for you and the children, but definitely for Mister Buckman,” he answered.

“What kind of changes?”

“The house is fairly secure, but we need to put a gate across the driveway, and monitor visitors more closely from the station across the road. We are already tailing the school buses to school and keeping an eye on Charlie and the twins. Ma’am, you should be having one of our drivers with you everywhere. We can make it either a man or a woman, but they can’t be following you anymore, they need to be driving you.”

“Good God, it’s sounds like what the President has to do!” she exclaimed.

At that Henry and I looked at each other and smiled. “It’s not even close!” he said. I just laughed and shook my head. Henry continued, “You tailor the response to the likely security threat. In the President’s case, nobody really worries about insurance or blackmail, but everybody worries about kidnapping and assassination. I don’t see assassination as a problem here, although kidnapping is a possibility.”

“Really?”

He shrugged. “Yes and no. All those pictures of the missing children on milk cartons and such — the majority are either runaways or custody disputes. Actual kidnappings are very unlikely; the number is on the order of a few thousand a year or so, depending on how you calculate it. Now, that’s a serious problem, but it’s not many when you figure this is a nation of almost 300 million people. The level of surveillance we have maintained is enough to stop anything but a professional kidnapping for ransom, which is something you only see on bad spy movies or television.”

“It’s different with the President and his family,” I told Marilyn. “That’s where the bad movie scenarios actually kick in, both for kidnapping and murder. The problem is that if somebody is willing to pay the price in bodies, they can always kill or capture their target.”

“So don’t run for President,” I was ordered.

“Congressman was bad enough. I have no idea why anybody would actually want to run for President,” I countered. “So what do you want out of me?” I asked him.

“You can’t be doing things on your own anymore. From now on you have a driver and a bodyguard full time. We can dress them appropriately so they blend in. That stunt at the Westminster Diner? No more! What if Andy Stewart had been behind it, and the husband and wife team had been actors? You’d have been in Hagerstown, not him. No more of that stuff!”

Huh! It’s one thing to have your wife complain about that. It’s her job to complain about everything. It’s quite another to have a professional complain.

“One other thing. Mrs. Buckman, I am not trying to be indelicate, but I have noticed that you don’t have any tan lines…”

I snorted and began to laugh. I knew immediately where this was going! Marilyn turned beet red and spluttered, “You mean… you’ve seen… oh my God!” Marilyn frequently tanned topless by the pool while the kids were in school, and when it was just the two of us at Hougomont she often wore even less. I was going to miss that.

“I don’t want to be indiscreet, but a photographer with a telephoto lens could probably rent a helicopter for a thousand or two a day, and sell the photos for five to ten times that, more if Mister Buckman was with you and, well…” He left the sentence hanging. Donaldson at least had the decency to look a touch embarrassed to be bringing this up.

“Oh my God!” Marilyn wouldn’t even look at him, or me, for that matter.

I couldn’t take it any longer. I leaned back and laughed loud and long, at which point Marilyn reached over and punched me in the arm. That only made me laugh more. No more sex on the beach.

Eventually I stopped laughing, and the looks Marilyn was giving me indicated that sex on the beach, or anywhere else for that matter, was no longer a possibility in this lifetime. I simply smiled and asked, “So, we’re going to the Bahamas tomorrow. Do we need to cancel that, too? Or do you have a crew on standby for this?”

“I’d like to send a man and a woman with you. They can report back on any changes we need to make in the routines down there.”

“Okay, but they need to be here mid-morning, or it’s wheels up without them.”

“They’ll be here by nine.”

I stood up at that and walked Henry out, agreeing to make the changes necessary. I knew I wasn’t going to like some of them, but I also knew I had been lucky so far. He was right, being a billionaire and a Congressman was going to take some work.

I showed Henry out and headed back into the den. Harriet had put the kids to bed, and she and Big Bob were dozing in the living room. Marilyn looked at me sheepishly when I entered the den, and that just made me laugh some more. “The secret is out! You could have cost us the election!” I teased.

“You’re not funny!” was the riposte, although she began to giggle.

“If I’m not funny, then how come you’re laughing?”

“Do you think anybody actually saw me? I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life!”

“You mean besides me and your other boyfriends?” That earned me a squawk of outrage. I sat down at my desk and twirled around to face her. “Well, if we can’t have incredibly hot sex outside, we’ll just have to have incredibly hot sex inside.”

“Keep laughing and you’ll never have any sex anywhere!” I laughed at that, and Marilyn gave me a “Humph!” and stood up and headed for the door.

I made a long arm and got her around the waist as she passed me by. “I bet I can change your mind.”

“Oh? How?” she said snidely.

“Like this!” And with that statement I pulled her skirt up and grabbed the waistband of her pantyhose, and pulled them and her panties down.

“Carl!” she squealed. She looked wildly towards the closed door to the rest of the house. “We can’t! Not here!”

I kept pushing her pantyhose down below her knees to her ankles. “Your parents are snoozing, so you’d better not scream too loudly.” I lifted her up and spun her around so that she was sitting on my desk, her bare bottom on the calendar/blotter. I pushed her knees apart and put my face between her thighs and began to eat her out. For all of my wife’s complaining about her parent’s coming in, she was very excited and very wet. Almost immediately Marilyn began to whimper and squirm around on the desktop. I glanced up and she had her eyes closed and was biting on one knuckle; the other hand grabbed the back of my head and pulled me into her pussy and kept me there!

I chowed down through a couple of orgasms for my wife, and then pulled my head away. She was looking at me in a dazed fashion. I unzipped my pants and pushed them and my briefs down to my ankles. “Your turn,” I told her.

Marilyn slid off the desk and down to the floor. My cock was stiff as an iron pipe. I didn’t want or need any sort of ‘foreplay’, so when she opened her mouth and took me inside, I pushed forward and put my hands in her hair and fed it to her completely. It felt good, really good, and she sucked me and jacked my shaft, and I don’t think I lasted two minutes.

After swallowing my load, Marilyn licked her lips and sat back on her ankles. “I bet the President doesn’t have to worry about helicopters buzzing the house and taking photos. He can probably have them shot down!” she said, giggling a touch.

I smiled down at her. “No, but I bet the Russians have satellites that could take photos! Wouldn’t that be a kick!?”

I stood up and helped Marilyn to her feet. We pulled ourselves together and grabbed the glasses and headed back to the living room. Marilyn’s parents were both snoring in the recliners. I rolled my eyes at Marilyn. She scooted down the hall to the bedroom and I woke them and sent them to bed. We readied ourselves for bed, made love, and then fell asleep.

Any hope I had of an early morning quickie was destroyed when Holly and Molly decided to join us when the sun rose. They came running into our bedroom and jumped on the bed. The two peppered us with questions about what we would do by ourselves in the Bahamas (I chuckled at that and got a dirty look from their mother) as well as what would happen when I started my new job. Were we moving? Were they going to a new school? What would happen with Dum-Dum? Were we getting a divorce, so that Daddy could move and Mommy could stay behind!? (I whispered to Marilyn that sounded reasonable, and got punched in the ribs for my trouble.) Some of the questions we had heard yesterday, and they wanted to know more.

Marilyn chased the girls out of the room and we both headed into the bathroom. I debated joining her in the shower, but with three kids and her parents in the house, it didn’t seem like a real bright idea. I brushed my teeth while she showered, and then it was my turn. I was still dressed and out of the bathroom before she was.

We answered a bunch of questions over breakfast, but then we loaded the kids on the school bus. No, we weren’t getting a divorce. (We had to explain that one to Marilyn’s parents, who got a kick out of it.) No, we weren’t moving. No, they weren’t changing schools. Dum-Dum was going to be just fine. Charlie had a bunch of questions, too, but he was a bit more practical. His were related to figuring out what he could get away with while Mom and Dad were away for the next few days! He headed out the door and I just looked at Big Bob and Harriett. “He’s all yours! Don’t call us unless he gets kidnapped. I’m going to make the kidnappers pay to give him back!”

“He’s too much like his father,” said Marilyn.

“Yeah? Well, then, I’ll just do like my father and not bail him out of jail!”

Marilyn snorted. “You’ve always gotten out of jail on your own, just fine.”

Big Bob and Harriett looked at each other at this. “You haven’t really been in jail, have you?”

I just gave them a really wicked grin. “So many times I’ve lost track! Five or six times, at least! Ask your daughter someday.”

“Don’t get me involved in your legal shenanigans! Bail yourself out!” Marilyn answered, really making her parents worry.

“We need to pack.” I grabbed the luggage from the utility room as Marilyn loaded the dishwasher, and I dragged the luggage into our bedroom. We weren’t going to be gone all that long. Today was Thursday and we would fly home on Monday. Just long enough to work on our tans, engage in repeated mindless sex, and drink a lot of rum, all out of the reach of reporters and Andy Stewart. At least we hoped we would be out of reach of everybody. Henry Donaldson’s talk last night made me wonder.

Packing was simple, at least for me. Some khakis and Hawaiian shirts, a sport coat and a couple of dress shirts for going out to dinner, a pair of socks or two, and not much else. I was wearing khakis and a Hawaiian shirt, and deck shoes without socks. Marilyn packed light, too, at least as light as she ever packs. I think she had two outfits per day, plus spares. No bras or panties, though. I teased her about that and she showed me her bag. Then she sent me out of the bedroom, since she needed to prepare for the trip. “What more do you need to prepare for?” I asked.

“I’m taking a bath and shaving,” she said. “All over!”

I swallowed hard and finished packing my bag and the hanging bag and dragged them out to the living room. About an hour later Marilyn came out of the bedroom wearing a calf-length sundress with a halter top and a row of buttons down the front. She had on some high-heeled sandals. “You should wear a jacket. It’s cold out,” said her mother.

She nodded. “I can leave it in the car at the airport. We’re leaving you the van. We’ll take Carl’s Cadillac to the airport.”

Or not. Promptly at nine, the doorbell rang and we opened it to find a pair of security people standing there with Henry. Out in the driveway I could see a small gray limo idling. “I’d like to introduce Joe Bonnano and Marie Telluride. They’ll be going with you to the Bahamas. In addition to your personal security, they’ll also be examining security at your home there. Joe used to do diplomatic security for the State Department and Marie was in the FBI.”

That seemed impressive enough. Big Bob and Harriet were a bit concerned, though. “Is there a problem? Have there been any threats?” she asked.

Henry responded, saying, “Nothing of the sort. We simply talked it over and we plan to increase security on the Buckmans. Now that the Congressman is in the public eye, there might be some possible problems in the future. We just want to be ready.”

I wasn’t sure how reassuring that was to my in-laws. He was still talking to them as we kissed the kids good-bye and hustled out the door. “Let’s go before they get nervous,” I said.

We were directed to the limo, and tossed our bags in the trunk, alongside two other large suitcases, presumably belonging to Joe and Marie. Joe was a big beefy guy who looked like an Italian Mafia hitman, but I knew the State Department wasn’t hiring thugs, so he had to be pretty smart. Marie had that serious professional look I’ve occasionally seen in businesswomen who decided their career was more important than home life. Both of them looked like they could clean up nice and accompany us anywhere we needed to go.

Twenty minutes later we were at the Westminster airport. It was about 9:30, and there was a G2 sitting on the tarmac. I didn’t see any other planes ready to go. “I hope that’s for us,” I told my wife. “Is this what you worked out with Taylor?”

We immediately got a lesson in security. Rather than just open the door and hop out, Joe told us to wait. He got out of the car, looked around briefly, and then opened the door. On the other side of the car Marie was continuing to scan the area. I knew I would get used to it, but it was a little disconcerting. Joe accompanied us inside, while Marie stayed with the car.

Normally I made the travel arrangements, but this time Marilyn had done it. I had been too busy campaigning, and we had decided that either way, we were going away. Most of all, we had a very limited window to do this. In a week and a half, on Sunday the 18^th, both Marilyn and I had to be in Washington for a week of freshman orientation. It was going to be like heading back to college!

We parked at the charter office and headed inside. A fellow standing at the counter looked up at us. I recognized him as a pilot we had used before. “The Buckmans, right?”

“You remembered,” I said.

“It’s not hard to when you’ve been on the news so much lately. Ready to go?”

“I’ve been ready! I need a vacation after all of this!” I replied with a snort.

He laughed at that. “I bet you do. Well, if you have any luggage, let’s get you loaded up.” He came around the counter and followed us out to the limousine. He grabbed the suitcases while I carried the hanging bag. Marilyn took off her jacket and tossed it on her seat, grabbed her purse, and headed towards the plane. Our security detail each grabbed a suitcase. I patted my pants pockets and confirmed I had our passports, and we headed towards the G2. Ten minutes later we were settled in and climbing to altitude.

Once we were level, a chime rang and the pilot came on and announced our remaining flight time and said we had some champagne cooling in the fridge. I smiled over at Marilyn. “You and Taylor have everything planned, I see.”

“I have to admit, this really beats flying coach,” replied my wife. She unbuckled and went forward. A small refrigerator was built into the forward bulkhead, and she retrieved a bottle of champagne and brought it back to me. Then she went forward again and found where the glasses were.

I turned to face our security team. “I don’t know if you’re allowed to partake, but you’re invited, I guess. Or is that verboten? I’ve never really had bodyguards before.”

Joe replied, “No, that would really sort of defeat the whole purpose, wouldn’t it? Don’t mind us, though. Feel free to have a drink.” Marie simply smiled.

“Uh…” I glanced over at Marilyn. I guessed another round in the Mile High Club was out. I pointed at the seats in front of ours, which were facing rearward. “Come on up here, we need to know how this works.” I turned back to face the front of the plane, and they unbuckled and came forward. Joe sat down in front of me and Marie sat in front of Marilyn.

I stripped off the foil and wire cage, and then carefully popped the cork, making sure to hold it away from me in case it got fizzy. I handed Marilyn her flute and then set the bottle into the holder. “Okay, teach me about what we have to do. How does this work?” I asked. It felt very weird drinking in front of them.

“How much experience have you had with bodyguards?” asked Marie. It was practically the first thing she had said so far. She was a very quiet type.

I glanced at my wife a moment before answering. “Some, but not much. Back in 1983 Marilyn was being stalked, and we brought a team in to drive her around and eventually take her out of the state, but that all ended when my brother was stopped.”

“When you killed him, correct?”

“Correct. Since then, we went a lot lower profile. The kids and Marilyn would get a tail whenever they were out, but when I was with them, I handled things. When I travel I usually get a driver when I’m away, but nothing else.”

“Mister Donaldson explained why that’s no longer really sufficient?”

Both Marilyn and I nodded. “We want to keep it low profile with the kids, as long as we can,” I responded.

Marilyn added, “We don’t want them being driven around in armored cars.”

That earned a smile from both of them. “We can handle that. The biggest change will be the Congressman, here,” said Joe. He turned to face me. “Here’s a few ground rules. Don’t leave a setting until somebody has had a chance to look around and wave you forward. We can do that very discreetly. Don’t just jump out of the car and run in somewhere. We’ll open the door for you to let you out, and then open the door of the building and look in first.”

“We won’t hover over you, either, but we will be in the background,” said Marie. “We’ll be dressed appropriately for the occasion, and just look like we’re mingling in. If it’s something in Washington, where you’ll be in a secure situation, we won’t even go in.”

“So if I’m in the Capitol building?” I asked.

“Once you go inside, we’ll just stay with the car or head to the office or something. You have to call us to tell us to pick you up. We won’t be over your shoulder in meetings.”

Joe said, “When you reserve a room, try to reserve one with a maid’s bedroom, that sort of thing. Otherwise, we can just stand post in the hallway.”

“Generally, you can ignore us. Don’t ask us if we want a drink or want to eat or whatever. We’ll make arrangements for that. Don’t think you’re being rude to us. Just go about your business, whatever it is,” said Marie.

“Huh. Uh, are you two carrying? You know, guns? Now?” I asked. Joe opened his jacket to show a small automatic. Marie simply nodded. “How does that work overseas? What are the rules in the Bahamas? I would prefer not to need to bail out my bodyguards. You’re supposed to bail me out, not the other way around.”

That earned a few chuckles from everybody. “We will need to make some arrangements. We should be safe, but try to avoid getting us in a gunfight,” was Joe’s smiling reply.

I glanced at my wife. “Good advice,” she commented drily.

The four of us chatted for the rest of the flight, mostly about Joe’s and Marie’s backgrounds and experiences, which were totally alien to Marilyn and me.

Eventually we were on approach to Nassau and descended to land. The strange part came when we taxied up to the terminal. As always, we parked away from the terminal and waited for a Bahamian Customs officer to come out. Normally this doesn’t take all that long, since Nassau isn’t the world’s busiest airport, and they are used to having a number of small planes land. Instead, the pilot popped the bulkhead door open and yelled back, “We’ve been asked to hold for Customs. It’ll be a few more minutes.”

I went forward. “Anything unusual?” I asked.

“Not that I know of. You guys carrying the crown jewels?” he replied.

“Not us!”

We shrugged at each other and waited. He kept one engine running to provide power to the air conditioning, since otherwise it’s just a big metal tube in the tropical sun.

About ten minutes later, he said, “Okay, it’s showtime.” He shut down the engine and came back and opened the door as a pair of Customs officers approached.

That in itself was unusual, since we had never had more than one check us out and wave us through. Maybe the second guy was a trainee, but I didn’t think so. For one thing, the first officer didn’t do any more than glance at all of our passports. He said, “Mr. and Mrs. Buckman, would you please come with me?”

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Nothing’s wrong. We simply need you to come inside for a moment. This will be cleared up shortly. This officer will stay with your luggage.”

The pilot looked very alarmed at this, figuring we were smuggling something. On the other hand, who the hell smuggles shit from the U.S. to the Bahamas? It goes the other direction! I motioned for Joe and Marie to stay seated. They couldn’t do anything with the cops involved in any case. What were we going to do? Yank up the stairs and blast our way down the runway? This wasn’t an old rerun of Miami Vice.

Marilyn and I shrugged in confusion and then climbed down the steps and walked with the Customs guy inside. We were led into an office where a slim man of average height in a police uniform was waiting, seated behind a desk. The Customs officer handed him our passports. The second man glanced at them and then at us, and looked at the Customs officer and tilted his head towards the door. The Customs officer nodded and silently left.

The police officer turned back to us and smiled. “Welcome back to the Bahamas, Mrs. Buckman, Mister Buckman. Here, you may have these back. Thank you.”

I took our passports and put them back in my pocket. “Is there some sort of problem, officer?”

He brought his hand up to his heart, and answered theatrically. “Oh, I am heartbroken! You don’t remember me! And yet I remember you so well! Allow me to re-introduce myself to you. I am Assistant Commissioner Javier. We met back in 1982.”

Marilyn continued to look mystified, but it came back to me. I looked closely at the policeman’s face. It looked a bit older, with a few more lines, and a trace of gray at the temples, but I could tell who it was. “The last time I saw you you were an Assistant Superintendant, if I remember correctly. Might I assume that Assistant Commissioner is a step or two up from that?”

He smiled broadly. “Oh, yes, several steps. That is why I am here. It seems that you, too, have had a promotion since those days!”

I gave a modest shrug and a nod. Then I noticed Marilyn, and I turned towards her. She said, “Carling, what is going on?”

“Ah… Marilyn, allow me to introduce you to Assistant Commissioner Javier. When last you saw him, he was but a humble Assistant Superintendant on the island of Eleuthera, and he was talking to us in the clinic where I was being sewed up after the bar fight. Remember that?”

Marilyn’s eyes popped wide open at that. “But that was years ago! What’s wrong now?!”

Javier had a big grin on his face. “Oh, nothing at all. I am simply here as a humble messenger. You have been invited to dinner by the Prime Minister at Government House on Saturday evening.”

I stared at him for a second. “Dinner with the Prime Minister? Who? Us? Why?”

Javier laughed at me. “Yes, you! Who else! Why? Why is because you are now a member of your Congress! We try to be polite to them. Why else!?”

I turned to face Marilyn, who looked as stumped as I was. “I’ll be damned!” I turned back to Javier. “We don’t really have a choice in this, I am guessing.”

He held his hands out in a placating gesture. “Of course you have a choice, but the smart choice is to say yes and get to meet the people who own the island your house is on, hmmm? Please, it will be very pleasant. The Prime Minister, your Ambassador, a few other people… nothing too elaborate.”

I rolled my eyes and looked at Marilyn, who gave me a wry look and shrugged. I shrugged back, and then said, “Well, when you put it that way… It better not be too elaborate. We’re on vacation, and I left my tuxedo at home!”

“That won’t be necessary. A suit would be fine, or perhaps a sport jacket even. Did you bring one? No? Well, we have many fine shops you can visit by then.”

“Great. You’d better be there, too, buddy.”

“Oh, of course. I’ll even have a car sent round for you on Saturday evening, eh?”

“Fine.” Then I thought of something. “How did you learn I was a Congressman? I haven’t even been sworn in yet. And how did you get this job?”

“The second part is the answer to the first. I am in charge of special investigations for the Prime Minister. When the interest in you surfaced recently, it was placed in my hands,” he answered.

“Interest in me? What possible interest could the government of the Bahamas have in me? You’ve never had any before!”

“But you weren’t a Congressman before, were you.”

“Still…”

He gave me a wry shrug. “Blame it on your reporters back home. Somebody called our embassy in Washington about the events back in 1982. Nobody there really knew anything about it, so they called the home office and asked them. Well, that was eight years ago, so it got passed along to the Assistant Commissioner of Special Investigations to look into. A candidate for the American Congress was in a bar fight? How extraordinary! So I looked into it, and discovered that somebody with the same name visits us on a regular basis and actually owns a home here. A billionaire, no less! Well, why don’t we get the original police officer to see if they are the same people? What a bright idea! And here we find ourselves now.”

“And it just happens that you are that officer. That is quite the coincidence,” I said.

“That really is a coincidence. But anyway, once we knew who you were, the embassy was told to watch the news and let us know if you won. I also contacted the maintenance company that takes care of your home here, and asked them to let me know about your schedule, and they told me you were coming here this week. So, we simply put two and two together. You won, and you’re here, and now the Prime Minister would like to meet you.”

“Well, far be it from me to rain on anyone’s parade. Please let them know we will be happy to attend. Simply call and let us know the time the car will come out. What exactly does the Assistant Commissioner of Special Investigations investigate, by the way?” I asked.

He chuckled at that. “Anything the Prime Minister wants me to.”

I suddenly had a bright idea. “Assistant Commissioner, do you have a few minutes. I just found myself with a security detail, and we need to know a few rules. Could I have them speak to you?”

“Of course.”

I left Marilyn in the office and went back to the plane. I climbed up the steps and said, “Everything is kosher. I can explain it later. Listen, if you two wanted to find out about carrying a weapon here, I have just the man to help you. Leave them on the plane and come with me.”

Joe and Marie looked mystified, but complied. Joe took his out of his shoulder holster and left it on his seat. Marie must have been carrying hers in her handbag, because she left that behind. I introduced them to Javier, and then I went back out, to explain things to the pilot and copilot, and start unloading our luggage. They helped me carry it over to our minivan parked at the terminal. I also made sure we moved the security detail’s luggage.

When we made it back to the plane, we found Javier on board with Joe and Marie, inspecting their identification and carry permits from Maryland. He nodded to them and handed everything back. All I caught was that they needed to run into town tomorrow to see him and he would give them something official. That was for them to sort out. When we got back, Henry could figure out something long term. Another crisis resolved.

We drove directly to Hougomont. As the Assistant Commissioner had mentioned, we had been using a maintenance company for years now. While we didn’t want staff around during our visit, we did want the place properly taken care of between visits. They handled all the yard work and maintenance, and cleaned and did the house laundry (sheets and things) after we left. They would clean out the fridge and tidy things up, too. Some of the guests we let use the place when we weren’t around could be a bit sloppy. Also, there was a standing list of staples to be checked on in the kitchen cupboards, and some liquor to be restocked in the cabinet. We didn’t need to stop on the way there to pick up groceries. We would probably have to reevaluate some of these things in light of the new security situation.

Marilyn teased me as we left the airport. “Wow! An invitation to meet the Prime Minister! You Congressmen must be pretty important! I guess I did alright dumping my tycoon boyfriend for somebody as important as you!”

I snorted and laughed. “Now I get to tell you to behave, or I’m going to tell your husband you’re cheating on him!” She just laughed at me.

Once at the house, we unloaded the minivan and carried the luggage inside. Ours went into our room, and we let Joe and Marie use a couple of the spare bedrooms. They said this was only a temporary thing. We should give serious consideration to building a small security building out of sight somewhere on the property. I’d have to give that some thought. We had the acreage, but I had just never considered it before. Then they disappeared, to wander around outside and check out the property.

I took the opportunity to follow Marilyn into the bedroom. Earlier, I had failed to detect any underwear under my wife’s dress. If we couldn’t fool around outside anymore, we would just have to fool around inside!

I waited until Marilyn came out of the master bath and stopped her. With one hand I cupped one of her breasts through the dress, while I used the other hand to begin unbuttoning her dress. She smiled, but said, “What will they think?!”

“Remember, they said to ignore them.” I slipped my hand inside to begin toying with her breasts directly, eliciting a pleasant shudder in her.

“Oh, God, they are going to think we’re… oh…” Her eyes fluttered as she came from my flicking her nipples.

“So what! We are!”

I pulled her over to the bed and sat down on it, where I was able to finish with the buttons. Marilyn shrugged off the dress and crawled onto the bed with me. Marilyn returned the favor by stripping me naked as well. We slipped onto our sides, facing each other, and while I suckled her nipples and fingered her slit, Marilyn began stroking my cock. Within five minutes she was moaning and demanding, “Fuck me! Fuck me!” I rolled her on her back and Marilyn tried to pull me on top of her, but I resisted. I threw a leg over hers and held her in place on her back, legs spread, and I reached across to grasp the arm which had been flailing around, and placed that between her legs. I held her hand there, forcing her to pleasure herself, as she moaned and demanded to be fucked.

Eventually I relented, and smiled to myself as I rolled between her legs. It was like sinking my cock into a hot and soupy swamp of pussy juice. Marilyn gasped and wrapped her arms and legs around me tightly, and I began to plow my cock in and out of her. She was babbling to me, “Yes, yes, fuck me, fuck me…” over and over. My cock was making squishing noises as I pistoned in and out of her. I couldn’t take any more. I gave a final hard thrust and buried myself inside her as I sagged down on top and my cock and balls spasmed out a heavy load.

I lay there for a minute or so, catching my breath, and then rolled to the side. Marilyn rolled with me, and I could feel the wetness leaking from her as she snuggled at my side. “Ummm…” she murmured. “Let’s do that again.”

I smiled and snorted with laughter. “Fine by me, but you’re going to have to do some motivation. I’m a little tuckered out at the moment.”

“What did you have in mind?”

In response I simply reached up and pushed on the top of her head gently. Marilyn giggled and said, “I thought it would be something like that!” She licked her way down my chest and didn’t stop until she was able to lick the sticky mixture of come and pussy juice off my cock She went slowly, and I had ample time to enjoy it as she cleaned me up and then began to suck my cockhead. I was debating letting her finish me off this way, but Marilyn decided to save a horse and ride a cowboy. Once she deemed me stiff enough, she rose up on her knees and straddled my waist, to sink down on top and bury my cock inside her that way. She leaned forward and began rubbing her tits in my face. “Suck my nipples, please, suck my nipples!”

I reached up and grabbed her tits and brought them to my lips. I switch back and forth, alternating, and my wife began whimpering. Her hips were going crazy, humping her pussy up and down on my cock, as I flicked her nipples with my fingers and tongue. Before I could come again, she had lifted up and her fingers were between us, rubbing her clit furiously as she orgasmed again. She collapsed on me.

“What about me? I’m not done yet!” I rolled her off of me and pushed her face down onto the bed. It was my turn, I straddled her from behind and slipped my still hard prick down between her thighs and forward into her cunt.

“Oh, God! Oh, God!” she began to moan. “Fuck my pussy! Fuck my pussy!”

I hammered into her from behind, and she came twice more before I unloaded into her slimy cunt a second time. Then I rolled off of her and collapsed, sweaty and panting, on the bed. “I think I like this a lot more than going to a dinner with the Prime Minister,” I commented. Marilyn rolled towards me and snuggled some more. I idly rubbed my wife’s naked back, but wasn’t figuring on a third bout. I wasn’t eighteen anymore, and needed some recharge time these days.

“I have a feeling that that is going to become more common. You’re Mister Important now!” Marilyn lifted her head up on my chest, and crossed her arms, to lay her head down so she could look up at me. “I think you need to plan ahead for this sort of thing.”

“Maybe. I mean, I’m still the same old asshole I’ve always been, though.”

She smiled at me. “I know you’re an asshole, and you know you’re an asshole, but not everybody else knows. Seriously, from now on we’re going to have to make sure to pack some suits and dresses for when we go away. Wait until we’re somewhere and some lobbyist tracks you down or something.”

“If a lobbyist tracks me down while I’m on vacation, I’m going to place the umbrella from one of your silly drinks in a very tender location and then open it!”

“Cute. No, seriously! You’ll be polite. You won’t be an asshole. You’ll take his money.”

“You are very wise. I grovel at your feet, oh wise one!” I said. At that I heard a growl coming from between us. “That was you, I think,” I told her.

Marilyn blushed, but tried to deflect it anyway. “I think it was you!”

“Marilyn, I know better. You’re a Lefleur, after all.”

“What do you mean by that!?”

I laughed. “I’ve been around your brothers too often! Their favorite sport is competitive flatulence!”

She began laughing. “They aren’t that bad!”

“Don’t forget the belching contests at Christmas!”

“You’re awful!” Just then my own stomach growled. “See! That was you, not me!”

I smiled and rolled her off me gently. “Let’s get cleaned up, get dressed, and go out. We can have either a late lunch or an early dinner.”

Marilyn’s stomach growled again, and she giggled and agreed. We both took quick showers and dressed casually, and then headed outside. We found Joe and Marie sitting on the back porch, drinking juice. It was time for a late lunch or early dinner. We took Adelaide Road into Adelaide Village and stopped at a bar along South West Bay for a meal and a few rum punches. We ate a pile of conch fritters and then some fried grouper. At one point I asked Marilyn if she wanted to go shopping, but she said no, it was too late in the day. So we just sat there in the afternoon sun and sipped some punches while looking out at the bay, and then had an early dinner after that, and drank a few more rum punches. No they didn’t have to pour us in our car at the end of the day, but it was a close run thing.

Friday morning in paradise involved rain and Advils, but we weren’t in too bad a shape. Marilyn and I blamed each other for being of low moral character and leading the other to drink and ruin. By lunchtime, though, we were feeling fine for going out. We needed to do some shopping for Saturday night.

“I think our best bet would be some of the shops over on Paradise Island,” I told Marilyn.

“I can’t just wear a sundress? That police officer said it wasn’t very formal,” she countered.

I smiled at her, perhaps a touch indulgently. Marilyn simply isn’t a very formal lady. While she did have several evening gowns for when we went down to the Lyric, playing dress-up hadn’t been big on her games list when she was a little girl. It had been for Suzie, I recalled. I wondered if she still got to play dress-up with her State Trooper husband and family. I shook the thought off. “Commisioner Javier was being polite, but let’s face it, it might not be black tie, but we need something more than clean shirts and a new denim skirt.”

“Maybe I should have voted for Andy Stewart after all!” Marilyn said.

I stopped in my tracks and grinned. “Is that an admission you voted for me?”

Marilyn blushed as I caught her out. She had been telling me all along that she had cancelled out my vote. “No! I wrote it in! Mickey Mouse!”

I just laughed and led the way out the door. Joe and Marie went with us, of course, which felt very weird. Once we got over to Paradise Island, we found a place to park and then we went window shopping for a bit. We happened to go into a men’s shop first, but that was simply coincidence. The suit for me wasn’t going to be a problem. I take a size 42 Long straight off the rack, and we just needed to pay through the nose for the pants to be hemmed by the next day. I picked something in a nice flax colored linen, which was light enough for the islands and still formal enough for a dinner. Unless Javier was wrong about needing a tuxedo, I’d be okay.

I also bought some underwear, socks, a couple of ties, and a new pair of shoes that I prayed wouldn’t hurt my feet. I had a pair of dress shirts to wear with the suit. So much for a casual vacation!

After lunch, where I fortified myself with a couple of beers, we went shopping for Marilyn. Marilyn took longer, a lot longer! Normally I hate shopping with her, this time I detested it! She has to try on everything, wants my opinion on everything, doesn’t like what I have to say, and then chews on me before trying something else on. Then we would repeat the process down the street! I’m a guy, a member of a species possessed of both an X and a Y chromosome. Our primary interest in women’s dresses is how difficult it will be to remove them!

At one point she came out of the dressing room with something on and turned around in it and actually asked me, “Does it make me look fat?”

I rolled my eyes at this. By now I had lived almost a century, and I knew the answer to this is always NO, but I was losing patience and was hungry. I twirled my fingers and made her turn around a second time. “Yeah, it really makes you look huge! I mean, your butt is simply enormous! I think the Navy is going to retire an aircraft carrier and land planes back there…”

“CARLING!”

“It’s fine, dear!”

“You’re no help!”

I stood up and gave her a hug. “You are absolutely gorgeous. You can wear anything. Now just pick out something so we can go get a drink!”

“OUT!”

“I saw a bar across the street. See you later!” I scrambled out of range, followed by Joe, leaving her and the shop girl to commiserate about the worthlessness of men. In the end, as I knew she would, she bought two dresses, plus all the necessary underwear and pantyhose required, although she drew the line at shoes. She had a very nice and dressy pair of high heeled sandals that would be fine. A clerk was sent to summon me in the bar, or at least summon my American Express card, so I paid off my bar tab and went to pay for Marilyn’s spree and carry everything. I was not asked my opinion on what she had purchased, and was not even shown it!

That had blown the entire afternoon, so after we loaded the car, we stayed and had dinner at the Paradise Beach Hotel, and then we went over to the casino. I prevailed on Marilyn to give me a few hours alone at the high stakes blackjack tables and earned enough to pay for the shopping and some incidentals. I know, I know, what’s a billionaire need to count cards for? I didn’t gamble often enough to be on anybody’s banned list. I cashed my chips in, took a check for a bit over $20,000, and found my wife at the $1 slots. Talk about your differences! We had one last drink, and then went home.

Saturday was actually the first day we had a chance to work on our tans. The weather had cleared and neither of us had any need or inclination to leave Hougomont. We slept late, worked on our tans, swam in the pool, walked on the beach, and took a very strenuous nap in the afternoon. We told each other it was so we would be refreshed in time for the dinner party. That was sort of true. After screwing each other ragged, we did get some real sleep.

While we were walking on the beach, a call came in and was picked up on the answering machine. A car would be sent around at half past seven. Drinks were at eight, and dinner was at nine. That was quite a bit later than Marilyn was used to, although I’ve always been more in tune with that schedule. At six, before we started getting ready, I cooked up a couple of hot dogs for each of us, to tide us over. We might be dining with the elites of the Bahamas, but around the house, we’re incredibly average.

Promptly at seven-thirty a black Lincoln drove up to the front of Hougomont. I was still working on my tie, but Marilyn was still trying to decide on which of the two dresses she was going to wear. She had bought a red number which I liked, and a blue outfit. I finally decided for her by suggesting she wear red tonight and blue next weekend in Washington. There was a knock on the door and Joe went to open it. A large black man was standing there in a dark suit. I glanced out a window and saw the Lincoln idling. I went to the foyer. “Hi, you’re here to take us into Nassau?”

“Yes, sir, to Government House,” he replied.

“Well come on in. Mrs. Buckman is going to be a few minutes. Unless you have lights and a siren on that thing, we’re going to be fashionably late.” I stepped out of the way and motioned him inside. I went over to a mirror and finished with my tie. I turned back to the driver, and asked, “You’ve taken people to these things before. Is this going to be all right?”

He looked at me and nodded. “That will be fine. Sir Lynden is not that formal.”

“Sir Lynden?”

“Sir Lynden Pindling, the Prime Minister.”

“Huh. He was knighted?” The driver nodded, and I said, “I don’t think I’ve ever met a knight before. Knowing my luck, I’ll spill my drink on him and end up in the dungeon.”

The driver smiled. “You’d better not spill your drink then.”

“I’ll just blame my wife. I presume they do that in the Bahamas, too.”

“I think they do that wherever they have husbands and wives, sir.”

I laughed and nodded. “I’ll hurry her up!”

Considering we were in police custody, so to speak, Joe and Marie were able to stay at Hougomont. I managed to hustle Marilyn out the door fifteen minutes later, and we made it to Government House almost on time. Nobody seemed to think this was a problem. We didn’t seem to be dressed improperly. The men were all wearing suits, although theirs were mostly darker, and the women were mostly wearing knee and calf-length dresses. Marilyn’s outfit was knee length, and had a V neckline that showed enough cleavage to keep a fellow interested. Our driver let us out of the car and pointed us up the walkway.

It was Assistant Commissioner Javier who found us coming in, and he did the introductions. It seemed like he had definitely risen in the ranks following the capture of the gang on Eleuthera. Well, that was fair enough. He had taken what could have been a very nasty publicity debacle and handled it quite nicely. There were about two dozen people there, but the only two I really paid any attention to were the Prime Minister and the U.S. Ambassador to the Bahamas, a political appointee of George Bush’s whose sole qualifications seemed to be that he had just lost his Senate seat to the Democrats but gave a lot of money to the Republicans.

The dinner was interesting. Both the Ambassador and the Prime Minister seemed curious about the billionaire who had managed to buy a deluxe oceanfront villa without anybody knowing he was there. Some of the other gossip was amusingly catty. It seemed that Sir Lynden was known among his countrymen as the “Father of the Nation”, the leader of the country since they gained their independence from Britain back in the Seventies. However, there had been a number of allegations about payoffs from South American drug cartels for allowing shipments through the country, and a recent audit of his accounts showed that he and his wife spent a whole lot more than they earned! Nobody in the Bahamas seemed to care, though, and he remained popular. I wondered what Javier thought about any of that.

The Ambassador, Chic Hecht, got me alone at one point and gave me some tips about living in Washington. He was actually one of those rare politicians who moved back home after his term in office was over. He had business dealings back in Vegas that he had wanted to stay involved in. That was as opposed to Andy Stewart, who had probably put his condo in Cockeysville on the market the day after the election.

Otherwise, we simply drifted around the room and talked to various Bahamian government flunkies and some people from the American Embassy. I gave everybody my standard litany of how much we liked it down here and how I was just a private citizen. A few of the Bahamians wanted to know about my investing in the local economy, perhaps loaning money. I countered by explaining we weren’t a bank, but only took equity positions in companies, and we didn’t know the local laws regarding that. Everybody promised to get back to me, and I promised (silently) to dump it on Jake Junior.

Over dinner I made a few comments to Prime Minister and to Ambassador Hecht along the lines that while I couldn’t imagine how a simple Congressman could help them in their work, they should feel free to call me after I was sworn in. I would do whatever I could to assist. What the heck, it didn’t hurt to be polite, and who knew, maybe I could help. No reason not to.

I did make one offer to Javier. I knew that the FBI has various law enforcement classes and training available to foreign police forces, and that this is often considered a useful and prestigious thing. Perhaps Congressman Buckman could help make arrangements for him or any of his fellow officers? That seemed very interesting to him.

One of the most interesting moments came when Ambassador Hecht managed to speak to me and maneuver me outside into a garden. He was subtle about it, but I picked up on it easily enough. “Congressman, I wanted a chance to speak to you without anybody overhearing us.”

“I noticed we were moving away from the others, Mister Ambassador. What’s on your mind?”

“Call me Chip…”

“Carl,” I responded.

“… Carl… Anyway, I just thought I should let you know that there is a very good chance that your house is now under Bahamian surveillance. I can’t be sure just how intrusive they will be, but I am sure that you will be watched, and your movements monitored. I just figured, you know, a word to the wise.”

I felt a cold lump growing in my stomach. “Why would they take that chance? It’s not like I’m an enemy, or the U.S. is an enemy. Are you sure about that?”

He shrugged. “No, but it is likely. You are an American Congressman. How do you even know that it’s the Bahamians doing it? Maybe a different foreign power is doing it. Who knows? You probably can’t do much about it, but forewarned is forearmed.”

I thought for a second. Earlier, Javier had said that he had contacted the property maintenance company and they had told him our plans. I was fairly certain that he would be the first call they made in the future, after we let them know when we would be arriving. I nodded slowly. “I have the funny feeling that if the Bahamians are doing it, my friend Assistant Commissioner Javier would be the one responsible. What’s he do, anyway?”

Chip shrugged. “From what I’ve seen, he’s a decent enough cop, but he’s also a political cop. I don’t see him ever becoming Commissioner, but he’ll definitely end up as the guy who whispers in the Commissioner’s ear.”

“Well, I’ll just have to keep my sins away from here. No use looking for trouble, is there,” I said, smiling.

Chip nodded again, and we headed back inside. “Forewarned, forearmed,” he repeated.

We made it out of Government House without causing an international incident and fomenting a war in the Caribbean. Sunday we goofed off and Monday we flew home. On the plane home, while Marilyn took a nap, I had a quiet conversation with Joe and Marie in the back of the plane. We could always look into checking for bugs another time.

It was time to start becoming a Congressman. God help America!

Chapter 106: Orientation

Things began getting hectic for me as soon as we got back. We packed Granny and Gramps back to Utica, and went back to being Mom and Dad for a week. Tuesday, at the office, I had to begin making things official. I called the brain trust into the office, and went over the plans we had worked out, and then we called everybody into our biggest conference room. It was tight, but we made it. Then I stood up and I made the following announcements:

Starting in January I was going to have a whole new job. I was going to leave the company. As if anybody could have possibly not known this!

The Buckman Group was not ending. We had a great thing going here, and we were going to keep going.

Effective December 31, I would resign my position as President and CEO. I was keeping all my stock, so keep working hard! Meanwhile, I had to start getting out of here.

Effective December 31, John was becoming Chairman Emeritus. Jake Senior was staying as Treasurer. They were still the grownups.

Effective December 31, Jake Junior was becoming Chairman and Missy was becoming President. They were effectively running the place now anyway, so let’s make it official.

I’m not going to disappear! Expect to see my smiling face every once in a while. Besides, the voters might catch on, sooner or later, that I was clueless and throw me out!

This outfit was just about the best thing I had ever built in my life, short of my kids, and I was immensely proud of the work they had done. Thank you!

After the meeting, I shooed everybody back out, but I asked one of the secretaries to stay behind. She was Cheryl Dedrick, and the closest thing I had to a personal secretary-assistant. She had also been one of my earliest supporters, and had been a very useful queen bee during the campaign. She would be perfect for what I had in mind. I led her over to the coffee table and said, “Cheryl, have a seat. I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Of course, Mister Buckman, er, Congressman Buckman,” she said, smiling. She sat down in an armchair and I sat down in a chair facing her.

“Cheryl, let me ask you, have you enjoyed working with the Buckman Group? With me?”

“Yes, sir.” She looked confused. “Mister Buckman, is there a problem? Have I done something wrong?!”

My eyes popped open at that, but then I realized I had started this out all wrong! I waved my hands and quickly answered, “No, no, it’s nothing like that! No, you’re doing just fine here. I have a job proposition for you.”

“Oh! For a second there you had me going. Is this something new, here? I mean, now that you won’t be here, who will I be working with?”

I smiled. “Yes, that’s the problem, isn’t it? Here’s my idea. Mister Buckman won’t be here, but Congressman Buckman is going to need somebody manning the office in Westminster. Cheryl, would you be interested in working for me at my local office?”

Now it was her chance to open her eyes wide. “Wow! I never expected that!”

“I wasn’t doing a very good job of asking about this when we started. I apologize for that. No, I am going to need somebody I know and trust back here. I plan on getting back here a lot, since we’re so close, but I am going to be using the campaign offices as my local office. You were part of the team that got me there, so how about coming to work for me as my local rep? You live in Westminster, right? It would actually be a much shorter drive, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. Westminster would actually be closer,” she agreed.

“Okay. Here’s the deal. I don’t know what the pay would be, but you’ll be a government employee of some sort. If things don’t work out, we’ll keep a place available here, including accruing for seniority, pension vesting, and such. Personnel will write a letter stating you can come back at any time if it doesn’t work out, you know, like when the voters catch on I don’t know what I’m doing.” That earned me a laugh. “We’re going to have to make some phone calls to figure this out. Now, do you want to talk it over with your husband?”

She shook her head. “No, he won’t have a problem with this. I’m your gal for this! This is great! When do I start?”

“I don’t know yet, but let’s tell the others.” I stuck out my hand and we shook on it. Then I led her down the hall and we told the new Chairman and President. They both gave us a thumbs up. Then I sent her off to find a note pad and a pen, and we started making some plans.

Talk to Brew McRiley.

Talk to Andrea Greene about leasing the campaign offices.

Talk to Andrea about buying a home in D.C.

Arrange for accommodations in Washington for the Orientation week. Talk to Taylor Hannity about a hotel room for the week, maybe longer.

Get the final details for the Orientation week,

and finally

Talk to Brew McRiley!

I really needed to talk to Brewster. He needed to give me some last minute instruction on how Congress worked before I got there. Sure, we had Orientation coming up, but I didn’t even know what I needed to know before I got that far! Behind the scenes in Congress are thousands of people who never make the evening news, but if you don’t do it right, you will be history.

Back when I was in the Army, they had long experience with new people coming into new commands, and they had developed schools and introductory courses so a new officer, no matter how bad he was, didn’t seem like an idiot when he got somewhere. The reverse had been the case with the Buckman Group, but we had the benefit of not actually knowing what we were doing anyway. We made it up as we went along. I had a feeling that Congress might be closer to a shark tank, and I would need to at least know how to dog paddle before I got there.

I had debated asking Brewster if he might be interested in a position as my Chief of Staff, but I shot that idea down almost as quickly as I came up with it. McRiley wasn’t interested in politics as a means to get anything accomplished. He saw it as a game, and liked to play the game. He was a mercenary and simply moved from campaign to campaign, playing the game, and winning or losing. For him, winning simply meant an opportunity to move to a bigger campaign. No, while I would get a lot of information from him, he wouldn’t be part of my team, at least not until I was running again.

I cornered McRiley and got him into my office after lunch on Wednesday. “So, Brew, tell me how to be a Congressman!” I asked.

Brew laughed loudly at that. “Oh, Carl, you’re such a babe in the woods! Nobody cares about being a Congressman! They only care about being reelected!”

I rolled my eyes, but smiled. This was pretty much in line with what he had told me all through the campaign. “Humor me, Brewster. Imagine that I actually gave a shit about being a Congressman. I know it’s a stretch, but try to imagine it.”

“It’s easier to find bacon in Tel Aviv than it is to find a working Congressman in Washington. Okay, I’ll try.” He stood up and went over to my liquor cabinet. “We’re going to need a drink or two for this.”

I smiled and nodded, and he brought back a couple of glasses and bottles of gin and tonic water. I buzzed Cheryl and asked her to rustle up some ice. After she brought in the fixings for the booze we made our drinks.

Brewster sat down and drank some of his drink, and sighed blissfully. “Now, where were we? Oh, yes, discussing science fiction. Well, the first thing you have to understand is that all of the actual work is done by your staff. Forget about the sound bites and speeches from the elected representatives of this our great democracy. They don’t actually know shit about what is going on. It’s their staff that runs the place.”

“How big is my staff, anyway?” I asked.

“Right now? Zero!”

“None of the existing staff stay on?”

“Nope. They’re all Democrats anyway. No, you need to start lining up a staff now. You can have a maximum of twelve or fourteen — not quite sure on that — and they do everything.”

“Fourteen? Everybody gets that many? I mean, if there’s 535 Congressmen and Senators…” I started doing the math in my head, and then switched to a calculator. “That’s almost 7,500 staffers!”

“Wrong. Congressmen get that many. Senators get three dozen! That’s almost ten thousand staff people. Plus interns, don’t forget them.”

“Good Lord!”

“It gets worse,” he added. “That’s just the staffers for the individual Representatives and Senators. Congress itself has a staff. Each Congressional committee — you know, like Ways and Means or Armed Services — has its own staff. There are dozens of committees. Then the leadership, like the Speaker and the Whip, has a staff just for that. These are just the people who work on the laws. I’m not including any of the police or maintenance types. I wouldn’t be surprised if the total staff of the Congress was in the fifteen to twenty thousand range. I don’t think anybody actually knows!”

“Holy crap! That’s like an entire city!”

“Bingo! Now you know why they built the Hart Senate Office Building back in the Seventies. You simply can’t cram that many people into the Capitol. You won’t have an office in the Capitol itself. Only the leaders have those, the guys way up in seniority. You’ll be in either Cannon, Longworth, or Rayburn, down on Independence Avenue. That’s one of the things you’ll do in Orientation, get your office.”

“Huh,” I muttered to myself. “So, what in the world do all those people do?”

“Well, it’s like I said earlier, get you reelected. If you can actually accomplish anything while you’re at it, more power to you.” I gave him my driest look, and he shrugged and went on. “Okay, since you plan to be so tiresome as to actually want to do your job, here’s more for you to think about.”

We both drank some of our G&Ts and then he continued. “One thing you have to remember is that no single human can possibly read all the crap that comes through your office. It’s written by lawyers, for lawyers, and it would take up way beyond twenty-four hours a day to actually go through the mountain of shit that is a single bill. Nobody expects you to read this stuff. That’s what some of your staff does. They sort through it, figure out if it’s what you want, and tell you what you think about it. Even more of this goes on at the committee level.”

I raised an eyebrow at that. “So, if I was being cynical and unscrupulous, and I wanted to screw around with a bill, why bother with the Congressman, just go after the staff.”

“I knew you’d catch on eventually,” he replied, smiling.

“What else do they do?”

We spent the rest of the afternoon discussing staff members. There was the Chief of Staff who ran it all. Maybe an Assistant Chief of Staff, but that might be more for the Senators. A Press Secretary to tell the world what a great job I was doing. Probably a Legislative Director and several staffers to work on bills. An Executive Assistant to tell me what I was doing. You always had caseworkers who would field complaints from the home office and constituents, to help them get their Social Security check or whatever. Plus assistants and interns and general flunkies to round it all out. The most important person also turned out to be one of the lowest ranking people (isn’t that always the case?) — The person who logs in all the phone calls and letters and makes sure that each and every one is responded to. It’s is worse to ignore somebody than it is to tell them NO.

The Congressman was probably the least important person involved!

“So where do I find people to do this stuff? Call StaffRUs?” I asked.

“Pretty much. Don’t worry too much. There’s a huge subculture of staffers and wannabe staffers all around Washington. You’ll meet some of them at the Orientation next week. Find one, and they’ll start coming out of the woodwork.”

I was curious. “What will Stewart’s staffers be doing?”

He shrugged. “Same sort of thing. Looking for jobs on other Democratic staffs or going to work for a lobbyist. That’s one of the ways the lobbyists buy a Congressman. They don’t actually go after him, but they go after his staff, and promise them jobs in the future.”

“Good Lord! Does anything actually get accomplished?”

“Only when all else fails,” he replied. “Listen, very important, don’t piss off anybody else’s staff. Some of the long term senior staffers for the more powerful members will have a shitload more pull than you will. Keep that in mind. If you have a chance to be nice to them, take it.”

“Not following you. Be nice, how?” I asked.

“There is a whole subculture in D.C. of caterers, decorators, real estate people, restaurants, travel agencies, and the like that are owned or operated or staffed by people related to Congressmen or Senators or their staff. Pay attention to that. All other things being equal, it would be better to hire a ‘Republican’ decorator than a ‘Democrat’. Follow me?”

“Christ! What a fucking snake pit!”

The rest of the week we spent preparing for the transition. I avoided signing anything important until after Orientation, just in case I did something that was a violation of Federal law. In my experience, investigators from the Department of Justice had notoriously small senses of humor. For instance, was I allowed to enter into a long term lease for the campaign headquarters? Could I use the same space for my local office and the future campaign headquarters? Could the headquarters have a door that opened into the local office or did they have to be inviolably separate? Andrea thought up all of these questions.

Who comes up with this shit? Didn’t the fine folks at the Federal Election Commission have better things to do than come up with rules on this stuff? Apparently not. It turns out that I couldn’t use my campaign offices as my local office; they had to be separate, not even so much as a door between them. I got Andrea working on splitting the space into two sections and developing two lease agreements, one for me to pay for the campaign space and one for Congress to pay for my local offices.

Andrea didn’t handle real estate in the D.C. area, but she knew someone who did. She had gotten enough business off of the Buckman Group and referrals over the years that she knew better than to steer me wrong. (The town house and property for me, the office and two expansions for the Buckman Group, John’s new home, the Tusk’s building and home, a house for Jake Junior, etc. - get the idea?) I checked with Brewster and found out that the person Andrea recommended was the wife of an assistant to the Chief of Staff for Vice President Quayle, an acceptable choice. I talked to this new person, a Jacqueline Staymann-Huestis, and made an appointment to meet with her during Orientation Week. I got the impression that she was busy, but would be happy to sell me a house. Maybe when Andrea told her I was ludicrously rich she changed her mind.

Something else had been rattling around in my brain, as well. I was really rich now. I could buy lots of stuff, like an island villa — or a plane! How much would that cost me? I was now worth around $1.75 billion. At even a 5 % return on my investment, which was ridiculously low, that was an annual income of over $87 million. I had to be able to pay operating expenses on a plane or helo at that level! I could probably fly home most nights. That really redefined commuting!

Marilyn had to be with me for at least a night or two in Washington, but the kids had school, so we had to make plans. We made arrangements for a sitter to stay with the kids at the house for a few days, along with one of the security people. We would drive (well, be driven, anyway; it was so weird to be driven instead of just grabbing the keys and going) down Saturday night, Marilyn would stay through the introductory day on Sunday, and then get driven home on Monday. I could get my security detail to drive me around as necessary during the week, and then get me home at the end of the week.

The orientation schedule took up an entire week. We would start out on Sunday at the L’Enfant Plaza Hotel, and we had booked a large suite for me starting Saturday night. One thing I knew was that in this job, more than any other I had ever had, I would need to schmooze. A suite with a parlor or living room could be useful. This was even more important when we bought a home. In this, my wealth was a major advantage. Washington is one of the most expensive cities in America. A large home in a nice neighborhood in a scenic setting, with a nice yard for the kids to run around in, would probably set me back several million dollars, on a par with what I paid for Hougomont, and way beyond the cost of our home in Hereford. However, did I want to buy a house? What if I figured out I was a disaster as a Congressman? Maybe a lease with an option to buy would be better?

Monday and Tuesday, after I sent Marilyn back to our children and normalcy, we were scheduled for ‘How to be a Congressman!’ classes in the Capitol building. You know, the fun stuff, like where are the bathrooms, and taking the class photo. It would be like going back to elementary school. Wednesday and Thursday we would meet with various Congressional caucuses. We would be able to vote for leadership positions, and I was guessing, find out what committees we would be on. The fun day would be Friday, when they draw names out of a hat to determine our offices. Thirteen years after graduating from Rensselaer, I would be back in a frat house playing Room Roulette!

Meanwhile, for the entire week, we would be wined and dined by all sorts of people there to ‘help’ us out. All sorts of lobbyists and senior politicians would be looking to line up the support of the young and naïve Congressmen, who still have visions of making a difference. There would be breakfast meetings, luncheons, and dinners with everybody looking to line up or buy our votes. Imagine Darth Vader, only without the light saber, but with a plateful of chocolate chip cookies. Then, after you’ve eaten the cookies, you will be lifted off your feet and have the life crushed out of you. Damn good cookies, though!

To what extent I still had visions of making a difference I wasn’t sure. Marilyn generally considered me a pessimist, but I consider myself a realist. I knew I could make a difference, but what would be involved and what I would need to do were still questionable. The one thing I had learned, over two lives, was that I had the internal strength to survive no matter what, and that I could lead. I considered Ted Kennedy, who I had met already. As much as we disagreed on things and as much as I disliked him on a personal basis, the man could lead a group of fractious individuals, and get things done. Now I had to learn, from him and others.

I packed both a large suitcase for myself as well as the hanging bag with a number of different suits. Nobody had said anything about a black tie dinner, so I left my tuxedo at home. Marilyn packed a couple of nice dresses for Saturday and Sunday evening, and something a bit more casual for Sunday during the day. She did tell me, which made me laugh, that she was wearing low heels except for dinners; no way was she wearing high heels for three days running! Monday, she swore, she was going to wear jeans and a tee shirt and look like a bag lady when she went home. It was a good thing she had a driver for that; it was a two hour drive home, and on her own Marilyn would get lost and drive home by way of Arkansas and Ohio.

It was an interesting group I was joining. We had 48 incoming Congressmen, two of whom had already been in Congress, lost, and won back their seats. We also had six new Senators, two of whom had never been in Congress even as Representatives. Of the 48, 27 were Democrats and 20 were Republicans; Vermont had elected Bernie Sanders as an Independent. Bernie was an interesting guy. He mostly worked with the Democrats, and ended up as a Senator.

There were a lot of names on the list I had received that I knew would become big deals. John Boehner of Ohio would end up as Speaker of the House. Rick Santorum, of Pennsylvania, would become a Senator and then lose in the 2012 primary for President. I had a fellow Marylander, Wayne Gilchrest from the Maryland 1^st (basically Maryland’s Eastern Shore area), also a Republican, and I resolved to make sure I met him. The saddest to me was Randy “Duke” Cunningham, a certified hero from the Viet Nam War, the last Navy ‘Ace’ who shot down five MiGs. He spent 20 years in the Navy and 14 years in Congress, before being caught taking bribes and sent to prison. What an incredible waste!

It was an overwhelmingly Democratic House. There were 270 Democrats (plus Bernie Sanders, who might as well have been a Democrat) and only 164 Republicans. For the time being, at least, the Democrats were calling the shots. I knew that in four years there was going to be a major upheaval, one of those cataclysmic watershed events when the voters would ‘throw the rascals out!’ Right now, though, the Democrats called the tune.

I looked over the brief bio pages on us wonderful folks. I wasn’t the youngest guy in the crowd, but I was close. It looked like most were about 10 years older than me, and a few were quite a bit older than that. The oldest was a guy named Dick Nichols of Kansas, who was 64. The youngest was Jim Nussle of Iowa, who was only 30. I was a year older than Tim Roemer, two years older than Dick Swett, and three years older than Rick Santorum.

I briefly wondered about my fellow classmates. Were they sitting there in their rooms, reviewing their bios and wondering about me? Who was this punk kid? Did any of them know anything about me? Had they read, or even heard about my books? Did they read the business magazines, or only political stuff? Or had they seen the news about the billionaire investor who wanted to play at being a Congressman? To be fair about it, the only reason I knew any of them was because of what they would become. Probably the biggest difference was that these guys probably had at least a semblance of an idea about what they were doing here.

Realistically, I was probably the most famous of the newbies. Following the election, I had made the covers of both Fortune and Business Week. (I missed the trifecta; Forbes not only didn’t have me on the cover, they didn’t even mention me on the inside!) Fortune had Geoff Colvin write a follow up piece to his original cover article back in the summer of ’86, called ‘Mister Buckman Goes To Washington’ and basically updating the bio piece from before. Thankfully, a large separate piece also wrote about the future of the Buckman Group, with bios of Junior and Missy, and details about the planned joint venture, Marquardt/Buckman Investments. Junior and Missy were really earning their paychecks! (Dave Marquardt got top billing? Trust me, my ego could handle it! This was going to make me a shitload of bucks!) Business Week only had me in a photo about a quarter of the page on the front. Inside I was simply a one page photo and blurb in an article overwhelmingly about the politics of the next Congress. Nowhere was it mentioned that I didn’t have a fucking clue what I was doing.

The average Congressman starts out as a local politician, a city councilman or county commissioner, maybe a mayor or state senator or district attorney, with a touch of ambition and a desire to do something right. He learns the tricks of the trade at a lower, less expensive level, builds contacts and gets to know the right people. Then, when an opportunity opens up, he pulls the trigger and goes for broke. The guys, and it is mostly guys, who had showed up here with me were the winners. In theory, some of them would eventually run for a more important office, usually Senator or Governor, and maybe if the gods of politics smiled at them, leverage that up to President. For the life of me I couldn’t remember a Congressman who went directly from the House of Representatives to the Oval Office. The best I could come up with was Jerry Ford, who was picked by Tricky Dick to replace Ted Agnew when Agnew went to jail. Ford went from Congress to being Vice President. Kennedy, Johnson, Nixon, and Obama had all been Senators at some point. Carter, Reagan, Clinton, and Bush 43 had been Governors. Bush 41 had been a Congressman, but had then become an Ambassador and Director of the CIA before being tapped as Reagan’s VP. After Obama, they all changed too fast to notice or care.

Technically, we didn’t have to be at the hotel until Sunday evening, when the festivities officially started. We drove down Saturday evening after Marilyn and the kids went to Mass at Our Lady of Grace. Then she hustled around to move them out, and we drove down for a late supper and just spent the evening blessedly alone. Sunday we slept semi-late and then went down for breakfast, skipping the normal early-breakfast-and-a-full-morning-of-news-shows routine we enjoyed. That was when I realized that things were going to be different. Between the time we got off the elevator and the time we got to the restaurant, we were approached by two different men in suits, dressed quite a bit nicer than we were, with invitations to lunch, one from the American Petroleum Institute and the other from the Heritage Foundation. I pocketed both invitations with a smile but declined to commit myself.

The lobbyists were out in full force, and I hadn’t even been sworn in yet, which wouldn’t happen until the new Congress convened in January. The API I knew as the major lobbying group for the oil companies. The Heritage Foundation I had heard of; they were a conservative ‘think tank’, but I didn’t know where their funding came from. After we were seated, Marilyn asked, “Who were those guys? Do you know them?”

I smiled and shook my head. “No, not yet, but I’m sure I am going to soon enough. They’re lobbyists.”

Her eyes opened wide at that. “Already!? You’re not even sworn in yet!”

“I think that is way down the list of things they care about. Just wait, we’ll probably be hit up by a defense lobbyist on the way out of here.”

“Is that legal?”

I shrugged and smiled. “Define legal!”

She gave me her exasperated look. “Carling!”

I had to laugh. “From what I’ve learned over the years, legal and illegal, or right and wrong, aren’t the major concerns of Congress. I think it’s more along the lines of getting caught and not getting caught.”

She smiled at that. “If they’re as cynical as you, you’ll fit right in!”

“Scary thought, isn’t it? On the plus side, as long as I’m willing to sell my soul to Satan, I won’t ever have to pay for a meal again in this town! As many times as I’ve been in this town, I don’t know how anybody can actually afford to live here!” I remembered back on the first go, being sent to a conference in Washington back when I was a humble chemist. My per diem for food wouldn’t cover three fast food meals a day, and I got royally chewed out about eating in ‘expensive’ restaurants — like the one at the hotel where the conference was held!

In many ways, this was what led so many otherwise fine Congressmen into trouble. Unless you are bunking on the floor of a tenement slum, apartment rents are astronomical. If you plan to bring the family and put the kids in local schools, it just gets worse. The D.C. school system is a national disgrace, so everybody puts their kids in private schools, which are also ridiculously expensive. The suburbs, like Bethesda, Chevy Chase, and Alexandria, are some of the most expensive in the nation. If you want to live in the suburbs, you end up living an hour or more away, just to keep the cost down.

Marilyn used to complain about how much we were paying the clowns in Washington, but she never actually ran the numbers. When you added in the necessity of keeping a home back in their district, their paychecks seemed ridiculously low. It shouldn’t have been a surprise that so many Congressmen can be bought.

According to my briefing information, we would be getting lectured on Congressional ethics, an oxymoron on the level of ‘jumbo shrimp!’ I told Marilyn that it wasn’t going to be so much a list of what we couldn’t do, but more a guideline to how to get away with something. For instance, if the Acme Widget Company wanted a single source monopoly contract to the Federal government for the sale of their widgets, they had two ways of guaranteeing it. The fast and simple method is to go to the chairman of the House Widget Committee and drop a paper bag full of cash on his desk. Quick, efficient, and illegal.

Instead, the Acme Widget Company can find a lobbying company, generally a law firm with the former chairman of the Widget Committee on it, a man who decided he preferred living in Washington rather than going home to Mooseshit, Montana. The law firm sets up a think tank, the American Widget Advisory Board, designed to teach Congressmen about the wonders of the American widget industry, and how Acme Widget stands for truth, justice, and the American way! The lobbying firm then starts making campaign contributions. For instance, maybe the five owners of the Acme Widget Company each give $2,000 to the Chairman’s reelection campaign. The Widget Advisory Board coughs up some more. Maybe the Widget Political Action Committee (dedicated to supporting the interests of American widgets, and not those inferior foreign widgets!) makes a contribution, and maybe they also run some campaign ads showing support for the Chairman.

Depending on just how much power the House Widget Committee has, and how much juice the Chairman has, and how big the potential contract is, there is even more that can be done. For instance, maybe the Chairman’s worthless son needs a job. The Widget Advisory Board can hire him to investigate widget usage in Bermuda, and send him on vacation. (Andy Stewart’s wife used to work for the bank lobby, remember) Maybe the Chairman’s chief of staff is looking to retire and make more than a government salary can offer. Make him a deal directly! Best of all, Congressmen are immune from most insider trading statutes. Let the Congressman know that a positive vote will cause the values of stock options in Acme Widget to double, and suggest, offhand and just in the interest of full disclosure, what that might be worth.

I explained most of this to Marilyn over breakfast, and she simply shook her head in disbelief. I wondered what committee assignments I’d end up with. From what I understood, all the real work was actually done by the various Congressional committees, and there were good committees to be on and bad committees to be on. I was guessing, but I suspected the good committees were the ones with the most lobbyists and money washing around. I’d find out later in the week.

After breakfast I was stopped and invited to a luncheon by a defense contractor lobbyist, ‘especially appropriate considering your distinguished service in the military!’ I just smiled and nodded and promised to give it some thought.

As we rode upstairs in the elevator, I commented, “Well, at least we didn’t get hit on by the environmentalists. They’re probably off harassing the Democrats right now.”

“Unbelievable!”

I unlocked the door to our suite and led her inside. I sat down on a couch in the parlor, and then stood again so I could pull the invites out of my pocket. I set them down on the coffee table and sat back down again. “You need to be careful with this stuff, too,” I told her.

“Me? You’re the Congressman, not me!” she protested.

“Yeah, I know, but don’t be surprised when they start coming after me through you! Or our friends! What happens when the motorcycle lobby comes after me through Tusker? Or somebody offers you a great sounding job that you never actually applied for? Maybe I’m just being careful, but the money sloshing around this town could sink a battleship!”

“Huh! So, we aren’t going to any of those luncheons?”

I smiled and shrugged. “I don’t know. Want to go to one and see what it’s like? ‘Luke, come to the Dark Side! We have cookies!’”, I intoned deeply. “I can’t be bought, but I might be able to be rented!”

“You’re hopeless!” she laughed.

“When I go to jail, will you promise to visit me? Conjugal visits?”

“Yuck!”

We went to the luncheon by the defense lobbyists, met the Cunninghams, and stuffed ourselves. Dinner that night was at the Smithsonian, and we were seated next to the Boehners. Despite our visiting the Bahamas regularly, that guy had a much better tan than we did. Tom Foley, Speaker of the House, was the speaker at the dinner. Then we had more drinks, turned down invitations to a late night ‘after party’ by two separate groups, and went back to the L’Enfant Plaza. We managed to get busy back in our room, and afterwards I teased my wife about whether she would be able to go an entire week without me. Her response was, to put it mildly, rude!

Chapter 107: Mister Buckman Goes To Washington

“Mos Eisley spaceport: You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy. We must be cautious.”

Change the name from Mos Eisley spaceport to Washington, D.C., and you’ve got the idea! Even Obi Wan Kenobi would have despaired of this place! That doesn’t mean I was sorry I had run for office. It just made me want to be cautious.

Friday I managed to get lucky, and got a decent draw on office assignments. Basically names get pulled out of a hat, and afterwards you have 15 minutes to pick an office. There are three offices for the House of Representatives, Rayburn, Longworth, and Cannon, all on Independence Avenue south of the Capitol. There is a definite pecking order in where you get to call home. It’s like back at Kegs, with Room Roulette, only not quite as organized, although probably more sober. Seniors outrank juniors, etc. The most coveted offices are in the Capitol building itself, but that is too small. Only really senior ranking people, like the Speaker or the leaders are in there. Most want to be in Rayburn, which is the newest building, and actually has an underground subway line over to the Capitol! Next down the list is Longworth, and then you have Cannon. Cannon is the oldest and you don’t want to be there. The offices are smaller and were designed before the current staffs got so big. Freshmen Congressmen end up on the top floors of both Longworth and Cannon, and in Cannon, half your staff is in what is known as “The Cages.” Quite literally, they sit in an open bullpen arrangement across a hall from your office, and are surrounded by cages which can be locked when unoccupied. It’s like Siberia, only not as congenial. There were actually two other Congressional office buildings, Ford and O’Neill, but these were only used by committee staff, and in the case of O’Neill, Congressional pages.

Brewster McRiley had told me about this, and told me to get an office anywhere but Cannon. When my name was called early in the process, I got one on the fourth floor of Longworth. It wasn’t the biggest office, but I would be able to keep my staff in one place without them feeling like second class citizens. Staffing would be difficult enough without having to put up with a two-tier system.

I wouldn’t be able to move in until sometime in December, during the lame duck session. Losers have to leave by the end of November. I wasn’t sure how you got to better offices if you moved up in seniority, but they had to have some sort of rules. My new office was still occupied by somebody who was voted out of office, so I decided to be polite and not check it out until after he had left.

I stayed through Saturday and met with Jacqueline Staymann-Huestis that morning. She seemed capable of meeting my needs, though snobby, which she tried to keep to herself but failed. Instead she tried for obsequious, considering she must have known about my money. Weird.

Marilyn and I had gone over our needs already, at least between ourselves. First and foremost, we wanted to keep our primary residence back in Hereford. It was close enough that I figured I could commute, if not every day, then every other day. We’d give that a shot before moving to Washington. Still we would need a place in D.C., and we wanted a home with a yard for the kids and the dog. The most convenient place, ‘for those who can afford it’, was in the Georgetown district or out near Rock Creek Park. She promised to line up some prospects. I could do a first cut on things, and then bring Marilyn down to make a final decision. One important feature I told her was the financing; I wanted a two year lease with an option to buy. I would be generous on the lease terms, since it was relatively unusual, but I needed an out if things didn’t work out.

My committee assignments weren’t all that great. The big committees, the powerful committees, were the ones like Ways and Means (in charge of taxes), Budget (in charge of, you guessed it, the budget), or Armed Services (again, pretty obvious). It was pretty unusual for a freshman to end up on any of these committees. I found myself selected for Science, Space, and Technology and on the Subcommittee on Science. My second committee assignment was Veterans Affairs, and the Subcommittee for Disability Assistance. The first because of my doctorate in applied math; the second because I was a veteran myself.

I wasn’t overly impressed, but I kept that to myself. Science, Space, and Technology had about half a dozen name changes over the years (adding and subtracting the words Space and Technology). Most of the time the committee played catch-up to whatever was happening out in the rest of the world. If they did manage to come up with something useful, you could count on them being overruled by one of the more powerful committees. Veterans Affairs was pretty much the same, and was relegated to being the outfit that supervised the Department of Veterans Affairs, which had only been created the year before. Generally, nobody paid any attention unless there was a scandal going on.

To the extent that I was ambitious, I needed to get off of these two committees, and onto something more interesting. With my recent background in political economics, Ways and Means or Budget would be good; with my military experience I wanted either Armed Services or Intelligence; with my knowledge of finance the House Financial Services Committee would be good (Andy Stewart’s old hangout). Even Transportation (Eat Your Peas! and infrastructure) might be interesting, although probably toothless.

That Saturday I made it home, and I spent the next couple of days getting to know my children again. Charlie was old enough to know what I was doing, but the twins were still a bit confused by it all. My schedule was full, though.

That week I had an appointment with a prospect for the Chief of Staff position on Monday after my weekend back in Hereford. For staff I had to start with my Chief of Staff. He, or she, runs the operation, and is critical. I was more than a bit clueless with this. Back when we started the Buckman Group, Jake brought his secretary with him, and that was how we started the staffing. In this case, I didn’t know anybody. I had talked to Newt Gingrich, the Minority Whip, during one of the orientation sessions, and he gave me the name and number for a guy named Chuck Hanson. Chuck had been a Deputy Chief of Staff for a Congressman who had just lost his job, and seemed like he could step up to being Chief of Staff. I would start there.

I met the man and he seemed qualified, so I put him on my staff. We decided on the most critical jobs — Legislative Director, Executive Assistant, and a Constituent Services Director. The Legislative Director and the Constituent Services Director would propose several people of their own, who I would then meet and hire, to handle legislation and deal with the people back in the Maryland Ninth. Cheryl would be the Field Representative back in the district, and would become a government employee. My Press Secretary I would hire through the campaign office, and he wouldn’t be a Federal employee, saving a slot for somebody else. Most everybody was involved in constituent services. What couldn’t be handled back at the Field Office would need to be sorted out with the Washington professionals who were used to navigating the impossibly large Washington bureaucracy. At that point Chuck gave me a shopping list for staff and turned me loose. He would be looking as well.

My first stop was to see my fellow Republican Congressmen from the great state of Maryland, Helen Bentley (Maryland 2^nd) and Connie Morella (Maryland 8^th), preferably before Wayne Gilchrest (Maryland 1^st) got to them. Wayne was a freshman like myself. I was only partially successful in this. I met Helen while Wayne was meeting Connie, and we ran into each other rushing off to meet the other. We had a laugh at this and resolved to meet for lunch later in the morning. From what I learned from Chuck, almost every Congressman has some junior staffers who can be convinced to move to a new office, especially if a promotion is involved. The Congressman losing the junior staffer also has some incentives to allow this. First, there’s a quid pro quo involved — you get my junior assistant flunkie, I get your vote on a few bills. Secondly, they now have a blank spot on their own staff they can fill, perhaps with the offspring of somebody powerful or wealthy or connected. Finally, maybe they take this as an opportunity to give a glowing recommendation to the local village idiot and pawn him off on the unsuspecting newbie, who is now no longer their headache, but your headache. Hey, I’m just saying, it happens!

All in all, the entire exercise reminded me of pre-Civil War slave trading, only it wasn’t as dignified.

At lunch, Wayne and I had a very nice meal, got to know each other, and discussed our new staff members. This was his first elected office, also, although it was his second run for office. Nice fellow, used to teach high school. He offered to pick up the check, and I agreed, making him promise to let me pay when we took our wives to dinner some night. Then we split up, to keep hunting for staff. We both had the makings of a staff by the end of the week.

I also spent a day with Jacqueline Staymann-Huestis and looked at homes. It’s a good thing I’m rich! We found a nice place in Massachusetts Avenue Heights on 30^th Street, which would ‘only’ set me back about $2 million. What a bargain! Still, it had a fair sized back yard to let the kids and dog run around in, six bedrooms and baths, and was large enough to have a gigantic formal foyer, formal living room, banquet-size formal dining room, den/library/office, and a designer kitchen with a breakfast nook. It was actually quite a bit larger than our house in Hereford. If I amounted to anything in the House, it would be perfect for entertaining and home office space. I gave Jacqueline a tentative approval on the property, but told her I would need to bring my wife back in a week to look at it. She commented that homes of this quality wouldn’t last long. I told her I’d chance it; there were very few people moving to Washington who could afford a home with that price tag. I smiled and wished her luck moving it in the next week or so.

I had booked the suite at the L’Enfant Plaza for the time between the election and the opening of the 102^nd Congress. By then I figured I would be able to find a house and get a start on furniture and what not. Marilyn brought the kids down the following weekend and they gave the 30^th Street house their blessing, and I gave Jacqueline a significant check. She then asked, “Have you chosen a designer yet?”

“A designer?” I asked. I looked over at Marilyn, and she seemed as clueless as me.

“Yes, to coordinate your décor and space, of course.”

“Oh, like an interior decorator?” asked Marilyn.

“Something like that,” she replied.

“Well, my Aunt Peg offered to let me have the furniture in the basement until I could cash my first paycheck and get over to IKEA. Still, I guess we could get a designer. What do you think, honey?” I asked Marilyn.

“Will you behave!? You’re as bad as the kids!” She turned to Jacqueline and said, “Never mind him. Do you know a decorator?”

The woman dug a business card out of her briefcase and passed it along. I gave her John’s business card, and also one for Andrea. Andrea had agreed to review everything with John, to make sure it was all okay. I wanted a quick closing, which should make everybody happy. We retrieved the kids from the back yard, along with Dum-Dum, and loaded them back up. We drove around the neighborhood a bit, and then we took the kids home. I really needed to look into a better method of commuting. This took two hours each way, and was not realistic.

The solution to this presented itself in mid-December. I made an appointment to talk to Lloyd Jarrett of Executive Charters and drove out to see him at the Westminster Airport. “Carl, what’s up? By the way, congrats on winning the election. I would have voted for you, but I actually live down below Reisterstown.”

“Thank you. I appreciate the thought. That’s sort of why I’m here, actually, in a roundabout fashion,” I replied.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. We’re still living here, over in Hereford, and it’s crazy to drive back and forth. What I was wondering is, well, what if I buy a helo and commute? Can I do that?”

He blinked in surprise, but shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah, sure, it can be done. When did you get a pilot’s license?”

It was my turn to look surprised. “No, no, not me! I mean, I’d buy the helo and base it either here or there, and go back and forth as the passenger, like a limo, sort of.”

Lloyd looked at me curiously. “Carl, do you have any idea what that would involve? This would not be cheap!”

“Tell me.”

“Well, there’s the chopper itself. A new Jet Ranger, which would do the trick nicely, will probably run you close to a mill on its own. Then you’ll need a pilot and you’ll need a mechanic, because helicopters break down real fucking easy! You’ve got to park it someplace, which means you’ll need to pay pad fees and hangar rental, probably both here and there. Fuel and parts… Carl, you have to be looking at close to a million or two to set this up, and at least a million a year to keep it going.”

I nodded to myself. I could afford that. “What about airplanes? What would a G-3 cost me?”

He stared in disbelief. “A Gulfstream III to commute between here and Washington?! That’s crazy!”

I smiled and nodded. “No, that’s crazy! I agree! No, I’m just curious, how much would that run?”

“Good Lord! Okay, the plane will be a few million. You can probably pick up one just a few years old for a reasonable figure. A lot of them have come on the market as owners trade up to the new G4 model. You’ll need two pilots for that, as well as the same sort of hangar space and fees and parts and fuel. If you want both, you’ll be paying two to three mill a year, at least.”

“But it could be done?”

“Yeah, sure. With enough cash anything can be done. Hell, we made it to the moon, didn’t we? D.C. should be a piece of cake.” Then he scratched his head and asked, “Are you serious about this?”

“Yeah, I think so. Can it be done?”

“Okay, but here’s another approach. What do you know about planes and helos, really? Why not pay me to handle this. We can put the birds under Executive Charters’ name and certificates, use our facilities, our pilots, our mechanics and offices and hangars. We handle everything and you get either exclusive use or preferred use on everything. If you aren’t using them, we can use them for rental or charter, to offset the costs.”

I opened my mouth to argue but stopped halfway. This might actually make sense. I didn’t really want to own airplanes; I just wanted to use them whenever I could. Why in the world did I want to run an airline? Even the airlines lost money doing that, and they were the ones who were supposed to know how to do it! I closed my mouth and thought about it, and gave Lloyd a wry smile. “Listen, do me a favor and look into this. Come up with a proposal. I just want to be able to hop back and forth when I want to, and use the airplane for longer trips and vacations and such.”

“You want to go into National, or College Park?”

“College Park?” That was where the University of Maryland was, just outside of D.C.

“There’s a small airport there, be good for small stuff, easier to fly into and out of than National. A Gulfstream would be too big for it, but a helo would be fine. Further out, though.”

“Work it up both ways. I might have to drive from our home to both to time them.”

Lloyd nodded. “Where’s the house?”

“Northwest. Near the Naval Observatory and Rock Creek Park.”

He nodded again. “Give me a few days. Let me make some calls and work something up.”

We shook hands on it. Maybe we could make this work.

The day after my offices in Longworth were emptied out, I moved in. It was bare bones, but habitable. Sherry Longbottom, my new Legislative Director, commented, “Not much to look at, is it?”

“You’d prefer a spot over in the Cages?” I asked.

“Been there, done that! It’s really quite lovely here, isn’t it?”

“That’s the winning attitude!” I answered, smiling. “Okay, seriously, let’s make this habitable. Figure out what we’re going to need and let’s get it ordered. I don’t need a matching mahogany and gold suite, but we need something decent, computers for everybody, printers, copiers, all that stuff. If we don’t have it, get it. Beg, borrow, or steal, I don’t care. If you need me to run interference, fine, but you guys probably know how to get it done better than I do.”

Mindy McIlroy, my Executive Assistant, smiled and commented, “I am guessing your watchword will be plausible deniability?”

“You have hit upon my next campaign slogan! Write that down!” I motioned for her and Chuck to follow me into my personal office, which was also fairly bare. I glanced around and said, “The same goes here. I’m not all that picky on décor, but we need to do something. In the meantime, let’s go over my schedule.” The three of us sorted things out. The lame duck session was finished, and wouldn’t reconvene until January 3^rd, early for Congress. Then we would be out again for almost two weeks in February, almost three weeks in March/April, and another week in May, two weeks in June/July, six weeks in August/September, and then another six or seven weeks from November until January in ’92. I started adding things up, and I counted out about 26 weeks when Congress wasn’t in session, half the year! It gets worse — most work weeks are only four days long!

It’s not quite as inefficient as that makes it seem. The worker bees on the staff work Monday through Friday, and through recesses. It’s the elected officials who spend most of their time doing anything other than the nation’s business. I had already heard about the informally named ‘Tuesday-Thursday Club’. These were the Congressmen who would fly home on Thursday night and fly back to Washington on Tuesday morning, cramming four days of fundraisers or junkets into the weekend, and then forcing themselves to put in three days in Washington — usually at fundraisers.

It’s one hell of a system!

Then I went out to talk to Sherry about anything coming up for votes or committee action. Nothing significant seemed to be on the horizon involving either Science or Veterans Affairs, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t work that would be involved. After Congress convened, I’d start officially attending committee meetings, but before that I would be learning my assignments and meeting with top committee staffers.

Then I went home for a few days. I would be back on Monday morning, and I expected to find some decent office furnishings and a functional staff by then, by hook or by crook! Meantime, I had to go home and be husband and daddy for a few days. In particular, the Cub Scouts were doing an overnight camping trip this Saturday night, and I needed to attend. Charlie was looking forward to this. He was a Webelo now, and they could go camping. They only did one night at a time, not two or more like the Boy Scouts did. I had missed an earlier trip during the campaign. I couldn’t put it off again.

That Thursday night, all that Charlie could talk about was the upcoming camping trip. Needless to say, both of the twins wanted to go camping, too, to which their brother replied, “No way! You’re girls!”

I stifled a laugh and shook my head. “I think you two should stay home and help Mom.”

Holly whined, “Mom!”

Molly whined, “Dad!”

I just looked my wife in the eye and shook my head, “NO!” That was all I needed to do — a winter camping trip with three women who had never been camping before! I’d rather go camping back in Nicaragua.

Thank God Marilyn had the good sense to tell the girls they’d go shopping and to a movie, which almost made Charlie change his mind. I just reminded him that we would be able to go out and do ‘guy things’ and he changed his mind back to camping. I just rolled my eyes at Marilyn. “You know how to use a microwave oven in the woods?” I asked her.

“How?”

“Look for a tree that’s been hit by lightning.”

“Very funny.” Charlie giggled at that.

The camping trip was Saturday morning to Sunday morning. I had volunteered to be a ‘people mover’ and thought I would switch cars with my wife and use her minivan. A couple of the other fathers had pickups and would haul equipment. The rule with the Cub Scouts was that each boy had to be accompanied by an adult, preferably male. (Really, really, really preferably male — it makes life so much simpler that way.) Back on my first go when Parker had gone through the Scouts, I had done it with him, so this was old hat to me. I spent the day sorting through some old gear and running into Towson with Marilyn to pick up a few things.

This actually led to a serious argument with Henry Donaldson, about my security. He wanted a couple of his guys to go camping with us, which I refused. That would make us stick out like sore thumbs. For one thing, half the parents in the Pack would yank their kids out of the Pack. If my children and I were in such danger that we needed permanent security, then we were much too dangerous to be allowed near their precious offspring! It wasn’t Charlie’s fault his old man was a big shot.

Finally we compromised. “Alright, I’ll have a guy drive you all up in one of our vans. We can say that your minivan broke down or something,” he said.

“Fair enough,” I agreed.

“I’m not done yet. After he drops you and the boys off, he’s going to hang around somewhere down the road. In the meantime, we’ll give you a little radio transmitter with a panic button on it. If there’s a problem, hit the button and we’ll come running.” He pulled what looked like a big key fob out of his pocket. “Here, take this. Your wife is getting one, too.”

I stared at it for a moment. It was plain black plastic, with a single red button, and a clear plastic cover over the button. You had to flick off the cover before hitting the button, so it was safe from accidentally setting itself off. “You’re kidding me, right? How’s it work?”

“You know about GPS? The military uses it. It’s a bunch of satellites that can tell where anybody is in the world if they have the right receiver.” He pointed at the gizmo in my hands. “That’s got a GPS receiver built in and a radio transmitter. Once you hit the button, we can track you down.”

I knew what GPS was, and could probably have given a lecture on it, but this was much more advanced than I expected. “What, like in that James Bond movie?”

“Something like that. Don’t lose it, either. You don’t want to know how much these things cost!” he finished.

There’s nothing all that difficult about camping with the Scouts. Back when I was a Cubmaster and Scoutmaster, I had distilled it down to three simple rules, Buckman’s Rules for Camping:

1 — Keep ‘em warm!

2 — Keep ‘em dry!

3 — Keep ‘em well fed!

Do those three things and the kids won’t care what you make them do! Five mile hikes in the snow? No problem — just follow the three rules. March them off a cliff? No problem — just follow the three rules. Violate those rules and you can turn happy campers into miserable whiny brats in minutes!

It’s a lot like being back in the Army!

Of the three rules, Number 3 is the easiest. Boys running around in the woods burn up a lot of calories. Even the boys who are the pickiest eaters will eat not one sandwich, but two. It doesn’t have to be fancy, just hot and filling. For breakfast feed them pancakes and scrambled eggs, sausage and bacon. For lunch it’s not soup or sandwiches, it’s soup and sandwiches. Make sure there’s enough for seconds. Keep a bag of apples around for anybody to munch on.

Rules 1 and 2 are trickier, and require discipline. You always have some kids who won’t dress properly because it’s not ‘cool.’ So they don’t wear jackets or boots or long underwear. You can tell them until you’re blue in the face that they won’t have any place to go inside and hang around if they get chilly. Hell, half the parents aren’t smart enough to figure this stuff out! The only way to make them understand is by having an inspection before you load the gear up and send home the kids who flunk. For that you need a tough and fair leader.

You can usually tell who’s been around for awhile — they look like a bunch of ragamuffins. They certainly don’t look cool, but they do look warm and dry and comfortable. Marilyn and I went out in the late morning and picked up some new long underwear for Charlie and me, and some heavy socks for the both of us. Otherwise, we’d survive the night. He had a good heavy coat and some gloves, and some hiking boots that he hadn’t outgrown yet. Otherwise we’d just throw layers on him. For equipment he had a day pack that would suffice, along with a small gym bag, and a lightweight sleeping bag that we would line with a couple of light blankets to beef it up.

My gear was pretty routine. I didn’t give two shits about looking cool. I had a pretty decent sleeping bag I kept in my trunk for emergency use, so I threw a liner inside (one of the girls’ Care Bears blankets) and threw everything else into a duffle bag. We weren’t doing any hiking, so that was good enough. I had some Carhartt overalls and a matching coat that I wore at times when I was working outside, and an old pair of jump boots. I also threw a pair of insulated barn boots in the back of the van in case it was wet. Lousy for hiking, but great for snow or mud.

Scouting wasn’t part of Marilyn’s background, but it had been in mine. When we mentioned it to Charlie he had been interested, and we had signed him up with Pack 116 in Monkton, just the other side of Hereford. There was supposed to be a pack in Hampstead, which was closer, but they operated out of the Hampstead Elementary School. Charlie’s buddies in Fifth District Elementary were in Pack 116. It made a lot more sense for him to go over to Monkton. Pack 116 ran out of St. James Episcopal. Occasionally I would tease Marilyn that this was a back door method for the Protestants to get their hands on our son. Most of the time she would snort in laughter and say they were welcome to him, he was obviously a lost cause!

We were up early. I helped my son finish packing and then finished myself, and we loaded our gear up in our driver’s Caravan. We had to be at the school by no later than 9:00. The camping trip was part of the Boy Scout Camporee held up at Broad Creek Camp in Harford County. The Boy Scouts were there for two nights, starting Friday night. The little guys needed to work up to that. By the time all the late-comers got to school and we actually got on the road, it was closer to 9:30. We got to the camporee mid-morning.

The first order of business was checking in and finding our campsite, then we drove up and unloaded our gear. It was December, and in Maryland that meant the weather was crisp, but not snowy. That was fine with me. I used to go on winter camping trips in upstate New York in February, and that usually meant several feet of snow. If it was deep enough, you’d have some troops building igloos! I wasn’t that hard core. We carried several bales of hay with us to spread out on the ground where we were setting up the tents. It softened things up and acted as an insulating barrier. We set up quickly and then sent the boys off with a couple of leaders to start their events.

The Boy Scouts would be tested on various survival skills, like first aid and starting fires, and would win points in a competition. The Cub Scouts were more focused on learning this stuff the first time around, so they would be cycled through various stations to get some instruction, either from an adult or a senior Boy Scout. Those of us back at the camp finished setting things up and started preparing lunch.

After lunch, about a half dozen of the fathers and I were sitting around the campfire on camp chairs and drinking coffee. Well, I was drinking tea, but that’s simply because I was more civilized. There was a box of Lipton tea bags in the chuck wagon box, and that was plenty fine for me. That was when I noticed a few Boy Scouts coming towards our camp, accompanied by a couple of adult leaders. This was a bit unusual, since we don’t normally mix Boy Scouts and Cub Scouts. Webelos were nine and ten, Scouts were generally older and a lot bigger. It was better to keep them separated except during group events, like campfires or training events.

Something caught my attention and I turned back towards the campfire with the other guys, and then a shout made me turn my head. One of the adults who had joined us with the Scouts was talking to Al Parker, Johnny’s father, and Al turned and called out, “Hey, Carl! I’ve got some of your constituents here!”

I gave him a curious look. “My constituents?”

“Are you Congressman Buckman?” asked one of the Boy Scouts. He looked to be about 13 or 14, but wearing a coat, I couldn’t see his uniform and rank badge.

Pack 116 knew of my dirty little secret, but I hadn’t pushed any electioneering around the Scouts. That was just way too tacky, and wasn’t done. The Boy Scouts didn’t allow that sort of thing. “Well, sort of. I don’t get sworn in until January. Can I help you fellows? You look a little young to be lobbyists.”

The boys looked confused by that, but several of the adults laughed at this. Bill Baker, who was sitting next to me, asked, “You get that a lot?”

“More than you can imagine!” I turned back to the Scouts. “What’s up guys?”

They looked at each other nervously, now that they were in the presence of the ‘great man’, but one of their leaders motioned them on. “Go on.”

The boy who had asked if I was a Congressman stepped forward slightly and stammered a bit, “Uh, I’m working… we’re working on our Citizenship in the Nation merit badge.”

The boy standing next to him piped up and said, “For our Eagle requirement!”

It was starting to dawn on me what was happening. I smiled and nodded. “And let me guess. One of your requirements is to meet a Congressman?” It didn’t sound quite right, but when I was teaching merit badges when Parker was a Scout, I didn’t teach any of the Citizenship badges (Community, Nation, and World). Maybe it was a requirement.

They looked at each other and stepped closer, loosening up a bit. A third boy said, “Uh, not quite, but we were wondering…” He dug a pamphlet out of his coat pocket and flipped it to the first page.

“Hold on, fellows. First things first. The first part of citizenship is courtesy to your fellow citizens. Tell me who you are! My name is Congressman-Elect Carl Buckman. Who are you guys?” I said with a smile.

The first boy blinked at that and said, “Jerry Reeves, sir. Troop 420, out of Westminster.”

I stuck my hand out and he shook it. “Nice to meet you, Jerry.” I went around the small circle, shaking hands and getting their names. “Now, what’s this requirement?”

“Uh…” he took the book from his friend and read a few lines. “… Name your two senators and the member of Congress from your congressional district. Write a letter about a national issue and send it to one of these elected officials, sharing your view with him or her. Show your letter and any response you receive to your counselor.” He handed me the booklet and pointed to the line.

“Okay, so name the Senators,” I challenged them.

“Paul Sarbanes and Barbara Mikulski!” answered a little guy at the end of the line.

“Correct. Now, who was your Congressman?”

Jerry answered, “It was Andy Stewart.”

“Until you beat him!” tossed in another boy. There were a few snickers among the adults at this.

“Right. So, what do you need to do, write me a letter and get a response? You need my address?”

The boys looked at each other in confusion. I didn’t think they had figured it out that far. “I guess,” said one of them.

“Got a notepad and pencil?” They started patting their pockets, and I joked, “Whatever happened to being prepared?”

I climbed up out of my chair and moved over to the picnic table. “Let’s make this simple, guys. Have a seat.” I positioned them around the picnic table and placed my camp chair at the head of the table. “Let’s pick a topic and talk about it, and I’ll count that as the letter and we’ll sign off on it. Okay?”

“Can we do that?”

“Sure we can! I’m a Congressman, right?” I winked at one of their leaders, who wasn’t anywhere near as impressed as the boys were. He was probably a Democrat! He grinned and gave me a thumbs up sign.

I started leading the boys into a discussion about something close to their hearts, which was school. I had been a teacher in the past, and I always preferred the Socratic Method rather than lecturing as a teaching tool. Ask the kids the questions and use their answers to prompt more questions, leading them to the point you were trying to make. They figure the answers out themselves rather than being told the answers. We talked about how to make schools better and what some of the problems might be with their ideas. For instance, do we increase the length of the school year, and does that mean we now have to raise the pay of teachers and raise taxes to pay for that? Things can get complicated quickly, and you normally need some compromises.

After about an hour, one of their Scoutmasters came over and tapped his watch. “Time to get back and make dinner, guys.”

I looked around and nodded. “Our guys are getting back, too. Listen, I gave you my address, so feel free to write me. If I can help you out, let me know. The most important thing isn’t that there’s a right or wrong to this stuff. The important thing is that you care enough to ask the questions and think about the answers. You’ll be voting in a few more years, so keep thinking about this stuff.”

The boys popped up, and I shook their hands and they shuffled out of camp. Their leaders also shook my hand and thanked me. “You’re welcome. Do you need me to sign off on something?” I asked.

“Nah! I’ll sign off on it. I’m the merit badge counselor on this for the troop, so this is good enough for me,” said one of the men.

“Well, feel free to let your boys know I’m good for this sort of thing. In fact, let the word out, if any Scouts in the Council need to speak to a Congressman or want me to do something for the Scouts, for any reason, they can dig me up. In most ways, teaching these kids is more important than any other stuff I do.”

“And you go camping with these guys?”

I laughed at that. “My boy’s a Webelo. Why else would I be sleeping in a tent?! There’s a reason we started building houses, you know!”

They laughed at that, and then thanked me again and left. I repeated my comment to the Cubmaster, and told him to get the word to the Council. I probably wouldn’t have the time to teach merit badges, but I could still help out. Then the Webelos came back, loudly talking about how they had all started fires. Pack 116, building pyromaniacs one boy at a time!

Part of the secret to running a good camping trip is to have too much for the boys to do. Idle hands are the Devil’s workshop, and that sort of thing. Keep them busy all day long learning things, then have a few contests and games, followed by dinner. After dinner we made them do the cleanup, and led them off to the giant bonfire, for singing and skits.

The funniest part was at the end of the night, after the bonfire, when we were back at our campsite around our own fire. One of the boys looked out into the darkness and asked, “Are there any bears around here?”

Most of the adults chuckled, but I leaned forward and said, “Absolutely! In fact, when I was a Scout, I was up here at this very campsite, and a bear found me, right here!”

I could see a few of the other adults trying to stifle their grins, but the boys were all wide-eyed and looking at me. The first boy asked breathlessly, “What’d you do?”

“Well, I climbed up a tree, right over there,” I answered, pointing to the forest.

“And the bear left you alone?”

“Well, pretty much. He tried to push the tree over but it wouldn’t fall, so he left and came back with a second bear, an even bigger bear! That was really scary, let me tell you!”

“So, what’d you do then?” I was asked.

“Well, I stayed in the tree, and both bears tried to push it over. They couldn’t though, so they went away, and then they came back with a third bear, an even bigger bear! I really thought I was in trouble then!”

“But they couldn’t push it over, right, Dad?” asked Charlie. He was as rapt as the other boys.

“Nope, they pushed and pushed and pushed some more, but it wouldn’t tumble over, so all three bears left. I just stayed up there for awhile, so they could all leave.”

“Did they bring back another bear?”

“Worse!” I leaned closer and looked around the campfire at the other boys, all staring at me. “They all came back carrying beavers!”

At that point the adults exploded in laughter. “Oh, jeez, I haven’t heard that one in years!” commented Bill Baker.

“Beavers!” laughed Al Parker, “Oh, that’s a good one!”

“DAD!” complained Charlie. A few of the other boys complained too, now that they realized they’d been had. We shooed them off to bed and finished off the coffee and tea, swapping other tall tales we’d heard over the years, mostly going back to when we had been boys.

Sunday morning we were out of there as soon as we could rouse the boys and feed them. Since a Scout is Reverent, when we got back to St. James, we hauled their butts inside the church and made them sit through the last half of the service before sending them home. (Marilyn wasn’t too pleased with that, since it wasn’t a Catholic service, but I told her to lump it.) We cleaned up and took naps, or at least I did. Charlie had a lot more energy than his father did!

It was a big difference camping with the Scouts in the Nineties versus camping with the Scouts in the Sixties. Back when I was that age, nobody gave a shit about being sensitive or politically correct. Leaders would sit around the campfire smoking and passing a flask, while sending the kids off into the wilderness to hunt for left-handed monkey wrenches and snipe. Now we had to be nurturing and supportive. We couldn’t allow hazing, booze was forbidden (admittedly, that was probably a good rule), and if you had to smoke, you had to leave the camp area. That led to some silly stuff. I remembered one trip when I still smoked. The Scoutmaster, and all three of us Assistant Scoutmasters left the campfire area one cold winter night to smoke and chat; so half the boys followed us, so they could chat, too. Everybody ended up standing around in the dark snow.

We were lucky on this trip, with no WIAs or KIAs in Pack 116. Nobody got lost, nobody got homesick, nobody cried, nobody got hurt more than scrapes and splinters and bruises. Nobody got eaten by bears. Everybody got filthy. That pretty much made it a good trip for a bunch of nine and ten year old boys! Life is pretty simple at that age.

Chapter 108: Settling In

I was sworn in as a Congressman on January 3^rd, 1991, as the 102^nd Congress convened.

“I do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter: So help me God.”

Everybody in Congress, all the Representatives and the new third of the Senate, has to take this oath. It dates back to 1884.

Both Brewster and Chuck, my new Chief of Staff, insisted I had to have Marilyn and the kids there for my swearing in. That meant we had to take them out of school for the day. I argued against it, but was told this was not optional. They had to be there!

In most ways, it really is optional. It is nothing but a gigantic photo op. For one thing, all 435 of us are sworn in at one go, in the House. Since no photos are allowed, nobody can see us. So instead they have a bunch of empty rooms with flags and backdrops set up, and photographers. You get called into one of the rooms, with your family and whoever else you want in the photo, and it all gets faked! You could bring in the cast of Sesame Street and be photoed with your right hand raised and your left hand on Grover’s head and it would be totally legit. In fact, donate enough money to the campaign and you can be in the background, smiling as Congressman Needsdough gets sworn in. You don’t even have to be sworn in with your hand on a Bible. There are no laws saying you have to. It can be on a Koran or the Book of Mormon or a set of car keys. I settled for the small King James Version bible I had received as a gift from my godmother after my confirmation. That was back in the days when I still lived at home and Hamilton hadn’t totally gone crazy yet.

We didn’t get silly. We asked Suzie if she wanted to come down with her family for the fun and games. She had a good laugh, but then called us back the next day. John couldn’t take the time off, but he had (foolishly to my way of thinking) agreed to take care of the boys for a couple of days and she flew down. She couldn’t believe we had sent a plane for her, and then I told her she’d have to come down with just her husband one day, and waggled my eyebrows at her. Both she and Marilyn turned bright red and spluttered, which made it money well spent.

We had also asked Harriet and Big Bob to come down, but they were going on a Caribbean cruise, and couldn’t make it. They did, however, accept my offer to have them flown to San Juan, Puerto Rico, so they wouldn’t have to fly commercial. They promised to see us after the trip.

I didn’t invite my parents. After Suzie and I reconnected I prevailed on her to get in touch with dear old Mom and Dad. She was nervous about it, but made calls. Afterwards she called me, crying. Our mother was damning me to no end, and complained that Suzie wasn’t being supportive, and was no better than I was. Dad, on the other hand, would be happy to see her again. She should visit and meet his new girlfriend. He wasn’t overly happy with her getting in touch with me, either, since I had caused so much trouble, even if some of it had been forced on me by Hamilton. What a pair of fucking nut jobs! No, I didn’t need either one of them anywhere near me or my family or the United States Congress.

We were still figuring out the commuting and living thing, and I was still at the L’Enfant Plaza. We had closed on the house on the 30^th but our designer wasn’t through with it yet. I wasn’t surprised when the designer Stayman-Huestis had recommended turned out to be a ‘Republican’ designer, the wife of a Senate committee staffer. I had this horrible feeling that by the time she was done with that, the interior decorations would end up costing more that the Hereford house total, including property, pool, and pool house! She had put off the grand unveiling by a week already, and I was sure I was going to need a very strong drink before I went inside.

The commuting-airplane angle was actually working out neatly. I had put Lloyd Jarrett and his partners together with Jake Junior, and they had come up with an interesting plan. Junior had said, we’re in the equity business, so let’s do this as an equity deal. The Buckman Group would come up with the money, partly through sales of my shares, and buy an appropriate sized chunk of Executive Charters. Executive Charters would use this capital investment to purchase a mint condition slightly used Gulfstream IV and a brand new Bell JetRanger III. I would have primary use of them, the Buckman Group would get secondary use, or a substitution of something equivalent, and they would also be available for charitable or mercy flights. That sort of thing was always good as public relations and had a few tax benefits — and it’s simply good citizenship.

Marilyn and the kids came down on Friday night, and we got our first look at the new house, now ready for us to move into. Imagine House Beautiful, only nicer. The designer showed us around, and assured us the price was quite reasonable, that price being somewhere in between “Holy Christ!” and “Oh my God!” The kitchen was the type with the matching $10,000 custom pots-and-pans set hanging from the mahogany rack over the granite island. I used it to make burgers with. I was worried that the gods of décor would shoot lightning down through the roof at us.

Saturday was going to be a big day for Marilyn and me. We had a very important dinner to attend, and we had needed to dig up a sitter for the kids. I didn’t know anybody in the neighborhood, so I simply asked around my office. Anybody have a kid interested in babysitting Saturday night, maybe late, good money? It worked out that Sherry Longbottom, my Legislative Director, had a niece going to school at Georgetown and doing some intern work on the side with us, and she could do with a few bucks. She came over Saturday afternoon with a pile of textbooks. That gave her the time to meet Charlie, Holly, Molly, and Dum-Dum, and time enough for us to feed them before we ran out. Our security detachment would stay out of sight in the basement office we had set up for them. Sherry’s niece took over feeding the kids, and Marilyn and I went upstairs to clean up and get dressed. It was an important dinner, black tie, so I was in my tuxedo and Marilyn had a new black evening gown.

We were dining at the White House.

President Bush was giving a dinner for all the new Congressmen and Senators, along with the various Congressional and Senate leadership. I had bought a tux back when I began donating to the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra and the Meyerhoff Symphony Hall in the early Eighties. With the kind of money I was donating, you get invited to a fair number of black tie affairs. The nice thing is, though, that when you buy your own tux, you can buy what you want. It’s really nothing more than a fancy black suit. I went with a full vest instead of a cummerbund, bought several types of black bow ties and such, and formal shirts in several different colors, all with French cuffs. By the time I was finished, I could have worked as a busboy at any number of excellent Washington restaurants!

For the White House, I selected a crisp white shirt and some gold Rensselaer cufflinks Marilyn had gotten me for my 30^th birthday. Marilyn wore a new black evening gown with a slit up her right leg to a few inches above the knee, and slender straps up top. It had some interesting, but tasteful, cleavage on display. Our children were predictable in their opinions when we came down the stairs.

Holly oohed and said, “Mommy, you’re pretty!” Molly agreed with her.

“Dad, what’s with the fancy suit? You look like a waiter in that TV show last night,” asked Charlie.

My wife rolled her eyes and bit her tongue to keep from laughing. I just gave him a deadpan, “I’m auditioning for a new job.”

“I thought you just started a new job,” he replied.

“That might not work out,” I told him. Marilyn started giggling at that, so I shuffled her out the door before the kids could say anything else. To her I said, “I sure hope they serve drinks at this thing!”

“Maybe you should stop off somewhere and buy a hip flask,” she laughingly said.

“Sounds like a good gift for Father’s Day.”

We had our driver take us in a limousine over to the White House. The plus side, if you could call it that, to the new security regime was that nobody was going to photograph me in my ‘foreign sports car’. I probably should have sold it, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.

We pulled up to the White House behind a black limousine, and out of the car stepped John Boehner and his wife. When he saw who we were, he stopped and waved. I waved back, and when Marilyn climbed out, I led her over to them. “John, good to see you again. Marilyn, this is John Boehner, another Republican Congressman like me. We met him and his wife Debbie during Orientation, remember?”

“Pleased to meet you,” came from the others. We shook hands all the way around.

The Boehners went in ahead of us and we followed. Once inside, we took off our coats and handed them to a liveried waiter. Like me John was wearing a trench coat, although I had a fedora on. Debbie was wearing a long camelhair coat with a hood attached. Marilyn, however, was wearing a very nice calf length sable coat and a matching sable cap. I had bought it for her for Christmas, as a thank you for putting up with the election nonsense. Marilyn wasn’t big on fur coats, but she had owned a rabbit fur coat in high school and this was much, much nicer! For all of her complaints about what I spent, I would occasionally see her running her hands through the fur and smiling. I would laugh at her and she would blush and tell me I was imagining things.

After we were relieved of our outerwear, we were directed through a set of magnetometers towards a hall. The Secret Service was being vigilant, and they took my cane (dark mahogany, with an oiled bronze head) and examined it. I knew security would get worse in the future.

We ended up in a line outside a reception hall. A young lady greeted us and told us the drill. The President and First Lady would greet us, we would shake hands and pose for a photo, and then we would continue on into a reception for a few drinks. After that we would move on to a dinner, after which the President would say a few words. Then she was further down the line for the newest arrivals.

After we were left in the line, John turned to me and said, “I’ve seen you with the cane a few other times as well. You need that all the time?”

“Mostly just in the evenings. My knee stiffens up in the evening and starts bothering me,” I answered.

“If you don’t mind my asking, what’s wrong with your knee?”

I smiled. It was a common enough question, and I gave my usual answer. “I used to be a paratrooper, and I made one jump too many. I had a hard landing and wrecked my knee.”

“Well no wonder!” exclaimed Debbie Boehner. “That’s so dangerous! Weren’t you worried your parachute wouldn’t open?!”

I couldn’t help it. I grinned at her and said, “I never worried about that. Our parachutes had a 100 % guarantee.”

“A guarantee? How do you guarantee a parachute?” she asked.

“Well, if your chute fails to open, all you have to do is take it back, and they’ll give you a brand new one, free of charge!” I answered.

Debbie’s eyes opened wide at that, but her husband chuckled. Marilyn said, “Please, don’t get him started! You wouldn’t believe how many jokes they have about this stuff.”

“Like what?” asked John, laughing.

“Like, ‘We’ve never left anybody up there’ and ‘It’s not the fall that gets you, it’s the sudden stop at the end!’ I used to hear these guys all the time back in the day.” She turned to face me and wagged a finger at me. “It used to get old even then!”

“I would have paid good money to watch you jump out of a plane, good money!” I replied.

“You guys were crazy,” commented John. “I enlisted in the Navy but screwed up my back and they cut me loose while I was still in basic training.”

“My dad was Navy, but I get seasick, so I went into the Army instead,” I admitted.

By this time we had worked our way up the line to where we would be going in soon, so we quieted down. Another young lady took our names and reported them. Then John and Debbie were ushered forward, where they shook hands and posed for pictures, and after that it was Marilyn and me. Forget about any impromptu discussions of foreign policy; it was “Thank you for coming,” followed by smiles and the flash of a camera. Then we were off and into the reception.

We circulated around the room, being polite and trying to make small talk, but it was actually a bit surreal to both of us. I mean, this was the White House, the home of the President of the United States! Congressman or not, what in the fuck was I doing being so presumptuous as to think I could be here?! At one point I whispered to Marilyn, “This is just so fucking weird!”

“What, being in the White House?”

“Yeah!”

“No shit!”

We were standing with the Boehners when Mr. and Mrs. Bush came up to us, circulating so as to greet everybody. A pair of large fellows in tuxedos were standing a few feet behind them, eyes constantly moving around the room. They had to be Secret Service. “I’d like to thank you all for coming,” said the President.

“Thank you for inviting us, sir,” replied John. The rest of us parroted him.

“Have you been able to find apartments or houses and settle in?”

Marilyn and I nodded. “We managed to move into a place this weekend. Marilyn will be going back home with the kids on Sunday. I’ll be staying in town when I can’t get home nights,” I said.

Debbie Boehner also admitted she would be staying at home with the children most of the time. John asked, “So, where is your regular home?”

“About half an hour north of Baltimore,” said Marilyn. “We’re still trying to figure out the commuting.” She turned to me, and asked, “Did you close on the deal with the plane and helicopter yet?”

The others turned to us and stared. I just shook my head and said, “No, next week, I think.”

“You’re buying a plane and a helicopter?” asked Barbara Bush.

“Yes, ma’am. The helicopter is what I’ll commute in. We’re also acquiring a Gulfstream IV for anything long distance. That would be too big for commuting, though.”

The others didn’t quite know what to say. I broke the ice by admitting, “I’ve actually been here once before.”

Marilyn gave me an odd look. “When?”

“When I was little. My godmother, my Aunt Peg, drove me down here for the tour. I mean, it was probably an hour-and-a-half, maybe two hours. That must have been back during the Kennedy presidency.”

“Do you remember it? Did you see the President?” Marilyn asked.

President Bush chuckled at that. “You don’t actually meet anybody on the tours. How old were you?”

I shrugged. “I couldn’t have been more than five or six. The only thing I remember was waiting forever for the tour to start. I just remember a really long line!” I turned to Marilyn and said, “You know, President Bush here is a paratrooper, too!”

Marilyn turned to the Bushes, who were laughing at this. “You don’t look crazy!” she commented.

That really got Mrs. Bush laughing. Mr. Bush chuckled and said, “It wasn’t planned. I had to bail out of my bomber over Chichijima. It was the accelerated course, I guess you could say. Was that your service? You were a paratrooper?”

“Yes, sir, airborne artillery.”

“Your old outfit is over there now, isn’t it?” he asked. We got more serious at that. A big chunk of the Army was currently deployed in Saudi Arabia shielding the Saudis from the Iraqis. It was still Desert Shield, and wouldn’t turn into Desert Storm for another month or so.

“Yes, sir, the 82^nd Airborne.”

“You miss it?” he asked.

I hadn’t thought about it all that much, but as he asked it, I knew it was true. I nodded and said, “Yes, sir, I suppose I do. I’d have probably had a battalion, maybe a brigade by now. God forgive me, but I would want to be there.” I looked at Marilyn with a guilty smile.

Marilyn smiled back and tightened her hand in mine. “Carl was planning on going career when he messed up his knee,” she told the others. To me she said, “You’ve already got a medal, you don’t need any more. Don’t be angry if I say I’m not sorry you’re out.”

“Never,” I said, smiling back.

We chatted another minute or so, and then they excused themselves and moved on. The Boehners turned to us and John asked, “You are buying a jet and a helicopter? I remember hearing at the time about the billionaire investor who was trying to buy a district. Well, you know what I mean. You really could have, couldn’t you?!” He wasn’t asking rudely.

I nodded. “I didn’t really buy the district. I wish! That would have been so much easier than putting up with Andy Stewart! I was in investments, private equity and capital. I own about three quarters of the stock in the Buckman Group, although that’s now in a blind trust. Which means I can afford a few toys,” I said with a grin.

“If you’re ever in the Baltimore area, call us and visit,” invited Marilyn. They agreed to, and we split apart and moved around some more.

We ran into Wayne Gilchrest, and I introduced him and his wife Barbara to Marilyn. I had already had a chance to talk with him a few times during the various orientation and caucus sessions, and then we had lunch together after that while shopping for staff. He was the only other new member of the Maryland Caucus from either side of the aisle. Whether planned or not, we found ourselves sharing a table with the Gilchrests, the Boehners, and David and Caroline Hobson. David was an Ohioan like John Boehner, and the only other new Republican from Ohio. Curiously, all four of us had served in the military at some point, with John in the Navy (even if just briefly), Wayne in the Marines, and David in the Ohio Air National Guard. If nothing else, it gave us all something to chat about. The specifics, of course were about the looming Gulf War.

It was a touch strange, thinking about it. By the time I recycled, veterans in Congress were a very small minority. There had been a time when elective public service practically demanded that you had done a hitch, but that was rapidly becoming passé. It felt strange.

The other thing we could chat about was what they had all done before they had been elected. Hobson and Boehner had gone the traditional route, working up from local positions into the big leagues. Gilchrest, on the other hand, had been a high school teacher and had run for the first time in 1988. He had lost by only 460 votes, so he ran again this time and won. Only Dave Hobson had earned a law degree; Wayne was a history major and John was a business major. We joked that this would allow us to keep an eye on the lawyers.

“Well, you guys will have to tell me what in the world to do, because I am clueless. Before this I was in the Army and business. I’d never even run for dogcatcher before I got talked into this,” I admitted. “Wayne, even you ran once before, so you still know more than I do.”

“Never!?” asked an incredulous Dave.

I shrugged and shook my head. “Never even thought about it. There I was, just minding my own business, when some people I used to consider my friends said, ‘Carl, we’ve got an idea!’ One of these days I will get them back.”

“Oh, stop it! You’d jump in front of a train for John Steiner, and you know it,” scoffed my wife.

I chuckled at that. “I can still dream, can’t I?”

“So what did you do, then, before you ran for office?” asked Caroline Hobson.

“I ran an investment company. We did a lot of private equity and venture capital deals,” I answered. “The last few years I’ve done a fair bit of writing and speaking.”

Like John Boehner, the others all knew about the billionaire who had just bought a Congressional seat, but the Hobsons didn’t realize that I was the guy. “Well, you sure whipped Andy Stewart’s butt but good!” Wayne said.

“That was an ugly campaign!” added his wife.

That got all of us to start discussing our opponent’s dirty tricks during the campaign, including whatever vices we had been accused of. John smiled and asked, “So, what vices are you guilty of that you weren’t accused of?” and got a fair bit of laughter at that.

Debbie protested, “John, you can’t ask that!”

He smiled and piously intoned, “Well, I simply need to know about the character of the people I’ll be working with.”

This made me laugh. “I have no vices. I am as pure as the driven snow, and stand for truth, justice, and the American way!”

There were the predictable groans, and equally predictably, Marilyn shook a finger at me. “That’s not true, and you know it. You gamble…”

“But I always win!” I interjected.

“… and you get in fights…”

“But I always win!”

“… and you’re generally a smartass!”

“Better than being a dumbass!” I leaned over and gave Marilyn a quick kiss.

Carolyn Hobson said, “They’re all a bunch of smartasses, if you ask me. I think it’s a job requirement.”

“What was that about fighting?” asked Debbie.

“I heard about that,” commented Wayne.

His wife, Barbara, nodded. “That’s right, you got in that fight, like a month before the election. That made the TV news. It got you the women’s vote, that’s for sure!”

“What?” came from several people around the table.

“Well, it wasn’t much of a fight. I was just sitting there in a late night diner having some pie with a reporter after a campaign speech. It was late, I was tired, the place was empty and quiet. It was just us and a woman in a booth at the end of the place. Anyways, this drunk comes storming in, smacks around the owner of the place and a waitress, and then grabs the woman and tries to drag her out. I got up and knocked him on his kiester and we got the cops there and they hauled him away. It turned out that he was her husband, she’s six months pregnant, and he’s been using her as his private punching bag, and she finally got sick and tired of it and tried to get away.” I turned to Wayne and added, “He’s doing three years in Hagerstown.”

He nodded and added, for the others. “I remember that. The police released the security tape footage of it all. It was like watching a cop show on television. He really cleaned the guy’s clock!” Then he turned to me and asked, “Didn’t you do something like that in the Bahamas once? I thought I read that in the Sun.”

I admitted as much and gave a brief retelling of that incident. Then I turned back to Wayne and said, “It wasn’t that big a deal. Besides, you’d have done the same. I read your bio in the Sun, too. You were in Viet Nam. You earned a Bronze Star, right?”

“So did you, Carl,” interjected Marilyn. That made a few eyes open around the table, but I just waved it off. I didn’t want to get into it that night.

Fortunately, I didn’t have to. We had been talking all through dinner, and I was saved by the bell, or more specifically, the mike. It was time for President Bush to make a few remarks, and he went to the dais and the lights dimmed and then he gave a fairly average speech, with a lot of rah-rah sentiment and absolutely no content. He thanked us for our service, promised to work with us, promised an open door and an ear to speak into, etc., etc., etc. How much of this was true was questionable. He was a politician, after all.

Like me, now that I thought about it!

We ended the evening on a pleasant note. I told the others to feel free to drop by my office sometime, and we promised to have them over to the house. None of the others had a home anywhere near large enough for a large group. While Marilyn and I weren’t by nature ‘big party’ people, we had always hosted the big summer and fall parties, and were sure we could handle something here.

For one thing, we had already made a big decision concerning how we were going to live. Back in Hereford, we didn’t have servants, but made sure the kids did chores and we cleaned the house ourselves. The only thing we subcontracted out was lawn maintenance and having John Caples run his brush hog over the place a few times every year. We thought it was important that the kids be brought up as normally as possible. You put kids in private schools and surround them with chauffeurs and servants, the result is not pretty. You end up with a bunch of drugged out jet set kids. No way, not us!

The house in the Bahamas we treated differently. That was our vacation home. We had a local maintenance company clean and take care of everything before and after every visit; they would restock the pantry and liquor cabinet as needed. We planned to do the same here in Washington. There was no way that Marilyn could take care of our kids and house in Hereford, and then come down and do the same thing in an even larger home here in D.C., nor could I. We would hire a maintenance and staff company. Fortunately, there are plenty of outfits capable of handling it, and we had already hired one. There was also a lively industry in catering parties and even a ‘party consultant’ business.

Remember the first Van Wilder movie, the good one? In it, a perpetual student, Van Wilder, played by Ryan Reynolds, gets cut loose by his father and has to survive on his own. He earns money by becoming a ‘party liaison’, and arranging parties and inviting interesting guests. Well, Van Wilder would have done quite well in Washington! These people actually exist, and we had already been given a couple of names by the interior designer we used.

Marilyn and I went home and sent the sitter home. The kids were sleeping and the house was still standing. Sunday we would head back to Hereford. This was a screwy setup.

Chapter 109: Chief of Staff

Wednesday, January 30, 1991

By middle of January I was feeling like I had made a mistake. By the end of January I was quite sure I had made a big fucking mistake! Stuff seemed to be piling up around the office, not much was getting accomplished, and I was hearing rumblings among the staff. I mentioned this all to Chuck Hanson, my Chief of Staff, but he assured me it was just people settling in. Meanwhile, despite my orders not to, he kept shoveling lobbyists at me, and with no particular rhyme or reason. One morning he had somebody pushing ‘clean coal’ followed immediately by the Sierra Club. They ran into each other in the outer office and immediately got into a shouting match! What a clusterfuck!

The final event, to my way of thinking, occurred on Wednesday, the 30^th of January. I was in my office and about two or so, Chuck informed me my afternoon appointment was here. I glanced at my calendar book, and it had been blank. My standing orders were that anybody could write things in my schedule (within reason) but that if it wasn’t in my book, it wouldn’t get done. Back on my first go, when I was with Lefleur Homes, it was actually a bit of a company joke. Even after everybody started switching to PDAs and computer calendars, Carl Buckman kept his calendar book. On the plus side, I never missed anything I put in the book.

I sighed in exasperation, and bit off the complaint. “What if I had scheduled something else, or wasn’t here, because it wasn’t in the book?” Chuck would have just given me a blank stare and ignore this. I simply told him to show them in. I stood up and slipped on my suit jacket, since I had been in shirt sleeves, and wanted to look like I knew what I was doing.

Chuck opened my door and went out into the common area, and then ushered in two men, both on the large side. He introduced them. “Congressman, this is John Talbot of the American Petroleum Institute, and Morton Adrianowicz of Dunder Logan Simkins. Gentlemen, Congressman Carl Buckman.”

“Gentlemen, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Please, come in.” I glanced over at Chuck and said, “Thank you, I can take it from here.”

“Are you sure, Congressman? I’d be happy to help.”

“No, that’s all right. I can handle things.” I was still irritated over the scheduling issue and wanted him away for a bit. I closed the door behind him as he left my inner office.

I showed the men over to a couch and armchair set over in the corner of my office. They shared the couch, and I sat down in the armchair. Something about the two men seemed familiar, or maybe it was just the one man, the second. The first guy was from the API, which was the lobbying group for the petroleum industry. The second guy had to be a lobbyist from one of the city’s multitudinous law firms. Still, what in the world did these guys want with me? I had nothing whatsoever to do with oil.

“So, gentlemen, what brings you here? How can I help you?” I asked.

They looked at each other curiously, and then the first guy, John, said, “Sir? We were told you had asked to see us.”

I must have looked dumbfounded to them. “I asked to see you? Are you sure about that?”

They looked at each other again. “Yes, sir. Your chief of staff asked for a meeting.”

I ground my teeth for a moment. “Can I assume he intimated a campaign contribution would be involved?”

Adrianowicz nodded and said, “You may assume so. We were surprised at that, since you aren’t on any committees or subcommittees involving the oil business. Still, it doesn’t hurt to make friends in this town.”

Damn, but that guy looked familiar, but I shrugged it off. “I’m having some growing pains with my chief of staff. Last week I had a meeting with the Clean Coal Initiative, which I did have some interest in, through the Subcommittee for Technology and Innovation. Maybe he thought I needed input on other fuels as well.” I tried to put a good face on it. Chuck must be going through the D.C. phone book selling me off to everybody.

“So you weren’t actually reaching out to touch our wallets?” asked John, smiling.

I returned the smile. “Fellows, I’m as interested in campaign contributions as the next politician, but you’ll be wasting your money. I have about zero influence over the oil business.”

“That is refreshingly honest, Congressman,” commented Morton.

I just held my hands up in wry agreement. Then I looked at him closer. “Have we ever met before? You look awfully familiar, but I can’t say as I’ve ever met a Morton Adrianowicz before.”

“The name is Martin Adrianopolis,” he replied, which made me really scratch my head. That name sounded familiar! “You, too, for that matter. I knew a Carl Buckman back in college, but he was a math major and going into the Army.”

I sat bolt upright at that. “I knew a Marty Adrianopolis, back when I was at RPI, as a math major and ROTC cadet.” This guy looked familiar, but a different haircut and thirty extra pounds changed the line of his face.

His face broke out into a huge grin. “It is you! I thought it might be, but Carl and Buckman aren’t the most unusual names, and your background history was that you were a investment banker before you ran for office. Holy crap! It is you, isn’t it!?”

“Well, by God, it’s good to see you again! We have to talk!” I looked back over at Talbot, and said, “Well, it wasn’t a wasted trip after all! Did you come over with him, or vice versa?”

“Marty came with me.”

“Marty, stick around. We are going to have a few drinks and go out to dinner. Okay?” I asked him.

He smiled. “We will discuss the ways in which the Maryland Ninth and the petroleum industry can help each other. Think of all the billable hours!”

“Oh, God, don’t tell me you became a lawyer!” I said. He laughed at that.

I stood up and so did John Talbot. “Mister Talbot, I really want to apologize for getting you over here like this. I’ll be discussing it with my chief of staff, but I do apologize.”

“Please Congressman, these sorts of things happen. Don’t worry about it. Maybe we’ll both get lucky and you’ll end up on Energy and Commerce, or Natural Resources, and you can owe me a meeting then.”

“Maybe so.” I showed him to the door, and ushered him out

Chuck came up and glanced into my office, where Marty was still lounging on my couch. “Congressman, you have another meeting in ten minutes.”

“Nobody put anything on my calendar, Chuck,” I told him. “Therefore I don’t have another meeting.”

“But Congressman, we have you scheduled!” he insisted.

“Chuck, let me give you a hint. It’s my life so I get to make the schedules. Unless it’s the President of the United States or my wife, I’m not available. I will consider something from either the Speaker of the House, or Michel or Gingrich, but tell them you’ll have to ask me first. Understand?”

“Congressman?!”

I left him standing there in confusion in the lobby, with a couple of secretaries staring at him and another smirking. I went back into my office and closed the door. “What an asshole!” I said quietly, as much to myself as to Marty.

“Problems?” he asked.

“Nothing I can’t handle.” I went over to a bookcase-hutch against one wall. I tugged on it and it unfolded into a hidden wet bar. “It must be five o’clock somewhere.”

Marty stood up and grinned. “Scotch and soda if you have it.”

“I have it, but I can’t stand Scotch, so I don’t know if it’s any good.” I held up a bottle. “Glenlivet. Any good?”

“It’ll do,” he said with a smile.

I made a couple of drinks, Scotch and soda for him and a Seven and Seven for myself. I handed him his drink. “Here’s to knowledge and thoroughness.”

“Oh, Christ! Was that a long time ago!” ‘Knowledge and Thoroughness’ is the Rensselaer motto.

We sat back down around the coffee table. “So, what the hell are you doing in Washington?” I demanded.

“I could ask you the same question! The last I remembered, you were a math major working on your doctorate and going through ROTC training. I always figured you’d end up teaching somewhere. How the hell does that translate into billionaire investor and Congressman?” he asked.

“Yeah? The last I remember of you was when you moved to Houston, to work for Exxon at a refinery. You were a chemical engineer, right? Then, a year later, we all lost track of you, and now you’re a lobbyist? What gives? You first!”

“Well, that’s right, I went to Houston to work for Exxon at one of their refineries. Not quite a year later, though, I had an opportunity to go to Saudi Arabia and work for Aramco, at one of their refineries. Big money, and I had just gotten married to a woman with expensive tastes. That would have been, let me think, late ’76 or so. Anyway, I worked over there for about five years, got divorced, came back home, and ended up back in Houston.”

“Right back where you started from.”

“That’s what I said! I didn’t just want to spend the rest of my life in a refinery, waiting for something to blow up, or getting cancer from some shit. I went to law school, and ended up here, junior lawyer in a lobbying firm. Money’s better, too.”

“You ever remarry?” I asked.

“I am a firm believer in the sacred rite of marriage. And divorce, now that I think about it. I married a second time and got divorced from her, too.”

“You’re just a sorry ass to have to live with.”

“You’d be an expert on being a sorry ass. What about you? The last I remember, you were banging that little brunette with the nice tits.”

“That would be my beloved wife and the mother of my children you’re talking about,” I answered.

“And the tits?” he said, laughing.

“Even nicer!” We laughed loud and long at that.

“Good for you! So, how the hell did you ever end up in this shithole? I used to think you had principles!”

“Really? A Kegger with principles? Hard to even imagine!” I replied.

“Come on, give!”

I gave an elaborate sigh. “Remember the Grateful Dead, and that line about what a long, strange trip it’s been? That would be my life!” I got up and made us another round of drinks, and then brought them back over. Marty was still sitting there waiting for an explanation. “Okay, when last you saw me, I was still at the ‘Tute, working on my math degrees and dating Marilyn and planning to go into the Army.” Marty nodded and agreed with this.

“So, that’s pretty much what I did. I graduated on time, two years after you, and was commissioned into the Army, so I belonged to them for four years. I ended up in the 82^nd Airborne, in a battery of 105s. You know what I’m talking about?” I had to explain that to Marty. “A year after I graduated, Marilyn graduated and we got married.”

“So, you did your four years and got out,” he asked.

I gave him a wry look. “Well, that’s the strange thing. Actually, I liked it, and was good at it. I decided to go career, but then I made a bad jump and screwed up my knee.”

“You? Career Army? Holy Christ! You couldn’t stay in?”

I shrugged. It was too much to explain, unless he had been Army himself at some point. “Maybe, in a staff job somewhere, but I was a combat officer, and a good one. It’s like I told Marylyn, it’d be like working in an ice cream store and not being allowed to lick the scoop. So I got out.”

Surprisingly, he nodded. “Okay, I can follow that. My old man was in Korea. He once said something like that to me, too. But how do you go from the Army to investment banker? I would have figured you for teaching college or going to work for Microsoft or something.”

At that I laughed loud and long! “Oh, buddy, if you only knew!” I told him.

“Knew what?”

“Back at RPI, I was a millionaire. I’m really good at investing, really good! When I got out of the Army, that summer I flew out to Redmond, Washington, and wrote Bill Gates a check for five million dollars. You think I was going to work for Microsoft? I own just under five percent of Microsoft!”

Marty stared at me. After a few more seconds, he said, “Are you shitting me? You own five percent of Microsoft?”

I shrugged and smiled. “Technically, the Buckman Group owns the shares, but I own 75 percent of the Buckman Group.”

“How much does that work out to?”

“What, the Microsoft shares? Well, the market capitalization is somewhere around $13 or $14 billion, so figure five percent times 75 percent, that makes what, $500 million or so.”

“Holy Christ! You’d better go slow and start from the beginning. You were a millionaire in college? What the hell?”

I smiled and pointed at the wet bar. “You might as well bring the bottles and ice over here. This is going to be a long, long tale!”

While Marty laughed and went over to the bar, I pulled my cell phone out and hit the first memory button. I listened while the phone rang, and then was picked up. “Hello?” It was Charlie’s voice, still high pitched and a little thin. In the background I could hear his sisters demanding to know who it was, at which point he yelled back, “SHUT UP! I’M ON THE PHONE!” I slapped my hand over my face in disbelief. Then I heard, “Hello?”

“Charlie, don’t be rude to your sisters…”

“Hi, Dad!”

“Is your mother there?”

Needless to say, the next thing I heard was him dropping the phone, probably on the kitchen counter, and yelling at the top of his lungs, “MOM! IT’S FOR YOU!”

I muttered to myself, and a minute later there was the sound of the phone being picked up. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Buckman, this is the National Center for Youth Telephone Discipline. Do you have time for a survey?”

“Very funny! Let me kill your son for you, and I’ll tell you all about it. What’s up?”

“My schedule’s changed. I’ll be staying here tonight. I’ll come home tomorrow night and make a long weekend. Sorry about this, but it just came up.”

“That’s okay.” Marilyn had learned my schedule needed some flexibility. “What’s up?”

“I need to have dinner and drinks with an old friend who I just reconnected with,” I told her.

“Male or female?” she teased.

I glanced over at Marty. “It’s either an ugly guy, or a really ugly girl. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”

Marty flipped me the bird, making me laugh. Marilyn just said, “You can take me to an expensive dinner, and not the special at the Westminster Diner, either.”

I laughed some more and told her to make reservations for Saturday night, and then told her to tell the kids I loved them. Before I hung up, I asked, “Do me a favor and call Tyrell I won’t need a pickup tonight or tomorrow morning, please.” Tyrell Washington was the helicopter pilot for the LongRanger. Marilyn agreed, and I flipped my phone shut and stuck it back in my pocket. “Let the drinking begin!”

Mindy stuck her head in a little later. “Anything I can do, Congressman? Chuck asked me to look in on you.”

I snorted. “We’re fine. Do me a favor. Call around and make reservations for dinner somewhere, something nice. Morton’s would be good if you can manage it. Ruth’s Chris, too. Tell my driver, too.”

Mindy excused herself and closed the door again, and Marty and I got back to swapping lies and talking about the old days, and how we ended up where we were. At six, Mindy knocked and came back in. “I’ve got your reservations at Morton’s at half past, and if you go downstairs now, your car should be waiting for you when you get there.”

“Mindy, you are an angel. Don’t let Marilyn know how you run my life, because she’ll only get jealous! We’re going. You should go home, too.” The girl blushed and waved good-bye.

The limo waiting for us when we got down to the lobby, the security guy standing there holding the door for us. Marty climbed in and then I climbed in after him. He smiled as he looked around. “Pretty swanky compared to the old days, huh?”

I laughed. “Marty, you have no idea! Listen, you doing anything this weekend? I’d love to take you home and reintroduce you to Marilyn.”

“Sorry, not this weekend. Next weekend is open, though.”

“Perfect. Bring a bag or a suitcase over here next Friday and prepare to be surprised,” I told him.

He gave me a curious look. “Going to show me your castle?”

“No castle, but trust me, you’ll be surprised.”

“It’s crazy, you know. I knew about the billionaire who bought himself a Congressional seat, but I never figured it was my little brother from the frat house. You’re really a billionaire?” he asked.

I held up two fingers in a V. “Somewhere between one-and-a-half and two. And I wish I could have bought it! It would have been so much simpler than putting up with Andy Stewart!”

“Talk to me! He’s been a scumbag since before he ever made it to Washington. What happened with you?”

We talked over the campaign for awhile, taking care of the ride over and getting our table and through the appetizers. It was a touch early in the evening, and Wednesday isn’t a big ‘power dinner’ day, so we didn’t have to wait. Marty loved the whole election mess; me, I was less than thrilled with it! “I’m glad you’re enjoying this. I could have done without it. So, if I have to tell you the sordid truth about my election, you have to tell me the sordid truth about your marriages. What happened?”

He shrugged and sighed. “My first marriage? She didn’t handle being overseas very well. She started sleeping around, and I walked in on them one night.”

“Okay, that pretty much sucks,” I agreed. “What about Number Two?”

He shrugged. “I guess I was on the rebound. It just didn’t work out. Maybe I’m just not the marrying kind. Anyway, screw that! I want to hear how you are conquering Washington!”

I snorted at that. “Conquering Washington? I’m not even sure I’m conquering my office! So far I am not riding to glory.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

By now our steaks had arrived and we started cutting them up. Happy cows! I savored a bite, and then answered. “I think it’s my chief of staff. I don’t think he has a clue what he’s doing. I need somebody who knows what he’s doing, since I certainly don’t, and he ain’t cutting it. He spends all his time trying to line up campaign contributions and no time trying to help anybody get anything done.”

“So fire him! Get somebody new. Where’d you get him anyway?”

“Gingrich recommended him, but I don’t know if he knew the guy all that well. He had been an assistant chief of staff to somebody who just lost his seat. Either Newt didn’t know the guy, or Newt is trying to sink me. Now, he’s probably perfectly capable of doing that, but I can’t see what motive he would have. He hasn’t known me long enough to hate me yet!”

Marty gave a wry smile and nodded. “Well, at least you’re not a total babe in the woods. I know some guys who wouldn’t consider a knife in the back. Still, you’re right. Newt Gingrich would slit your throat if he thought it was a good idea, but his big plan right now is building the numbers of Republicans up and getting control of the House. If he slits your throat, it won’t be until after he does that. The guy is probably just a good assistant and a lousy boss. We’ve all seen that before.”

“True, so true. I remember one battalion exec who was brilliant, right until the day the battalion commander had to go to Fort Sill for a week and left him in command. The guy was a miserable clusterfuck when left to his own devices.”

“Right,” agreed Marty. “So fire this asshole and get somebody decent.”

“You know anybody any good?” That just earned me a shrug. “I don’t want to go back to Gingrich, and the only others I really know are newbies like me. Hell, you know this town, you’d be better than what I’ll find on my own!”

Marty laughed hard enough to start coughing, which got me to laughing as well. Then he said, “Carl, even if I wanted to work for you, you can’t afford me!”

“Is that the only issue? The money? Do you like being a lobbyist that much?” I asked.

He looked at me seriously. “No, but I like being in this town and I like being near power, and I really like the money. I make more than what your chief of staff makes! I like you, Carl, but I don’t like you that much!”

I nodded in agreement, and we kept talking through dinner. After dinner, we eschewed dessert, but we did order coffee (tea for me) and cognacs. Marty ordered a Remy Martin, but I said, “You know, I’m not big on cognac. Can I just get some whiskey instead?”

The waiter answered, “Yes, sir, of course. Anything in particular?”

“Canadian Mist? Or Canadian Club if you don’t have it.”

“Yes sir, of course,” replied the waiter.

We sipped on our coffee and tea while the waiter went to the bar. A few minutes later he returned with a pair of snifters, setting one down in front of each of us. I just stared at mine in disbelief. “Holy Christ!” I told my friend. “I thought he’d just bring back a shooter! There must be four ounces of whiskey here!”

Marty laughed and swirled his cognac in his snifter. “I wonder if we can set it on fire?”

“Oh, good Christ! Do you remember that night? Remember how I ended up being thrown in the pool over that?” I swallowed some of my whiskey, which I have to admit, was very nice.

Marty held his snifter out to me. “To the Polar Bear Club!”

I tinked my glass against his. “And all the idiot members of it!”

After we were nearing the bottoms of our snifters, I commented, “If it’s just a question of money, I could always raise your pay? What the hell? That’s how the real world works? Supply and demand! High end people cost more!” I think I was starting to slur things, but wasn’t sure.

Marty was coherent enough to be listening. “Forget it! It doesn’t work that way! That’s a government job! You can’t moonlight or get paid under the table. Why do you think these guys all want to work for the lobbying firms? So they can make some money!”

“Marty, let me tell you something. I may not know shit about government, but I know about people and money, and if there’s a way to do something, it can be figured out.”

“Well, when you figure this out, let me know. I’ll be curious!” Now Marty was slurring a bit.

I waved down the waiter and handed him my American Express card, wishing now that I hadn’t ordered the whiskey. I also asked him to order the driver up. He came back, I signed away a ludicrously large piece of my net worth, and we left. Marty was staggering slightly as we went outside. I took a breath of air and got enough oxygen flowing to stay awake, and helped my friend into the limo. By the time I went around to the other side and climbed in, Marty was asleep.

The driver and I stared at each other. “Crap! I was hoping he would help me get inside, not the other way around!” I said.

“Yes, sir,” the driver replied, laughing. “Do you know an address for him?”

I shrugged. “Not a clue. Let’s take him over to my place. He can sleep on the couch. Maybe you can help me with him.”

He nodded. “If not, I have a brother in law with a construction company. We can borrow their crane.”

We went over to 30^th and up the driveway. I unlocked the front door and propped it open, then the two of us got Marty upright and headed inside. We dumped him on the couch, and then I stumbled upstairs to bed.

I woke up late the next morning, wondering why I was still wearing a suit. I remembered why when I stood up, and discovered I had a major league headache. I stumbled into the bathroom and stripped off my clothing, and then swallowed a half dozen Advils. I stood under the shower for a long, long time, then crawled out and had a few more Advils. I handle ibuprofen very well, much better than aspirin or Tylenol. Then I remembered my guest downstairs. I grabbed a robe and padded barefoot down to the living room.

Marty was absent, but there was a handwritten note on a scrap of paper in the kitchen. “Took cab… great place… call me” along with one of his business cards. I made myself some cereal and juice, and ate that, and then headed upstairs again. I was very late when I got into my office.

As soon as I hit the Longworth building Mindy and Chuck followed me into my office. I was all cleaned up and dressed, but my eyes were bloodshot and my pallor was a bit grey. Mindy said, “Long night?”

I looked at her and said, “If I wanted a woman to scold me, I’d get married. Oh, yeah! I did! Too bad you’re not my wife.”

Chuck was oblivious, and immediately announced I had missed an appointment with somebody from the Renewable Fuels Association that morning. I looked over at Mindy, who gave me a blank look. I grabbed my planner off the desk and flipped it today’s page. No meetings were scheduled. “Chuck, there’s nothing listed for today.”

He waved his left hand dismissively. “This is something that just came up.”

“No, Chuck, it didn’t. If you had somebody scheduled to meet me this morning, then you scheduled it no later than yesterday, so it could have been put in my calendar. When did you actually schedule this meeting?”

Chuck’s eyes widened and he began to sputter. “No, no… it wasn’t like that… I mean, yes it was the other day, but no…”

“Forget it. What possible reason could I have to meet this guy?”

“Woman. Tracy Shelburne.”

“Nobody cares, Chuck. What possible reason could I have to meet this lady? Renewable Fuels? What the hell is that all about?”

“Ethanol, of course,” he replied.

“Ethanol? From corn?” He nodded. “Chuck, let me tell you, the only ethanol from corn we care about in the Maryland Ninth is bourbon. What in the world did I want to speak to her about anyway?”

“There’s a potential for a vote in the Technology and Innovation Subcommittee,” he told me.

“So, last week you were selling my soul to the clean coal lobby. Yesterday you tried to sell me to the oil and gas drillers. Today you wanted me to sell out to the ethanol refiners. What happens when these guys figure out that I can’t possibly vote for each and every one of them? Think that might be a problem, Chuck?”

“Well, you obviously can’t make any promises, other than to consider their positions carefully.”

I looked over at Mindy. “You know the definition of an honest politician? One who stays bought. Mindy, I need to talk to Chuck. Can you excuse us? Thank you.”

Mindy stood up and left my office, closing the door behind her. Chuck watched her leave and then turned back to me. “Chuck, are you happy here? Working for me, I mean.”

He looked very confused at this. “Yes, why?”

“Because right now the feeling is not mutual. I want you to listen to me very carefully. From now on, you make no appointments for me without discussing them with me first and getting my permission. Any appointments get written in the calendar. You do not keep running around selling my vote to anybody and everybody. Are you getting the gist of the discussion, or do I need to be more explicit?” I said this in as calm and even a tone of voice as I could muster.

“Congressman, I don’t understand what the problem is. These are all individuals with legitimate reasons to meet with you.”

“Maybe they are and maybe they aren’t, but that’s my ruling on this. It ends today, now. Is this clearly understood, or do I need to go find myself a new chief of staff who understands these requirements?”

Chuck’s eyes snapped wide at this. “Congressman!”

“Do you understand me or not?” I pressed.

“Congressman Buckman! I don’t understand the hostility of the discussion.”

“Mister Hanson, for the last time, will you abide by these rules, yes or no? I need a response.”

“Yes, sir, of course!”

“Now, who were you selling me to this afternoon, and why do I want to see them?” We talked about another fifteen minutes, and Chuck was fairly flustered the entire time. I could see him flipping through appointment slips that he was now going to have to cancel. Afterwards I brought in Sherry Longbottom to discuss upcoming legislation, and then Babs Brosinski, my Constituent Services Director, to discuss any problems back in the district. Babs, despite a name that suggested a ditzy blonde, was a tough-as-nails battleaxe brunette. I had brought Cheryl down for a day, and she had taken to Babs quickly, and they looked to be a good team for handling problems back in the Ninth.

Mid-afternoon, I got a phone call from Marty, who complained that I was an individual of low moral character, who was prone to lead innocent victims to a life of ruin. He didn’t sound all that good, but he had been socking it away even more than I had. I chided him by saying I learned many of my dissolute habits from him, and then reminded him to call me next week and confirm his visit to the house.

That evening I went over to National and Tyrell flew me back to Westminster. I made it in the house before Dum-Dum figured out I was home, but she was so neurotically insistent on playing with me, I sat down in my chair and let her lick my face while I rubbed her belly. Marilyn came over to kiss me hello, and Dum-Dum decided to lick her face as well. “AAAAGGGHHH! Dog kisses!” Marilyn complained, sounding like Lucy Van Pelt.

I glanced around to make sure the kids were out of earshot. “I don’t think it’s the kisses so much as the tongue that bothers you.”

“AAACCCKKK! That’s so gross!”

I rubbed Dum-Dum’s belly, and scooted her away. “French kissing a dog! That’s a new low, even for you!”

“Keep it up, wise guy!” This time I gave her a real kiss, which calmed Marilyn down. Then the girls jumped into my lap, while Charlie smirked and rolled his eyes. He was now at a very old and wise point of life, nine going on ninety. The odds of his survival to ten were low, and dropping by the day.

Dinner was some leftover beef stew from the beginning of the week, and some fresh baked rolls. The stew was sort of blah (Marilyn can’t cook) but the rolls were quite nice. After dinner we sent the kids packing and I told Marilyn about the next weekend. “I’ve got an old buddy coming next weekend. We don’t have anything planned, right?”

“You’re supposed to ask that first, and then make your plans,” I was told.

“Okay, do you have anything planned for next weekend?”

“Well, no.”

“So can I have a friend over for a sleepover, Mom?!”

“You can be eliminated, you know! You sound like Charlie and his buddies. What if the kids invite somebody?” asked my wife.

“Then they can have a slumber party in their room. It’s what they do, anyway.”

Marilyn had to nod in agreement at that. “That’s true enough. Who is it?”

“You’ll never believe who I ran into the other day. Remember Marty Adrianopolis from Kegs?” I asked.

Marilyn looked suitably blank. “One of your old frat brothers? The name’s not ringing any bells.”

“Big guy, a couple of years ahead of me. He was my frat big brother.” Marilyn still looked blank. “He was bartending with me the night we met. We used to bartend a lot.”

That made her eyes light up. “Oh, yeah! Big guy, always flirting with me. Didn’t we invite him to the wedding or something?”

I nodded. “Yeah, but he didn’t make it. I don’t remember if we even heard from him, but he was out of school two years by then. Have to ask him.”

“Okay, I remember him now. What’s he up to?” Marilyn stood to clean the table.

I stood as well, and we carried the dishes into the kitchen. I ended up leaning back against the island while she rinsed and washed the dishes before putting them in the dishwasher. Me, I would have just stuck them in the dishwasher, but no that wouldn’t have been doing it right. “He’s a lobbyist, of all things. He sold his soul to Satan.”

“When he comes, I’ll tell him you said that.”

“Yeah? Maybe I’ll tell you what he said about you!”

“What!? He remembered me?”

“Not specifically. He just remembered the little brunette with the big tits I was banging…”

“HE DID NOT!”

I gave my wife a pious and innocent look. “Oh, yeah, he remembered because of all the noise you used to make. He told me they could hear you all the way over in Grogan’s…”

“BULLSHIT!” she squawked, loud enough to attract the attention of the kids.

All three came in. “Mom?!” asked Charlie. I knew he couldn’t quite believe his ears. Marilyn never swore in front of the kids.

I tried to keep a straight face, but wasn’t succeeding very well. She looked daggers at me, and I was biting my lip. “Out!” she told them.

Charlie snickered and headed towards the living room.

Holly looked at her mother and said, “Mommy! You always tell us that if we say bad words, you’re going to wash our mouths out with soap!”

Molly chimed in at that. “Do we need to wash your mouth out, Mommy?”

I was barely holding it together at this point. Marilyn glared at all of us, and pointed towards the living room. “OUT! ALL OF YOU! OUT!” The girls giggled and scampered away, followed closely by me. I was followed by a wet dishcloth. “YOU THINK YOU’RE SO FUNNY!”

“What’d you say to Mom, Dad?” asked Charlie, once we were all out of the kitchen.

“None of your business. Feel free to ask her, though. She’ll drop you in the pool and pull you out in the summer. It’s your life, though.”

Just then a loud clatter came from the kitchen. Charlie grinned and said, “I don’t think so!”

“Discretion is the better part of valor,” I told him, which didn’t really register. I grabbed a magazine from the end table and started reading in my recliner.

After finishing with the dishes, Marilyn came out of the kitchen, and I had to bite my lip all over again. “You think you’re so funny!” she said to me, in a more normal tone.

I had to laugh. “You know, all those years ago, I told you that you’d get in trouble screaming like that.”

“You are deluded!”

“I warned you that the Carl Buckman Experience was a life changing event.”

Marilyn started laughing now, too. “In your dreams!”

I glanced around and saw that none of the kids were paying any attention to us. I smiled and responded, “I bet I can make you scream.”

“Forget it!” I just gave her a confident look and a half smile. “Maybe. Later. If you think you’re up for it!”

I grinned back. “Just remember, an artist does his best work on a fresh canvas! Maybe you need to clean up — all over! — to make sure you get the best result. That and dig out a gag, since I don’t want your begging and screaming for more to scare the children.”

That really made her laugh. “Bullshit!” she whispered to me.

I just waggled my eyebrows in return. “Just remember, I taught you everything you know, but not everything I know!”

Marilyn really laughed at that. On the plus side, shortly after the kids went to bed, Marilyn opened a bottle of wine and took a glass into the bedroom, and said she wanted to relax in the whirlpool bathtub. That meant to me that she was planning on a bubble bath and shaving her legs. I’d bring her in a refill after a bit, and then head to bed a little early, after she was done cleaning up.

I was right, too. Marilyn returned later in a black peignoir set that was pretty much transparent. Everything was clean enough to eat off of, so that’s exactly what I did! She returned the favor, and while she didn’t need a gag (not that we even had one; my kinks don’t quite go that far) she did end up moaning into the pillow while I finished by plowing her ass from behind. Saturday night we did a very nice date night, with dinner and a movie, and Marilyn without any underwear. I teased her by telling her I’d let Marty know how wild she still was, and she retaliated by telling me that when Marty was visiting, I was cut off, so there wouldn’t be any ‘embarrassment.’

Chuck lasted through Wednesday before pissing me off for the last time. It started out as a scheduling issue, but then he tried a workaround through Mindy, scheduling something on my calendar without clearing it ahead of time. I had also asked him to figure out when some of the troops would be getting back from the Gulf, as I was planning to co-sponsor a ‘Welcome Home’ party in Fayetteville with the USO. He ignored that. I simply couldn’t trust the guy. I asked him to stay late Wednesday, and then after sending the rest of the staff home, I cut him loose. He protested his innocence six ways from Sunday, but I simply took his keys from him and showed him the door.

Thursday morning I called the staff in and made a simple announcement that Chuck had left to pursue other opportunities, and that I was in the market for a new chief of staff, but that we were on our own until then. I kept a smile on my face and looked around the room. The response was interesting. The more junior people looked relieved, and the senior people simply nodded to each other. After that, I sent everybody back to work, although I kept Babs, Mindy, and Sherry behind.

“Okay ladies, let’s go over today’s plans,” I said.

Mindy and Sherry nodded. Babs asked, “Are you planning on hiring a new chief of staff?”

“Probably. Do you think I should? What are your thoughts?” I pointed at all of them. “What do all of you think?”

It was Mindy who answered first. “It might make things easier when you’re not here,” she said timidly.

Sherry nodded and Babs added, “I’m not going to miss Chuck, but somebody needs to do it.”

“Just don’t hire somebody who orders people around like he did. You need something from Legislative, ask me, or Bobby if I’m not around, not one of the kids,” commented Sherry. Bobby was Bobby Hisert, her assistant.

I looked at the others. Mindy wasn’t in charge of anybody, and was one of the more junior people, but she was dialed into the grapevine. “He do that a lot? Going around people?” They nodded. “Okay, that’s not good. I used to be in the Army, and I’m a big fan of the chain of command. Okay, I need to replace Chuck. I got his name from Gingrich, but I don’t want to go back to that well. If any of you know somebody, let me know. Now, what do we have planned?”

That got us off of Chuck and back to something useful. Babs reported on the usual missing Social Security checks and help needed with Health and Human Services by a town in the western end of the district. Babs handed me a sheet of paper with a name and a phone number and a script of sorts, a bunch of talking points, really, for when I called over there. I was to wave my Congressman badge around and get somebody to do something. I was also handed a second sheet with a name of somebody over at Veterans Affairs. Same deal, call over, be a Congressman, get something done.

Next, Sherry mentioned something about a bill called the ‘Gore’ bill, because Tennessee Senator Al Gore was pushing it. It was going through the Science, Space, and Technology Committee, and she thought I might be interested. I scratched my head at that. Al Gore? What was he up to? “What’s that about?” I asked.

She riffed through some notes. “It’s something called the ‘High Performance Computing and Communication Act’. Something to do with computer networks, I think.”

Holy shit! It was Al Gore’s Internet bill, the one that tied ARPANet and NSFNet together! I sat upright. “Okay, I want to know all about it. If it’s what I think it is, I want in on this,” I told them.

“Al Gore’s a Democrat and a Senator,” she replied, curious at my interest.

I nodded. “Ladies, long before I was an investor or a soldier, I was a scientist. In case you didn’t know, I’m not a lawyer, I’m a mathematician. I have a doctorate in computer networking. If it’s what I think it is, this is an important bill, and I want my name on it somewhere. Does he have any sponsors in the House? I might not know how this works, but I know you need to sponsor this in the House as well as the Senate. Get me involved!”

Sherry nodded with a surprised look on her face. “Yes, sir. Let me look into this. Give me a few days and I’ll get back to you.”

I tilted my head towards Mindy, but kept talking to Sherry. “Get in touch with Al Gore’s staff. Feel free to set me up with a lunch with the Senator, my treat. Schedule it with Mindy for me.”

Next I turned to Mindy. “I want you to call somebody at either the Pentagon or Fort Bragg. Find out when the 82^nd Airborne is going to be coming back from the Gulf. Then get in touch with the USO. I donate to them every year, and I would bet that they are planning some sort of ‘Welcome Home’ party. Feel free to use my name, but I want to help. They’ll want some money, so remind them I have contributed in the past and will continue to do so. Also, figure out about any troops from the Maryland Ninth. We can have a party back home for that. I’ll want to attend both.”

Mindy was scribbling furiously. The others eye me curiously. “You were in the 82^nd, right?” asked Sherry.

“Yeah.”

The others all nodded. “So, we should stop selling you to the lobbyists, and actually try to get something accomplished?” commented Babs.

I smiled. “Chuck didn’t quite get it. Let’s see if you ladies and whoever I get as my next chief of staff can figure it out.” That got some laughs, and I shooed them out of the office.

I spent the rest of the week learning how bills got introduced and passed in the real world, and not how they teach you during Orientation. It was too late to make a name for myself with the Gore Bill. Al had introduced it to the Senate on January 24 as S.272, and George Brown had introduced the related H.656 to the House four days later. George Brown was the head of the House Science, Space, and Technology Committee, thus the bill was pretty much a done deal. The best I could manage was being a co-sponsor, which I would just have to be happy with.

I talked to Sherwood ‘Sherry’ Boehlert over lunch that week about the bill. That was pretty interesting, since he had been my Congressman back when I had lived in New York on my first trip round. He was a decidedly moderate Republican, much like myself, and by the Nineties was constantly being hammered by the religious right about being pro-choice. He finally gave it up in 2006, deciding not to put up with the increasingly hard right tone of the party and got out while the getting was good. He was a fellow member of the SST Committee and was already listed as a co-sponsor. I would have a chance to get on as a cosponsor in April.

He also warned me that this was considered a ‘Democratic’ bill. He was the only Republican sponsor, and warned me that co-sponsoring it would bring me to the attention of the party leadership, and not in a positive fashion! He could get away with it because he had a reputation as a moderate, and had been in Congress for eight years already; I was a newbie with no reputation. I don’t think he gave a damn about what Gingrich thought, and was only four years junior to him anyway. Gingrich was only the Minority Whip, but he was very, very ambitious and Boehlert figured he was trying to maneuver into the Minority Leader’s seat, and hopefully become Speaker of the House. That was one of the subtexts of everything involving the legislation, this or any other. Newt was pushing to reverse the Democratic domination of the House, and if he managed it, he would oust Michel. I needed to watch my ass. My counter was three simple letters — P — H — D! I could flaunt my interest in computers and my years of experience in the business, and otherwise pass myself off as simply naïve in the workings of Congress. I told him to count me in.

I had a lot of respect for Boehlert. If nothing else, when Parker had made Eagle Scout, our Congressman, Sherry Boehlert, had issued a very impressive Congressional Proclamation for the occasion. I would have to make sure that Babs and Cheryl knew about that sort of stuff. It costs nothing, wins votes, and impresses the hell out of people.

Marty called me the middle of the week to confirm his coming to the house on Friday, and again Friday morning. I hadn’t told him our mode of travel yet, deciding to keep that a surprise. He showed up at my office with a two-suiter on a strap around four in the afternoon. “We’ll take my car. It’ll be easier that way,” I told him.

“Fine by me. Did you have to remind Marilyn who I was?”

I laughed. “Yeah, she remembered the big guy who used to check out her tits!”

“Great! Some help you are!”

I laughed even more at that. I called for my driver and we headed down. I just needed to bring my briefcase. We threw everything into the back of the limo and climbed in the back. Marty commented, “You know, you really live a tough life.”

I smiled. “It’s a dirty job, but somebody has to do it.”

That earned a derisive snort from him. Then he noticed what direction we were heading in. “Hey, I thought you lived in Maryland. That’s out of the city, not into it.”

I smiled. “Trust me. I know a shortcut.”

He gave me a curious look, and looked at the signs along the highway. “Your shortcut goes through National Airport?!”

I grinned as we pulled off the approach road towards the charter base. When the car stopped and we climbed out I pointed towards a white helicopter without any logos or artwork on it. “There’s my shortcut,” I said.

“We’re flying to your house?” he asked, staring at me incredulously.

“Not quite, but close though. Come on, grab your bag.” I waited for Marty to retrieve his bag. The driver, one of my security people, would wait until the LongRanger lifted off before heading out.

Meanwhile, Tyrell Washington, a large black guy in a heavy jacket and slacks came out and waved at us. I waved back and the three of us converged on the helicopter. “Afternoon, Tyrell. All the parts put back together after the last crash?” I asked.

Marty’s eyes opened wide at that, which Tyrell noticed. “Yes, sir, pretty much. They found some extra pieces, though. We’ve got them in a box back at the hanger. We won’t need them until the next safety inspection, though,” he replied, deadpan.

“I sure hope you two are joking,” said Marty.

“Only one way to find out!” Tyrell opened the rear door on the right side and tossed in my briefcase and Marty’s bag. Marty was told to get in the right hand seat and buckle up. Tyrell handed him a pair of headphones. Then I went around to the front left, and got into the co-pilot’s seat, while Tyrell got into the right side pilot’s position. I have no idea why they have to do things differently than everybody else. Chopper pilots are a little different, is my explanation.

Once inside, Tyrell settled a pair of headphones on his head, and I did the same. Marty was somewhat bewildered, but when he saw me do this, he did the same, although he got them on backwards. The engine was already starting to wind up, so I yelled for him to turn them around, and demonstrated with mine. That got the mike in the proper spot, and I said, “Can you hear me?”

“You commute to work in a helicopter?!”

Tyrell laughed at that. I answered, “It’s a two hour drive otherwise. I can cut it in half, or less this way.”

The engine had spooled up loudly now, and Tyrell broke in on our chatter. “Quiet, please, while I talk to the tower.” I nodded and Tyrell flipped a switch and started chattering with the control tower. A few minutes later we lifted off and started flying.

The biggest problem with National is that it is right downtown, in a very congested area by flight standards. Washington is chock full of secure airspace that you’re not allowed to fly in (no buzzing the White House) and National is a relatively old and small airport without any room for expansion. For general aviation purposes College Park, just northeast of D.C. would be better, but probably twice as far from either the Capitol or the house on 30^th Street and couldn’t handle the G-IV. Dulles, the newest major airport, is at least a half hour west of the city.

After a bit, we were out of the city and climbing up to about 5,000 feet, and Tyrell’s voice came up through the headphones. “Okay, that’s out of the way. Welcome to Buckman Air. We’ll try not to crash, or double your money back.”

“Anybody ever tell you that nobody likes funny pilots?” said Marty.

“Well, we don’t have the room for any stewardesses, and Mrs. Buckman probably wouldn’t approve of them anyway,” was the reply.

I twisted around in my seat some, so I could look over my shoulder at Marty. “Sure beats driving for two hours, doesn’t it?”

“You do this every day? This must cost a fortune!” he protested.

“Marty, I know you’re a lawyer now, and have lost your math skills along with your morals, but think back to the days we were at college together. Remember the difference between million and billion. Start doing the numbers. It’s scary at times.”

I saw Tyrell glance at me out of the corner of his eye, and then he gave me a wry shrug. You don’t get to be a chopper pilot by being stupid, and he could do the numbers too. I made more in interest each day than I could spend in a month.

I had Tyrell give a running commentary of the view and sights below. Once we were at altitude and outside of the D.C. flight area we made quick time on the way to Westminster. We landed in a circle near the terminal and Tyrell helped Marty out of his seat. Twenty minutes later we were at the house.

Marty commented as we climbed out of the car, “I’m surprised you didn’t have your pilot land you in the driveway, and save all that time.”

I had to smile at that. I waved a hand around. “Get real, there’s nowhere near enough room in the driveway.” Marty snorted and smiled, and followed me into the house. “Watch out for the idiot dog. She’s harmless, but gets excited.”

True to form, Dum-Dum raced in. When she saw somebody new, she ignored me, but tried to jump up on him. Marty submitted to her for a minute, and then I pulled her away. She immediately began racing around the house at full speed, running off and then running back, only to get stopped by me.

“Don’t worry. In fifteen minutes she’s back to normal. During the first fifteen minutes, though, she’s simply uncontrollable,” I said.

“DUM-DUM! KNOCK IT OFF! DOWN!” yelled Marilyn. I grabbed a newspaper and when she raced back, I smacked her on the nose with it. Dum-Dum was now eight years old, 56 in dog years. She qualified for AARP, the American Association of Retired Pooches.

Marty and I left our bags in the foyer and I led him inside. “Marty, you remember Marilyn Lefleur. Now she’s Marilyn Buckman. Honey, remember Marty Adrianopolis from Kegs?” I said, re-introducing each of them.

Both of them smiled as recognition crept back. “Damn, Marilyn but you look good! You’re prettier now than before. Much nicer looking than your husband!”

Marilyn laughed at that. “I remember you, too, Marty. The last thing I remember was we invited you to the wedding, but never heard back from you.”

Marty shrugged. “When was that ’77 or ’78?”

“June of ’78”

He nodded. “Well, I was in Saudi by then. Supposedly my mail was being forwarded, but it wasn’t the most reliable place to get anything done. The invitation is probably arriving there any time now.”

“Saudi Arabia! You mean, all the way overseas like that!?” she exclaimed.

“Yep.”

“You are going to have to tell us about that!” I told him.

Dum-Dum was still rampaging around, and the kids came out of their rooms and into the living room to see what was going on. Charlie was the first one out, and the tallest, and he said, “Hi.”

“That’s Charlie.” I said, pointing, and then swung my finger over a bit. “And that one is Holly, and that one is Molly. Guys, this is Mr. Adrianopolis. He’s a friend of your mother and mine. He’s staying for the weekend, so behave.”

“Mister Adaroana…” struggled out from my son.

“Just call me Mister Marty. It’s a lot easier to say,” commented Marty.

Charlie’s face lit up at that. “Cool!”

“Hi!” came out of both girls.

Marty smiled at them, and then looked at us. “How do you tell those two apart?”

“Holly is troublesome and Molly is more troublesome,” I answered.

“Mom!” they both complained.

“Out, all of you!” she said in reply. She scooted them out, and sent Dum-Dum off with them. To Marty she commented quietly, “And Charlie is most troublesome!” That just earned some laughs.

“We’ve got two choices for you. Down the hall past the kids’ rooms is a spare bedroom. Option Two is the pool house. It’s more private and has its own bathroom, but you’ll have to come over here for meals and such.” I took him over to the kitchen and pointed the pool house to him through the window.

“Well, I don’t think it will hurt me to share a bathroom with the kids. Let’s give that a shot,” he replied. We went back into the foyer and grabbed our stuff, and Marilyn showed Marty down the hall to the spare bedroom. I dropped my briefcase in my office and then went to our bedroom and changed out of my suit.

I walked barefoot in old khakis and a denim shirt down the hall to the kitchen. Marilyn was putting some dishes away while Marty, now also more casual, was sitting on a bar stool at the island. “What’s for dinner tonight?” I asked.

“Hamburgers!” yelled Charlie running in.

I glanced at Marilyn, who nodded. “Okay, hamburgers it is. What about tomorrow?”

Marilyn said, “I was thinking I just picked up some chicken breasts, and I can thaw out the ham slices from when you baked the ham last week.”

“Coq au vin?” Marilyn nodded, and I shrugged. “Fine by me.” I looked over at Marty and said, “It takes a good hour to prepare, so I don’t normally cook big when I’m in Washington all day.”

“Have I ever had that? Did you make that back at Kegs?”

“I doubt it. I would have blown a Sunday budget for sure. Want a drink?”

“You bet!” He looked over at my son and then turned back to Marilyn and me. “Got any Southern Comfort? We can teach Charlie how to do flaming shots.”

I laughed at this and Marilyn groaned and rolled her eyes. It got worse when our ever-attentive son came over and asked, “What’s a flaming shot?”

“Never you mind, Mister, and mind your own business!” said Marilyn. She pointed towards the living room and sent him packing. “No flaming shots!”

“Right. Gin and tonics?” I asked. The others nodded. “Okay, gin and tonics. He can learn about flaming shots the hard way, like we did, in a run down and seedy frat house fighting over hot and wild women looking to lead him from the path of good and righteousness.”

“God bless them!” agreed Marty.

“You two still haven’t grown up!” said Marilyn.

“You need a double,” I replied.

“With that bunch out there? Make it a triple!”

I made drinks (regular strength) for all of us and then started on the burgers. It was much too chilly to cook on the grill outside, and we had that covered for the winter. Tonight I used the broiler in the oven. The twins didn’t want cheeseburgers, but the rest of us did. We ate dinner in the breakfast nook rather than the formal dining room. “So, tell us, what was Saudi Arabia like?” I asked Marty.

He gave me a wry look that said volumes. “I guess I’m glad I did it, but I don’t think I’d do it again.”

“Oh?”

“You are not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy! It is not like the States. You have to agree to a multi-year contract to work there, so you are locked in. I did one for five years.”

“Is it real strict or something?” asked Marilyn.

“Well, yes and no. I was in Dhahran, which is in the eastern part of the country, near all the oilfields. You live in a compound, sort of a gated and walled city, with only the foreigners, well, mostly foreigners, living in it. It’s sort of like living in a normal American suburb. And the pay is really, really good! Good schools and you can save a lot for retirement or college.”

“Okay, so that sounds good.”

“Yeah, but it can be weird. You are in this walled compound, almost like a prison camp. Outside those walls it’s all Islamic, women can’t drive, you don’t have any rights, and nobody is a real fan of America. Inside the wall, everybody pretends they’re free, but you have to smuggle in booze, and if you get caught, you will probably be deported after being flogged. Everybody inside the compound is secretly running stills and making home brew. It’s like a prison, only it’s the fanciest prison you’ve ever heard of. My first wife, she couldn’t handle it, and divorced me and flew home.”

“Well, that kind of sucks,” I said.

“I thought so at the time, too. Then again, I did find her…” He stopped and glanced at the children in the room, and finished, “… in flagrante delicto, if you know what that means. That didn’t help matters.”

“I guess it wouldn’t.” Marilyn was looking at me in confusion. I just said, “Little pitchers, big ears. I’ll explain it later.”

Charlie caught part of it. “Were you a pitcher on a baseball team?” I rolled my eyes and let Marty deflect that one.

“I’m actually kind of glad I wasn’t over there last year. Dhahran would have been Target One for Saddam Hussein if he had pushed south from Kuwait. Everything he was after was along the east coast, all the oil fields and refineries. He would have taken all those westerners and used them as human shields, too,” Marty told us.

I nodded in understanding. “That would pretty much suck. I have a buddy, still in the service. He was artillery like me, but was commanding an MLRS battalion during Desert Storm. The one thing he said was that the whole place was simply hotter than the surface of the Sun!”

“It is that!”

After dinner we went into my study and I showed him some of the pictures on the wall. He knew about the billionaire investor part, but that’s different then seeing me and Bill Gates signing papers. I had a few pictures of Bill and Michael Dell, and of course there was the plaque of me getting my Bronze Star. One of my more recent photos included the President, and another one with the Governor of Maryland, William Donald Schaefer. He was a fascinating fellow, coming up through the Baltimore City Democratic machine, serving 16 years as the Baltimore Mayor, and now was in his second term as Governor. A very popular guy, and even the Republicans were polite to the man.

“What are these pictures doing here?” asked Marty. “You should have all this stuff in your office in Washington.”

I shrugged. “I never thought about it before.”

“Christ, Carl! There are people in that building who can’t do half of what you routinely get away with. Do you think Michel or Gingrich have Bill Gates on speed dial? These guys are lucky to get a handshake at a meet and greet. You have awards for heroism here. Get this stuff down to D.C. on Monday!”

“Well, okay, if you think it would be good.”

“In Washington, power is perception. If people down there think you have power, then you have power.”

“So, why don’t you come work for me? You can teach me this stuff. God knows, somebody needs to!” I replied.

Marty smiled. “I can’t afford to work for a government paycheck.”

“Money! Whatever happened to helping your country out!?” I teased him.

“Yeah, money! Patriotism isn’t going to pay my mortgage.”

“Do you like buying and selling Congressmen?” I asked. “Is that what you want to do when you grow up?”

Marty gave me a wry smile. “No, but so what. Carl, I hate to tell you this, but you’ve sunk to a new low here. Remember when we were in that jail in Florida for sleeping on the beach? As a general rule, our fellow inmates had higher standards than most of Congress.”

“Well, I know that. They’re mostly lawyers, right?”

Marty flipped me the bird at that. “Fuck you, too, buddy.”

“Marty, I might not know the rules, but I know people and politics. You can do anything you want if you can pay for it. I can pay for a lot of things. You can’t get by on a government salary? Why can’t I hire you directly?”

“Because government employees can’t moonlight or get paid by somebody else. We’ll both go to jail.”

“What if I hire you through the re-election campaign or something like that? I pay what people are worth, not government rates.”

He nodded at that. “Legal, but then I would be limited to only things related to your re-election. I wouldn’t be a government employee. I wouldn’t be able to get a decent security clearance, for instance, if I needed one.” Then he gave me an odd look. “Although, there is a degree of moonlighting allowed. I am allowed to earn a certain percentage of income working for the campaign.”

I smiled at that. The best way of winning an argument with a fellow is to let him argue your side of the argument! “Any way you can squeeze something more out of the government?” I asked.

Marty was in that deep lawyer mode of thought I had seen in John and a few of the others. “Over time, there might be committee staff duty possible…” He was slowly speaking as much to himself as to me.

“There has to be a way,” I told him. He just smiled.

“Jesus! I am going to have to think on this.”

“Think fast. Next week I need to start looking for somebody,” I said.

Saturday I put Dum-Dum on her leash and Marty and I walked around the property. It was cold, but it hadn’t snowed and you could see the property fairly well. The pool was covered, but we hadn’t drained it, and there was a giant beach ball under the cover to break up any ice. We had the pool house, and I showed him that. I pointed out where Charlie had busted his arm trying to ski jump over the highway, and Marty asked me about the trails cut through the property where my son went dirt biking.

“Are the girls going to be riding, too?” he asked.

I shrugged and gave a wry look. “Not that they’ve told me. Then again, I’ll probably be the last person in the know. They like watching Charlie race, but I don’t see them as tomboys. They’re more girlie-girls.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Ask me when they turn thirteen!”

Marty grinned. “Oh, I’ll bet that will be fun!”

“I’ve still got my service pistol somewhere. I’ll just remind any of the boys I’m the crazy billionaire murderer,” I replied, smiling. Maybe a reputation as a killer would be a good thing!

“Tell me about that. I watch the Sunday news shows as much as the next Washington insider, but what really happened back then?”

I nodded. “Let’s go inside where it’s warm. You should hear it from Marilyn, also. She was involved as much as me.” We turned around and went back to the house, Dum-Dum leading the way.

We took off our coats in the laundry room and left our shoes there, too. Unfortunately, we were the only ones around. Marilyn had bundled the fruit of my loins off to karate and ballet. We were on our own for a few hours until they came back, so we talked politics and what George Bush was going to do with the economy and the growing budget deficit. Right now it wasn’t great, not a thing an incumbent President wants to experience right before an election season. The Democrats were still horsing around trying to figure out who was going to run. I knew it would be Clinton, but hearing all the names that Marty was tossing around was a real flashback. Wait until he got a load of Pat Buchanan and Ross Perot!

Marilyn returned after taking the kids through Mickey Ds. Seeing my daughters in tights and tutus always brought a smile to my face. Suzie hadn’t been one for ballet, and I hadn’t been around the house all that much longer anyway. Holly and Molly were closing in on being seven this summer, and I had moved out when Suzie was only ten. I never saw her growing up this time, and I just didn’t remember any more from the first go. I asked the girls about any recitals or dances coming up, and then asked Charlie how his workout went. I got some answers, but then they ignored me. I was just Dad, nobody important.

Considering Marilyn and the children had already eaten, I warmed up some leftovers for lunch for Marty and me. Then Marilyn sat down with us at the island and in low voices we told Marty about that terrible time back in ’83. Marty knew about my family troubles from back in college, but this put a whole new spin on things!

My old buddy stayed with us another night, and we watched the Sunday morning news shows together. Then around lunchtime, we drove him back to the Westminster airport and I had him flown back to Washington. Again he marveled at this kind of casual display, but by now it seemed second nature to me. He promised to consider working for me, and I told him to consider quickly.

Chapter 110: 1991 In Our Nation’s Capital

I got a call from Marty on Monday afternoon, late. “I need to have my head examined, but I’m in. If you still want me, let me know. I haven’t given any notice yet.”

“What about your law firm, Dewey Cheatem and Howe? Is this going to screw up any partnership bids? How does that work, anyway?”

Marty snorted. “That’s part of it. I have been weighed in the balance and found wanting. I nosed around some this morning, and there won’t be a partnership offer made to me. At least, not under current circumstances. If I were to make the appropriate investment, they might reconsider.”

“Ouch!”

“Right, so I might as well consider my other options.”

I shrugged to myself. There are lots of reasons not to make somebody a partner, and job performance wasn’t the only factor. Maybe Marty simply pissed off a senior partner. “Come over on Wednesday and we’ll talk some more.” We hung up on that.

I talked to Marty on Wednesday and we confirmed he would come to work as my Chief of Staff. Thursday morning I called Sherry, Babs, and Mindy into my office and gave them the word. They sat there and nodded in understanding, but I felt an undercurrent of relief. They were getting somebody to sort things out. Marty would start soon, not the next Monday, but the Monday after that. They would pass it along to everyone.

When Marty joined up, you could see everybody settling into a new scheme of things. The entire office tightened up some, in that there was actually a method to the madness, and some needed discipline. Marty would have a meeting every morning, with me, him, and the three top ladies, and we would plan out the day and review what needed to be done. At least once a week he met with Babs and the Constituent Support people, and also with Sherry and the Legislative Support people. He also made a schedule to visit the District Office in Westminster on a regular basis. Even my own schedule began tightening up, as I began to meet with people I needed to see, and not just people who wanted to buy my soul.

After a few weeks, as things began to work together much more smoothly, I made a comment at our morning meeting that, “I think this new arrangement is going to work out.”

Marty laughed dryly. “That just means it’s all going to fall apart by lunchtime.”

He was right, of course. By the beginning of April I found myself called on the carpet by Newt Gingrich. He had discovered, horror of horrors, that I was interested in co-sponsoring Al Gore’s Internet bill. I was ‘asked’ to meet with him in his office. It was a lot like being called into the Principal’s office. He sat behind his big desk and I sat in a chair in front of him. “Carl, I understand you are interested in co-sponsoring HR656.”

“Yes, that’s correct,” I replied. I didn’t want to elaborate unless I had to. Newt Gingrich had the moral instincts of a shark looking for a wounded guppy. There was a reason he was the Minority Whip.

“I’m curious why you would do that. That’s Al Gore’s computer bill, isn’t it?”

I nodded. “Basically. It’s the House version anyway. He had George Brown propose it. Sherry Boehlert is one of the co-sponsors.” Maybe I could deflect any wrath by throwing Sherry under the bus.

Newt looked like he was sucking a lemon as I said that, so maybe that wasn’t a great line of thought. “That’s really a Democratic bill, Carl. It would be best if you took your name off of it.”

“It’s a bill that is going to pass, so maybe it would be good to get my name on it,” I countered.

He shook his head. “I don’t think so. You know that Minority Leader Michel and I are working to build a Republican majority, right? Neither of us thinks that successful Democratic legislation will be conducive to that. We’d rather wait until we returned to power to do these things.”

Well, that was blunt enough. The massive Congressional gridlock that characterized Washington from about 2008 on really got its start twenty years prior, under the Gingrich reign over the Republican Party. Strategy meant nothing, tactics meant everything. It was a beggar thy neighbor, scorched earth approach to legislation. Better that nothing get done than that anything bipartisan might get accomplished. The only way this actually works, though is when one party has an unassailable hold on both houses and the Presidency. Under any other circumstances it just makes for not much action and really bad blood.

I nodded in understanding, but countered, “Newt, this is an important bill, and it will have consequences that will benefit the Republican Party as well. We should be supporting this bill.”

“Explain how this will benefit us.”

“Are you aware of exactly what this bill does? In a nutshell, it opens up existing government computer networks and allows them to be expanded on. In effect it is privatizing the existing government networks. We’re in favor of privatizing. There will be a lot of money made from this.”

That made Newt wake up. He sat upright and looked at me hard. “Computer companies are going to buy this?”

“Probably not, but the phone companies will.”

“I’m not convinced,” he told me.

“Let me put it another way. Al Gore is taking to calling this thing the ‘Information Superhighway’, right? Have you ever heard of a highway that didn’t need construction? I would think you’d be interested in figuring out how to regulate and control that construction.” Regulate and control — in other words, get money from the companies building the highway so that the construction would be regulated and controlled the way they wanted.

Newt gave me a noncommittal grunt at that, and I could see the wheels whirling inside his head. I pushed in a different fashion. “Here’s another thing to think about. You don’t want Al Gore claiming he built the Information Superhighway, do you?”

“That’s why I’m meeting with you,” he said tersely.

“Well, you’ve heard that when somebody hands you lemons, make lemonade. This bill is going to pass, that’s a given. You can’t stop it. Make some lemonade. Remember, I’m actually a mathematician. I have a doctorate in applied mathematics and my thesis was on computer networking. If Al Gore starts saying he’s building the Information Superhighway, trot me out. I wrote the blueprints!”

Gingrich’s eyes popped open at that. He grumbled some more at me, but let me out. I don’t know if I was first on his list or last, but I knew he wouldn’t let it go. A couple of other Republicans were going to co-sponsor it as well, Steve Schiff of New Mexico, and my fellow Marylander, Wayne Gilchrest.

By the end of April I was officially listed as a co-sponsor of the bill, which was reported out of the Science Committee mid-May. From there it had to go to the Senate to be sorted out with the joint committee, to make the wording match what was reported out of the Senate Commerce Committee. It was just a matter of time after that. The Democrats had a solid majority of both the House and the Senate, and this thing wouldn’t even be brought up to a counted vote. A voice vote would be good in both houses. It’s like I told Newt Gingrich, this thing was going to pass no matter what.

Also, by the end of April, most of the troops in the Gulf were coming home. I got a call from the USO and Mindy set me up with a room down in Fayetteville. I flew down for a few days and helped host a ‘Welcome Back!’ party. No, I didn’t give any speeches, or at least not too many, but I did talk to the generals and colonels commanding the division and the brigades and attached battalions. I also left my business cards. Little Captain Buckman had left home and grown up. If the 82^nd needed help in Washington, they now had their own pet Congressman.

There was actually one speech I gave, which I began using with lots of military groups in the future. I was asked to say some words to a group of senior non-coms who had seen their last war. The Army was still downsizing and the Gulf War had been their last hurrah. I was expected to say fine things and thank them for their dedicated service, and I did that of course. Then I added an extra.

“Now I am going to close this by saying that your nation is not done with you. Some of you came into the Army as draftees. Others enlisted. All of you had chances to get out after doing a hitch, and all of you thought that your service to the nation was important. It still is. Now you are retiring, to start second careers, many of them in the private sector. However, your nation still needs you, now more than ever! I want everyone here to think about the sacrifices you have made, and have been asked to make. I want all of you to consider a new sacrifice, the sacrifice of serving in political office. It’s not easy, but it is important. From now on, every time you complain about something dumb in government, I want you to think about what you could do to make it better. I want you to think about becoming part of the solution, and not just complaining about the problem. Republican, Democrat, or Independent — I don’t care! Just get involved! Run for alderman or county commissioner or the school board. Hell, run for dogcatcher! The skills that got you here today, the pride and dedication and courage and smarts, those are the skills your hometowns need! You’ve spent a lifetime serving your country. Now go home and serve there as well!”

At the end, as I was shaking hands, several commented to me that I had given them something to think about, and some of the senior officers told me the same thing. Later, while talking to some of the colonels and generals, I stated that for years, military service had been considered a requirement for holding political office, but that was going out of fashion. Maybe it should come back into fashion, and what better way than this? Maybe one of those non-coms would become a alderman, and then maybe leverage that upwards. It worked for a beat up old battery commander, didn’t it? (Not me — Harry Truman!)

In May, the Queen of England visited and gave a speech to Congress. In preparation, I went home the night before and practiced waving to the peasants with Marilyn playing the role of peasant. She returned the favor, using a special wave involving the middle finger being extended. How very peasant-like!

One of the things that Marty forced us into was the role of host and hostess. It was one thing to buy a home large enough to do this, but another to actually do it. Still, Washington floats on a sea of shrimp cocktails and Swedish meatballs. Some of my colleagues had reputations as being very private homebodies, but more than a few had a very different reputation. There were at least a half-dozen A-list parties every night somewhere in this town, some given by politicians, some given by lobbyists and think tanks (which had the advantage of being tax deductible), and some given by high-end reporters and pundits.

Marty gave me my marching orders. I had to pick a date and we would hold our first dinner, something small, for the Maryland contingent of Congress. That was nine Representatives and two Senators. If everybody came and brought a spouse/significant other/insignificant other/somebody-they’re-just-trying-to-get-in-the-pants-of that would be 22. Not all would attend and somebody would probably add an extra. Add in a few reporters, pundits, and hangers-on. Toss in an invitation to the Governor of Maryland, since Annapolis is only a half hour away. Figure about three dozen people. Marty checked out the name of the ‘party liaison’ and made a few calls.

“Don’t sweat it, you can afford it,” he told me. He had a particularly evil grin as he said this.

I just rolled my eyes at that. “You’re really getting off on ordering me around,” I told him.

“Damn straight! Marilyn told me to keep you on the straight and narrow.”

The dinner was on Friday, May 17. For the average Congressman, meeting your fellow Congressman on a Friday night isn’t so great, since most of them are back in their district on a Friday night. Maryland was a little different, though, since it is right next door to Washington. Other than the Gilchrests from the Eastern Shore, everybody else could almost commute.

Marilyn brought the kids and Dum-Dum down right after school, and Sherry’s niece came over to babysit upstairs with them. That generally went fairly well, but there were a few hitches. Charlie and his sisters were neatly dressed, and all three were at an age where they understood that “Behave or else!” actually involved an ‘or else!’ Our party coordinator brought in a chef and wait staff, and the chef used our fancy showroom kitchen to make some Maryland dishes, including soft shelled crabs and oyster soup. He also made up some Maryland fried chicken, and did some drumsticks for the kids. We allowed them to troop through, grab some plates, and head back upstairs. At that point Dum-Dum snuck past them and zoomed down the stairs. Fortunately I was able to snag her before she disrupted too much. I picked her up and calmed her down in my arms, and several people came over and got enthusiastically licked before I maneuvered her back up the stairs.

That actually elicited a discussion of child rearing techniques. Everybody commented that our children had been extremely well behaved, and I simply mentioned the ‘or else!’ method of child education. Since Marilyn and I were the youngest in the group, everybody else in the room thoroughly understood this time tested technique, and passed along how they had raised their children and how they had been raised. None of us believed all that touchy-feely New Age no spanking bullshit.

In general it went well. We didn’t really discuss anything important. Everybody thought the kids were adorable (which had Marilyn and me scratching our heads) and Dum-Dum was a real scamp. I made sure I told the others, all of whom, other than Wayne Gilchrest, had more experience in Washington, that whatever I could do to help Maryland, to let me know. Governor Schaefer immediately asked me for a campaign donation, saying how that would be good for Maryland. That got a loud round of laughter, since he was a Democrat, so I countered by saying, “Don, I already married a Democrat,” and pointed to Marilyn. “Just how much more can I do for you guys!?” That got even more laughter and the Governor shook my hand, saying that was plenty sufficient. The photographer Marty had ordered up took several group pictures.

I did earn a number of Brownie points when, over dinner and joking about Schaefer’s comment about helping him out, Wayne Gilchrest commented, “Maybe you can donate to some of my volunteer fire departments like you do your own?”

I glanced over at Marilyn and she shrugged at me, so I shrugged back. I looked over at Wayne and said, “Okay.”

Beverly Byron, who represented the Maryland Sixth, the Appalachian counties, joked, “Can the Democrats get in on the action, too?”

I looked across the table and said, “Sure. I hear even Democrats have fires.”

She gave me an odd look. “Are you being serious?”

“Yes. Are you?”

There was a level of consternation around the table. Governor Schaefer, who was sitting a few seats down, asked, “Carl, are you serious about donating money to other districts’ charities, even the Democrats?”

I glanced over at my wife, who smiled and nodded. “Governor, unless you can guarantee me that all the bad things that happen to people in the state of Maryland will only happen to Republicans, then yes, I am serious,” I looked around the room. “Look, I’ve heard the stories, I know what’s been said. I bought the election by throwing my money around to charities. I’ll admit I’ve given a lot of money to fire departments and emergency squads and police departments in my district, but it’s because that’s where I live. If you have some charities in your districts you’d like to see helped, then let me know. Or let Marilyn know. She’s actually the head of the Buckman Foundation. Just be prepared for the consequences.”

“Such as”, asked Steny Hoyer.

I shrugged at him and smiled. Steny was a leading Democrat. “Such as my smiling face handing over the check while the cameras are clicking. What’s more important, that the charity get the money, or that a Republican not get credit? Hmmm? Something to think about, isn’t it.”

There was considerable murmuring about that! However, it wasn’t all bad. Kweisi Mfume, who represented one of the poorest inner city districts in Baltimore, said, “I don’t care if your face is on the check! The people in my district need money for health care and clinics, and they don’t care where it comes from. Are you serious?” He had a rebellious look on his face, and I recalled that he and Schaefer had their differences about this.

I looked him in the eye and said, “Yes. How much are we talking about?”

“How about twenty thousand for a clinic in Pimlico?”

“Fifteen,” I countered, “but it is in matching funds. You scrape up fifteen elsewhere, anywhere, and I’ll cough up another fifteen. Deal?”

“Make it twenty, and you get to stand there and cut the ribbon,” he pushed.

“Only if the Sun and the television stations cover it,” I replied.

“Deal!”

You could see wheels whirling in people’s heads about this. I knew some wouldn’t want it, if I was attached, and some either wouldn’t care, or would be happy to see me (mostly the other Republicans.) Over the next ten minutes, I got requests for quite a bit more, again, all for various clinics and fire/emergency units.

“Just how much are you planning on donating?” asked the Governor.

I thought about it for a moment. “I’ve been giving about two hundred grand to various charities around my district for years, simply because it’s where I live. If we expand that same amount to the rest of the state… maybe two million. Seem fair?”

“Every year?” asked an incredulous Steny Hoyer.

“Well, as long as the economy holds up, so maybe you Democrats should vote Republican and help us with the economy,” I said, smiling.

That earned me a number of laughs, and a lot of thoughtful looks from the others. More than a few people asked me about things, and then said, “I’ll hold you to that!” which I replied to in kind.

By the end of the dinner, we got invited to several dinner parties by the others, including one at the Governor’s Mansion in Annapolis. We politely accepted that one, and promised to check our schedules on all the others. It is entirely possible to spend damn near every lunch and dinner eating somewhere on someone else’s’ dime, although how much you will accomplish is debatable at best. You’d better be a sparkling conversationalist at the least! As for Governor Schaefer, well, Don Schaefer was the Maryland politician of our generation, and it didn’t matter that he was a Democrat; if you wanted to do something political in Maryland you made sure you played nice with Don Schaefer, and at the least didn’t piss the man off.

Otherwise, however, 1991 passed along without much excitement. Unfortunately for George Bush, the economy began swirling around the bowl. In the early spring, following the American victory in the Gulf (okay, Coalition victory, but really, who cares!?) the President had approval ratings in the 90 % range. Unfortunately this proved the high point of his presidency. By the summer the economy was beginning to tank seriously. A combination of higher oil prices due to the Iraqi invasion of Kuwait, massive government deficits, and a general decline in the housing market combined to really slow the economy.

To a certain extent my holdings in the Buckman Group weren’t affected. When I had been elected, I had to place my financial assets into a ‘blind trust’, a trust where the trustee had full control of the assets and I had no legal ability to modify the investments. In theory, this prohibited me from changing my investments to benefit from any knowledge of what I was doing in my public life. I was not to communicate with the trustee other than to learn how the cumulative investment was doing.

In practice, the blind trust is one of the weakest methods of insuring fiscal independence. The trustee has to be somebody known and trusted by the owner of the trust. My trustee was hired by John Steiner, my long time friend and lawyer. Since I was such good friends with John it was not unexpected that we would talk frequently. As knowledgeable men of the world, with interests in politics and economics, it would be expected that we would have frequent conversations over market trends. However, since nothing we ever said in these private and unrecorded conversations could be construed to be trading instructions, neither of us was in breach of our fiduciary duties. Likewise, while I never talked to the trustee, it was not out of the realm of possibility that John would talk to him, since they probably did other business together as well.

Realistically, I wouldn’t have given him any trading instructions in any case. My assets were predominately in the form of Buckman Group stock. If, however, John was to pass along any of my comments and insights to other friends, such as those involved in the management of the Buckman Group, that was to be expected. It wasn’t even a case of insider trading.

The practical effect was that the Buckman Group focused even more closely on computer and networking companies, as the ‘Information Superhighway’ began to be built. On the rest of the market, we began betting on a recession based economy. I just reminded them of my trading philosophy that there was just as much money to be made on the downside as there was on the upside. Jake Junior and Missy took the bit in their teeth and ran with it.

This was an amazing part of being a Congressman. If I was still with the Buckman Group and pulled this shit, I’d be doing time at Club Fed for insider trading. As a Congressman, the rules simply didn’t apply to me. At least I kept up the semblance of innocence; when LBJ had been President, he had a phone in his desk with a direct line to his stockbroker.

On my weekends home I made a deal with Marilyn to spend at least one day with her and the kids as just a regular dad. I would also usually do a pancake supper or chicken-and-biscuit dinner somewhere in the district. It kept my face out there and allowed me to make an appropriate charitable donation to the local firehouse or ambulance squad. I wasn’t buying votes, at least not technically. My donations weren’t really out of line with what I had been giving before I got into politics, however, they were a lot more high profile. I even had a big fake check made up out of plastic, like a white board, where I could write an amount and a name on it, and pose for pictures. Afterwards, I would stick the fake check back in the car and give them a real check.

On the plus side I liked pancakes and chicken-and-biscuits. Being a zillionaire meant I didn’t have to spend my entire life begging for money. Yes, I kept a ‘tip jar’ with me for campaign donations, but I didn’t have to sell myself body and soul to stay in office. I did, however, have to call people and visit around the district. If somebody I knew had a kid who got married, I had to send a card with a check to the happy couple. If somebody died, I had to show up for the viewing or the funeral. Brewster stayed in touch with Marty and me (for a fee, of course) and made sure I got a daily list of calls I had to make, to keep in touch back home. It was a lot like being a salesman.

There’s a lot of routine stuff to being a Congressman. Some of this was the relatively mundane business of finding out why the Social Security check was late in the mail. Other times it became more personal. For instance, I learned on my first go-around that you can get a flag that has been flown over the Capitol building. Just write your Congressman or Senator and he can arrange it. The mundane becomes very personal in a hurry — a veteran dies in my district, I pay for the flag out of my own pocket, and if somebody dies in combat, I damn well better call the family and show up at the funeral! Thankfully the Gulf War wasn’t all that bloody.

Another very typical item is a Congressional Proclamation. Parker got one when he made Eagle Scout. You get a nicely written framable document that made patriotic noises about the wonders of whatever or whoever was being proclaimed. A big benefit I had in living so close to Washington was that it was entirely possible to actually show up and make a presentation, especially if it was in the evening. Nothing like showing up at an Eagle Scout Court of Honor to present a flag or a Proclamation. Give a little speech, shake a few hands, NEVER mention an election. Trust me, they’ll remember — and vote for you!

One routine thing that was pretty serious were the military academy appointments. As a Congressman, I got to nominate an applicant for the Military Academy at West Point, the Naval Academy at Annapolis, the Air Force Academy at Colorado Springs, and the Merchant Marine Academy at Kings Point. Curiously, the Coast Guard Academy doesn’t require a Congressional appointment. (Is that a good thing or bad?) The rules could change slightly, but most years you got to nominate one student to each academy, for a total of four students.

Andy Stewart, for all his general uselessness as a human being, had a procedure for handling academy nominations. From what I could see, it was a fairly standard type of setup. Every year he would send out a letter to every high school in the area, inviting students interested in an academy appointment to apply for one, along with a packet of information for the school. That worked out to nine separate high schools, when you added the ones that were located inside the district and the ones where they were located outside the district but had students who lived inside the district. If they had decent enough grades and test scores, they could apply and I got to select one of them for each school.

In many ways I was of two minds about the whole process. On the plus side, I had generally enjoyed my time in the military, and had done well at it. The service academies were generally pretty good schools, academically rigorous and a free ride for the students. On the other hand, while I had known any number of really good officers who were graduates of Hudson High, I had also known more than a few real fucking morons who were ring knockers. As a student, I would have hated it! There is very little academic freedom, an extremely regimented personal life, hazing at a level that made my fraternity life seem like a party, and discipline that led to suicides and hospitalization. You’ve got to be really hard core to want to go through that.

The only way to handle it was to talk to the kids. If they qualified by the various objective standards, I set up an appointment schedule to talk to them. The worst ones were the kids who were pushed into this by a parent who was a campaign donor and figured this was a quid pro quo. Mom or Dad wanted a West Point or Annapolis graduate in the family, regardless of whether their son or daughter liked the idea. I made sure that I met with the high school students without a parent in the room, and pushed to see what their real feelings were. Sometimes the young man or woman was hard core, and that was fine. Sometimes they didn’t really know what was involved, and I would roll up my pants leg and show them the scars on my right knee and wave my cane at them and they woke up to what could be involved. The hardest time was when a young man came through who was academically and physically marginal but whose father was a big contributor to the campaign. He was a big time car dealer in Parkton and ordered me to send his son to Colorado Springs, and make sure he became a pilot once he was there. I sent them both home, with an offer to return his campaign contribution and the request he not come back.

During the summer recess, we spent almost a month at Hougomont. Charlie protested that he was missing race dates and the girls protested they were missing their friends. Marilyn and I ignored them. We cruelly forced them to swim in the ocean and run around on the beach and stay up as late as they wanted to. We even slept late and made them make their own breakfasts some days. We were heartless! We kept the G-4 flying back and forth, though. Tusker, Tessa, and the boys came down for a week, and we managed to get Harlan, Anna Lee, Roscoe, Mary Beth, and Tyrone (the newest and littlest Buckminster) to visit a different week. Big Bob and Harriet brought a few of their kids down, the youngest, the ones who didn’t have to spend the summer working at the sales lot. I also would usually cut out for a couple of days every week and fly back to D.C. to get some work done with my staff.

We came home at the end of August. The kids needed to start school again, and I needed to press some flesh (What an awful saying! It sounded like I was packing canned ham!) around the district. Congress reconvened on Wednesday, September 11, and I flew back to Washington that Monday morning. That first morning I was expecting to be buried in phone messages and call back slips, and to a great extent I was, but mid-morning there was a bit of a clamor out in the lobby of my office, and I heard a familiar voice. “Is he back yet?”

I looked over at Marty curiously and then stood up. I went to my open door and looked out. As I thought, it was John Boehner, along with another one of the new Congressmen, who I recognized, but couldn’t remember his name. “I’m back. You looking for me, John?”

“Great! You busy? We need to talk!” He came towards me and went to enter my office.

I laughed. “It’s good to see you, too, John.” I stepped out of the way and let him barge into my office. John was turning out to be a good friend. He was smart and knew how to get things done, and very personable. The other Congressman grinned and followed. I shook my head and smiled, and then followed them in.

“Congressman?” commented Marty Adrianopolis. When we were alone, it was ‘Carl’, but he made sure to address me as ‘Congressman’ when anybody else was around — it built me up, he said, and he was right.

“Marty, give us a few minutes, please. Thank you,” I told him. Marty skedaddled and I commented to John, “John, how is it that I go to the Bahamas for a month and come back with only a sunburn, and you stay in Ohio and have a tan George Hamilton would envy. Is Ohio really that sunny?”

“Very funny! Carl, you remember Jim Nussle, don’t you?”

I turned to the other man, remembering him now. “Sure. You’re one of the newbies like John and me. Where was it, Iowa, Nebraska, somewhere out in the middle of the country, right?”

“Iowa, the Second District,” he responded, reaching out and shaking my hand.

“Well, how can I help the Iowa Second and the Ohio Eighth?” I asked. I extended my hand towards the sitting area to the side of my office, and we all seated ourselves around the coffee table.

John answered. “Have you seen the report out of the GAO about the House bank?” I could tell he was excited, and Jim was nodding furiously as well. “I figured you’d be interested, after kicking the crap out of Andy Stewart.”

“Sorry, guys, but you are going to have to bring me up to speed. I’ve been on vacation with Marilyn and the kids. We only got back in time for them to start school. What are you talking about?” Something about this sounded vaguely familiar, but I needed more information. The GAO, or General Accounting Office, was the official government watchdog, charged with ferreting out waste and mismanagement. With an operation the size of the Federal government, there was always something capable of eliciting outrage.

Nussle answered, “The GAO is about to issue a report that Congressmen are kiting checks through the House bank. I mean, a lot of checks! Thousands of checks! And hundreds of Congressmen are doing it!”

Well, that certainly opened my eyes. “Hundreds of Congressmen?” I glanced over at John, who was excitedly nodding. “Hundreds?”

“Hundreds!”

I whistled softly. It was beginning to come back to me now, as one of the first in a string of major Congressional scandals. There would be more to come. “Just how high does it go? And how big?”

“Pretty high, and it’s mostly the Democrats.”

“Huh.” I had to give that some thought. “Mostly is not the same as all. I am guessing there have to be some Republicans involved.” The other two nodded. “One word of warning — before we get involved with this, feel out Gingrich and Michel. They won’t be amused if we throw garbage on the Republican half of the House. I’m already in the doghouse with Gingrich as it is.”

“So, you want in on this?” asked John.

“Sure! Can you get me a copy of the report? Like I said, I’ve been out of town for almost a month. Like you said, this is the sort of thing Andy Stewart would have been up to his eyeballs in! It’s probably just the tip of the iceberg, too.”

Jim smiled and nodded. “I think you are very much right.”

“If we get you a copy today, when can we meet and talk?” asked John.

I thought for a second. “If we do it here, somebody is going to start wondering what we’re up to. We’ll meet at my house tomorrow evening. Sound feasible?”

They nodded and agreed, and then left. I let Marty back in, but didn’t answer his questions. Not just yet, anyway.

That afternoon a courier came over with a copy of the report, along with a one line note asking when we should meet tomorrow. I jotted down the address and 7:00 PM, and sent the courier on his way. Then I called the catering service and specified I needed coffee and tea and all the fixings for an evening meeting put into the kitchen by tomorrow evening. I wasn’t planning on a dinner party, but we would need something to munch on, I was sure.

That evening, when I flew home, I told Marilyn and the kids that I would need to stay in Washington Tuesday night, but I should be home Wednesday. Then I got the lowdown on what they were up to in school. Charlie was just starting the fifth grade and the twins were starting the second grade! When the hell did they grow up?!

Tuesday I left the office around five. I went to the house on 30^th and tidied up a bit, and changed out of my suit into khakis and a sport shirt. Then I went downstairs and cooked a couple of hot dogs and warmed up some Michigan sauce and put that on them, for supper. I had already warned the security people that I would be having guests over, and they didn’t need to screen everybody coming in. I had the place cleaned up by the time the bell rang. I went to the front door and opened it up, to find Jim Nussle and Rick Santorum standing there. They both were still in their suits. “Hey, you found us. I won’t have to launch flares,” I said. “Come on in. You come together?” As I let them in, I noticed another car pulling into the driveway, so I waved at the newcomers and motioned them to come in.

I turned back to find Jim and Rick staring around at things, taking it all in. Well, it was a pretty nice place, as small mansions go. I smiled to myself and just shook my head, and then went back to the door. Next through were Charles Taylor, Frank Riggs, and Scott Klug. I let them in and the reaction was much the same. I led them into the den, where I planned to host the meeting. “Well, make yourselves at home. I’m a bachelor for tonight, so we won’t have my wife or kids around. I have coffee and tea and soda, and whatnot through there, in the kitchen. I picked up some snacks, too. I hope everybody had something to eat already, since I didn’t cook anything.” Everybody was assuring me they would be fine, and then the doorbell rang again, and I had to answer it.

It was John Boehner, and he had a surprise guest with him — Newt Gingrich. “Newt, good to see you. John, glad you could come.”

“Thanks for hosting us. I was trying to get John Doolittle here, but he had something else he had to be at. We can fill him in tomorrow.”

“This is a lovely house, Carl,” commented Gingrich, looking around at the place.

“Thank you. We wanted a place where the kids could run around the yard, and large enough to entertain in. It’s a school night, though, and Marilyn and the kids are back home.”

“Yes, John was commenting that you fly home some nights.”

I nodded. “I’m only about forty-five minutes that way, although we’re thinking about putting a landing pad in the backyard. That will cut fifteen minutes out.” I grinned at them. “I might wait until I get re-elected for that.”

I led the way into the den, where I found several of the men had already availed themselves of coffee. I told John and Newt about the stuff in the kitchen, and then headed there myself, to pour some iced tea. I also brought a plate of chocolate chip cookies that Holly and Molly had made. “Okay, gentlemen, official Buckman Brand chocolate chip cookies. My seven year olds made them for me. Hopefully their mom was doing quality control. Otherwise, John you asked for a meeting place. You want to open things up?” Everybody took a cookie and commented approvingly on them. They were actually pretty good, too. I’d have to ask for some more!

John looked around the room and said, “By now, everyone here has read the draft copy of the GAO report on the House Bank. That’s going to be published by the end of the month. We need to use this to shake things up. If we just leave this up to the Democrats, it will be buried so deep that dynamite and a bulldozer won’t dig it out!”

Nussle piped in at that, “Foley and Gephardt won’t even allow this to be discussed! I heard that Gephardt wasn’t even going to allow the Ethics Committee to look at it.”

“What about Bill Gray?” asked Santorum, referring to William Gray, the House Majority Whip, the same position that Gingrich held.

Newt answered that. “Forget him. He’s out of here tomorrow. He’s resigning his seat to become President of the United Negro College Fund. Dave Bonior is taking over for him.” I hadn’t heard that, but I shrugged, as did a few others. It didn’t really matter, though, since nobody on the other side wanted to highlight this. There were a lot more Democrats in Congress than Republicans, so it was bound to be the Democrats who would take the heat.

Jim Nussle spoke up and said, “We need to use this to get control of the House! We should be able to use this information to do that.”

I made the time-out motion and spoke up. “Hold it, let me ask a question or two. First, the way I read the report, the most obvious thing involved was House members being overdrawn on their paychecks and other checks, correct?” There were some nods and murmurs of agreement. “Okay, what about the Republican members of the House? Before we start throwing mud, how much is going to get splattered on us? I’m not saying we shouldn’t do this, but if we don’t ask now, somebody will be asking later!”

All of us looked over at Gingrich, who was sitting there like Buddha, wise and benevolent and somewhat chubby. “Yes, people will be asking, but the way I was reading the names in the report, the Democrats involved seriously outnumber the Republicans, and the level of overdrafts involved with the Democrats really outweighs the Republicans. It is going to hurt them much, much more than it is going to hurt us.”

I nodded. “Okay, so has anybody here overdrawn their checking account? You know, the pot calling the kettle black and all that.”

Everybody around the room said no, but Newt commented, “I don’t know. It’s hard to say. The system is so screwed up I’m just not sure. What about you, Carl? You know, the pot and the kettle and all.”

“Fair enough. I wouldn’t think so. I’m not really sure how it works, but my check simply gets mailed direct to the Buckman Foundation, and then we cut a check to the Red Cross. If there was a problem I’m sure they would have let me know,” I answered.

“You don’t collect your paycheck?” asked Frank Riggs, incredulously. Around the room several other people stared as well.

I shook my head and shrugged. “All of my income from my books or public service goes to the Red Cross, but we are routing it through the Buckman Foundation. I’ll check with my accountants on this. Regardless, I won’t be having any problems on that score.”

Newt gave a noncommittal grunt on hearing this, and a few of my fellow freshmen just looked at each other in disbelief. John Boehner, on the other hand, had already seen evidence of my wealth, and just grinned back at me.

“Okay, so, if we are going to push this, and the Democrats are going to bury it, what do we do? I agree this will probably be helpful, but how do we make it work? The floor is open!” I finished.

At that pretty much everybody started talking at once, and Gingrich called things to order and went around the room. I had a pad and pen at hand, and started making notes. Some of the items were ‘Individual speeches’, ‘Push House Ethics Committee’, ‘Talk shows’, ‘Get Bush involved.’ It quickly became apparent that the House leadership would move to bury this thing in the deepest hole they could find. We needed to keep it front and center. That would do two things. First, by focusing on a Democratic House scandal we kept the heat on and would probably pick up some seats in Congress. Secondly, and almost as important, by focusing on Democrats misbehaving, we took the focus off the tanking economy and that would have to help President Bush’s re-election!

This technique hadn’t worked in the first time I went through, but that was before I recycled. Maybe I could help? Could I help defeat Clinton? Or would I hurt?

For the immediate future, we would need to focus on forcing the House leadership to respond to the report. This would take the form of impassioned speeches on the House floor, timed to catch the evening news, denouncing the ‘outrageous’ behavior involved. We would coordinate this with appearances on whatever talk shows we could handle, and hope to land on the Sunday morning shows. Try to get some tame reporters to lob a softball to the President about the ‘scandal’, and get him to comment how the House seems to need to clean up their act. Get reporters, and not just partisan Republican Congressmen, chasing down facts.

One idea I had was, “What about anything else with Congress? There are a lot of perks in this job. Now, I don’t want to get on my high horse, but are there other things going on we could slam them with?” I looked around the room. There had to be something to slam the Democrats with; they had controlled Congress for four decades! Unfortunately, I just couldn’t remember back to my past in enough detail. I knew that on the first go around, Clinton would hand Bush a defeat, and that in ’94 the Republicans would take Congress back. The details weren’t clear, though, and what would change with my actions this time? Was Clinton’s victory sufficiently large that nothing we did would help Bush and hurt Clinton? Was my involvement going to help or hurt taking back Congress?

The really big question was — was this helpful to the country? Clinton had been a very effective President, although on a personal level he had the morals of an alley cat. Shake his hand, but keep the other hand on your wallet, and then make sure to wash up. Oh, and don’t leave him alone with your wife or daughters! Then again, he actually managed to balance the budget, which was a big favorite of mine. Likewise, taking back the House resulted in gridlock, which Newt Gingrich had a major hand in. I wanted the Republicans to take back the house, because I believed it was the only way to force a budget deal, but did I want Gingrich to run riot over everything else? He did not play well with the other children. Could I help that?

You place your bet and take your chances. I was going to have to see how this played out. To a considerable extent, my recycle had not really affected anything important, other than my immediate family, for good or for bad. My business dealings had not changed the course of history very much. If I hadn’t invested in those companies, somebody else would certainly have stepped up. Now, though, with national politics, I could definitely affect things, and maybe not for the best. I was going to have to think about this!

Chapter 111: Dog Fighting and Legislation

Rick Santorum’s closing comment sounded true. “We are going to start a dog fight over this!” The agenda was that, beginning immediately, we would all get with our staffs and come up with ways to get a full blown investigation going through the House Ethics Committee. We would each start giving speeches in the well of the House, and with eight of us rotating, we should be good to give a speech every other week. We would start the beginning of the following week.

As the meeting broke, I offered the use of the house as a ‘War Room’ for anything related to this. In case anybody wanted to have a meeting away from one of the Congressional office buildings, just call and I would have security let them in. Then, as I escorted everybody out, I tapped Newt on the shoulder and he held back for a moment. “I need to see you about a piece of legislation I want to sponsor. When can I do that?”

An eyebrow rose. “And you’re meeting with me and not your committee chairman?”

“I’m sure I’ll meet with him soon enough, but he’s a Democrat, and I want to touch bases with you first.” One of Gingrich’s faults was a personal pride and sense of importance that could cause him to occasionally step on his dick. Better to be nice to him; he had the memory of an elephant!

He nodded in appreciation. “Have somebody call my office tomorrow. I’ll tell my assistant that you’ll be looking for some time.”

“Thank you.”

The next morning I started writing a speech to be given sometime next week. What most people didn’t understand was that when C-SPAN, the television network that covers Congress, is broadcasting a speech, there probably isn’t anybody listening. The cameras are rolling all day long, and Congress is officially in session, but the only time everybody really goes to the main chamber is when there is a vote going on. The rest of the time it’s mostly empty — except for the talking heads hoping to get a good sound bite on the news later in the day. Since everybody wants to make it to the news, and most speeches are predictable and boring, everybody is trying to figure out a way to get on the air.

My focus was going to be two-fold. First, “I used to be a businessman. If I ran a bank the way the Democrats run this one, the bank would be out of business, and I’d be in jail!” Second — “The Democrats say that this is very complicated. Well, every day, the voters have to balance their checkbooks. How complicated can it be?!” One way or another, keep hitting them with that message. It’s a business, and a business the voters understand. Some of my counterparts were going to focus on outrage and shame, and forcing the leadership to acknowledge the problem. We were also going to look into any other perks of the job, like the Congressional Post Office, and things like the gym and the barbershop.

I got fifteen minutes to see Newt the following Tuesday morning. When I got there, he had a television in the corner of his office, and it was tuned to C-SPAN. He waved me in, and then hit the volume control on the remote. “Come on, Boehner’s about to speak!” I turned to see my friend begin fulminating about the just released report, outrage spilling from his lips!

“Think that’ll make the evening news?” I asked.

“No, but it’s a good start. You guys keep pushing, and it will get there eventually.”

“What about you? Are you going to speak? Or is this going to cause you trouble?”

He shrugged. “No, this is up to you guys. Eight freshmen Republicans, outraged by the behavior of the Democratic party — that plays better than bringing me in on it. As for the trouble, I just don’t know. I probably have a few overdrafts, but the bank is so screwed up, we might not know.”

“That’s going to be one of my focuses. It’s a lousy way to run a business.”

He nodded. “You asked to see me about some legislation.”

“Yes. I’ve been getting some complaints from some constituents. Some of the troops who have been coming back from Kuwait and Saudi Arabia have some medical problems and the VA hospitals are just pooh-poohing them. They can’t figure it out, so it must not exist, that sort of thing.”

“What kind of problems?”

“Fatigue, pain, rashes, digestive problems… I mean, stuff that’s all across the board, but that only started after the Gulf War. What if we are seeing the first signs of something like the Agent Orange problem from Viet Nam? Remember how the VA kept downplaying that, it wasn’t a problem, they’re making it up, etc.? What if this is the same type of thing. Agent Orange turned out to be a real problem.”

“And you want to do what?”

“Force the VA and the Army medical people to start taking it seriously. Start investigating. I’m not looking for big money, but at least something to make them act like it’s real. Let’s find out, at least,” I explained.

“How much money?”

“For initial research and testing? No idea, but I would imagine $10 to $20 million would be fine. More if they figure it out. The actual treatment would be under the regular VA and Army budgets.” Newt gave a non-committal grunt. He was hard to read at times. “I don’t think this is that outrageous, but I wanted your input on doing this.”

“You’re going to need a Senator to introduce this on that side. Any ideas?”

“I was thinking either Bob Kerrey or John Kerry. They’re both Viet Nam vets, and I want to tie this into the Agent Orange analogy. I haven’t talked to them yet.”

When I mentioned Kerrey and Kerry, Newt grimaced. They were both Democrats. “Why not John McCain? He was over there, too.”

I nodded. “I thought about that, and I can see him as a co-sponsor, but I want something bi-partisan. I know you don’t like that, but I’m a Republican in a Democratic district. I have to work with the Democrats, or I’m a one term wonder. They are both highly respected. If I can snag one of them, and tie in some of the other Viet Nam veterans in Congress, we can make it happen. I bet I can get Wayne Gilchrest and Randy Cunningham to co-sponsor in the House.”

“Have you talked to Sonny yet?”

Gillespie ‘Sonny’ Montgomery was the Chairman of the House Committee on Veterans Affairs. He was a Democrat from Mississippi, and a veteran from World War II and Korea. “Not yet. I wanted to talk to you first.”

Newt grunted. “Well, start writing something. By that I mean get your staff to figure out which of the think tanks would be best on this. Even something simple will be more than what your staff can write. I don’t see why you can’t get McCain to do this with you.”

“Newt, when I was in business, we had to negotiate deals where everybody ended up happy. It had to be win-win for everyone, or it wasn’t going to work. I have made a whole bunch of money working with people and not against them. It works for me. This banking mess is not going to slam the Senate. They don’t have a bank, just us in the House. This lets me throw them an olive branch. We don’t need to piss everybody off.”

He grunted again. “Well, start writing. Just don’t call anybody on this yet. Let me think about it until next week.”

“Fair enough.” I stood and shook his hand and let myself out. Gingrich was a brilliant tactical thinker, but he was too partisan and didn’t focus on strategy enough. He was the type to burn down the house to kill the rats, and then proclaim loudly and proudly he got rid of the rats, while arguing with everyone who was sifting through the smoldering ashes.

I talked to Sherry and Marty about it the next day and I left it to them to sort out the details. As I told Gingrich, I couldn’t imagine how the price tag on this could get all that big, but I was prepared to be unpleasantly surprised. Was Sonny Montgomery going to be in favor or not? Was I wrong in thinking that the Viet Nam vets in Congress would remember Agent Orange and think this was a good idea, or would they think of the current vets as whiny brats? Would Gingrich go along? I was really clueless on this one. Nothing from my future knowledge was helping me.

Newt called me the end of the week. He would let me ask Kerrey or Kerry, but that was it. If neither wanted to be involved, and I wanted to push it, I was talk to John McCain, and good luck getting it through after that. I had Mindy ask for a lunch with Bob Kerrey; I would try him first. I just hoped I didn’t trip over my own tongue if I met the man. He earned the Medal of Honor in Viet Nam. My inherent tendency would be to stand at attention and call him ‘Sir!’

The medical issue, of course, was what was about to be labeled as ‘Gulf War Syndrome.’ I knew enough about it from the future to know it was going to be a major problem for a lot of the vets from the Gulf War. The symptoms were similar to those you get from a sub-lethal dose of some nerve gases, which the Iraqis had, and which we ended up bombing the bunkers of. Low levels got loose and wafted all over the place. At the time, though, nobody really knew about the Sarin gas, and there was enough other nastiness around to make everybody scratch their heads. Was it the first use of depleted uranium shells in tank cannons? There was a rumor that when they impacted enemy armor, they compressed enough to cause gamma ray bursts. What about toxic fumes from all the burning oil wells? What about the guys who used their nerve gas pens on themselves? Did that stuff cause problems? Did it interact with all the stuff they got injected with on the shot line?

It reminded me in a lot of what happened with Agent Orange back in the Seventies. Agent Orange was a chemical defoliant that was sprayed from modified C-130s over the jungle. Spray it on the jungle; a few weeks later, the jungle is dead and dying. You’re left with nothing but bare trees and the bad guys have nowhere to hide. The official word at the time was that this stuff was harmless to humans, which I always thought was a stretch (it kills everything but us?), and the official instructions were to wear the equivalent of HazMat suits when handling it. Still, it was a steamy, hot, and humid jungle, and the grunts using it and being sprayed with it were running around shirtless and damn near bathing with it.

After the war these guys were coming home with all sorts of dreadful diseases, including cancer, genetic mutations, and neurological problems. The VA and the medical establishment blew all this off as a bunch of shirkers from an unpopular war. It turned out that the manufacturing process made a little understood byproduct called dioxin which, by the way, was astonishingly lethal and dangerous to be anywhere near. Major league ooops moment! There were a lot of similarities to this new Gulf War Syndrome.

I got a meeting the middle of the following week with Senator Kerrey, and he was quite gracious. There is a huge amount of mythology about the treatment of Medal of Honor winners. Most active duty military members come to attention and salute in their presence, and they rank higher for receiving salutes than even four star generals and admirals — in other words, a general would salute a private with the Medal of Honor, not the other way around. I remember talking to a Marine once who said he knew a sergeant with the medal from Viet Nam. During inspections he would just lay the medal on his bunk, and the officers would pass him by. Then again, the average winner is dead, so maybe it’s not a bad idea to be really nice to them.

He listened to my explanation and agreed to sponsor a Senate version of the bill, although he wasn’t too sure how well it would go over. I had already given my fulminating speech in the well of the House, and the Democrats weren’t overly amused. I promised to send over a copy of what we were working on, so that his legislative staff could do something with a version of their own. We were calling it the Gulf War Syndrome Research and Relief Act. We’d have to see how it would go.

I understood what Senator Kerrey meant about the Democratic leadership not being thrilled with my speech. You write these things with lots of one-liners and sound bites, in the hope that the networks pick them up, for a ten or fifteen second filler. Both NBC and CBS picked up on my comments. “Our voters have to balance their checkbooks at home! Why is it that Democratic Congressmen don’t need to balance their checkbooks?! And why is it they don’t want the voters to know this!?” ABC didn’t even pay attention to the uproar today. We all expected they would shortly, since Jim Nussle was planning to give his speech while wearing a paper bag on his head, to signify his ‘shame’ for being part of this Congress! The rest of us laughed our asses off when he told us this!

Our actions were going to cause the House Democratic leadership to start blathering about how we were upsetting the apple cart. We didn’t need Newt Gingrich to tell us that there would be complaints about partisan Republican freshmen, who didn’t understand the system, demeaning the dignity of this great institution. That would result in an immediate counteraction, where we would ask what they were trying to hide. If they tried to stifle any legislation as punishment, that would be the next week’s speech, denouncing their authoritarian tactics, and fear of what an investigation would find.

I got a call from Tim Russert’s office Friday morning, after my speech, and was asked to appear on Sunday’s This Week. I, of course, said yes. In this I was lucky, since Jim wasn’t going to do his brown bag thing until next week, at which point nobody would give two shits about me! They would all be clamoring for him! I agreed to show up, and was told I was going to be going up against Dave Bonior, the brand new House Democratic Whip. I had to get my shit together! These guys wanted to bury me, preferably after burning me alive with a stake through my heart.

The best defense is a good offense. If Bonior responded too hard to my frontal assault on the House Bank, I was going to flank him by bringing up the House Post Office scandal. The Postal Inspection Service of the U.S. Post Office had just turned over their report to the House Postmaster, Robert Rota, who had promptly given it to the wife of Tom Foley, Speaker of the House, who was burying it. If I could get Russert to start questioning Bonior, we could whipsaw the man!

I spent a lot of time on the road that weekend! Friday night I flew home in time to make a pizza and relax with my family. Saturday morning we had soccer games (boys lost, girls won.) Saturday afternoon I hustled Charlie and his bike to a race in Harford County (he won!) Saturday night I flew back to Washington, so I could appear on This Week, after which I flew home again for the rest of the weekend. I would fly back Monday morning. I was going to have to get a better schedule going, because I was exhausted!

The whipsaw technique worked great on Bonior. He hadn’t been expecting my side attack on the Post Office scandal. I kept pushing my theme of ‘Ordinary Americans have to play by the rules. Why can’t the Democrats in Congress?’ In this case, it was, “You say this is more complicated that it looks. So explain it simply, for all of us. Everybody out there in the audience has gone to a Post Office. What makes yours so special that it needs to be investigated?” Russert picked up on this and pushed the idea that where there was smoke there was fire. Why wasn’t it a good idea to find out if there was a problem? Silly question! The reason they didn’t want any investigations was because there was a problem, and they didn’t want it exposed!

In October Senator Kerrey and I put our bills into the system. I was promptly informed by Sonny Montgomery that it would be snowing in hell before any bill I introduced would ever get out of committee, let alone get passed by a Democratic Congress. I just smiled and nodded in understanding, and then counterattacked. I took out full page ads in the November issues of Army Times, Proceedings of the Naval Institute, Air Force Magazine, Coast Guard Magazine, and Leatherneck (the Marine magazine) detailing what the bill would do, and highlighting the importance of the bill. I also specified I was a veteran myself, and how I was paying for the ad out of my own pocket, and not with taxpayer funds or campaign funds. Readers should write their Congressman and Democratic Party leaders demanding the bill be passed. That got me ten minutes on Meet the Press when word hit Washington!

Marilyn and I took the kids up to Utica for a few days over the Christmas holiday, to spend time with their grandparents. After that, we took them down to Hougomont for the rest of the weekend. Monday morning I left Marilyn in the Bahamas, and flew the kids back to Utica for the remainder of the week, and then turned right around and flew back to spend the week with her.

Marilyn met me at the door of the house when I arrived. She was wearing a wrap skirt and a halter top and high heeled sandals when she greeted me. She gave me a very warm kiss when I came inside, and as I wrapped my arms around her, I couldn’t feel anything under her clothes. I rubbed her butt and got a nice wiggle in return. “Why do I think you have something planned?” I asked her.

Marilyn simply smiled. “I can’t imagine what you mean! I’m simply trying to greet my husband as a good wife should!”

“Hmmm… well, I must admit I approve of the outfit. How come you never greet me like this when I get home?”

My wife laughed. “Wouldn’t that give the kids something to talk about!”

“Remind me again why we wanted children. I keep forgetting.”

She laughed some more. “I don’t remember either. Holly and Molly are starting to play games with the teachers. They’re swapping clothes in the bathroom and switching places in class.”

“And you found out how?”

“They’ve got big mouths. They told their friends, and the whole class started giggling. Somebody blabbed to Mrs. Markell.”

“And here I thought Charlie was going to be the problem!” I just shook my head and chuckled. “What’d Mrs. Markell do? Mark them with Magic Markers?”

“Worse! Ignored them. I heard about it at a PTA meeting.”

“I like my idea better. Wait until they start dating and pull that on their boyfriends.”

Marilyn sat down on the couch and lewdly spread her legs, spreading the wrap skirt apart. “Well, did you want to keep talking about the kids, or do something else?” she asked.

I laughed as I pulled my sport shirt over my head. “Wow! Nothing like a little pressure! What’s gotten into you?”

Marilyn lewdly spread her pussy lips apart. “Nothing! That’s the problem! I need something to get into me!”

I kicked off my shoes and stripped off my pants and briefs. “I’ll see what I can do about the problem.” Then I crawled onto the couch and lay down between her legs.

As soon as I was inside her, Marilyn wrapped her arms and legs around me and began moaning as I fucked into her with long slow strokes. I made sure to throw in some hip wriggles and ground against her clit. “Fuck me! Fuck me!” she was whimpering, and she came twice before I unloaded.

I collapsed onto her, breathing heavily. A minute later, Marilyn said, “Is that it? Get back to work, Mister! No resting on the job!”

I snorted in laughter and rolled off of her. “Bitch, bitch, bitch! Nothing but complaints in this job! Give me a chance to catch my breath!”

Marilyn kept prodding me. “None of this goofing off! You have work to do!”

“I’ll show you some work!” I rolled back onto her and began tickling her under the ribs and undoing her top. Marilyn squealed and tried to fight me off, in between squeals and screams, but she was weighed down by me, and I kept up until she managed to roll me off. I grabbed her quick and finished undressing her, leaving her in just her heels. Undeterred, I rolled her onto her stomach and started pinching her ass. That caused her to squawk even louder, as well as humping her butt up and trying to make me stop. As soon I got stiff again I drilled her doggy style. That calmed her ass down!

Afterwards I crawled off Marilyn and rolled onto the floor. Marilyn commented, “I need to take a shower. Somebody got me all sweaty.”

I sniffed theatrically. “You’re right! You need to take a shower!”

“Whose fault is that?”

“Hey, I was just following orders!” I stood up and grabbed for my clothing. “What’s the plan for the rest of the day?”

“It doesn’t involve your wearing clothing,” she responded.

I looked over at her and smiled. “Very ambitious, but I think you’ll find I end up sticking to the furniture if we follow through on that idea.”

“Yuck!”

I nodded in agreement. “Yeah, yuck. I think it works better if you stay naked and I put some pants on rather than the other way around.”

“Oh? Really? That’s your plan?”

“Seems simple enough to me.”

“Maybe I’ll just buy you a Speedo.”

“Lady, you don’t have enough money to get me to wear a Speedo!”

“I’ll just borrow it from my husband. He understands what I’m looking for in a boy toy!”

“Go take that shower!” I ordered. Ye Gods! A Speedo? Thank God we had built a small ‘shack’ for the security detail. It was tucked behind some trees, giving us a certain sense of privacy. There was no more al fresco fun and games, but we were alone in the house now.

I cleaned up our clothing while Marilyn showered, and then I cleaned up when she got out. Then, dressed again, though without my briefs on, we went out and got some dinner. Over drinks, while waiting for our dinner, Marilyn asked, “Is international travel while going commando a violation of a Federal law for Congressmen?”

“No, just a violation of any sense of taste and decency for most of them. Can you imagine Newt Gingrich going commando?” I answered.

“Ewwwwww!!! Not when we’re about to eat!”

“Hey, I have to work with the guy! You just get to fantasize about him.”

“You’re about to wear our meals.”

Dinner was some conch fritters and shrimp, along with some rum punches. As we dined, Marilyn asked, “So, when do you have to be back in Washington?”

“We reconvene on the 3^rd, just like last year, this Friday. We’ll probably recess again on Saturday. It’s a wonder anything actually gets done in that town.”

She looked at me curiously. “Sorry you ran?”

I was on the point of a witty comeback, but stopped. “Are you sorry I ran?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, remember back when I was asked about going career in the Army? I said yes, but I needed to talk to you. You knew I was going in, but you hadn’t signed up to go career with me. Remember that?” Marilyn sipped and nodded, so I continued. “Well, I mean, you really didn’t sign up to be the wife of a politician! Are you okay with what’s gone on? It’s been two years now since I said I would try it. Do you want me to keep going or quit?”

“And like I told you about the Army, this isn’t about me. I want you to be happy. Answer me this — Are you happy? Do you think you’re doing any good?” she countered.

“You know, I think so. I mean, it’s like trying to suck molasses through a straw, but I think so. This Gulf War Syndrome bill for example, sooner or later somebody would have done something, but I made it happen sooner, and it’s probably going to pass. Maybe some vets will benefit from that, and not have to wait around for the VA to get around to working on it.”

This was true, too. The bill was a low cost and high feeling-good bill. Bob Kerrey had roped almost every veteran in the Senate into co-sponsoring the bill, and I had gotten a lot of the Republican veterans in the House to go along. Bob had added a few more veteran related bells and whistles which I could live with, including an expansion of education benefits for Gulf War vets. The only people who didn’t want this to pass were the House Democratic leaders, who wanted me to die slowly and painfully. Gingrich was delighted with this, and was squawking about Democratic retribution. That got him onto the Sunday morning talk shows.

“So, there’s your answer. We’ll stick with you. Don’t worry about me or the kids. It’s not like you’re commuting between D.C. and California. That I might complain about!”

“Wow! No shit!”

Marilyn asked, “So, were you looking for my blessing before running again? Don’t you have to do that this coming year?”

“Every two years, like it or not! I told Brewster McRiley I would let him know this week.”

“He going to be your campaign manager again?”

I gave her a wry smile. “Sort of. He’ll be managing a couple of Congressmen this year, and he’s got an assistant for each of us. I think he’s trying to become an election supermarket. Hire his company and he’ll get you elected. He’ll directly work with somebody new down in Virginia, and then supervise an assistant who will work with me.” I shrugged. “I’ll call him tomorrow and meet him next week at my office. He likes working for me. I pay his bills on time.”

“Who’s running against you?” my wife asked.

“Not really sure yet. Nobody is going against me in the primary. I’ve heard a couple of names on the Democratic side, but I don’t know how serious they were, or whether they’ll end up with a primary. There’s one of the county commissioners in Carroll County, and a county councilman in Baltimore County, District Three, I think. Beyond that, though, I don’t know. Somebody’s going to run against me, that’s for sure. It’s still a mostly Democratic district, and nobody is going to let me keep it for free!”

“You’ll win. I know you.” Marilyn smiled. “Maybe we should get a photo of you in that Speedo, go for the women’s vote!”

I almost spewed out my drink at the thought, and started laughing. “Could you imagine what Andy Stewart would have done with that? Or maybe a picture of you in a thong? If I have to wear a Speedo, you have to wear a thong!”

“Oh my God! I don’t want to think about it!”

“I know! We’ll get you a blonde wig, and you can wear that red club dress I bought you that time. Think of the scandal!”

“Keep dreaming, Congressman!” She was grinning, though.

When we got back to Hougomont, there was a note stuck to our door, an invitation to a New Year’s Eve party at Government House. Marilyn nodded an approval, so the next morning I called and accepted, and then arranged for a limo and driver. We had brought some good clothing with us, at least as far as a suit for me and some nice dresses for Marilyn. We would make our manners with the Bahamian government, have a drink or two, and then go over to Paradise Island and round out the night there. With a little luck I could soak them for a nice chunk of change at the blackjack table.

Otherwise we spent the rest of the week goofing off and screwing around. We had a small locked safe built into the master bedroom closet, and inside it we kept a few things we didn’t want anybody else who might be staying there to find. Specifically, Marilyn kept her vibrators and dirty movies in there! She wasn’t too worried about somebody seeing her lingerie drawer, but the ‘Lifelike 8" SuperMax with G Spot Action’ and a copy of The Horny Housewife would have embarrassed her to death! New Years Day we unlocked the safe and put in some new batteries into the toys and watched the movies. Marilyn stayed naked the entire day.

Thursday we flew to Utica, retrieved the fruit of our loins, and went back to Hereford. Friday morning I flew back to Washington and went back to my sacred duty representing the Maryland Ninth, holding high my sworn commitment to our nation’s highest principles. Well, something like that, anyway. In some ways it was back to the same old grind. The eight of us who were now a real thorn in the side of the Democrats were now being referred to as ‘The Gang of Eight’ in the media. We didn’t really talk like that, but the house on 30^th Street was now known as ‘The Clubhouse.’ This was because we had taken to calling ourselves, just like in the old Our Gang movies, the He-Man Democrat Haters Club! My friend John Boehner was now being referred to in the press as the leader of our little group, but I was surprised to find my name being used as his ‘second in command.’ I asked Rick Santorum how many commands I had given him, and he just laughed and told me that the press needed something to fill the white space.

We went back to weekly speeches, this time slamming them for borrowing money from their House bank accounts to fund their re-election campaigns. President Bush was actively calling on Congress to investigate this further, offering to help through the Justice Department. We also whipsawed the Democrats with the Post Office problem, which looked to be just as big an issue as the banking scandal. Something had to give.

The dam burst in March of 1992. By the middle of the month, both the House Sergeant at Arms, Jack Russ, and the House Postmaster, Robert Rota, had resigned in disgrace. Both were under criminal investigation. The banking scandal had been referred to the House Ethics Committee, where the leadership caved in, accepting a vote by the House to divulge all the details of who had overdrawn their accounts, by how much, and how often. The House Administration Committee would be doing the same thing with the post office mess.

As I told Marilyn, I didn’t have to face a Republican primary challenge. Two Democrats, Bud Hawley of the Baltimore County 3^rd District and Tommy Hoffman of the Carroll County 3^rd District, decided to square off for the privilege of kicking my ass to the curb, where a good and proper Republican should stay. Speaking as an outsider, all I could say was that it was a messy primary, and the eventual winner, Bud Hawley, did not come out of it looking or smelling any too sweet.

We’d just have to wait until November to see.

Chapter 112: 1992

1992 proved interesting on a number of fronts.

Grace Hopper died in January. I had met her back when I was a lowly Second Lieutenant. Hell of a mathematician, hell of an officer, and a hell of a lady! Marilyn and I went to her memorial service and funeral at Arlington. The world lost somebody special that day.

Charlie was now in his first year of the Boy Scouts and he went camping overnight in January again, this time for two nights. During the summer he did an entire week and had a grand and glorious time. I was much too busy these days to be much of a volunteer leader, but I managed to spend time on each of these trips. He thought this was just great! I would end up coming home with kinks in my back from sleeping on a rock somewhere and thinking to myself that this was the reason we invented houses.

The only real issue with camping occurred that summer, when I helped out one night as a volunteer leader. Scout leaders are almost always volunteers. The only professionals are the guys who man the district offices or actually man the camps. Probably 90+% of us are just parents of the boys. It’s too much to ask any father to take an entire week off to stay up at camp, so we usually worked up a rotation. Most of the dads could manage to take a day off at some point, and then spend a night in a tent. While there you were the boss. It was always a couple of men, though, for safety sake.

The issue came about at the end of the day I was there, a Wednesday. We were having a “retreat parade” after dinner, where you line up the boys and lower the flag in the campsite. It’s supposed to be a somber and sober ceremony, quiet and polite, and the boys are supposed to be standing silent and at attention in their uniforms, saluting. That was the theory, anyway. That night was different, though.

Instead, the boys were joking around, laughing and talking through the ceremony, Charlie among them. It’s a quick ceremony, not even five minutes long, but they were just fucking around. It pissed me off, and I just stepped up into the middle of the ceremony. “KNOCK IT OFF!”

Everybody’s eyes were on me. The two boys who were lowering the flag stopped what they were doing. I turned to them and ordered, “Raise that thing back up to the top! Do it now!” They hustled it back up, and I turned back to the assembled boys and gave them a piece of my mind. Pointing back to the flagpole, I said, “THAT IS THE AMERICAN FLAG! THAT IS THE SYMBOL OF THIS COUNTRY! YOU WILL DAMN WELL SHOW IT THE RESPECT IT DESERVES!”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the other adult leader, Bo Parsons. Bo was a teacher over at Hereford High. He was eyeing me curiously, but otherwise was smiling and nodding. I decided to keep going. “MY FATHER WENT TO WAR UNDER THAT FLAG! MY GRANDFATHER WENT TO WAR UNDER THAT FLAG! A COUSIN OF MINE WAS BURIED UNDER THAT FLAG! YOU WILL DAMN WELL SHOW SOME RESPECT WHEN YOU ARE AT A FLAG CEREMONY AND YOU WILL BEHAVE LIKE SCOUTS AND KEEP YOUR FAT FUCKING MOUTHS SHUT! IS THAT UNDERSTOOD?!”

The boys were staring at me, half terrified, and a few mumbled out a, “Yes, sir.”

“IS THAT UNDERSTOOD!” I roared. “I WANT TO HEAR IT LOUD AND PROUD!”

At that the boys looked at each other and gave me a ragged but loud “YES, SIR!”

I turned back to the two boys at the flagpole. “Now, let’s do this over again, and do it right!”

After the ceremony, the boys took off, Charlie included, getting away from crazy Mister Buckman as fast as they could. I was left near the chuck wagon with Bo Parsons, who was smiling. He was an official Assistant Scoutmaster, much higher up in the hierarchy than just a parent. I gave him an embarrassed smile, and said, “Sorry if I got out of line there.”

“Don’t sweat it. I’d have stepped in if I thought you were out of line. They’re a bunch of kids. They need their asses kicked every once in awhile. We probably won’t have to chew them out on this for another few years.”

I gave him a curious glance. “Really?”

He nodded and chuckled. “Every few years the older guys have either dropped out or grown old, and you get a bunch of new guys who need a lesson in… practical civics, let’s say. It will be a few years before they forget it, too.”

I grunted and shrugged. None of the boys said anything to me, and nobody said anything to Charlie, as far as I could see, but they all were a lot better behaved during ceremonies from then on.

The twins started out the year in the second half of the second grade. I was wondering whether they were identical twins or not. I suppose there’s a genetic test. They looked almost identical, maybe 99.9 % the same, but there was always something about them that let you tell them apart. Maybe it was just the way they carried themselves and their mannerisms. They could confuse new people, but after you had spent some time with them, even the clothes switching routine wouldn’t work. Holly seemed just a touch louder and more extroverted than her younger-by-five-minutes sister Molly.

Marilyn showed an astonishing degree of cognitive dissonance with our daughters. When I once asked her if she thought they would try the swapping routine with their boyfriends when they got older, I was promptly informed that ‘her’ daughters would be good girls and do nothing of the sort. When I asked Marilyn if she wanted me to tell ‘her’ daughters what their Mom used to do, Marilyn started squawking for me to behave, and besides, she had been a good girl, too, at least until she met me!

I grinned at that, and asked if she thought our son would be a ‘good’ boy.

“Hmmmppphhh! Not hardly! He’s too much like you!”

Charlie wandered in at that point. “How am I like Dad?” he asked. “We don’t look anything alike!” That was true. With his blond hair and stocky build, he looked like Marilyn’s brothers Matthew, John, and Michael.

Marilyn looked down at him, her hands on her hips. “Because you’re just as much trouble as your father!”

Charlie put his fists in the air, like a victory dance, and yelled, “YES!” and then turned to me and said, “Give me five!” I slapped his hand and he ran out of the room, followed by Dum-Dum.

I looked at my wife and said, “Oh, brother!”

“Just remember, you wanted boys!”

“Wait until Holly and Molly start dating. You’ll wish you had boys, too!”

“Never!”

In the spring we put a landing pad out back of the house. This sounds a lot more grandiose than it really was. Lloyd Jarrett and Tyrell Washington figured out what we would need, and passed it on to me and to John Steiner. John took care of arranging the permits, and then we called in a contractor.

However, before we ever got that far, both Lloyd and John told me to go make nice with the neighbors. “Huh?” I commented. I’d never had any problems with them before, and to be fair, didn’t have all that many.

“This is going to play out one of two ways. Either nobody gives a crap, and we have it done in a few months, or one of your neighbors gets a hair up their ass and decides to gum up the works. Wait until you are the billionaire throwing his weight around and buzzing their swimming pool and such. This thing will need FAA, state, and county approvals. Somebody starts bitching, and you’ll get this sometime in the next century,” replied Lloyd.

“That won’t look too good at re-election time, will it?” added John.

I grumbled and rolled my eyes. “So what am I supposed to do?”

“You’re a politician now. Go kiss some ass. I’ll draw up a sheet where you can have your neighbors sign something saying they won’t mind you doing this. It will make it so much simpler. Kiss a few asses in Towson and Annapolis, too,” he said.

I spent the next three weeks visiting my friends and neighbors. To the south of me, on the other side of Mount Carmel Road, the only person there was John Caples, and he was a friend. To the west was a large wooded area that I had bought when we increased security. To the north were some more woods, but on the other side of the hill was a small development that I needed to canvas. To the east was another development, on the other side of a wooded stream. I had to concentrate to the north and east. I also had to promise the State Police and the Baltimore County Police that they could use my pad as an emergency pad, not that I would have ever complained anyway. It took me longer than expected, and cost me a few favors in Annapolis to get everything signed off on, but it promised to be worth it. Fortunately, my upcoming opponent for the election was from Carroll County, and didn’t get to toss his two cents in.

The pad was located about halfway between the house and the woods, and wasn’t anything more than some crushed gravel with a vapor barrier and a heavy layer of asphalt over it, with a wind sock on a pole nearby. We cut a hole in the fence and put in another driveway to the pad, and then a small walkway down to the house. We put some small lights in the pad in case we needed to drop me off after dark. After they painted the white circle with the ‘H’ on it, we were pretty much in business. All we needed to do was to drop me off and let me walk to the house. The LongRanger would then lift off and head to the barn in Westminster. It wouldn’t even need to shut down. We did put a waist high fence around it, but mostly to keep the deer and turkeys from wandering through. And the kids! They found it fascinating, and this was a way to keep them a safe distance away when they heard us landing.

Everybody in the House of Representatives was massively distracted throughout the year because everyone was up for re-election. I suppose the Senate got some work done, but even there a third had to run again. As for the House, forget it! The Democrats were really up shit creek this year. There was a mounting chorus of ‘Throw the rascals out!’ and the vast majority of the rascals were Democrats. Of the 22 Congressmen singled out by the House Ethics Committee for massive overdrafts on their House Bank accounts, 18 were Democrats.

The Post Office scandal was just more fuel on the fire. This wasn’t as fully developed as the Bank scandal, but looked to be even more serious and long lasting. We already had reports of embezzlement and drug use in the Post Office, and criminal charges were swirling around. Again, it all pointed at the Democrats.

A number of Democrats simply decided it wasn’t worth the candle and retired. Quite a few faced primary challenges, and a few even lost, which sent tsunami level shock waves through the House. Most were having to raise huge amounts of money to fight for re-election. Additionally, if you were a Republican incumbent, it worked against your Democratic challenger. That was good for me. Bud Hawley was going to have an uphill battle. He had used most of his money throwing mudpies at Tommy Hoffman. Since Tommy had returned the favor, Brewster McRiley, his designated hitter John Thomas, and I had lots of ammunition to slam him with if necessary.

It might not even be necessary to go negative. Babs and Cheryl had done a sterling job of handling constituent problems (“Yes, Mrs. Joshua, Congressman Buckman really wants to find out why your Social Security check was late, and he told me that he will be talking to the Administrator by the end of the week.”) Add in the passage of the Gulf War Syndrome bill — we had a number of vets coming back to the district who were able to talk about better treatment from the VA hospital or getting a better college benefit package. We had also passed an update to the Civil Rights Act, which was popular in liberal and Democratic Maryland. Finally, we had the free publicity from my attacks on the Democrats in the House. I had been on all three Sunday talk shows as well as the MacNeil Lehrer Hour. Hollywood might say that there’s no such thing as bad publicity, but they don’t say that in Washington! The Democrats were running scared, and it was affecting races across the country.

Marilyn had talked about getting a job now that the kids were in school, but neither of us was all that thrilled about the idea. For one thing, it wasn’t like we needed the money! In fact, you could argue that if Marilyn took a job somewhere, then she was taking a job that somebody else who actually needed to work would be able to get. For another thing, Marilyn wanted to be home long enough to send the kids to school and be home early enough to be there when they got home. What did that leave, the lunch shift at McDonald’s?

Then there was her function as the wife of a Congressman. We were developing a schedule where every other weekend she and the kids would come down to Washington for the weekend, otherwise I would go home for the weekend. The weekends in D.C. might involve a party or dinner she would attend with me, with the kids having a sitter in the evening. At home, Marilyn might need to run around during the day over to the Westminster office. In fact, I told her, it made more sense to have her work at our Westminster office helping Cheryl and the others as an unpaid intern than it did getting a job somewhere else. Marilyn’s a chatty person and was perfect to put on the phone with some whiny person demanding that ‘Something Has To Be Done About This!’

I talked it over with Cheryl and Marilyn, and we gave her a fancy title, but no pay and no authority. She could work whatever hours she had available and run errands for the office as needed, answer phones, and simply help out. With our schedules, it was the best we could figure out.

Marilyn helped out in other ways as well. As Trustee of the Buckman Foundation, she had the checkbook. We continued going to the various pancake breakfasts and chicken-and-biscuit dinners (and I actually really like chicken and biscuits!) and we could also write a nice check for the local fire department or ladies auxiliary or whatever in the area. I could also give a little five minute spiel about the wonders of what we were doing in Washington and ask for suggestions. I stole liberally from the Andy Stewart playbook — if there was a grant or interest free loan or benefit I could trumpet, I did so shamelessly. (“This road repaving is possible due to a grant resulting from Congressman Buckman’s support for…”) When I made a donation to a charity or cause in a Democratic district, I didn’t set out the ‘tip jar’, since that would be more than a little tacky. I didn’t do it in a Republican district, either, but they were generally much happier to shake my hand for the cameras.

Your freshman two years as a Congressman is supposed to be the time to see if you can play in the big leagues. Can you get along with the people you need to get along with, form coalitions and groups, and dodge the slings and arrows of outrageous misfortune? Do you trust people or are you possessed of a healthy skepticism? Can you stay in control of your destiny or does it control you. I think that, clueless as I was, I had a healthy grasp on what was going on.

It is very, very easy to lose your way. It is very easy for Darth Vader to suck you over to the Dark Side in Washington. I am sure that Andy Stewart, scumbag that he was, started out wanting to do something positive. Even as cynical as I am, I think he wanted to be a good guy. It’s just incredibly easy to allow yourself to be bought and used, and so many don’t even realize it’s happening.

Want to visit Barcelona with your wife and take a ten day vacation? That’s really fucking expensive, but, hey, Megabucks Pharmaceuticals really thinks you’re a helpful chap. They are putting together an educational trip to Barcelona this summer, right over the next recess. Why don’t you let us fly you over on their G-5 and let you learn about the wonders of Megabucks Pharmaceuticals, while your wife gets a little shopping in? Do you golf? Did I forget to mention the resort we’ll be staying at has three courses?

Since Megabucks Pharmaceuticals thinks you’re such a swell guy, and you think they were just great to take you on that wonderful fact-finding expedition, it’s only natural that you vote to help them out on that little import issue. If you don’t, well, it’s true that you have to vote your conscience. We understand, Congressman. No, sorry, the winter trip to Cabo San Lucas is already booked.

It’s amazing just how many facts are hidden on beaches around the world, and on golf courses and ski slopes. Damn few are actually found in factories and office buildings, though.

Well, two can play that game! I knew that the second ranking Democrat on the Veterans Affairs Committee hadn’t been able to get to Bar Harbor that summer, so I offered to take him and his wife along with Marilyn and me. The third ranking Democrat and his spouse also decided to go, too. Why anybody would actually want to swim in water with icebergs in it is beyond me but, by God, the lobsters were wonderful! We flew up in the G-IV and had a nice three day weekend, all as my guests.

The Gulf War Veterans Act made it out of committee two weeks after that little trip. Now, to be fair, Sonny Montgomery was under some intense pressure already, but it couldn’t have hurt to have his ranking Democrats pushing as well.

By now Sonny Montgomery really hated my guts, but between Gingrich and his two top lieutenants pushing hard, he allowed the ‘Buckman-Kerrey Bill’ out of committee, and that allowed it to go to the joint committee with the Senate for reconciliation. We’d be able to vote it into law before the summer recess. President Bush had already promised to sign it into law. Bob Kerrey had told me that there would probably be a very nice ceremony in the Rose Garden when he did it, and since we were the authors of the bill, we’d be there, standing in the background. The entire idea really excited me, which made Bob laugh at me good-naturedly. Who’d have thought little Carl Buckman from Lutherville would end up like that?

We had the summer barbecue at the house as usual. It just kept getting bigger and bigger, and was becoming an actual campaign event. I had a catering company run it this time, so that Marilyn and I could actually get out of the kitchen and from behind the grill to meet our guests. I made sure that Lurlene Parker wore a ‘Vote for Buckman’ badge before I gave her a juicy and delicious Republican burger. Then we got a picture of her and I threatened to turn it into a campaign poster.

I attended the convention in Houston, but Marilyn stayed at home. I knew it was a disaster in the making. The economy sucked and Bill Clinton’s ‘It’s the economy, stupid!’ message was getting through loud and clear. I applauded Reagan’s speech, since it was the last one he would ever give. He was already silently going through the first stages of Alzheimer’s. Otherwise, the thing was a circle jerk of the far right wing pushing a social agenda that made me rather uncomfortable. The Republican Party was beginning its hard right turn. Pat Buchanan began by declaring a ‘Culture War’ and Rich Bond, the RNC chair and Rich Miller’s boss (Rich was the guy who recruited me for this!), gave a speech declaring that “We are America; they are not America”. Nothing like a little unity in government.

I won’t say I cruised to an easy win, but I did win. Bud Hawley was able to make a better showing than Andy Stewart, and didn’t get too personal or throw too much mud. I behaved, too. The end result was 58–42 for me. Again, unlike Andy Stewart, Bud called me after the television stations called it and made a very nice concession speech. I publicly thanked him and did so again privately. I beat him, that was victory enough, and I didn’t need to rub it in or be an asshole. No matter what I did, there were a shitload of Democrats in my district, and I had to be polite. I also resolved to call Jacqueline Stayman-Huestis and exercise the option on the house on 30^th.

Be nice to people on the way up, because you’ll be sure to meet them again on the way down! It always amazes me how the smartest people can forget this little idea. Maybe it was all my experience at this point, 90 plus years. Courtesy counts. Being nice to people matters. If you want to get something done, throw a handwritten note in with the package of crap you’re sending out. It worked in trailer sales, and it works in Congress.

Not everyone believed that, of course. Newt Gingrich made a lot of enemies on his rise to the top and you could really see it up close and personal. All in all the Democrats lost 14 seats in the House and the Republicans picked up 12, making it 258 Democrats to 176 Republicans to 1 Independent. I had no idea how it happened on my first go, and whether I had helped or hurt, but Gingrich seemed pretty pleased with the results. He was already starting to ask questions about increasing the pressure for the next election.

When Freshman Orientation came around, I talked it over with my staff and we decided to stay where we were. We might have been able to move a floor down or something like that, but it just wasn’t worth the hassle. That might change in a few years. While I didn’t want to be too glib in my predictions, I did know that there was going to be a huge upset in Congress in the 1994 elections. Assuming I survived the election, I was going to find myself in the middle of the pack of a House full of new Republicans. I might just want a new office then.

After the election I did my duty day thanking people, and then Marilyn and I turned the offspring over to her parents for the rest of the week and flew down to Hougomont. The election had been on November 3^rd, so I turned 37 on Thursday. We had a very private birthday party, with Marilyn wearing high heeled sandals and not much else, and she had to light my candle all day long. Otherwise we just goofed off until we flew home on Sunday.

Chapter 113: An Old Friend

Thursday, December 17, 1992

There are some things that only the House of Representatives can do and some things only the Senate can do. The House is much more involved in the budget process than the Senate. On the other hand, only the Senate gets to weigh in on a President’s appointments to high office. The Senate is supposed to be the more senior of the two bodies, and is supposed to be the older and wiser grownups. It goes to most Senator’s heads, and makes a lot of them into pompous asses, but that’s probably a different topic.

The one thing I didn’t have to pay any attention to was cabinet appointments or nominations to the Supreme Court. No matter what I thought of the person, I had no legal right to get involved. If somebody were to ask, I could toss my two cents in, but even then, it mostly doesn’t matter. As far as the Cabinet is concerned, there are four biggies — State, Defense, Justice, and Treasury — and everything else is who-gives-a-shit territory. For instance, nobody cared about Transportation until a bunch of planes crashed on 9-11, otherwise, who gives a shit?!

What most people don’t realize is that most of these positions have deputies who are also political appointees, and need Senate approval. These jobs never end up on the evening news, never get any kind of argument, and are basically rubber-stamped. The only time things get mucked up is when a Senator gets his panties in a wad and puts a hold on things to try and make a point. For instance, when George W. Bush came into office in 2001, Senator Jesse Helms of North Carolina put holds on a bunch of his appointees to force the President to change a law.

As a plain and simple and relatively junior Congressman, I was beneath the gaze of my more powerful brothers in the Senate. Everybody already knew by December who Bill Clinton was nominating for various positions. The various deputies were simply listed on a paper that got sent to everybody as part of a routine data dump. Huge amounts of this stuff get sent around, almost none of which is ever read. In general, if you even notice it, you glance over it, and send it back to be filed or tossed.

I received a courtesy list of nominations for Cabinet Deputy Secretaries and Under Secretaries towards the end of December. There are huge numbers of these bureaucrats, and the titles are intentionally confusing. Who ranks higher, a Deputy Secretary, an Under Secretary, or an Assistant Secretary? Who’s more important, a Deputy Assistant or an Assistant Deputy? Does anybody actually care? Well, actually, it’s important to know if you are trying to get anything done. A Deputy is a shitload higher up in the pecking order than an Assistant, so if you need something to get done, you have to know who on the ladder can help.

At this point, though, I just scanned over the list, to see if I remembered any of the names from my first time through. In fact, one of them did. I called Mindy into my office and handed her the list, with one of the names circled on it. “Do me a favor, Mindy, and find out who this guy is?”

She looked at the list, a bit confused. “Who is he?”

“That’s what I want you to find out. He must have a bio somewhere in the system. All I have right now is the name. I just want to see if it’s the same fellow I think it is, or somebody totally different.”

She shrugged and nodded. “An old friend?”

I smiled back. “Maybe. Let’s find out.”

Mindy took off and I put it out of my mind, and went to the next piece of paper in the In Box, a list of some legislation about to be introduced as soon as Bill Clinton took office. Bill was feeling pretty cocky, with a happy Democratic Congress ready to do his bidding. Well, good for him, but in a couple of years he was going to get a very rude wakeup call.

Mindy came in the next morning with a manila envelope. “Here’s the information you asked for.” She opened the envelope and handed me what looked like a fairly stock bio and a picture of a handsome and smiling man. “Is this who you thought it was?”

I stared at the picture as my stomach churned. “Yes, yes it is. Thank you.” I looked up at her and saw the curiosity in her face. “Now, I want you to call Gingrich’s office and get me a meeting with him as soon as possible. Don’t take no for an answer. It won’t be a long meeting, but I need to meet him soon, and I’ll stay as late as I need to.”

“What’s wrong, Congressman Buckman?”

I shook my head. “Don’t worry, just get me that meeting. Thanks.”

Mindy nodded and left, still mystified. I looked back down at the bio and photo, pondering how in the world this man had wandered back into my life like this. It was a good photo, too, showing a handsome man, tall, and slim, with a full head of ‘executive hair’ and bright white teeth.

It was my old friend, Brigadier General Anthony Hawkins!

I never used his full name in 1981, when I met the man, although I knew it. I was a Captain and he was a Brigadier General. His first name was ‘General’, and I needed to toss a lot of ‘Sir’s in as well. When last I saw him he was ordering my sorry ass onto a C-47, and then a few days later I heard him demanding I march my dead and injured men back to Honduras. I never saw him after the dustoff picked us up at that ‘abandoned’ airstrip; he kept his hands relatively clean and had the Provost Marshal and his people kick the shit out of me in that basement jail cell.

Colonel Featherstone had told me that Hawkins was being promoted to Major General at about the time I was ending my career. I looked down the bio and shook my head in amazement. He did two years in Brussels with NATO, and then transferred back to the states, where he managed to pick up a third star, and then moved on to Hawaii as the Army commander reporting to CINCPAC, the Navy four star who ran the Pacific. That was it for him in the Army. He retired a Lieutenant General six years ago. After that he spent some time on the board of a defense contractor, and when that was bought by Grumman and he was out of a job, he went on to join the Center for Military Progress, a Washington think tank.

What really surprised me was that Hawkins was a Democrat. Military people are by and large a conservative bunch, and they tend towards the Republican Party. One of the benefits of conscription, drafting people, is that you get much more of a mix of society than you do with an all volunteer force, which tends to be self-replicating. No, I’m not advocating the return of the draft, but it wasn’t all bad, either.

I hadn’t really thought much about the dumb bastard since I got out of the service. My knee was fucked up, but that could have happened another time or place, a different jump, or even just falling down the stairs. I had left the Army almost eleven years ago, and it wasn’t a part of my life anymore. I never regretted my service, and would have loved to have stayed in, but it just didn’t work out that way. I certainly couldn’t complain about my life since then!

Now, as I thought back to those days, I realized how foolish and naïve I had been. What would have happened if I had just said “NO!” and refused to get on board that Goony Bird? What if we had all refused what we knew were ridiculous and illegal orders? It’s not like we were at war, where you have to do what you have to do. It was a fucking training exercise and that asshole would have cheerfully killed us all as long as it didn’t hurt his next promotion. What’s the worst that would have happened? He could have court-martialed me for refusing to obey an order, but I could have beaten that one at trial easily. My career would have been shot, but it was over with as soon as Hawkins got involved anyway. More importantly, two good men wouldn’t have had to die, and another good man wouldn’t have been crippled, and I don’t mean me. I had allowed my personal courage and sense of duty to override my duty to my fellow soldiers.

There was no way I was going to let Hawkins back into the service of the U.S. government!

Right after lunch Mindy told me that Newt was giving me five minutes at four to talk to him. I thanked her and had her clear my schedule for the afternoon. At half past three I walked over to his office and waited my turn. I was ushered in about five after four, and smiled as I wound my way through his offices. It was nicer than mine, by a long shot.

Ever since we had picked up some more seats in the House, Newt was a lot happier with me than before, when I was working with the Democrats. I was still planning on working with them, but I saw no need to rub it in his face. In fact, what I wanted to do now would be a sharp stick in the eye for the Democrats, and he was sure to appreciate it.

“Carl, good to see you again. How can I help you?”

“Thank you for seeing me, Newt, I appreciate it.”

He smiled expansively. “So, what brings you here?” I reached inside my jacket and pulled out the bio and photo of Hawkins and laid them on his desk. “What’s this? Who’s this fellow?” he asked.

“That would be the information on Lieutenant General Anthony Hawkins, who has been nominated by Bill Clinton as the Deputy Secretary of State under Warren Christopher.”

“So?”

“So, it’s not going to happen. I knew this guy back when I was in the Army. He is not qualified for a leadership position anywhere in the government. I don’t want to get into it because there are national security implications, but I won’t let him serve again. Nobody in the Senate or over at Clinton’s offices knows me or would listen to me, but they know you. I am asking that you contact somebody and have this nomination killed off.”

Newt had been sitting back in his chair lazily listening to me, but as I talked and got to the phrase ‘national security’ he straightened up. “Carl, we are in the House of Representatives, not the Senate. The Senate gets to ‘advise and consent’, not us.”

“I understand that, and it’s why I’m talking to you. I’m serious, though. If I have to crash his confirmation hearing and do it on live TV, I’ll do it, and if it costs me my office, I’ll pay the price.”

“You pull a stunt like that, and it will cost you your office! It will result in a Congressional censure and contempt of Congress charge, at the least!”

I nodded. “As I said, I will pay the price.”

He looked at me carefully. “You need to tell me what’s going on, Carl. What the hell is this national security nonsense?”

I shook my head. “I can’t tell you. It was classified Top Secret. I will have to pay that price as well, if I speak out in a public hearing.”

“Carl, I’m not sure what you expect out of me if you don’t tell me what is going on, or what happened, or whatever.”

“Newt, on this one you are going to have to trust me.”

He just shook his head. “Give me some time to make some phone calls, but don’t do anything stupid without talking to me first. If this is bullshit I will hang your balls out to dry in the noonday sun.”

“Fair enough.” I stood and took my leave of him. I flew home, and then had several drinks too many that night. Too damn much of that nightmare in Central America was being dredged up. Even Marilyn noticed I was being short and snappy with her.

Newt called me two days later. “Carl, the best I could do was set up a meeting with some people in the Senate, and you are going to have to explain this national security stuff to them.”

“When?”

“Thursday the 17^th.”

That was next week. “Just let me know when and where,” I told him.

“You’d better know what you’re doing, Carl, or this is going to be a disaster.” Newt finished and hung up on me.

The meeting was in Newt’s office at two in the afternoon. I was waiting with him, just chatting over plans for 1993, as people began showing up. It was a meeting of the Washington Congressional and Senatorial elite — and me. The Senate Majority Whip, Wendell Ford, was present, as was the head of the Senate Committee on Foreign Relations, Claiborne Pell, which was the committee that would have to hold the hearings on Hawkins. Probably because of the national security implications I was mentioning, the head of the Select Committee on Intelligence, David Boren, was present. The last to appear was a handler from the Clinton transition team named John Baldwin, who was one of Warren Christopher’s people, and Hawkins himself. The only Republicans in the room were me and Newt.

Hawkins came in last, pride and defiance in his stride, and almost sneered at me when he saw the junior pipsqueak who dared to threaten him. I gave him my most studied indifferent look, simply looking at him without blinking, dragging my gaze across him from right to left, and then slowly turning my head away.

It was Baldwin who spoke first, simply as a way to start the meeting. “Congressman Gingrich, it’s a pleasure to see you again. Allow me to introduce General Hawkins.”

Hawkins came forward and brushed past me, to shake Newt’s outstretched hand. “Congressman, thank you for seeing me, although I can’t understand what the problem might be.”

“That’s what we’re here to figure out, isn’t it, General. This is Congressman Buckman, who requested the meeting.”

Deigning to acknowledge me for the first time, Hawkins turned to me and stuck his hand out. “Congressman.”

“It’s good to see you again, Mister Hawkins.”

“That’s General Hawkins, if you please,” he responded.

John Baldwin interjected, “General Hawkins was a general in the United States Army, and it’s customary to refer to a retired officer by his rank.”

I put my most innocent face on and looked around the room. “Really? Well, I guess you could all call me Captain Buckman instead of Congressman Buckman, but that seems a little presumptuous of me.” I looked around the room innocently.

We all sat down, and the meeting started. “Carl, you asked us to this meeting, and I’m here because of the national security implications that you refused to tell Newt about. So, spit it out, son, what’s got your panties in a twist about this fellow?” said Boren, in his folksy Oklahoma twang.

“I find this entire meeting an insult!” interrupted Hawkins. “I have an exemplary record and everybody in this room knows it! I demand an apology!”

Baldwin laid a hand on Hawkins’ arm and shook his head silently.

“Calm down, General, we’ll figure this out,” commented Pell.

All eyes turned to me. It was show time.

I nodded. “Well, I have to say that I am very disappointed that Mister Hawkins, or General Hawkins if he insists…” Hawkins’ eyes flashed angrily at that, but I continued. “… doesn’t recognize me. We met before in the fall of 1981. Back then the General was known as Brigadier General Hawkins, and like I said, I was known as Captain Buckman.”

“This is ridiculous! I’ve never met you before in my life!” he protested.

“Not true, General, not true! It was in November of ’81, and we were in Tegucigalpa, Honduras, during Exercise Southern Shield ’81.” I turned to the others and explained, “I’m not sure if you gentlemen would have ever heard of this, but it was a pretty typical training exercise. At the time I was a captain in the 82^nd Airborne, commanding a battery of 105s. The Sandinistas had just taken over in Nicaragua and were being a pain in the butt, so the Army decided to send an airborne battalion task force down to Honduras to show the flag and do some training.”

Hawkins looked like he wanted to speak out, but Baldwin silently held him back. Hawkins simply glared at me.

“Brigadier General Hawkins was in charge of this whole thing. It was a pretty typical sort of training exercise, with us training the Honduran paratroopers and doing joint drops and exercises, that sort of thing.” I looked at the Senators for any glimmer of understanding. I knew that Gingrich hadn’t served, but I hoped that at least one of the Senators might have.

“I know what you’re talking about, Congressman. I was in the Coast Guard, but I’ve seen these sorts of training exercises. They’re pretty normal.” Pell made the statement and looked at his colleagues, all of whom nodded in understanding.

“Yes, sir, they are. Anyway, there we were down in Honduras, and putting up with Brigadier General Hawkins, who really didn’t have a clue what we were doing. The General was what we called a ‘five jump chump’, somebody who had done the minimum five jumps to qualify for his jump wings and never did it again. Still, that wasn’t all that big a problem, since we were pretty used to jackass generals.”

Hawkins looked like he was about to come after me, but Baldwin kept a hand on his arm and a smile on his face.

“All that changed during the last jump. Now, before I go any further, I have to say that the rest of the discussion must be considered Top Secret. It was classified afterwards…”

“Then we’re done here! I won’t sit here while this traitor leaks classified information!” barked Hawkins. He turned to Baldwin and said, “We’re out of here!”

It was Wendell Ford who ordered, “Sit down, General. The rest of us all have a security clearance of one sort or another, and I really doubt that Mister Baldwin here would want it known if there actually was a problem. I want to hear this.”

Hawkins gave me a hateful look but made an exasperated gesture to continue.

“Thank you. As I was saying, everything was going fine until that last jump. General Hawkins here decided that it would be a great idea to have the Honduran paratroopers jump from the American planes, while the Americans would jump from the Honduran planes. Mind you, this alone violated about a half dozen safety regs all on its own, but that was the order. Then it got better when we learned that the Hondurans were jumping us from surplus C-47s we had given them after World War II. None of us had even seen airplanes that old, let alone trained to jump from them. Despite our complaints we were ordered to jump from them regardless of the fact we had never trained to do this.”

A couple of the Senators looked over at Hawkins, but now he was sporting a poker face. I kept going. “It got worse after that. We were ordered to do a night jump. Night paratroop jumps are just about the most dangerous thing a soldier can do. You don’t do night drops unless you’re at war and only then as a last resort. Hawkins ordered us to drop anyway. We loaded up in the Goony Birds and off we went in the middle of the night.”

“It ended up a disaster! The Honduran pilot of the plane I was in got lost and flew south into Nicaragua. After awhile, he just turned on the drop light and dumped us out over Nicaragua. Out of twenty of us, two men died and a third was crippled. That was where I blew my knee out. Then it got better. The commanding officer of the group I jumped with was one of the dead, and I had to assume command. It took us two days of hiking north, hiding from the Sandinistas and drug lords, to get into radio range. Hawkins personally refused to order an evacuation and made us keep hiking. We kept marching until we ran out of food and water, and then I told Hawkins that if he didn’t order an evac I was going to surrender to the Sandinistas.”

All three Senators were staring at Hawkins by now, and Newt had a fascinated look on his face. Hawkins ignored them all.

“So, the helicopters needed to land at what was called an abandoned airstrip. Abandoned, my ass! It was controlled by whoever the local drug lord was, and we had to do a nighttime combat assault on the place to secure it and call in the Hueys. By then we were more walking wounded than combat troops, but we did it anyway, because we were American paratroopers and the toughest sons of bitches on the planet! I had men who volunteered to be left behind so as not to slow us down, but I told them we were all going home, dead or alive. We got back to base, at which time Hawkins had me arrested for disobeying orders and mutiny. When I refused to cooperate, his pet Provost Marshal had me dragged into a basement and beaten into unconsciousness.”

“This is all a lie! A damned lie and I won’t stand for it!” Hawkins roared.

I smiled at him, as the others looked at me. I replied, “You want witnesses? It’s been eleven years, but I can pretty much guarantee that if I call over to the Pentagon I can get the current addresses of the rest of the guys that dropped. Some of them are probably still in, but I know of at least one guy who got out, and the odds are there were others. If it comes down to it, we can track down the JAG lawyer who got me out of that basement and into Walter Reed.”

“And this was all classified Top Secret afterwards?” asked Gingrich.

“Following my thumping in the basement, I woke up in a hospital bed in confinement. I was informed everything was classified Top Secret and that I was to keep my mouth shut, take a Bronze Star for getting my men home, and not to let the door hit me in the ass on my way out of the Army. I was cashiered along with every other officer in the chain of command, those still alive at least, all except for one Brigadier General Anthony Hawkins, who got himself promoted.”

I got to my feet and took my cane and limped over to the window. I turned back and said, “I didn’t need this before that jump or before I had to hike the better part of a hundred klicks through an enemy army. The only reason I kept my mouth shut was because we didn’t need the Nicaraguans to know that an American General had decided to invade their peace loving country with armed American paratroopers, or that an American General could get away with ordering an officer beaten unconscious for defying him! Any of you gentlemen care to contemplate the shitstorm either would have caused?”

“This is preposterous! You can’t prove any of this!” barked Hawkins.

I looked over at Pell. “Senator, you’ll be the guy running the confirmation hearings on the General. Do you really think I can’t find one Republican Senator with an axe to grind who won’t invite me to testify?” I turned back to Hawkins. “You know, aside from the running, I can still pass the physical to qualify for jump school. I miss that, the running, I mean. I used to run five miles a day.” To the others I explained, “That was actually the minimum, five miles, which all paratroopers had to be able to run. Sometimes we ran longer distances.” I turned towards Hawkins and slapped my cane against my right leg. “I’ll never run again, General. I was a damn good combat officer, General. I was already scheduled for a research command and a stint at CGS. All gone. Payback’s a bitch, ain’t it!”

“This is preposterous! I won’t stand for this…” Hawkins ran on for a few minutes, but it was obvious that nobody was paying attention to him anymore.

I overrode him. “General, you didn’t deserve to wear the uniform then and you sure don’t deserve to come back for a second shot.”

Hawkins protested loudly at this, but Boren cut him off. “What do you want, Congressman Buckman?”

“Senator, you can’t believe any of this…”

Boren waved him off and kept looking at me. “Well?”

I simply shook my head. I turned to face Baldwin. “This asshole is history. Forever. I have no interest in telling this story. Nicaragua is still a powder keg, and nobody needs this brought up. Just dump his sorry ass now and forever.” I faced Hawkins. “General, I have no idea where you came from, but it’s time to go back there. Get out of Washington. Sell the house, quit the job, and leave. It’s time to go home and live off your pension and be forgotten.”

I looked back at the others. Boren and Pell silently nodded; Ford grimaced and gave Hawkins a disgusted look. Baldwin simply had a stone face and refused to look at Hawkins. Newt simply stood up and came over to me. “I think I can take it from here, Carl. Why don’t I call you later?”

“Fair enough. I need to go home and apologize to Marilyn. I’ve been a little short with her and the kids since this started.”

I shook the others’ hands, well, not Hawkins, but I wasn’t feeling overly polite with him. I limped out of the office, straightened up a touch, and retrieved my coat and hat.

Screw the son of a bitch! Payback really is a bitch!

Chapter 114: A New Contract

Tuesday, January 12, 1993

Newt popped into my office Monday morning unannounced. I was doing some paperwork, but you’re always polite to the Whip. The title is because the Whip is supposed to be the guy who whips his side into order. They have a lot of power over staffing and committee assignments and office administration, and can generally make your life miserable if you defy them.

When Mindy announced him I put my paperwork aside and stood, to greet him and wave him towards a seat. “That was quite the bombshell you lit off last Thursday,” he told me.

“You catch any grief on this? Or do I need to be sacrificed on his behalf?”

Newt shook his head. “I got together with Boren and we made a few phone calls Friday. We didn’t do a complete verification, be we got enough to know you weren’t bullshitting us. The White House will be withdrawing his name, citing family issues or something like that. Is that going to be good enough for you?”

I shrugged. “I’ve got no interest in making any of this public. I just won’t let this guy back in. If he heads off to East Asshole, Indiana, and never shows his face again, that will be just fine with me.” I cocked my head to the side a touch and asked, “So where does this leave me? Shit flows downhill. Is any going to splash on you or me? I’m sorry if you catch any grief on this, Newt. That wasn’t my intention.”

He waved it off. “This won’t be a problem. He’s just one more pissant appointee. Nobody needs the grief. Those guys have already forgotten his name and your name.” He gave me a curious look. “Leaving aside your personal feelings, you think Hawkins would have really been a problem?”

“Absolutely. It’s bad enough that George Bush put us into Somalia, but Clinton is going to make it even worse. He’s a complete novice at anything overseas, except for smoking dope at Oxford. Hawkins would really make that bad!”

“You think Somalia is going to be bad? We did all right in Kuwait, and Bush put us in that.”

“I think Somalia is going to be a disaster! Bush’s problem is that he thinks he has to ‘do something’ to help. Kuwait was a real country with a real government and a real people. We had a simple problem, run the Iraqis out and turn it over to the real owners. Somalia, well, some places are just too screwed up to be fixed. You watch! We are going to be filling body bags over this and for no good reason. God help us if Clinton sends Hawkins over to supervise!” I replied.

Newt shrugged and stood up. “Well, it’s over, so keep your mouth shut and nobody will care. After the recess is over, we need to get together and make some plans to turn the heat up on the Democrats. No reason to let up on them.”

“I’ve got no problems with that. Call me or John or one of the other guys, and we can schedule a meeting at the clubhouse. I think we can still get some more mileage out of the bank and post office problems. People are going to jail over those little issues.”

He smiled, like a vulture considering his next meal. “We do this right, we can take control back of the House, at least. Maybe the Senate, too.”

“I have an idea or two. Let me get a few things down on paper and plan them out for after the recess.”

I showed Newt out through the office lobby. He stopped at the outer door and turned to me. “You know, if we do take back the House, you guys are actually going to be somewhere in the middle of the seniority ranking. Any thoughts on that?”

It was my turn to smile back. “Yeah, let me off Science or Veterans Affairs, or both. I want Armed Services or Foreign Affairs.” Those would be good payoffs for moving the Democrats out.

Newt smiled and nodded. He liked a good horse trade as much as the next politician. “For a guy who was never a politician before, you learn quickly. Let’s make this happen, and then we can worry about that sort of thing.” We shook hands and he left.

I made phone calls to the offices of Pell, Ford, and Boren, to get five minutes with each of them. One thing I had learned, both on the first trip and this one, is the importance of face to face communications and thank you’s. With Pell and Ford it was pretty straightforward — thank you for seeing me last week, sorry if I disrupted anything, I appreciate the effort you took. Equally understood was the fact that Washington is a place of give and take, and I now owed them a favor. Fair enough.

With Boren it started out the same way. I got five minutes with the man, which was all I had requested, and when I was shown into his office, I started my little spiel. “Senator, thank you for seeing me. I just wanted to thank you for listening to me last week.”

“Congressman, you’re welcome. Please have a seat,” he replied.

“Well, I didn’t want to take up your time. I just wanted to say thank you and it was appreciated. I’m sure you’re a busy man.”

He smiled but shook his head, and gestured towards an armchair in a sitting area. Leaving now would be very rude, so I had a seat, and he sat in a matching chair next to me. “I wanted to talk to you for a minute about that. You know that Newt and I looked into your story. He told me he was going to talk to you.”

“Yes, sir, he saw me the other day. That’s one reason I was making sure to make my manners with you gentlemen,” I said, smiling.

“The courtesy is appreciated. I wanted to talk to you about that mission. I talked to some people over at the Pentagon. That thing was a screw-up from the start, wasn’t it?”

“That’s as good a description as any I’ve heard, Senator,” I agreed.

“I also heard what really happened afterwards, including what the charges would have been. All the charges.” His face didn’t change when he said that, but I knew what it meant. He had heard that the dickless lieutenant had said I shot the prisoners. Boren must have pulled some strings to get that information, because I was sure it wasn’t in any sort of routine file.

“The charges that were never actually brought? Or were they brought and then officially expunged?” I asked. “That was the end of my career, so I never paid it any attention.”

“The records are there, but buried deep. If you had pushed this to the limit, they wouldn’t have stayed buried.”

I sighed. “I thought as much. As I said before, if there is a price to pay, I will pay it. I just couldn’t allow Hawkins back in. Should I be contacting a lawyer?” Theoretically, if the Army wanted to pursue this, they could ‘un-retire’ me for the purposes of a court martial.

“No. This is done for now. Unlike some of our esteemed colleagues, I actually believe that some secrets should be kept secrets. I have no interest in digging it up, and neither did the Army. Newt knows, but you play for his team, so that won’t be a problem. One of these days, though, it will probably surface. You might want to give that some thought. No good deed goes unpunished, that sort of thing,” Boren said.

I sighed again. “Senator, I just did what I had to do. I got my men home. Nothing else mattered. It was my fault we were there to begin with. If I had refused the jump maybe somebody else would have refused, and we could have gotten the whole mess cancelled.” I shrugged and looked at him. “I’ve thought a lot about it over the years.”

“Son, don’t overthink it. You weren’t the only officer that jumped that day, and they weren’t your men to command. Don’t go looking for trouble. Just remember that it will all come out some day. Nothing stays secret in this town, at least not forever. I mean, I love these conspiracy nuts who think the CIA had Kennedy killed. There’d have been a dozen eyewitness books out by now if that had happened!” He laughed at the idea.

I had to smile at that and nod, and with that, the meeting was over. He stood, so I did, too, and he ushered me out, shaking my hand at the door. I had dodged another bullet.

At the end of the day I went home. I was taking off for a couple of weeks until after the New Year. We reconvened on January 5 and I needed to be present to be sworn in with the 103^rd Congress. Until then, we would take the Christmas break and visit Marilyn’s family and then go to Hougomont for a little sand and sunshine.

Meanwhile, however, what Gingrich had spoken about was running through my mind. It got to the point that by the time we were in the Bahamas, I found myself sitting on the beach watching the kids run around, but with a notepad and pen in my lap. Marilyn was at my side, in a one-piece bathing suit, straw hat, and oversized sunglasses, laying on a beach lounger and catching some rays. I was in swim trunks and a Hawaiian shirt, sunglasses, and my own straw hat. Between us in a bucket was a bag of ice with a six pack of Coronas. Charlie was down trying to body surf the miniscule waves, and his seven year old sisters, Holly and Molly, were working on a sandcastle.

Marilyn reached between us to open a beer. “What in the world are you working on?” she asked.

I smiled at her and waved my pad. “This is my plan for global domination.”

“Feeling ambitious, are we?”

“Today Hereford, tomorrow the world!” I intoned.

“Give me a break!” she said with a snort.

“When I’m done, the Democratic Party will be in full retreat. Your parents will have to move to Canada or be charged with treason.”

“What about me?” my wife asked. “I’m a Democrat, remember!”

I waved my pad at her. “We have a provision in the party platform to allow for sleeping with Republicans.”

“Keep it up, wise guy. Sleeping will be all that goes on.”

I grabbed my pen. “I think I’m going to modify the platform, require something a little more concrete, maybe involving kneepads and handcuffs.”

“I don’t want to know!”

I grabbed a beer and yelled, “Hey, you two, Mommy wants to be buried in the sand!”

Marilyn popped up and began to argue, as Holly and Molly scampered over eagerly. They were sent back towards the water. I could see their brother just shaking his head in our direction. Grownups!

In between teasing Marilyn and chasing the kids, I managed to write some notes down. I knew what would work to put the party back into power. My problem was that I wanted it to be done on my terms, and not the terms of the hard right wing of the party. I was personally part of the liberal wing of the Republican Party, which was about the only way I could get elected in Maryland. Unfortunately, while some of my personal feelings were in line with the Democrats, the leadership in the Democratic Party was much more interested in maintaining power and the current status quo. Changes needed to be made, and the only way that would happen was a palace revolt. The Republicans had to regain control of Congress, something that hadn’t been done since the Fifties!

I spent the rest of the time in the Bahamas making notes. Marilyn glanced at them from time to time, but in most ways she just didn’t care. Yes, she was a Democrat, but she was much more conservative than her parents. Politically, we met very much in the middle, which allowed us to tease each other constantly. The standard joke was that we had to go to the polls together, so that we could cancel each other out.

When we flew home, I called John Boehner and Jim Nussle and told them about my conversation with Newt, and about getting together in the clubhouse for a strategy session. We made a date for the Tuesday after the session started, the 12^th, and they promised to corral the rest of the Gang of Eight plus Newt for a meeting at the house. I started fleshing my ideas out in the meantime, typing them up and figuring things out. I also picked up a couple of whiteboards, easels, and easel pads.

Marilyn and the kids came down to D.C. that weekend and I spent part of Saturday setting up some things in the den and prepping one of the easel pads into a flip chart. Charlie came in at one point and asked, “What are you doing, Dad?”

“Homework!”

“You’re not in school.”

“That just makes it even more important,” I told him.

“That sucks!” he replied.

I rolled my eyes but tried to keep it from my son. Marilyn might say he was too much like me, but he wasn’t an academic. It was a little more like Chevy Chase as Clark Griswold proudly talking about his son Rusty in Vegas Vacation — ‘He’s a C+ student!’ It was time to put my foot down. I looked down at him and said, “What about you? Have you done your homework?”

He gave me a look and said, “I don’t have any homework.”

“You don’t have any homework, or you don’t have any homework here?”

“Dad!” he protested, with a very guilty look on his face.

I put my hands on my hips and gave him the stare down. “You ever try to pull a stunt like this again, you won’t be able to sit for a week. You think I’m tough? I learned from people who would eat you alive! Until you hear otherwise, I will be checking your homework nightly. You want me to start calling your teachers and asking them if you have any homework?”

“Dad!” He had a panicked look in his eyes at the suggestion.

“Out! And don’t try this one again!” I pointed towards the door and he scooted out at high speed.

Marilyn came in about a minute later. “What did you say to your son?”

I gave her a wry smile. “Just that he had to do his homework.” She gave me a curious look. “He tried to pull a fast one on me by telling me he didn’t have any homework, when he meant to say he didn’t have any here. He really left it home.”

Marilyn replied, “That little shit!” but she was smiling as she said it.

“So I chewed his ass and asked if he wanted me to make daily phone calls to his teachers.”

She glanced back towards the door. “I’ll chew him some more when we get back home.”

“I like that idea. Why do I have the funny feeling my first born is not going to be making his name in the halls of academia?”

“Carl! That’s an awful thing to say!” I gave her an are-you-kidding-me! look and she shrugged. “Well, did you know you were going to get a doctorate when you were eleven?”

“I think I knew when I was in the womb, and it still wouldn’t have satisfied anyone!” I replied, laughing.

“You’re as crazy as everyone else in your family.”

“Sshhh! Don’t let anybody know!” I laughed and advanced on her. “Besides, only poor people are crazy. Rich people are eccentric!”

Marilyn laughed and backed away from me. “I don’t care how rich you are. You’re still crazy!” She backed her way out the door.

Since it didn’t look like I was going to trap Marilyn in the den, I went back to work.

Tuesday evening the meeting was set for seven at the house on 30^th. I had told Marilyn I would be spending the night in Washington, and the catering company had left plenty of coffee and tea and some cookies and snacks. By twenty-after we all had our coffee and were gathered in the den. John looked around the room and said, “Well, Carl, you called the meeting. What’s on your mind?”

I was already standing, but at this I went over to one of my easels that I had positioned at the end of the room. “All right, fair enough. A few weeks ago I was talking to Newt about continuing the pressure on the Democrats, about taking control of the House back, and even the Senate. I spent a chunk of the recess thinking about this, and came up with some ideas. I’ll go into them in a moment, but I want to lay out the big picture first.”

“First, we need to keep up the pressure related to the bank and post office scandals, but we need to do more than that. So far we’ve only been telling people why they shouldn’t vote Democratic. We haven’t been telling them why they should vote Republican! We’ve been negative, not positive. It’s not enough to say the Democrats are the bad guys, we have to convince people that the Republicans are the good guys. Has anybody here ever worked in the private sector, a restaurant or a company selling something?”

The others looked around at each other. “I grew up working in my grandfather’s bar. It’s still in the family,” said John.

Frank Riggs offered, “I used to sell real estate.”

“Okay. You guys know that you can’t sell stuff negatively.” To John I said, “Your grandfather wasn’t going to sell any more beer by simply advertising that the bar down the street wasn’t as nice as his. Same thing with you, Frank. Nobody is going to buy through you if the only thing you tell them is that the other brokers are crooks. No, you have to show them why they should buy from you, that you have better listings and know more.” I turned back to John. “Or that your beer is tastier, or your waitresses are cuter. You have to push the positive.” I got a few nods at this.

“We have to show that our Republican Party product is better for our buyer, the voters. So, here’s my idea. While we keep pushing the problems with the Democratic Congress, we also come out with a bold plan, something that takes all the ideas we got into this business for, and combine them into something new.”

I reached out and flipped the top page off of my easel pad, exposing what I had written beneath. “I propose a Contract With America!” There were some curious murmurs at this. “We can call it something else, but I think this will fly. Here’s how it works.”

I flipped another page over, where I had ten bullet points listed. “Now, we have ten items on our list.” I flashed my hands out, all ten fingers spread. “We can argue about the specifics, but we keep it to ten items. For instance, balancing the budget, we all want that. Entitlement reform, especially welfare. The line item veto on the budget. Infrastructure investment. A Federal level gun law that requires ‘may issue’ states to become ‘shall issue states’.” I went over several other items. I had purposely left several lines blank, so the others could come up with their own ideas.

“Why ten items? We can come up with more than that?” asked somebody.

“Ten’s a good number. It’s easy for people to remember and think about and talk about. Moses did well with it, why can’t we?” There were a lot of nods at that, along with a few grins. I always tended to think of Mel Brooks’ History of the World, Part One, where Moses comes down off of Mount Sinai with three tablets, telling everybody he has 15 commandments, and then drops and breaks one of the tablets, cutting the number down to 10.

“One important feature — we stay away from Democrat hot buttons,” I warned. “I don’t care what you might personally think, but you want to stay away from abortion. Stay away from school prayer. Stay away from gays and marriage. I don’t care how wonderful a bill you write, we get into some of these social things, and the Democrats will beat us to death with them!”

“Abortion is wrong. It’s murder,” said Rick Santorum.

I shrugged theatrically. “Rick, I understand what you are saying, I truly do, but that doesn’t mean I agree with you. There are nine good conservatives in this room, and I can guarantee that I’m not the only guy here who doesn’t agree with you. If we start trying to push these things, they will be the only things the Democrats will talk about and we will get killed on this. The average American doesn’t like it, but that doesn’t mean they want to ban it either. If we start pushing a hard right agenda, this will be still born.” There were a few grumpy faces around the room, but a few relieved ones as well.

“So how does this work with the Contract bit?” asked Scott Klug.

“It’s how we sell it to the customer, the voters. We tell them that it’s a package deal. There is stuff in here that everybody but the most die-hard liberal is going to want. We tell them that within the first 100 days after electing us, we will submit a package of ten bills, one for each item, and we promise that if elected we will ram them through. Lots of hoopla! We do a mass signing of the contract on the steps of the Capitol. We invite all the Republican candidates to Washington to sign with us. We do the talk shows and the news shows and the whole nine yards. If each of us takes one or two of these items as their own, we can bomb them left and right.”

“It’ll never work. Clinton will veto every last thing we put through,” retorted Santorum.

It was Nussle that answered that one. “So? This is going to be very high profile. You think he is going to bag ten consecutive bills? If we take back the Senate, we could actually do this in the first 100 days.”

“Remember, this is partly theater. Every day after we take control, we submit one of these bills like clockwork, just in time to make the evening news. We’re not actually going to get everything we want, but we can play this up big with the voters. Don’t forget, there are a lot of Democrats in conservative districts that are going to like pieces of this. It won’t be a straight party line vote on this stuff. I would bet that on some items we’ll be able to pick up enough votes to be able to override a veto,” I added.

There was a positive undertone to the meeting, but every eye was turned to Newt Gingrich, who could kill it with a single word. Instead, he was looking at my easels, one hand along the side of his face and a finger tapping his chin, with a sly smile. “Carl, you told me you had an idea, but this is an entire campaign! It is audacious! How do you see it working?”

Well, he wasn’t shooting it down! “This year, 1993, we are doing prep work on this. We finalize the ten points, start getting details down. A year from now, we start increasing in speed. Six months later, after the primaries, we get the new candidates involved. We go full court press on this. We get a few Senators to start writing their own versions of the bills,” I told them. I pointed at Newt. “You’re the general on this.”

He nodded. “We do this right, we win and I become Speaker. This isn’t public knowledge yet, but Michel is leaving after this term. He won’t be back in two years.”

“Damn!” I heard around the room. That made sense, though. I knew that Gingrich would become Speaker in the next Congress, but that he was only Number Two in the pecking order now. If Michel left, he moved up, and he wanted to be Speaker so bad he could sit on it and taste it.

“There’s ten points to the Contract, whatever they end up as. We each take a point and start working on the legislation; we get some help on the other two. It has to be absolutely secret. The Democrats and Bill Clinton get a sniff of this, they’ll figure out a way to push back. This year is totally quiet prep,” I added in.

Gingrich shook his head. “No, we can’t leave it in your offices. We move it out, to one of the think tanks around town. We work on it through them. I’ll talk to a few people, get them over here for an evening or two. It’s a good start, though. Carl, I really like this! John, what do you say?”

John looked around the room and at the easels for a moment. “It’s brilliant. We’re going to have to do a lot of ads on this next year,” he cautioned.

Jim Nussle said, “We get the RNC and some soft money to do that. They can push the program without mentioning us. It’s legal.” A few others nodded and agreed with that.

“By God, this could work!” exclaimed John Doolittle.

I nodded. “This has to be secret, though, really secret. I mean, cross your heart, hope to die, pinkie shake secret. You can’t tell your wives, you can’t tell your girlfriends, you can’t talk in your sleep! The Democrats learn about this, they’ll come up with some bullshit of their own,” I said. There were some grins at this. While some of the group were real straight arrows (Santorum), I knew some weren’t (Gingrich), and the comment about wives and girlfriends would hit home for some of the guys. Hey, they were grownups; they could face the heat if they got caught.

We broke apart after some more discussion. Newt promised to get back to me the following week. We were in business.

Was this how the first Contract With America began? That was on my first go around, and I had no idea when it actually got started. I did remember that by the ’94 elections it had totally galvanized the Party and thrown the Democrats into complete disarray, and the elections were a watershed event. It was Newt’s baby then, and the Gang of Eight were his helpers. I was happy enough to let him lead the charge this time. If we won, I would rack up some serious Brownie points and favors I could call in at a later date.

Plus, a lot of it was stuff that the public thought we needed. Entitlement reform for instance, was desperately needed. In the case of welfare, we had created a perverse incentive to have welfare babies. As originally planned, women on welfare received payments based on the number of children they had. The more children they had, obviously the more assistance they needed. Enter the Law of Unintended Consequences. If by living in some dump and not feeding your kids properly, it costs less to raise a child than the extra payment, then you actually make money with another child! Talk about your bad policy ideas! That was just one example. The entire system needed to be overhauled, to get people off the dole and onto their own feet.

What I wanted to do was to oversee the entire thing. By ‘creating’ the idea, it put me in the driver’s seat, even if I let Newt take the credit. I could soften things, make them more palatable to the Democrats, cut down on the nasty rhetoric. I could push back against the lobbyists who would try to take over everything. It was going to take a lot of work, and I was going to need some help.

The first thing I did was to break my own rule about talking to anybody. I told Marilyn I was staying another night, and had Marty come over to the house Wednesday night. He had spent several years as a lobbyist before coming back from the dark side. I would frequently joke with him about just that thing, telling him that I knew there was good still inside him. He could help me keep things honest!

Marty and I had a quick dinner at a seafood place down on the Potomac before heading over to the house. Once there, I made a couple of drinks and took him into the den, where I gave him pretty much the same spiel as I had given the others. With Marty, however, I was able to focus a little more, and cut out some of the extraneous stuff, and got it done in half the time. At the end I asked, “Well, what do you think?”

“Well, it’s audacious as hell, that’s for sure. What did Gingrich and the others think? He can kill it if he wanted to, but he’s looking for a game changer and this could be it.”

I nodded. “The others all liked it. Newt liked it more when I said we’d put it under his name. If it works, he becomes Speaker of the House.”

“He probably gets hard just dreaming about that.”

I gave a theatrical shudder. “Now that’s an image I don’t want to think about!” Marty snorted in laughter. “What about his idea of shopping it out to one of the think tanks in town? Why should we do that?”

“Deniability, for one thing. If anything leaks, it’s just a proposal from the think tank, not pending legislation from your office. You just sit there and go ‘Huh?’ as necessary,” he commented.

“Huh?”

“Very good, keep practicing that. Just as important, they have a lot more lawyers and statisticians and thinkers on tap than you do. Some of this stuff will be really, really big and involved.”

“That’s what I’m worried about,” I told him. “Every conservative lobbyist in the city is going to want to weigh in on this, and some of them are just going to be whack jobs. If I can keep it in house, we can control it.”

Marty simply shook his head. “It’s too big for any one man to control, which means it’s going to be pissed on by others. Forget about control, settle for influence. You can have some major influence in this, but it will never be entirely what you want. The soup tastes better when everyone has a chance to pee in it.”

I grimaced. I understood what my old friend was saying, but I didn’t have to like it. “Who do you think Newt will give this to?”

Marty shrugged. “Probably the Heritage Foundation, but maybe the Cato Institute. They might be a little too libertarian for Newt’s tastes, though. Maybe the American Enterprise Institute. Those three come to mind anyway. My bet, you’ll find out when Gingrich decides, and has you do another dog-and-pony show for them. He’ll bring over a few people here for you to do your stump speech. Kiss some ass and get in with them, keep your fingers in the pie. Don’t get on your high horse and try to order them around. They won’t be impressed. They will be here long after Carl Buckman is voted out of office.”

“True enough!”

“You said you wanted everyone to pick a specific piece of legislation and ride herd on it. It’s your baby. Which one do you want?”

“I’ve been thinking about that. They’re all really critical, but some are going to be so big I doubt I’ll be able to get my hands around them enough. I was thinking to handle the gun bill and the Second Amendment.” It still galled me what Marilyn and I went through ten years ago with Hamilton and trying for a carry permit.

“The NRA is going to want to weigh in on that.”

“Yeah, but the good point to that is they’re really the only big lobbying group that will care. The hard left nut jobs will want to ban the manufacture and sale of all guns in the country, and send storm troopers to go through every house and seize all the guns they find. The NRA wants every child to be issued a government supplied automatic grenade launcher at birth, with unlimited ammo for life. There has got to be a middle ground.”

“Most of what you are trying to do with your bills, the Democrats are doing now. With Clinton in the White House and the Democrats controlling both houses, they are going to ram through a shitload of favorites. They are already planning a gun control bill of their own.”

“Doesn’t matter. The pendulum is swinging my friend, and it is swinging in our direction. In two years time we are going to own both houses, and it will be our turn to make some changes. Bill is going to be very surprised.”

“We’ll have to see on this,” commented Marty, as he got ready to head home.

“It’s our time, Marty. You need to help me keep the hard liners from going overboard.”

“Fair enough.”

Chapter 115: The Bravest Man I Ever Knew

1993

I was in a pretty good mood when I got home. Newt and the Republican Party would have done the Contract with America whether I had recycled or not, but with me involved we had a chance of toning down the harsher aspects to it. I was already pushing to keep most of the ‘family values’ crap out of it. That was a sideshow that always sidetracked the Party and played into the hands of the Democrats.

My good mood broke when I got home. Bucky was staying with us, and while I really like my namesake, I was curious. “Hey, buddy, what’s up? Where’s the rest of the family?”

He gave me a strange look. “Mom said I was staying with you guys for a few days, maybe until the weekend.”

I shrugged. “That’s cool. Carter here, too?” Maybe Tessa and Tusker were taking a few days off for themselves.

I got that odd look again. “No, they were going somewhere with him.”

“Okay, I’ll talk to your Aunt Marilyn.” I dropped my briefcase in my office and went down the hall to my bedroom and changed out of my suit. I was on the verge of heading back out when Marilyn came into the bedroom. She closed the door behind her, but she didn’t have a playful look in her eyes. I knew she wasn’t planning any fun and games before dinner. “What’s up?” I asked.

“Bucky is going to be spending a few nights with us.”

I nodded. “Yeah, I saw him out in the living room. What’s with that?”

“Tessa and Tusker are taking Carter for testing.”

“What’s wrong with Carter?” The Tusk’s second son was a good boy, and bright. Like his brother, he had his father’s bright red hair, but where Bucky was tall and had Tusker’s looks, Carter was smaller and looked a lot more like his mother.

Marilyn lowered her voice. “They are taking him to the Mayo Clinic. They think he has cancer.”

I just stared at my wife while the blood roared in my ears for a second. She wasn’t smiling, and this wasn’t something people joke about. After a few seconds, I said, “What?! When did this happen?”

Marilyn gave a helpless shrug and sat down on the bed next to me. “He’s been seeing his doctor for a few months now, but they just started putting the pieces together. He gets tired, his knees and elbows are constantly hurting, and he keeps getting bruises that never heal.”

“I saw one of the bruises, over Christmas, and later, when we came back from the Bahamas. I thought it was different.”

My wife shook her head. “It was the same bruise. It should have healed by then.”

“Why aren’t they taking him to Johns Hopkins? That’s just down the road, and it’s one of the best hospitals in the country!”

“They already have. His pediatrician referred him there. That’s where they diagnosed it as cancer. This Mayo Clinic trip is a second opinion.”

“Huh!” I sat there in disbelief for a second. “What kind of cancer?”

“I don’t know. Some type of leukemia or something.”

“How are they getting out there? They’re not flying him through the airports, are they?! Have they left? I can get the Gulfstream…”

Marilyn took my hand and smiled. “I already did that. As soon as I heard I called Taylor and made the arrangements. They dropped Bucky off on their way out to Westminster. They’re probably already there.”

“Oh, sure… okay.” I should have known better. “Why us and not his grandparents?”

“Luck of the draw. His folks are in very poor health themselves, and hers are in Europe on vacation.”

I nodded at that. Tusker was a year older than Tessa, but he was the baby of his family, and she was the oldest child in hers. His parents were at least ten years older than hers. I smiled back at her. “Well, it’s not like he’s never been here before. All we have to do is make sure he and Charlie don’t try to build a moon rocket in the back yard.”

“Launch the pair of them out of here!”

“Maybe they’ll find out it’s something else.”

“Let’s hope!” she agreed.

For the next few days we kept our hopes up and our mouths shut. Bucky didn’t have any idea what was going on. He was a smart kid, and growing up as fast as a weed. He was fourteen now, and would be fifteen in June (as if I would ever forget his birthday!) He was already well over five foot tall and growing fast, and I wasn’t even sure if he had hit his growth spurt yet! Even if he averaged out between his two parents in height, Tusker was taller than I was by several inches, and Tessa was about Marilyn’s height. Bucky would probably be taller than me.

The only odd thing was explaining to the kids why their friend was staying with us during a school week. Marilyn would run him down to school in Cockeysville after loading the kids on the school bus. Otherwise, we had the phone ringing off the hook as girls started calling the house for him. Bucky had figured out that girls weren’t all that gross and yucky! Charlie thought his older friend was crazy in this regard, and Bucky just laughed at him.

The twins were eight, like Carter, and they were pretty curious why Bucky was staying here when Carter wasn’t. They kept picking at us, first me, then their mother, then me again, and finally Marilyn chewed their butts and told them to behave and go to their room. They grumped and whined and I stood up and then they took off with considerable alacrity! It pays to be big! I gave Marilyn a wry smile and we went back to what we had been doing.

The Tusks flew back with Carter Sunday morning, and I could tell by the looks on their faces as they came by to retrieve Bucky that the second opinion was the same as the first. We turned Carter loose upon the other kids, and sat Tessa and Tusker down in the kitchen.

“So, what is it?” I asked.

“Acute lymphocytic leukemia,” answered Tusker. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pamphlet. “Here, I knew you’d ask, so I picked this up. Thanks for flying us out there. I’ll pay you back somehow…”

I waved it off. “The hell you will. Forget it! What’s this acute… whatever? Leukemia? That’s a blood cancer of some sort, right?”

Tusker looked at Tessa, who answered, “It’s a fairly common childhood cancer, but not normally seen in adults. Your white blood cells go haywire and go into overproduction, but aren’t like normal white blood cells. For what it’s worth, they say we caught it relatively early, so that’s good. It’s the same diagnosis we got at Johns Hopkins. They suggested we continue to have him treated here.”

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it? You’re only half an hour from one of the best hospitals in the country, maybe even the world! There’s a cure, right?” asked Marilyn.

I didn’t know shit about cancer and leukemia, but I did know that childhood leukemia was one of the most treatable cancers. By the time I recycled, it was practically guaranteed curable, at least if you could afford to go to the hospital. Most Americans didn’t have health insurance after about 2020.

Our friends nodded. And grimaced. “The treatment is chemotherapy. There’s nothing to operate on surgically. That and maybe radiation.”

“That sucks, but at the end, he’ll be cured. They do all sorts of stuff with cancer these days,” I told them. “Listen, let me make a few calls this week. See if I can find any experts in Washington. Don’t delay anything, but let me look into it.”

At that offer, Tusker and Tessa looked at each other and smiled. Tessa said, “Why do you think we brought you that pamphlet? We knew you’d want it spelled out for you when you started poking around.”

“You two are real funny! Am I that predictable?”

The other three all looked at each other and said, damn near in unison, “Yes!” I just rolled my eyes. The Tusks left us with the pamphlet and packed up their kids and went home.

That night I made sure to hug each of my children before they went to bed. The girls didn’t think about it, but Charlie thought it was pretty strange. I told him to tough it out, or I’d kiss him, too. He ran shrieking at the thought, which made Marilyn and me laugh.

Monday morning, after my morning staff meeting, I had Babs and Mindy stick around. “A friend of mine has a child with leukemia. Who do I see about finding him the best doctor in the country?”

The two women looked at each other. Mindy looked a little mystified, but Babs immediately answered, “You need to see somebody over at the National Institutes of Health. They’ll know somebody.”

“Is this one of your children, sir?” asked Mindy.

I shook my head. “No, but he might as well be. It’s my best friend’s youngest.”

“I can make a few calls, set something up,” said Babs.

“Make it happen fast. I need to know this week,” I pressed. They nodded and left. I called Marty in and we started discussing other stuff.

Wednesday morning I drove out to Bethesda, where I had an appointment with somebody about leukemia. The National Institutes of Health are a sprawling campus where they do research and fund medical research for the government. Babs and Mindy had made enough calls to move me up the food chain.

Bethesda wasn’t far from the house on 30^th, but it took my driver a bit to find a parking spot and make our way to the front door. In those pre-9/11 days you didn’t get strip searched on opening the door. The young lady at the main desk took my name and called somebody, and two minutes later an earnest young man came down and retrieved me. “Welcome, Congressman Buckman. You’ll be meeting with Doctor Heisman this morning,” he told me.

“Lead the way.”

I was escorted inside, where we took an elevator up several floors. I was led to an office with a sign by the door, ‘Jonathan Heisman, Executive Director’, which my guide simply pushed open and led me into a small waiting area. I was deposited with a secretary and my guide took off. Almost immediately I was shown into an inner office, to find two men waiting for me.

“Congressman Buckman, welcome to the National Institutes of Health. I’m Jonathan Heisman, the Executive Director. Doctor Healey would have been here, but she’s at a conference in San Diego this week,” said the first man, a slim and somewhat ascetic looking man with a trim beard and mustache. He reached out and we shook hands.

“That’s all right. This just came up, Doctor… I assume it’s Doctor?”

He nodded. “Yes, both MD and PhD. This is Doctor Harry Hollings, my counterpart over at the National Cancer Institute, one of our sub-agencies.”

I turned to the other man, a thoroughly nondescript fellow about my height and about twenty pounds heavier. He reached out to shake my hand also. “Pleased to meet you, Congressman, although not under these circumstances.”

“Thank you. I agree, it’s not the way I would want to meet anybody.”

Heisman gestured towards an armchair. “Why don’t we sit and talk about that.” We made ourselves comfortable, and he opened the talk. “My understanding is that you have a friend, a constituent I believe, with a child with leukemia.”

I had to smile at that. “Close, but not exactly. They aren’t my constituents, but they are very close friends. Their youngest son was just diagnosed with acute lymphocytic leukemia.” I took the pamphlet, now getting worn out, out of my pocket and laid it on the desk. “They were initially diagnosed at Johns Hopkins, and then got the same diagnosis a few days later at the Mayo Clinic.”

“And what brings you to us?” asked Hollings.

“I don’t know. What can I do to help? I guess.”

Heisman looked at Hollings, who asked me a few questions. When did they notice the first symptoms? When did they take Carter to Johns Hopkins? When did they take him to Rochester? When were they starting treatment? I answered each as best I could.

“Congressman, I have to tell you that your friends are doing everything we tell people to do. They took the symptoms seriously, they sought out medical treatment, they went to specialists, and they got a second opinion. They are not delaying anything, and are at as good a facility as you can find.”

“Will he be cured?” I asked.

Hollings made a wry face and shrugged, raising his hands in an expression of helplessness. “Sir, I just don’t know. The odds are good, but not perfect. The good news is that when caught early, childhood leukemia is one of the more treatable forms of cancer. The odds are better than even. The bad news is that it’s a very serious disease, and nothing is guaranteed.”

“I understand that. Tell me, are there any clinical trials, experimental drugs or treatments, other things they could do? Is there a doctor I could send them to, anywhere else, in the world even?”

He shook his head. “No, not really. Treatments are improving every day, but we don’t have a magic bullet hidden away somewhere.”

“Nothing?! Money isn’t an object. I mean, if you’ve got some million dollar pill available, we can spend the million dollars,” I pushed.

“Sorry, Congressman, we don’t even have a ten million dollar pill. Your friends are doing what can be done.”

“GODDAMMIT!” I cursed. The other two looked concerned, but I held my hands up. “Sorry, I apologize for that. It’s not your fault, and I know you’re trying to be helpful. I appreciate that. I really do.”

It was Heisman who spoke next. “I take it this family is very close to you.”

I sighed and nodded. “I went to school as a kid with the parents. The father was one of the ushers at my wedding, and the mother went into labor with their first child at our reception. My wife and I attended Carter’s christening. I don’t think we can get any closer.”

“Then you’re already doing everything you can. They’re doing all the right stuff for Carter’s treatment. You’re supporting them. That’s what you can do.”

Hollings added, “Something else you can do, Congressman Buckman, is to understand just how debilitating this is going to be on everybody. The primary treatment is going to be chemotherapy. Everything you’ve ever heard about how hard chemo is on a person is true. Carter is going to be sick as a dog on his good days. This is going to be very hard on his parents and the rest of the family, too. If you want to help, take the load off the family. Let any of the kids stay with you, run an errand or two for them, give them a break and see that they have a date night or two.”

I sighed again. “We can do that. I’ll let my wife know tonight.”

Heisman spoke up again. “The other thing you can do, Congressman, is your job. Get us more funding. There’s never enough, and it directly tracks into better treatments and breakthroughs.”

I smiled. “And that’s your job, isn’t it. Funding, right.”

He smiled back. “We understand each other.”

I stood. “Well, I appreciate the time you took. If I can return the favor someday, well, I owe you, and you know where my office is.” I smiled and shook their hands.

“I’ll hold you to that some day,” Heisman returned, smiling at me.

I excused myself and left. An escort took me back down to the lobby, at which point I called my office and said I would be back the next morning. From Bethesda I decided to drive home, not to the Washington house but to my real home, with a stop along the way. We drove up to Baltimore and got on the Beltway, and then drove clockwise around the city to York Road, and went up to Tusk Cycles in Cockeysville.

Tusker was talking to a middle-aged couple when I entered the showroom. He nodded to me when he saw me enter, but I waved him off and he never stopped dealing with his customers. We could talk later. I wandered around the showroom, admiring the gleaming machines and marveling at the prices they commanded. I had no desire to ride one, but they were so expensive only rich and retired folks could afford a top end Harley with all the whistles and bells. Unbelievable!

After a few minutes, Tusker came down the aisle and found me. I looked over at him and smiled. “Sell them?”

He smiled back. “Two brand new Softails, plus customization.” He made the universal sign for money, by rubbing his thumb against his fingers.

I just shook my head in amusement. “Did you check to make sure their organ donor cards are filled out?”

Tusker laughed. “Just wait until Charlie wants his license. We’ve already got Bucky clamoring for his.”

I gave an exaggerated shudder. “Let’s talk.”

He nodded and led the way to his office. For all of Tusker’s public persona of the wild and crazy biker, his office was that of a serious businessman, with a computer on his desk, and the appropriate furnishings. There was a reason he had two sales lots and was more than a little profitable. “What’s up?” he asked as we settled into a couple of chairs.

“Well, you know I was planning on seeing if I could find anything better for Carter in D.C., right?”

“Yeah, you mentioned it. Find out anything?”

“Nothing more than you already know. I met with the head of the National Institutes of Health and the National Cancer Institute. I told them what was happening and they asked me a few questions, but you guys are basically doing what you’re supposed to do. Hopkins is as good a place as any to take Carter, and you’re doing the right stuff. You aren’t dicking around, you’re starting treatment, you’ve been to a good place for a second opinion.” I shrugged in helplessness. “There are no magic pills. I asked. Chemo is the answer, and it won’t be any fun.”

Tusker sighed. “Thanks, man, I… we… appreciate it. I didn’t think you would find anything else, but I’m glad you looked into it.”

“The one thing they stressed was that this is going to take a lot of time and care. They said to tell you to get everybody involved. It is going to be very stressful on all of you, not just Carter. Tell your family and friends, get them to help. Have you talked to your parents yet? Tessa’s parents?”

He nodded. “We had everybody over for dinner Monday night. Boy, was that fun!”

“Well you know you can count on us, and let your other friends know, too. Carter’s going to take up a lot of time. If Bucky needs a break, have him stay with us, you know we’d love to have him. If you and Tessa need a break, let us and other people help. Let the people here at the shop and at the other place know. Somebody else has been through this and can tell you stuff.”

“I never thought about that, but you’re right. One of my mechanics over at the Honda place lost his mother last year to breast cancer.” He grimaced as he thought about it.

“That’s supposed to be a whole lot tougher than leukemia. The odds are a lot better for Carter, so don’t get too glum,” I told him.

He nodded again. “That it?”

“Yeah, pretty much. I have to head home now and let Marilyn know. When does Carter start his treatment?”

“Friday morning, and then twice a week for six weeks. Come on over to the house on Sunday.”

“Sure. Have Tessa call Marilyn and set it up.”

I stood up and let myself out and went home, to tell Marilyn the news. She agreed with me that it seemed like everything that could be done was being done.

My own experience with cancer was limited, but not reassuring. The Buckman family simply doesn’t get cancer or heart disease or diabetes or any of the other biggies. For us, I think, it’s worse. We all get strokes and Alzheimers. I wondered how my ‘recycling’ had been handled — heart attack or stroke? If it was a heart attack, it was the first!

Marilyn’s family was riddled with cancer. Both Harriet and Big Bob would die from it, and her baby brother Michael would get it several times before dying from it. Harriet had been too far gone by the time she was diagnosed to even receive treatment, but I remembered the hell that Big Bob and Michael went through. Chemotherapy had been hell on Earth for the two men, with all the weight loss, nausea, vomiting, and hair loss you learn about.

I hoped like hell that it would be easier on little Carter, but I seriously doubted that would happen.

1993 rolled on the way it had before, with no real differences from what I remembered. Would I have known differently? Back on the first go I never really noticed some of what was happening, because it didn’t mean anything to me at the time. The bombing of the World Trade Center in New York took on a whole new meaning when I considered what would happen in 2001. Pentium computers came out, with an amazing increase in power and speed over the old 486 models. We promptly replaced the stuff at the office out of my own pocket, not wanting to wait another five years for the government to get around to it. Around the world it seemed like the planet was going to hell in a handbasket, just like before.

Congress-wise, we spent most of 1993 working on the upcoming Contract with America with the Heritage Foundation. I was spending at least one, if not two, days a week over there reviewing progress on all ten items. Like Marty had foreseen, every lobbyist in town was sticking his nose in on things, ‘consulting’ about how to ‘improve’ our legislation. The budget and entitlement reform bills especially promised to be clusterfucks of improvements! It had to be done, but it was like a sausage factory — you really don’t want to see what goes in!

Carter’s chemo proved to be every bit as awful as could be foreseen. That poor little boy spent his ninth birthday puking his guts out after a session of chemo. By then he couldn’t keep hardly any food down, and had lost all his hair. He would puke and cry, puke and cry, but he was a fighter, that’s for sure.

Sometimes it would get too much for his older brother, and we would take him for a weekend. Bucky was a good kid, but it could be incredibly stressful. All of a sudden, Carter became the focus of the whole family. If Bucky wanted to go somewhere or do something, it might not happen, or it might be cancelled, depending on Carter’s condition. It can make a person resentful. Bucky was a good kid, and helped a lot, but it was trying on him. He wasn’t crazy like my brother, but it’s only human to get angry about the attention. He tried to keep it from showing, and would stay with us occasionally to let off some steam by riding with Charlie around the property.

At the end of the six weeks he was off chemotherapy, but would be monitored by weekly visits to his oncologist at Johns Hopkins. A week later, when Carter began feeling better, and could start eating again, Marilyn and I packed the bunch of them into the G-IV and sent them off to Hougomont for a week.

The first blood work on Carter after the chemo came back hopeful, but not great. Subsequent tests after they came back from the Bahamas weren’t even that positive. The cancer was slowing, but not gone. A second round of chemo was needed, with stronger medicines and a longer period. That started in May.

The strain on the Tusk family only increased that summer. Both of Tusker’s parents died in June, his father of a heart attack, and his mother from heart break. She simply lost the will to keep going, and passed away in her sleep. We helped as much as we could, like the rest of their friends. I was one of his father’s pallbearers. Tessa and Carter missed that funeral because Carter was taking chemo that day. That was really tough on the family. Tessa and Tusker were arguing a lot after that, but held it together for the sake of Carter. Marilyn and I could only stand on the sidelines and offer moral support.

Our big summer party that year was July 24, a Saturday. The Tusks came to it, like always, but you could see the strain on them. Carter had just started a third round of chemo. Tusker and Tessa were keeping a brave face up when around him, and they never said anything to anybody other than that he was getting better, but it was like they were whistling as they walked past the graveyard. Carter was down to skin and bones by then, and rather than sit outside with the others, he was propped up in one of the recliners in the living room.

One of us would always be with him, spending time with him so he didn’t feel like he wasn’t being included. We were having the party catered again, so Marilyn and I could circulate, but at one point in the afternoon, I had a chance to sit down with Carter and talk with him. Most of the time, when he was around, one of his parents were hovering, but now, it was just the two of us. I sat down in the chair next to him and asked, “How you doing, Carter?”

“Okay, I guess,” he said, quietly.

Something didn’t sound quite right, so I asked, “You want to talk, Carter? Anything I can help you with?”

He looked at me and asked, “Can I ask you a question, Uncle Carl?”

“Sure, whatever you want.”

“Will you tell my parents I’m sorry after I die?”

I think a bomb could have gone off at that point and I wouldn’t have noticed it. Then I realized he was looking at me very seriously. I couldn’t just laugh this off. “Why do you ask, Carter? Do you think you’re going to die?”

He nodded. “I’m not getting better. Mom and Dad won’t say anything, but the chemo isn’t working.” He gave me a wry look, and finished, “I mean, they keep taking me to the doctor’s office and I’m not getting any better. Aren’t you supposed to get better after going to the doctor?”

I smiled and nodded. “That’s the general idea.”

“Well, I’m not getting better, am I?” he stated.

I was slow in answering, but Carter was serious, and he wasn’t joking about this. I shrugged and nodded. “No, you’re not.”

Amazingly, the little boy’s face lit up at this! “Thank you! Everybody around just keeps telling me bullshit!” Then his eyes opened wide and he clamped his mouth shut. “You won’t tell Mom or Dad I used a bad word, will you?”

I laughed at that and patted him on the knee. “Your secret is safe with me. So, what do you want to do? Do you want to stop seeing the doctors?” What the hell was I going to do if he said yes?

“No.” Carter shook his head. “I tried to talk to Mom about it once, but she just got angry at me and told me I was getting better. Why does she get angry like that?”

“Well, she’s not angry with you. You mom really loves you. She’s just scared. She’s really trying to convince herself, not you, that you’ll be okay. I think that if she were to tell herself that you might not be getting better that would be the same to her as giving up, and parents never give up on their kids.”

“Yeah, I guess that makes sense. Anyway, I didn’t want to make her cry any more. She cries so much anyway.” He looked at me and shrugged. “I don’t think it will be for all that much longer anyway.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. I just sat there with him, and he continued, “So will you tell them I’m sorry? They’re always crying and arguing now, and Bucky gets it, too. If he makes a joke or says something Mom and Dad yell at him, too.”

“I promise.”

“Thanks, Uncle Carl.”

I stood up. “Can I get you anything?”

“Nah. I’m kind of tired. I think I’ll take a nap.”

“Okay.” Then, before I left him, I said, “You know, you’re not dead yet! You might just pull through. Won’t you feel silly then about this!”

He smiled at that. “See you later.”

I left my little friend in the living room and went into the kitchen, where I sat down at the island and quietly cried. Then I pulled myself together and washed my face and went back outside to the party. Carter was snoozing in the living room. Marilyn saw me come out and glanced towards Carter. “Everything okay?”

“Just fine.”

Carter Henry Tusk passed away ten days later, August 3^rd. It wasn’t anything dramatic. Carter just kept getting weaker and weaker, whether because of the treatment or the fact that he could barely keep any food down, so he wasn’t getting any nourishment. I heard from Tessa later that she went in to wake him and he wouldn’t wake up, though he was still alive. She called an ambulance to take him to the hospital, but nothing helped. He was in a coma, and later that evening just slipped away without waking.

Marilyn called me at the office in Westminster and I drove home to help her break the news to the kids. I called the Tusks the next morning, but all I could hear on the other end of the line was Tusker crying. Eventually Bucky came on the line and whispered that he would call us later. We heard from friends the funeral service would be Friday morning, at St. Paul’s. Visiting hours at the funeral home were Thursday night, and Marilyn and I took the kids. We debated whether the girls were too young, but they were nine like Carter had been, and we thought they would be old enough to handle it.

The funeral home was pretty well packed. Tessa’s parents were there, along with both Tessa’s and Tusker’s siblings. Bucky looked fairly miserable, in that he was both bored to tears standing around like he had to, but also because he had loved his brother and was hurting as much as his parents. He saw us in the line and broke free to come over to us, where Marilyn gave him a hug and Charlie tried to act like a grownup. The girls were a touch bewildered, but soldiered on.

I was surprised by the turnout, but I shouldn’t have been. You had quite a few biker types, rough guys who looked like they had been cleaned up special for the occasion, and you would see them standing next to a suburban family with a child Carter’s age, who had been in school with him. I nodded and spoke to the people I recognized, but it wasn’t the time or place to work the room.

We moved up the line to the casket. The undertaker had done a decent enough job with Carter, who was wearing a suit and a baseball cap to hide his baldness. Marilyn showed the kids how to kneel at the little prie-dieux in front of the casket, while I stood to the side. They all made the sign of the cross, and prayed quickly, before standing and moving aside to say what we could to the family. As I shook Tusker’s hand, he asked, “You’ll be there tomorrow?” The funeral was the next morning. Tusker and Tessa looked like they had been dragged through a knothole.

“Of course. Uh, do you need somebody to help, you know, with…” I nodded towards the little casket. I had carried a few in my time. He nodded bleakly. I looked beyond him and found one of the funeral home’s people. “I’ll go let them know.”

“Thank you.”

I was on the verge of leaving, when I stopped. “Tomorrow, at St. Paul’s, at some point I want to say something, a eulogy, sort of. Carter asked me to say something for him.”

It felt like every eye in the place turned to me, but of course it was just the immediate family and Marilyn, really. “Carter asked you to speak?!” asked his incredulous father. Tessa and Marilyn just stood there dumbfounded.

“Please, it will be easier to explain tomorrow. It’s not going to be hurtful or anything like that. I just… it will be easier to explain tomorrow. Please?”

“Uh, yeah, okay. Whatever,” he mumbled. Tessa just stood there stock still, her mouth open. We excused ourselves and moved off. I stopped to talk to one of the funeral directors and gave him my name and that I would help as a pall bearer. He jotted something down, and then we left.

“Carter told you to say something?” asked Marilyn after we settled the kids in her minivan.

“It will make more sense tomorrow,” I promised her.

After we got home, the kids were sent to bed. I headed into my den to start making some notes and typing something up. Marilyn stuck her head in after a bit to say she was going to bed, and I just looked up and gave her a quick kiss. I was going to be a bit longer.

I must have stayed up half the night typing and then retyping. I didn’t sleep much, either, afterwards. I just hoped I had written something that Carter would have liked.

The next morning we bundled the kids off to church. St. Paul’s was packed, all the way back into the annex. We sat in the middle, and I made sure I was sitting on the aisle. We went through the normal liturgy, and when it was time for the eulogy, the pastor stopped and said, “Giving the presentation on Carter is a family friend, Carl Buckman. Mister Buckman?” He stepped back, and I stood and walked up the aisle.

I was kind of nervous as I walked up to the lectern. My mouth was dry as I pulled my notes from my pocket and spread them out. I looked out on the audience, and down to my friends and family, and took a deep breath.

“Thank you. My name is Carl Buckman. I knew Carter probably as long as almost anybody in this church except for his parents. When Tusker and Tessa headed off to the hospital when she went into labor, neither of their parents were around, and my wife Marilyn was out shopping, so I got the call to come and keep an eye on their older son, Bucky. A few weeks later we were invited to the christening, here at St. Paul’s. We seem to have come full circle.

In a lot of ways, Carter was just a pretty average kid. He liked to do the things that any other nine year old did. If you took him to the beach, he’d swim and chase seagulls and build sand castles. He liked watching his brother ride his motorcycle, but he wasn’t a racer himself. He went to school and did well. His favorite season was the summer, when he could run around with his friends and goof off.

And then Carter came down with leukemia. Cancer is an ugly disease, and in a young child it’s at its ugliest. Like everyone here, I watched as Carter went through the rounds of chemotherapy and treatment, and hoped and prayed that each new treatment would be the one that did the trick, the one that brought him back. The doctors tell us that we’ve never had as much hope as we have now, and that someday soon childhood leukemia will be a thing of the past. We aren’t there yet. Carter didn’t make it.

At times the treatment seemed worse than the disease. Carter just stoically stuck it out. He never complained to me, although I made sure to give him the chance. The medicines ravaged his little body. Carter kept going. He kept smiling for the others.

Here’s the reason I asked to speak today. Carter knew he was dying. I think I’m the only person he told. Two weeks ago he and I were talking and he told me that it wasn’t working, that he wasn’t getting any better. He asked me what I thought, and I told him the truth, that I thought he was right, he wasn’t getting any better. The funny part was that his face lit up and he said, ‘Thank you! You’re the first person to tell me the truth!’ Then he said that everybody was giving him a lot of BS about getting better, only he didn’t say BS, and then he worried he was going to get in trouble for using a bad word. I laughed and promised I would keep his secret. With all that was happening to him, he was worried about saying a dirty word. What a sweet guy.

And then he asked me to do a favor for him. After he died, he wanted me to tell his parents he was sorry. I didn’t understand, so I asked him, ‘Sorry about what?’ It didn’t make any sense to me. He told me he was sorry he had been such a burden to them; that they had to spend so much time trying to make him feel better when it wasn’t working. He was sorry that his brother was taking a back seat to him. He was sorry he made his parents cry. I asked him if he had told his parents what he was telling me, and he said, no, that they were spending all their time trying to cheer him up, and he didn’t want them crying because he knew he wasn’t going to make it. He would rather go through the chemotherapy then make his mother cry any more. I saw what the chemo was doing to him. It wasn’t pretty. I don’t know if I could handle it. He went along, though, just to make his mother feel better because they were still trying.

So, Carter, I did as you asked. In the Army we’d say you were off doing reconnaissance for us, finding out where we’re going to go. I doubt I’ll ever make it to Heaven, but it’s nice to know you are checking it out for me ahead of time. You can find the good places to goof off up there.

As for everyone down here, let me finish with this. I’ve known some really brave men in my time — soldiers, policemen, firefighters — men labeled as heroes, but here’s the God’s honest truth! The bravest man I ever met was a little boy named Carter Henry Tusk. Thank you”

Chapter 116: 1994

By the time I finished my little speech, there wasn’t a dry eye in the room. It was hard for me to tell for sure, though, since I was crying and could barely read the paper I had written it down on. I was working from memory at that point. Over in the front row, Bucky was crying, and Tusker and Tessa had their arms around each other and were weeping.

We all pulled ourselves together, though, and I sent Marilyn and the kids out to the car. I had to help carry the casket out to the hearse with the rest of the pallbearers. Once we were done, I was in the car behind the limo carrying the Tusks, with the other pallbearers following. At the cemetery, we laid Carter to rest, and then went back to the church for a memorial lunch in the parish hall.

At the lunch Tessa wrapped me in a big hug and thanked me. Tusker told me, “You should have said something, man.”

I shook my head. “What? Carter asked me not to, and there wasn’t anything else you could have done other than what you were already doing. I didn’t tell Marilyn, either. Sometimes there just are no good answers.”

He sighed and shook my hand. “I know. I just wish it could have been different.”

“Did you and Tessa ever think about having any more children?”

He shrugged at that. “We thought about it a few years ago, but decided two were enough. It’s too late now in any case.”

“Really? Tessa’s my age, right? She’s what, 38 or 39?”

At that Tusker gave me the first smile I had seen in weeks. “It’s not her, it’s me! I got snipped a few years ago.” He made a scissors motion with his fingers.

My eyes widened at that. “I had no idea! When did you do that?”

“Oh, I guess around five or six years ago. Tessa wanted to get off the Pill and we decided we didn’t want any more kids. Now that I think about it, you and Marilyn must have been away on vacation or something.”

Back on my first go, I had gotten a vasectomy, too. In an incredibly selfish way, our accident, with Marilyn losing the baby and being unable to have any more children, had spared me having to go through it again. It is nowhere near as enjoyable as they advertise!

First, you aren’t unconscious; they do this all under a local. You are laying there with your legs up in stirrups, and the doctor says, ‘You’ll just feel a pinch, like a bee sting.’ Well, it wasn’t a pinch, and I’ve never had a bee sting me there! Next, while you are looking down between your legs, he’s slicing and dicing you, and then while the vas deferens is exposed, he is cauterizing that. Wait until you see smoke rising from a place that smoke is never supposed to rise from!

Afterwards he slaps a Band-Aid on everything and you get to wear a modified jockstrap to support everything and go home with. He also gives you some painkillers, and they aren’t enough and they are nowhere near as strong as they need to be. You are going to be off your feet for about a week and you are going to be in pain for three to four weeks.

Ahead of time you are told, ‘It’s no worse than getting kicked in the balls.’ That is perfectly true. What is left unsaid is the fact that no man yet born has ever volunteered to get kicked in the balls! Then, the next morning, when you start moving again, it feels like somebody kicked you in the balls all over again! It’s like this day after day for almost a month! Forget about sex! Nothing down there is going to work for weeks!

Also, by the way, don’t let your dog sit in your lap. The doctor told me this and I asked ‘Why not?’ He told me how one of his patients when home, sat down in the recliner, and his St. Bernard jumped into his lap. The stitches gave way and everything kind of squirted out through the opening. He ended up in an ambulance going to the hospital!

I grinned back at my friend. “I’ll bet that made riding a motorcycle an exciting experience!”

Tusker rolled his eyes. “Like you wouldn’t believe! Come over to the house sometime. I’ll kick you in the nuts and then we can go dirt biking on a motocross trail!”

“You make it sound so appealing! I can see why you do so well in sales.”

Tusker laughed, again probably for the first time in a month or more, and then went off with Tessa to talk to some of their guests.

The good news was that after Carter was laid to rest, the Tusk family settled back down again. Without the stress of his failing treatment, our friends went back to normal. It had seemed at one point like they were on the verge of splitting, but it all just calmed down and they stayed together. A few weeks later, he showed me a small pamphlet from a memorial company, and pointed out the stone they were getting for the grave. It was going to be a large stone, but one with spaces for three names, Carter’s and both his parents. They had bought the plots on either side of his.

Later that fall, we were having dinner with the Tusks, and I asked, “Back when Carter first got sick, and you guys started taking him down to Johns Hopkins, do you remember how I did some checking if there were any treatments available that he could get?”

Tusker and Tessa looked at each other and then Tessa said, “Yes, and you said there wasn’t anything that could be done that we weren’t already doing.”

“That’s true. What I didn’t say, because it had nothing to do with Carter, was that the doctors I spoke to all said that the one thing I could do was help get them the funding for more research. I was thinking, I mean, yes, in Congress I can do that, but what about just as a private citizen? I talked to a guy down at Johns Hopkins. If you would agree to it, I want to create a professorship for research down there. We’ll call it the Carter Henry Tusk Chair, or something like that.”

They looked at each other again, and it was Tusker that answered. “Uh, yeah, I guess so. How much would that cost?”

“Well, nothing. I would simply endow a chair and send them a check.”

“Okay, but how much is it?”

I had been hoping to avoid that, but it was a legitimate question. “Four million.” I had discussed this with my wife of course, especially considering she was the trustee for the Buckman Foundation, and would be writing the check.

Tessa’s and Tusker’s eyes snapped wide open! “Four million?! Dollars!? You can’t… I mean… Are you kidding me?!” gabbled my friend.

“Tusker, I can’t take it with me. Maybe someday something that professor figures out can save me, right? Besides, money isn’t something I covet just to be rich. It’s a tool, and what better way to use it than something like this,” I responded.

“Holy fucking shit!” he exclaimed, which set all of the kids to giggling.

Marilyn looked at our offspring and scolded them. “Just because Uncle Tusker said a bad word doesn’t mean you get to.”

“Do we get to wash his mouth out with soap?” asked Charlie. Bucky was grinning and nodding.

“You bet, as soon as you figure out a way to wrestle him to the ground,” replied Marilyn.

Charlie eyed Tusker, who gave him a menacing look in return. “Maybe later.”

“If you’re getting a professor, why do they call him a chair, Uncle Carl?” asked Bucky.

I had to blink at that. “I’m not really sure, Bucky. I think that they used to give you a really fancy chair to sit on at some old time colleges, but I never asked that before.”

“Oh.”

Thus was born the Carter Henry Tusk Chair for Pediatric Oncology at Johns Hopkins. There was a fair bit of paperwork involved, and then the university had to hire somebody to fill the chair. That we couldn’t decide, on the theory that none of us knew anything about pediatric oncology. That was pretty much true. The professorship would become effective in the fall semester of 1994, and we and the Tusks were invited to attend the grand opening, or whatever they called it. That would be for the future, though, almost a year away.

In the meantime, I needed to get back to my job as one of the leaders of the free world. I won’t say that this had been a distraction from that. It was more like being a Congressman had been a distraction from being a friend. Still, I needed to get back to Washington and start fighting for my Defending the Second Amendment Bill, which was planned to be the formal name.

I had some fairly specific thoughts in mind for the bill, which we were abbreviating as D2A. I had a few very specific things I wanted in the bill, and my biggest foes were not going to be the Democrats, but my fellow Republicans! The Democrats wouldn’t allow anything I wanted, plain and simple, but after 1994 they would be in the minority. They could vote against it, but the odds were that we would have enough of a majority to ram through even vetoed legislation. Putting any kind of sensible restrictions on guns, however, was the sort of thing that the NRA would never allow. What I had in mind was:

* Require all states to be ‘shall issue’ states rather than ‘may issue’ states for concealed carry permits.

* Require all states to recognize each other’s permits.

* End the assault weapons ban (which wasn’t law yet, but would be next year. It would be one of the last gasps of the Democratic Congress.)

* Limit all civilian weapons magazines to a maximum of 10 rounds, no matter what the actual weapon could fire.

Some of the items would be near and dear to the Republicans, and would pass without any question. For years there had been discussion of changing the rules on concealed carry. After my experiences with Hamilton’s stalking of Marilyn and Charlie, I was all in favor of this. I also knew that some of the more liberal states, like Maryland and Massachusetts would be a very tough sell. Still, I figured we could count on Congressional votes from the more rural and conservative districts of those states.

Likewise, ending the upcoming assault weapons ban would be popular with the Republicans. It was one of our stupider laws, basing decisions on whether a gun was an ‘assault weapon’ on purely cosmetic items. Military people know full well what an assault rifle is. It is a fully automatic rifle firing an intermediate (smaller size than a rifle) cartridge with a detachable magazine. What Congress had tried to do was ban guns based on what they looked like. If it looked like an AK-47, even if it was semi-automatic, it was an assault weapon. An M-1 Garand, which looked like a regular rifle, was also semi-automatic and was actually far more powerful and accurate, but wasn’t considered an assault weapon. They made up all sorts of silly rules and exceptions based on whether the stock folded up, or it had a flash suppressor, or a pistol grip, or even a grenade launcher! Never mind that grenade launchers and fully automatic weapons were already illegal, and the mere possession of them would land you in the slammer. No, they now constituted a convoluted assault weapon category.

Most of that stuff was just flash and plastic parts. For another thing, almost no crimes are actually committed with long guns. They are hard to conceal and quite impractical. What criminals use are handguns. What made these weapons dangerous wasn’t what they looked like, it was that they were designed to use military sized magazines of ammunition. Some of the magazines were really amazing. You had extended thirty round magazines for some pistols that stuck out the bottom of the regular handgrip, and some assault weapon types could accommodate a hundred rounds or more in military issue circular magazines.

What we needed was something vastly simpler. Eliminate the rules on what was or wasn’t an assault weapon. Simply state that civilians couldn’t own automatic weapons and couldn’t use magazines with more than a ten round capacity.

The NRA would love to end the assault weapons ban. As far as they were concerned any restriction on gun ownership was pure anathema. Any time a state overrode Federal law on guns, they were there to fight it the next day. They would also fight against a restriction on magazine capacity, but I figured I could probably swing that one through. Most of the public couldn’t understand why you needed an M-16 style ‘hunting rifle’ (the AR-15) with a thirty round magazine.

I also knew they would protest that it couldn’t be done. They would line up a bunch of gun and ammunition manufacturers who would swear on a stack of Bibles they couldn’t make magazines in those capacities, that it would be too expensive and drive them all into bankruptcy. That was the sheerest bullshit. All that needed to be done was to take an existing magazine and position a plug at the bottom to take up space, and then replace the spring with a smaller one. We could even add a provision to the bill preventing conversion of a ten round civilian magazine to a full sized military magazine, much like there were laws against converting semi-automatic weapons to fully automatic versions.

What I didn’t see happening was a repeal of the Brady Bill, the Federal law requiring background checks on all handgun purchases. My own feelings on this were mixed. No, it’s probably not a good idea to let crazy people and criminals buy guns, but it wouldn’t stop them from getting their hands on them. The bill itself was chockfull of loopholes anyway. More importantly, as a tactical decision, the Democrats were going to squawk loudly about D2A, and would trot out Jim Brady shamelessly. D2A would be easier if we didn’t mess with the Brady Bill. The NRA was going to have to lump it on this one.

By now we had the outline of the ten bills we were going to make the centerpiece of the Contract with America. The entire concept was still under a fairly tight hold, and the media hadn’t twigged to our plans yet. Newt was planning on rolling it out after the primary season was finished, in the spring. In the meantime, most of the Gang of Eight were making regular trips over to the Heritage Foundation, and several nights a week we had meetings at the Clubhouse (my den, in the house on 30^th) with lawyers from the Heritage Foundation. We had the following bills in the works, although with some of them the names kept changing, as we tried to find better sounding alternatives:

Bill 1 — Balanced Budget Act, John Boehner to be in charge. This was a big one, mandating a move towards a balanced budget and a line item veto for the President. I expected this one to be massively pawed over by every interest group under the sun!

Bill 2 — D2A, yours truly presiding, see above.

Bill 3 — Personal Responsibility Act, Scott Klug’s baby. This was welfare reform in all its myriad forms, including prohibitions against giving welfare to underage mothers, ending extra welfare benefits based on family size, ending open-ended welfare benefits, and requiring people to get a job. There were going to be a lot of little provisions, and the Democrats would hate every one of them!

Bill 4 — Tort Reform Act, Jim Nussle. Personally, I figured this one was the least likely to get passed. Trial lawyers were big fans of the Democrats, since by creating all sorts of new ‘rights’, the Democrats gave fertile ground for law suits when somebody violated somebody’s rights.

Bill 5 — Rebuilding America Act, me again. I had a fair bit of knowledge from when I had written Eat Your Peas! and I used my contacts shamelessly. I got in touch with Harry Johnson and used his ideas repeatedly. If he couldn’t figure out something, he knew somebody who could. More on that later.

Bill 6 — Unfunded Mandate Elimination Act, Chuck Taylor’s responsibility. This was pretty straightforward in concept. An unfunded mandate was pretty routine these days, and was created whenever some government agency ordered something done without paying for it. For instance, if the Department of Education requires all schools to hire a counselor for some reason (who knows why, who cares, they did it all the time!) but leaves paying for that counselor up to the local school district, which now has to raise taxes to pay for this person, that was an unfunded mandate. Chuck’s bill was supposed to require that this sort of thing be prevented.

Bill 7 — Regulation Reform Act, Rick Santorum. A whole shitload of items related to cost-benefit studies and restrictions on various government entities to write new regulations willy-nilly. I hoped Rick could pull this off. While we were all going to be running for re-election, for Rick it was an even bigger deal — he was planning on running for the Senate in Pennsylvania.

Bill 8 — Social Security Reform Act, Frank Riggs. Another unlikely item, but worthy nevertheless. For instance, I knew that he was working on raising the age Social Security could be collected at. When it was passed in 1935, you couldn’t collect until you were 65, but at the time, the average life expectancy was only about 61. Currently, you could start collecting limited benefits as young as 62, but the average life expectancy was over 75. The numbers made absolutely no sense. Simply indexing benefits to age would save us a fortune!

Bill 9 — Business Tax Reform Act, John Doolittle. I figured this one was going to be as big a boondoggle as the balanced budget act would be. Still, I would love to see the end of double taxation on dividends, and while the Buckman Group had never really done much investing overseas, I knew taxes were handled quite differently elsewhere, and not to America’s benefit.

Bill 10 — Congressional Reform Act, Newt Gingrich to preside over. This was really a long shot. It had a bunch of little things, like cutting the number of committees, numbers of staff, adding term limits, and all sorts of odds and ends that my fellow Congressmen would fight tooth and nail. They’d vote to let the Republic end before they would let a single staffer go!

I was going to push the Rebuilding America Act as both a repair bill as well as a jobs bill. A lot of those jobs are blue collar jobs, which are a big draw for the Republicans. I was also going to push repairs over new construction. There were more than enough potholes, rusty bridges, and leaky dam locks that needed to be fixed. In order to raise the funds and keep this revenue neutral, we wouldn’t raise taxes, but we would increase various fees and tolls and charges. No taxes though, since Republicans hate taxes! In addition, we would index them so they would rise. Four cents a gallon on gasoline when it costs a dollar a gallon is a four percent rate, but if the cost of gas goes up to two dollars a gallon, and the fee remains at four cents, your rate drops in half. Keep the rate the same, so you collect enough to pay for the repairs. Some rates needed to be on gas or diesel, some on tonnage, some on axles, and so forth. Make the drivers and freight companies pay enough to pay for the repairs.

If you have 250 million people in the country, and you need to raise $100 billion for repairs, that works out to $400 for every man, woman, and child in the country. Since kids aren’t driving a whole lot, maybe $1,000 for every driver. Sounds like a lot, but work it backwards. First, the $100 billion won’t be spent in one year, it might be over five or ten years. Second, it will be buried in things like gas and diesel costs, so they only are paying a few pennies a gallon in fuel, or a few quarters on something shipped to them by UPS or Federal Express. They’re much more likely to complain about the road construction than the cost!

What I was also adding to the bill, which tied in with the regulatory reform Rick Santorum was going to push, was cutting down all the regulatory nonsense with infrastructure. I used to run into this all the time when I was with Lefleur Homes on my first shot. For example, the New York Department of Transportation once proposed a plan to widen and repair an important stretch of Route 23 in Oneonta right before the Great Recession started. Mind you, this was a repair to an existing road, not building a new road. A new road would have been an even bigger nightmare!

DOT proposed the rebuild, which took the road from three lanes to five, and changed three stop lights to traffic circles. Then they had to post this all in the paper and wait sixty days for responses. At that point they had to post any changes, wait sixty days, and hold public hearings. After that, make more changes, wait some more, etc. etc. etc. Meanwhile, everybody and their brother was weighing in on this with their lawyers. The local eco-freaks wanted the bridge over the Susquehanna River, the only bridge connecting to a highway for five miles either way, converted into a public park. (Yes, dig up the roadway on a bridge and plant trees in holes in the concrete!) The local shopping mall and Wal-Mart both brought in lawyers and consultants stating that traffic circles in front of their location were a bad idea, and needed to be in front of their competitor. Meanwhile, you had wetlands conservationists suing for an Environmental Impact Study. At the end of the process, the whole thing got shitcanned because the state didn’t have any money anyway. If they did get some money, it all had to start over again. What a clusterfuck!

The Chinese are a lot smarter. If they wanted a road built, they told people to get the fuck out of the way, we’re building a fucking road! It’s not really a stretch to figure out why they were handing us our asses.

Meanwhile, I had to get myself reelected, otherwise all this was for naught. Here’s a helpful little idea, when you’re told to go jump in a lake, do it! Well, sort of, anyway. If there was a dunking booth at a local fair or school fundraiser, I would volunteer. It shows you’re a ‘man of the people’ and, more importantly, that you have a sense of humor. There is, however, the off chance that the school coach will recognize you and line up the high school baseball pitching rotation to throw at the target. It happened at Hereford High, and I swallowed a lot of water that afternoon! It didn’t help that Charlie had scraped up some quarters and was paying them to strike me out! Every time I protested, he’d laugh and cough up another quarter, the little bastard! I chased him down and dunked him in the booth at the end of the day.

It’s not like I ignored that stuff in the off years. People remember that, too. I did, however, do a bit more in an election year. There’s an old saying that all politics is local, and this is the ultimate expression of it. I think a major reason I whipped Andy Stewart back in 1990 was that he pretty much ignored that personal touch. He relied on the fact that he was a Democrat in Maryland, a Democratic state. It was never out of my mind that I was a Republican in that same state, and I needed to do more.

This year I was running against a woman named Catherine Hartwick, who was on the Board of Education for Carroll County. Bud Hawley and Tommy Hoffman had been the best candidates two years ago, and they had spent all their time destroying each other. The Democrats decided to avoid a primary fight this time, and were betting that a woman could beat me. On the surface she had a fair number of things going for her. The Democrats were big favorites of the education business and the unions, and they figured a woman would play better with the woman’s vote, where I had historically done well. She was a MILF, too, which would do well with the men.

Under the surface they had a problem, in that she was a lousy candidate. She had maxed out her capabilities running for the Board of Education, and it must have been a weak slate that year. So far she had managed to piss off the Carroll County Board of Education by telling them they were too weak on the teachers’ union, along with the teacher’s union when she told them they were greedy. Both statements were true, but not exactly helpful. She had a truly God given talent for sticking her feet, both of them, in her mouth, and usually at the worst possible moment.

My job, as the incumbent, was to let her sink herself, without fucking myself over in the process. I needed to concentrate on constituent services back home, let Ms. Hartwick piss off the voters, and make the Contract with America the centerpiece of the national Republican agenda.

If anything, this time around the Contract with America seemed to be an even bigger deal than before, but that was probably because I was involved with it now and it just seemed bigger. I had prevailed upon Newt to bring the Senate in on things, which before he hadn’t. The Senate had weighed in and quite a few Republican Senators were going along with it. Newt had lined up a bunch of Republican Senators who would sponsor the Senate versions of our ten bills. If we took both houses, we could slam all ten through and dare Bill Clinton to veto them all. He would veto some of them, but if we had enough votes, we could override him.

Don Nickles, a conservative Republican from Oklahoma, had volunteered to sponsor the Senate version of the Defending the Second Amendment Act. He was definitely to the right of me on a bunch of issues, and this was one of my more right wing stands. John Danforth of Missouri was writing the Senate version of the Rebuilding America Act; he had been the Chairman of the Senate Committee on Commerce, Science, and Transportation prior to the Democrats taking the Senate in the ’86 elections. He was actually a fairly moderate Republican, and although he was happy enough to go along with infrastructure improvements, he told me privately that some of what we were trying to do he didn’t like. He wouldn’t be voting for some of the bills in the Contract. He also warned me that this bill was going to be a major magnet for every Congressman and Senator with a taste for pork in his budget.

Maybe if we passed a line item veto, we could shave some of that pork out. That was up to John Boehner in his bill. We’d have to see.

To a certain extent, the Democrats knew we were up to something, and that Newt and the Gang of Eight were up to their ears in it. On the other hand, there wasn’t much they could do about it. For one thing, one really gigantic thing, they were still being hammered by the House Bank scandal and the House Post Office scandal. The Postmaster for the House Post Office, Robert Rota, had pled guilty to three separate felonies. In turn, he had tattled on several Democratic Congressman, including the Chairman of the powerful House Ways and Means Committee, Dan Rostenkowski. Ways and Means was probably the single most important committee in the House, and ‘Rosty’ was probably one of the three most powerful Congressmen in the country. Now, even though he was still around, he was a dead man walking.

As a result, the House Democrats were running scared. They were keeping their heads down and desperately trying to raise funds for re-election. Quite a few had announced their retirements, rather than lose in the general election. Mike Synar, of Oklahoma had already lost his seat in a contested primary, a practically unheard of event for a sitting Congressman! Newt actually had a white board up in the clubhouse with a running count of where he was expecting Congress to be at after November, and was practically gleeful at the prospect. The times, they were a-changing!

The girls turned ten that year, which they seemed to think was a big deal. We had to have a big pool party at the house, to which all boys were explicitly excluded! I rolled my eyes and laughed, and told Marilyn that I would take Charlie somewhere for the day. I told the girls, on the other hand, that I was going to bring over Charlie’s old Cub Scout Pack and his new Boy Scout Troop, so that lots of boys would be around. They ran shrieking off to Mom, and she threw a dish towel at me. I told Charlie I’d rather face a House full of Democrats than a house full of little girls, which earned me a second dish towel. He laughed and agreed.

Charlie was growing up, too. He hadn’t hit his growth yet, but I knew it would kick in sometime in the next year or so. He wasn’t thirteen until October, and girls weren’t on his radar yet. When they did come to his attention, though, Heaven help them! Charlie was a good looking kid, and while my tastes don’t run towards men, I can tell if a fellow is good looking or not. I wasn’t sure where his height would pan out, whether he would be taller or shorter than me (there’s a big range in the Lefleurs, from about 5’8" to about 6’2" for the men) but he was blond, blue-eyed, and handsome. His build was fairly square and stocky, not at all like my slim and wiry frame. Now that he was getting older, he had taken to working out with me some mornings, and was doing a lot heavier weights than when I started out at thirteen. Whereas I had been a runner in high school, although not on the team, Charlie looked a lot more like a football player.

In fact, that was a real interest to him. Charlie was going into his first year at Hereford High School, which had football. Hereford Middle School hadn’t. They also had basketball and wrestling and lacrosse. Much as I had discussed with my wife earlier, Charlie was showing signs of being a jock, not a nerd. In addition, Charlie was really getting big into the motocross events. When he had turned twelve, he had applied to and gotten his AMA (American Motorcyclist Association, the sport’s governing body) card as a junior rider. Any victories he got were now going against an official scorecard, and earned him points in national standings.

It was kind of strange, but our little boy was becoming nationally ranked at this insane sport! Tusk Cycles had signed on as a sponsor and was now supplying his racing leathers and helmet (all festooned with their logo). He was still too young to race pro and earn money, but he could go to big league AMA affiliated tracks and race. He had moved up to an 85 cc bike now, which made an appalling racket and scared both his mother and me, but he loved it. He was really dominating the Maryland tracks he had been competing in, and we were now talking about trips to other areas. How we would schedule that, I had no idea. I assigned that task to him and Tusker.

Part of the reason we went along with this was a conversation I had had with my namesake, Bucky, last summer shortly after Carter died. Bucky was 15 at the time, and he told me he was giving up racing.

“You don’t like it anymore?” I asked.

Bucky smiled and shrugged. “I like it, but I’m never going to be a real winner.”

“What do you mean? You’re just going to give up?” That didn’t sound like the Buckman Tusk I knew.

“No, it’s just… Uncle Carl, it takes a lot of time, and I’m never going to be as good as I would have to be. I’m not like Charlie. He’s just unreal! I was okay as a little kid, but at my age, I’m not even above average.”

“Huh.” I gave him an odd look. “Charlie’s really good? I mean, I’m not a rider, so what do I know!”

He laughed at that. “Charlie’s better at his age than half the racers at my age. He’s one of the reasons for me to get out! For the last two years he’s been smoking my ass blindfolded!” Bucky knew I wouldn’t jump his butt over his language.

“Really?! I mean, I knew Charlie was winning races, but… really?”

“He’s unreal! He has reflexes… you think you’re doing good, and suddenly he blows his way through a crowded pack like he’s on an empty highway with jets up his ass, and you’re like, where did he come from?!” He shook his head with an amused smile on his face. “I could put him in the pro group now and I bet he’d win. He just needs to grow into a bigger bike.”

“Wow! I had no idea. You’re serious?” I asked.

He grinned and nodded. “Have you ever wondered what it must have been like playing on Babe Ruth’s high school baseball team? That’s what it’s like racing around here against Charlie.”

“Huh.” I shrugged. “You’re not giving up on bikes, are you?”

It was Bucky’s turn to grin and give me the are-you-crazy look. “No way! I love riding! Girls like it, too!”

Oh Christ! Bucky was 15 at the time, and he was definitely past the girls-are-yucky stage. He wasn’t street legal yet, but he could still ride at the races. “Oh, boy! Have you mentioned that to your parents?”

“No way!”

I snorted and shook my head with amusement. “Well, if you ever need to talk about that, let me know. You know, in case you want to talk or ask a question you don’t want to ask your parents, hmmm? Maybe I’ll send Charlie to see your old man some day when it’s his turn.” Bucky just laughed at this.

That was last year, and Charlie was improving as he grew up. It was too early to be sure, though. He might become a scholar after all, or he might figure out girls were a more interesting ride than a motorcycle. We’d just have to see.

Chapter 117: A Changing Of The Guard

Newt announced the Contract with America at the beginning of September. By then most of Washington knew something was up, but not the extent or breadth of the plan. The Democrats weren’t stupid. They had their spies just like we did. They knew we planned something big and bold, and they knew we were writing legislation, even if they didn’t have the printed copies in their hands.

Still, it was an election year and they were in survival mode. The mood of the country was changing and the pendulum was swinging from liberal to conservative. Even as the old diehards protested nothing was changing, everybody else was scrambling frantically, often trying to position themselves as conservatives, which made more than a few Republicans laugh.

John Boehner and I were pushing Newt Gingrich hard to make the Contract as showy and public as possible. We wanted this to dominate the airwaves for the next eight weeks, between now and Election Day. Every week was to be a big event. We started with press conferences and announcements, but by the third week of September we had a massive ‘signing’ of the Contract on the steps of the Capitol building. We flew in all the Republican candidates we could find who were running against Democratic incumbents, and had them sign as well. We swore oaths and made promises and shook pinkie fingers and gave each other the secret passwords and did everything we could to bind ourselves to the Contract. I wasn’t sure whether it reminded me more of joining Kegs or of signing the Articles of Piracy on a buccaneer ship.

We were still keeping the specific bills locked up, even though we were now talking about them in general terms. Specifics would have been used against us, since there would always be something somebody wouldn’t like. Meanwhile, our high minded opponents would promise a counterplan that would remedy whatever we would do. Without the specifics, they could only guess and screech about Republican promises and how we were high-jacking the ship of state. (I actually heard that phrase a few times!)

We also began to blitz the various Sunday morning talk shows. Newt might be on ABC, while John was on CBS and Rick was on NBC. The following week it might be another three of us. Between the Gang of Eight and Newt, we could alternate networks without wearing out our welcomes. The Democrats were fulminating loudly, but they were playing catch-up ball, and not doing well with it.

As we got closer to November 8, we just kept raising the pressure. I pushed Gingrich to bring the Senate in on things. Originally the Contract with America had been exclusively a House deal. Newt had an ego bigger than his butt, and he really wanted to keep it in the House. I was pushing to bring in the Senate. It wouldn’t hurt to bring in all the Senators we had lined up to sponsor the Senate versions of our ten bills. Newt could stay in charge, but when (not if — I was always stressing the positive) we took control and he became Speaker, he would have all sorts of valuable markers to call on in the Senate, especially if he lined up some support with Bob Dole and Alan Simpson, the Minority Leader and Whip. Newt could be cantankerous as hell, and as proud as a peacock, but he was smart. He might not like what I was pushing him to do, but he could see the benefits.

“Carl, you can be a real asshole at times!” he once told me, while I was pushing for him to play nice with the Senate. “You’re a goddamned pushy bastard!”

I simply smiled. “Those are just my positive traits, Newt. Go talk to my wife. She’ll tell you the bad stuff about me!”

He just shook his head in disgust and made the call I wanted him to make. I only had about a fifty-fifty success rate with him, but there were people around us who told me I was doing better than most.

Back home, in the Maryland Ninth, Catherine Hartwick continued her flaming self-destruction by pissing off the state employee unions, which I had never even talked about. I was running a pretty plain vanilla campaign — I’m wonderful, here’s what I’ve done to help you, let me shake your hand and kiss your baby. I hadn’t needed to go negative, and she was spending all of her time trying to explain what she really meant to say.

On election night, we did the usual. Marilyn’s parents came down and stayed with the kids, although they did drive them over to the campaign headquarters, where we showed them around. Charlie was now 13 and the girls were 10, and they were well behaved, if a little confused by some of it. I introduced Marilyn’s parents to John Steiner and the others, with the proviso, “Don’t tell them any campaign secrets; they’re actually Democrats!” Since we didn’t have any secrets, Marilyn just laughed and Harriet scolded me. Big Bob started arguing politics with John, so we just let him run on while my wife and I snorted in laughter.

After a bit, Big Bob and Harriet took the kids home. None of us were surprised when WBAL called the race at the first commercial break, with me beating Catherine Hartwick like a rented mule. After the applause and screams, things settled down again. Everybody wanted to see the rest of the returns.

I was using John Thomas again as my campaign director, and he and I dragged a white board out into the main room as returns started coming in. We had started the election with a House composed of 177 Republican Congressmen, 256 Democrats, and 1 Independent (One seat was vacant, the previous owner having died two days before the election.) The Senate was 47 Republicans and 53 Democrats. As returns began coming in, John Thomas began calling RNC headquarters and figuring out other races as well. We began erasing the numbers and putting up new numbers for the 104^th Congress as the races were called.

By 9:00 it was obvious that we were witnessing something massive and historic. I mean, even I knew we were in for a change, and it seemed phenomenal to me, too. As we put the numbers up on the board, there would be occasional cheers, but as the evening went on, the networks began interrupting with some really big fucking news! John Thomas was on the phone, and he tapped me and looked at me awestruck. “Rosty’s gone!” he told me just before it was announced on television. Dan Rostenkowski had failed to win re-election, which didn’t surprise me in some ways, considering he was linked to the House Post Office mess. Then it got crazy — Tom Foley out of Washington, the Speaker of the House, failed to win re-election! They were saying nothing like that had happened since Reconstruction!

Tom Brokaw and Dan Rather both seemed thunderstruck by what was happening, using terms such as “historic”, “unprecedented”, “watershed”, and the like. I just sat out there in the big room, taking it all in, with Marilyn sitting sideways on my lap, while John Thomas and the others kept changing the numbers on the board. People were coming up to me and congratulating me, and asking how this was going to change things in Washington. I would mumble something, and talk to a reporter or two, saying some routine phrases. By the end of the evening, the Republicans had control of both houses.

It was after midnight when we went home, and the final numbers weren’t clear yet. Some of the races were still too close to call, but even so, we had won big. I made the appropriate phone calls and interviews on Wednesday and then on Thursday morning we kissed the family good-bye and flew down to Hougomont for the rest of the week. Interestingly, Marilyn and I were asked to a small reception at Government House while we were there. We met with the Prime Minister, Hubert Ingraham, who had succeeded Lynden Pindling a couple of years earlier. Marilyn and I went, had dinner and drinks, talked a little shop about the election, and then headed over to Paradise Island for a bit. We flew home on Sunday after working on our tans for a few days and drinking our share of the rum.

The final results were back by the time we got home. We had picked up 60 seats in the House, and were up to 238 Republicans! The Democrats were down to 196 seats (plus Bernie Sanders as an Independent) and it was like a bomb had gone off in the Capitol. People were wandering the halls of the Capitol with shocked looks on their faces. The Senate was almost as bad. We had started out at 47 Republicans and picked up 10 seats, to end at 57. The Democrats were down to 43, and if we got just 3 to go along with us, we could block a filibuster whenever we wanted to.

The staff in my office was positively gleeful! For one thing, Newt had passed the word along to them that if I wanted it, we could find a new home over in the Rayburn building. I had barely walked in my door when my staff started bombarding me with questions. I quickly called a time-out, and looked over at Marty, who was grinning at me. “Is this for real?”

He nodded. “I got the word from Newt’s office while you were gone. I also checked with the House Administration Committee. Newt spoke to them, too. We’ve got a very nice place on the third floor in Rayburn opening up.”

I waved him quiet for a moment and then turned back to the others. “Okay, it sounds official. Start making your plans. When we get the word we can move, we want to do it quickly and cleanly and efficiently. Get with Marty on what we need to do, and let me know how I can help you.”

Around us the room erupted into a gabble of noise again. The Longworth Building hadn’t been bad, but Rayburn was a lot more modern and had a lot more amenities. I motioned for Marty to follow me into my office, and he did so, trailed by Sherry Longbottom. I eyed her curiously, and she said, “I wanted to see you, Congressman. You should probably be here, too, Marty.”

I leaned back against my desk and said, “All right. Is there a problem, Sherry?”

“Well, yes and no. I mean, not for me, but I needed to let you know. You see, I’ve been offered a position over at the Heritage Foundation.”

I smiled and nodded. I wasn’t terribly surprised. Sherry ran my legislative staff, so she had been involved with the bills we had written with the Heritage Foundation for the Contract. They must have seen in her the same abilities I had seen! “And for probably twice what you’re making here?” She gave a shrug and a smile at that. I looked over at Marty. “You know about this?”

He shrugged and smiled too. “I caught a whiff of something, but can’t say I knew about it. I’m not surprised, though. Are you?”

“No.” I turned back to Sherry. “When do they want you?”

Sherry looked relieved by my obvious acceptance of this. “The beginning of December. They wanted me sooner, but I needed to give you some time to replace me.”

I smiled at her. “I can’t replace you. I can only find somebody else and hope they’ll do as good a job as you did. Who in your staff can move up to your slot, and who do we get to replace them? I’d prefer to move somebody up rather than bring in somebody new.” The three of us made some plans, and after a bit, I shooed them out. “Make sure we have a nice going away party and have a cake I can get a piece of.” I told them.

Sherry was the first senior staffer I had lost. I had replaced a couple of very junior people prior to this. I wasn’t surprised though. Sherry was very good at her job, and most Congressional staffers are trying to move up the ladder into the private sector. The system had an incredible potential for abuse and corruption, but she couldn’t be blamed for playing the game by the rules she didn’t create. I just smiled and shook my head, and asked Mindy to get me a meeting with Gingrich at his pleasure. We had a lot of details to go over about the new session.

When I did meet with Newt, I got another thank you from him for helping with the Contract. I was out of both Science and Veterans Affairs, and was in Armed Services. He would let me pick which subcommittee I wanted, and I promised to let him know in a few days. Armed Services was one of the important committees, and a regular Congressman could make a lot of money by knowing about pending appropriations bills. That wasn’t an issue for me, but maybe I could make the services more efficient. I had some potential in the committee, too, because since the election I was about a third of the way up the seniority ladder. After only four years, I was one of the seasoned veterans!

I also stroked his ego some, by referring to him as ‘Mister Speaker.’ He liked the way that sounded! You could almost see his dick getting hard. Terrible mental image. In some ways, the biggest problem we had going forward was to keep Newt from self-destructing. He had immense talents and brainpower, but an ego and self-image to match. Right now he was damn near at the peak of his political power. He had just managed to thoroughly hose the Democrats, was about to be named Speaker of the House, and had a raft of legislation to be brought to the floor.

Unfortunately, Newt was matched up against probably the wiliest politician of the age, Bill Clinton. I don’t think the nation had seen a politician of his caliber since FDR. Now it was the two of them going head to head. In my previous life, where I had just been a spectator of all of this, Newt had really thrown his weight around for the next few years, and ultimately shut down the government in a spending showdown with Clinton. Clinton came out of it smelling like a rose, and Gingrich ended up in big trouble. He wore out his welcome in only four years and found himself voted out as Speaker, and then left the House in disgrace. Could I change that? Should I change that? Did my presence in Congress now mean things would be different?

Back in my office, I was talking to Marty about the legislation we would be bringing out. The plan was that once we were all sworn in again, and the House was back in session, we would keep the pressure up by introducing a new bill every day. I had the two bills that I was going to introduce. In both cases I was going to make sure I had a little speech prepared. While it would be too much to hope that the TV news would pick up even one for a soundbite, the odds were that they would focus on what we were doing with the Contract.

“What do you think Clinton’s going to do about them?” asked Marty.

I shrugged. “Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee… He’s going to bob and weave for a bit, and then try to bury them or whatever. Some he’ll sign, after trying to highjack them. Others he is just going to veto, and hope he can get away with it. Hell, some of them are going to end up at the Supreme Court!”

“You think?”

“For sure. The line item veto, for instance, that’s a clear break in the rules for the legislative branch versus the executive branch. Likewise, at least one or two of the states will sue over D2A. That will be a states’ rights issue.”

“Too bad we don’t have a lobbyist we could hire for these things,” he said with a laugh. “We could lobby for our own legislation.”

Marty just tossed that off in passing, but as he did, it felt like lightning had just struck. I was quiet, and he was quiet, and we looked at each other in awe. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he asked me.

“You’d better tell me what you’re thinking,”, I said eagerly.

“I’m thinking why don’t we set up our own lobbying outfit!”

“That’s what I’m thinking, too!”

“Look, it’s your money, but you don’t seem to mind spending it. What if you funded a lobbying group?” he asked.

“Could I do that? Is it legal?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I can tell you this much, it would have to be buried deeper than a coal mine! Nobody, and I mean nobody, can know about this, or it destroys whatever chance you have of making it work! You can’t be seen to be buying your own legislation. You’d become a laughingstock overnight!”

“Holy shit! Are you serious? We could do this?” I asked him. “How much would it cost?”

Marty gave me an incredulous look and raised his hands palm up. “No fucking idea. Could you raise the money without anybody catching on?”

“I think so.”

“Un-fucking-real! Let me look into this…”

“Quietly!” I interjected.

Marty nodded. “… and I’ll talk to you about it.”

That night I called John Steiner and asked to meet him quietly at the office in Hereford the next day. That morning I drove in to the office and said hello to everybody, and then John and I went into his office and lowered the Cone of Silence. “What’s up?” he asked.

“I need to set up some untraceable cash, probably a few million. Nothing about it can point at me. How do we do that?”

My friend gave me a strange look. “Excuse me? What are you up to now?”

“I was talking to Marty about something, and we want to try something, and to do it we are going to need some laundered money. Can we do it?”

“What are you up to now!? I will not be a party to anything illegal!”

I had to laugh at John. “Well, we don’t think it’s illegal, but it’s probably smelly as all hell. Basically, we came up with the idea of forming our own lobbying group. I mean, I write a piece of legislation and the first thing that happens is all the lobbyists in town try to water it down and get a piece of the action. So, let’s become our own lobbyists and fight for it! Fight fire with fire! The only way to do it, though, is by making our lobbying group a secret, so that nobody can claim I’m buying legislation.”

“Which is what you’re actually doing.”

“Exactly!”

“I should report you to the RNC!” he protested.

“Lawyer-client privilege,” I chided.

John made a very rude gesture at me and snorted. I wasn’t too worried. He would be much more likely to squawk if the problem was illegal rather than simply going against the national committee. “Okay, let me work on this. I’ll let you know. Don’t tell anybody other than your friend, though, because it really would smell.”

I thanked him and left, and drove over to Westminster and flew down to D.C. to get some work done. A week later he summoned me and Marty to a meeting at his office. I had Marty go over to Washington National in the morning, where Tyrell was waiting for him. He flew to the house and dropped him off, and then we drove into Hereford. I showed Marty around the offices and then we went into John’s office, where John was sitting with another man.

“Carl, Marty, This is Bob Seaver. Explain to him what you two have in mind,” started John.

I nodded and shook Seaver’s outstretched hand. He was a sort of nondescript fellow, a few years older than me, more advanced baldness, a touch heavy around the middle, kind of bland looking. “It’s good to meet you, Mr. Seaver.”

“Congressman, nice to see you, too.” He looked over at Marty, and said, “Same to you, Mr. Adrianopolis.” They shook hands as well. We all sat down and Seaver continued at that point. “I understand you want to set up a lobbying effort in Washington, but that it needs to be totally laundered and unknown. Is that correct?”

“Pretty much,” I admitted. I glanced over at Marty, who nodded back.

“All right, so once the funds are in the lobbying group and you need them to be dispersed, you then want the funds from the lobbying group to be secretly funneled to various politicians or bureaucrats?”

At that point, I looked at Marty in confusion. “Is that what we wanted?”

He shook his head. “No, that would be illegal.”

Seaver looked over at John and then back to us. “So you don’t want the activities of the lobbying group to be hidden, only the source of their funding?”

“Right. I mean, at that point it’s just one more lobbying or policy outfit. We just don’t want to trace the money back to me.”

He breathed a sigh of relief at that. “Oh, well, that’s different! You’re right, that’s fine. Hiding what they do with the money, that would be illegal. That wouldn’t be protected, either, since it would be a violation of the canons. Hiding the funding to start with, that’s no problem. Do you have any of this started yet? Do you have a name?”

I blinked at that. “No. We just thought this up. We wanted to find out if we could get away with it first. So, we can do this?”

Seaver simply waved a hand dismissively. “Just say when.”

“Huh.” I turned to Marty. “Got a name?”

Marty shrugged, too. “Something innocuous and patriotic or whatever. They’re all named American Something-or-other, Institute or Foundation or whatever. They all sound alike.”

“The American Renaissance Initiative, building America’s tomorrow, today!” I intoned solemnly. I remembered Stephen Colbert’s Super-Pac, ‘Building a better tomorrow, tomorrow!’

John chuckled and shook his head. Marty gave a wry grin, and commented, “Perfect. They all say that!”

Seaver began taking notes. “You don’t have a name or address of the head of the group yet?”

“We just thought it up. That’s next,” said Marty.

Seaver handed us both a business card. “The easiest way to handle this is for me to be the Treasurer of the organization. That way nobody knows where the money is coming from. I can handle any requests.”

That got me to thinking. I cocked my head a touch, and asked, “So you get a piece of the action for moving the money around, and then you get paid by the American Renaissance Initiative as the Treasurer? Isn’t that double dipping?”

For the first time, Seaver smiled. “I love politics, don’t you?!”

I groaned and shook my head at that. What had I gotten myself into, now!?

Marty rolled his eyes at me and shrugged. He glanced at the card and tucked it into his pocket. “I’m going to sound out a few people about running it, but we’ll probably run some of the initial paperwork through you.”

“Once you figure out the person to run it, we’ll get together and do some more paperwork. We’ll need an office, some staff, etc. I’ll stay in New York, but that won’t be an issue for this.” He and Marty talked a little about staffing and how to proceed.

Eventually, though, John called it to an end. “Okay, we don’t need to tie up Carl and me on this. You two can sort out the details on your own,” he said, pointing to Marty and Seaver. “Now, I need to talk to Carl for awhile.”

I led Marty out to the lobby and arranged for one of the security staff to drive him over to the airport, and to call ahead and let Tyrell know he was coming. Meanwhile, Bob Seaver came through and shook our hands, and he left as well. I headed back inside to see John.

“So, just who is that guy?” I asked. “Is he any good?”

“He used to work for the FBI, tracing hidden money. Then he got married and had a couple of kids, and decided he needed to actually make a few bucks. He set up shop in New York, using what he learned with the Feds.”

“You have to love free enterprise,” I quipped.

He nodded, and then stood up. “Listen, stay here. I asked the others to come in for a bit.” I stayed in my seat as John moved out of the office. He returned a couple of minutes later, with the two Jakes and Missy in tow.

“So, what’s up?” I asked when the others sat down. Jake Junior, who sat down next to me, looked as confused as I was. The others were no better.

“I’ve asked you all here for a reason.” He took a deep breath, and began coughing, which he had done in the earlier meeting as well. When he was able to continue, he said, “That’s the problem right there, in a nutshell. I’ve been coughing like that for a few months now. At first we thought it was just a cold, but when it got worse, I went to the doctor’s. I’m not going to beat around the bush. I’ve got lung cancer, and I’m dying.”

To say it was like a bomb going off in the room would be an understatement. All of us began squawking and protesting and speaking at the same time. John let us run on for a few minutes before waving us to silence. “Let me speak. I got the second opinions, I’ve seen the specialists, I’ve done all that stuff. It’s too late for me. They don’t have a cure for this. I’ve got maybe eight months to live, a year at the most if I really, really fight hard, and that would be very ugly. I talked it over with Helen. We’re going to do something we’ve always talked about but always put off until later. There is no more later. I’m retiring and we’re taking a cruise around the world. I’ll be out of here at the end of the month.”

He coughed a little more. I sat there stunned by the news. John had never smoked, and yet here he was with lung cancer! Now that I knew what to look for I could see he had lost some weight, and was looking a touch pale. Melissa was arguing with him to fight it, even as she cried, but wasn’t getting anywhere. Jake Junior looked at me and he looked as stunned as I did. Only his father looked a little more used to the idea; maybe he had a suspicion ahead of time.

John quieted Missy down. “Listen, it’s lousy, but it happens. I am closer to seventy than to sixty. Did you guys think I was going to last forever? I could have retired anytime in the last five years. Instead I kept going. No more. All that stuff Helen and I said we would do, well, we’re going to do it now. I’ve seen what the chemo and treatments do to you. Not interested! Thanks to you guys and this company, though, now we can actually afford to do some stuff, and then some. We’re going to spend the next few weeks unraveling me from here, and then I’ll see you all at the end, at the funeral.” He grinned at that.

“God damn!” I said, half to myself. I looked up at him and replied, “You don’t leave until after we’ve had a chance to talk!”

“Fine by me.” He stood up and shooed us out. “Now, I need to go home and talk to Helen some more, let her know I let you guys know. We told the kids over the weekend.”

I was pretty shocked by it all, so I collected my thoughts and drove home for the rest of the day. When Marilyn came in from the office in Westminster, she found me sitting there in my den, just thinking. “You’re home early!” she said in surprise.

I smiled over at her. “Afraid I might find you getting into trouble?”

Marilyn snorted and laughed at that. “I think it’d be more like I’d find you in trouble than the other way around. What’s up? They let Congress out early today?”

“Yeah, that’s it. The government wanted to get something done, so they sent us away.” That earned a smile from my wife. “Actually, I had a meeting with John at the office today. Then he called the two Jakes and Missy in and announced he was retiring for good.”

“Good for him. He should take it easy. He’s earned it.”

“Not good for him. He’s got terminal lung cancer. He and Helen are planning to start working on his bucket list.”

Marilyn’s jaw dropped and her eyes snapped open. “Oh my God! Are you kidding me?!”

I shook my head. “I wish. They’re going to take a world cruise starting next month. He’s going to wrap up some paperwork and it’s so long, Charlie! He told us he’d see us again at the funeral.”

“Oh my God!”

“That’s pretty much what we all said.”

“What can we do?” she asked.

I just held my hands up and shrugged. “What can we do? He said they’ve already told their kids. I got him to promise to talk to me before they leave.”

She nodded and then asked, “What’s a bucket list?”

Huh? It was a common enough phrase when I recycled, but when did it become popular? Had I just invented a phrase? “It’s the list of things you want to get done before you kick the bucket. You’ve never heard of it before?”

“No. Do you have a bucket list?”

“Sure thing!”

“Like what?”

I grinned and said, “It involves a blonde with a really big pair of…”

“YOU PIG!”

At that point we heard a school bus pull up out at the road and a minute later Charlie came storming in. “Hey, Dad! What are you doing home?”

“I got a call from your school saying you were skimping on your homework again,” I told him.

Marilyn’s was behind Charlie as I said this, and she gave me a look that mixed laughter and exasperation. Charlie couldn’t see her starting to silently laugh, and his eyes opened wide! “Dad! No, I mean, I’m not… it’s not like that… NO!”

Marilyn said, mid-giggle. “You’re fine. Your father is just pulling your leg.”

Charlie looked back at me. “Dad, that’s not funny! You could have given me a heart attack!” He grabbed his backpack and headed to his room with Dum-Dum.

I looked over at Marilyn. “A singularly inappropriate remark, wouldn’t you say?” I commented.

Marilyn rolled her eyes, and then another school bus rolled up and deposited the girls. I got a nice set of hugs from them. Afterwards my wife commented, “How are you feeling about this?”

“Well, it sucks. John is one of my oldest friends. I told you how we met, right, getting me out of jail? That was over twenty years ago! I’m closer to John than I am to my own family.”

“He’s your father,” she replied. “Or at least who your father should have been. Or something like that.”

“I understand you,” I said, nodding. “I think I will miss John more than my real father. What the hell does that say about me?”

Marilyn shrugged and went off in search of our offspring. I just sat there in the great room until it was time to start cooking something for dinner. I was moving on autopilot, though, and pretty quiet the rest of the night.

Marilyn snapped me out of it at bedtime. She came out into the living room wearing a very nice peignoir set and settled into my recliner with me. “Do you think John would want you moping around, or would he want you to get back to living?”

“Probably the second,” I answered, smiling a bit.

“I can help with that.”

“Oh? Just what did you have in mind?” I asked.

Marilyn lowered her lips to my ears. “That all depends on just how athletic you’re feeling. There’s a videotape cued op on the VCR, a tube of cherry flavored lube on the night stand, and a couple of toys next to it. Anything coming to mind?”

I had my hands around Marilyn’s waist, and she shifted to stand up and lead me into her den of iniquity. On the other hand, she didn’t talk like this often, and I liked it. I tightened my grip and kept her on my lap. “Tell me more. What did you have in mind?”

She moved to climb to her feet again. “Come on and you can show me what you have in mind.”

I stayed put. I shook my head. “No, I want you to tell me what you’re going to do. I want you to tell me.”

“Carl, no. You know I can’t do that. Please, come to bed.”

I released my grip slightly, but before she could move, I slid a hand down her side and across her hip, and then went down her legs. I tugged the hem of the peignoir and slid my hand under it, and then moved it slowly back up her legs. Marilyn began squirming, and looked towards the hallway. She frantically, whispered, “Stop, the kids might come out!”

“They can’t see anything.” By that point I had moved my hand far enough up her legs to start fingering her greasy hot slit. She whimpered at the touch. “Now, what do you want to do tonight?”

As I began to flick my fingers across her clit, Marilyn squirmed and moaned softly. “Oh, you’re so mean! All right! I’d want to get undressed, the both of us, and I think you’d want me to suck your cock. Would you like that?” I made some agreeable murmurs, and Marilyn continued. “Maybe we could do some sixty-nine? I love it when you lick my pussy. Please, Carl, lick my pussy tonight?” I made a few more murmurs. “I’ll swallow your come, and then get you hard again. Then you can fuck me until we come again.”

“How do you want me to fuck you?”

“Hard, really hard and deep.”

“How? What position do you want me to fuck you in?” I pushed.

I revved up my finger action and my wife was shivering under my touch. “From behind, it goes in so deep that way…” I made a few more murmurs, and she blurted into my ear, “In my ass! I bet you’d like to fuck my ass tonight! Please Carl, let’s just go to bed and you can fuck my ass!”

I pulled my hand out from under Marilyn’s nightgown, and straightened up some, and she hopped off my lap. My cock wanted to say thank you, since she had been sitting on it a touch earlier. She eagerly grabbed my hand and pulled me along behind her. “Just keep in mind the sacrifice I am making for you tonight,” I told her. “It’s not my fault you have these uncontrollable urges.”

Marilyn snorted at that. “You’re such a helpful guy.”

“I am, I am indeed!”

Chapter 118: Armed Services

Winter 1994–1995

Now that we were the majority, everybody got to play musical chairs with the various committee assignments. Science, Space, and Technology was interesting, and I thought I did well there with the Internet bill. Likewise, Veterans Affairs gave me the place to do the Gulf War Veterans Bill, and that was both timely and useful. Still, both were backwaters as far as anything useful was concerned. Science would do all sorts of wonderful things, like hold hearings on the NASA budget or the Superconducting Super Collider, but these budgets would be the first place raided when ‘important’ stuff needed doing. For the price of a few fairly useless B-2 stealth bombers, the world’s top heavy particle collider could have been built in Dallas, and not in Europe. Veterans Affairs was equally a dead end; why the Veterans Administration needed to be upgraded to a cabinet department was way beyond me.

Floyd Spence was the ranking Republican on the committee and would become chairman when we reconvened. I managed a quick meeting with him and got myself assigned to the Subcommittee on Tactical Air and Land Forces. This was one of the bigger subcommittees, bigger in the sense of importance. We oversaw the Army and Air Force, the National Guard, the Reserves, and several logistic and modernization areas. There were other subcommittees related to the Navy and Marines, Intelligence, Oversight, and such. I probably knew as much about the Army as any of the other members, for good or for bad. Floyd made a call and got me a meeting with the Chief of Staff for the committee, which was also quite helpful, since those guys actually do most of the work.

As I had told Newt and the others, Bill Clinton wasn’t going to roll over and let the Republican Party have their way with things. He was already scrambling to recover, like a quarterback moving as his pocket collapsed around him. He was promising to work with the Congress to pass this, that, and the other thing, and simultaneously trying to rally the Democrats into a coherent response. We were still planning on keeping up the pressure, with a plan to spend the first two weeks of the new Congress introducing our Contract with America bills and giving speeches on them.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough for Newt. He wanted to destroy Bill Clinton. I simply think he just didn’t like the man. We spoke about this mid-January when he came over to the house on 30^th for a working dinner. There were just a few of us, not the entire Gang, John Boehner, Jim Nussle, Newt, and myself. I had promised them my signature coq au vin meal.

John was the first to arrive, and I let him into the house and brought him back to the kitchen. He sat down on a tall bar stool on the side of the kitchen island facing the stove. “So, you actually know how to cook? Every other time I’ve eaten over here it’s been catered or you’ve had a chef in doing something.”

“Yes I know how to cook! I’ve been cooking for myself ever since I left home as a kid.”

“You mean when your parents threw you out?” he asked.

I nodded. “It was a little more complicated than that, but essentially yes. Wine?” I held up a bottle of Riesling I had pulled out of the wine cooler, and John nodded. I began to open the bottle and continued talking. “For most of the last two years of high school I was on my own, so it was either learn to cook or eat at McDonald’s three times a day. That stuff will kill you. Besides, my girlfriend liked that I could cook.”

He grinned at that. “What did her parents think about you having your own place?”

“Funny, but somehow that never came up in our conversations.” That earned a barking laugh from him. I finished opening the bottle and poured some in glasses I pulled from an overhead rack. We sipped some, and John and I talked for a few more minutes about my bachelor days. I began pulling out the pots and pans and setting things up.

The doorbell rang and I glanced at my friend. “I’ll get that. You keep cooking.” He hopped up and came back a minute later leading both Newt and Jim.

“Gentlemen, welcome again. Toss your coats somewhere and have a seat. John can pour the wine.” I was cutting some boned chicken breasts in half and placing them to the side; next to be cut up was a large and thick slice of boned ham and some fresh button mushrooms.

Both Jim and Newt made the same comment: “So you really can cook! It’s not something you made up?”

“Some friends you guys are! Yes, I can cook! It’s an excellent method of separating young ladies from their virtue! If you pull it off you look suave and sophisticated, but if you fail, you look helpless and she gets to be maternal and helpful. Keep that in mind for when you are shopping for a mistress.” They all laughed at that.

“What does Marilyn think about that idea?” asked Newt.

“What, the cooking or the mistress?” I riposted.

We continued joking about cooking while I finished preparing the ingredients, and then I pulled out my electric skillet and set it on the island in front of us all. If I cooked at the stove, my back would be to everybody. I set the skillet to 300 and tossed in a stick of butter, and then began dredging the chicken breasts through flour. As the butter melted, the chicken went in, to begin sautéing. I grabbed a set of measuring spoons and began measuring out my spices.

I noticed my glass was empty and the others were getting low. “How was the wine? I need to open another bottle. The same or something different?”

Newt answered, “It was very nice.” The others nodded as well, so I pulled out a second bottle and passed it and the corkscrew over to John. Newt looked at the label on the empty. “Where is this from, the Finger Lakes?”

“Yes. Marilyn and I did a nice tour of some of the wineries up there the last time we visited her folks. We like wine, so we picked up several cases. It’s really quite reasonable.”

Jim asked, “What is reasonable to your budget and what is reasonable to mine might be different.”

I simply shook my head. “Just because I have enough money to get silly doesn’t mean I do get silly. This runs about ten or twelve bucks a bottle and is very nice. Just because I can afford something ten or twenty times that, it doesn’t mean I can taste the difference.” I flipped the breasts and let them cook on the other side, while measuring out the wine and brandy. “We actually live fairly simply. You should come out and visit us sometime. You’ll have to share a bathroom with the kids, but that’s not my problem, that’s yours!” That got a few laughs.

We continued talking about our homes. When the chicken breasts were lightly browned, I dropped the temperature on the skillet down to about 200 or so and dumped in the other ingredients. They would basically stew and steam in the wine, cooking the chicken and swapping flavors. “All I need to do now with the chicken is to keep an eye on things and add water to keep it from drying out.”

“Has that ever happened?” asked John.

I nodded and ruefully admitted, “Yes, once back in Fayetteville, Marilyn and I… well, when I went back into the kitchen, it was burned black in the bottom of the pan. I had to throw the pan away, it was so bad!” That earned me a fair number of snickers!

I got the Minute Rice ready to cook. That would only take about ten minutes total, so we had plenty of time to chat, maybe another half hour or so, before I had to worry and do more than just watch and stir. Inevitably the conversation turned to business, our business — politics. The big discussion was with people tossing out names for who would run against Clinton in 1996. Bob Dole was named, and I knew he would win the nomination (at least he did my first time) but whether he would win this time around I wasn’t sure. Had I changed things this time? Several other names got tossed around as well, some of whom were definite and some of whom were maybes. The selection was from all over the map — politicians like Dick Lugar and Phil Gramm, businessmen like Steve Forbes and Ross Perot were wild cards, and even newspaper columnist and pundit Pat Buchanan was interested.

I wondered through all of this what effect my actions would have. Would Bob Dole win the nomination again? Would Ross Perot still be a spoiler and third party candidate? Would somebody else do better? I had a lot of respect for Senator Dole, both then and now, and said I was going to support him. It would be interesting to see how this worked out from a front row seat. I remember it being a wild and wooly primary season, and I suspected it was still going to be.

We kept talking through the rest of the preparation time, opening a third bottle of the Riesling in the process, and then I called quits to shop talk while we ate. That didn’t work out all that well, since we were all a bunch of political junkies. What I found disturbing, though, was when Newt was telling us how much he wanted to hurt Clinton, to grind him into dust. It was almost personal with the man. I simply shook my head in disagreement.

“You disagree with me, Carl?”

“Yes and no, Newt. It’s not so much your intention as it is your degree. It’s one thing to beat the man, but leave him some wiggle room. There is nothing more dangerous than a wild animal that has been wounded and then trapped. You learn the same thing in the Army. It’s better to let an enemy on the run keep running. It demoralizes the other troops facing you. If you corner them, well, desperate men do desperate things, and they have no reason not to take you down with them.”

“I think you overestimate him, Carl. Bill Clinton is spent. He’s a has been. We can wipe him out and replace him in two years,” Newt bragged.

“Newt, I am going to keep backing you, you know that, but this may not turn out as neat and easy as you think it will. There’s a reason they named him ‘Slick Willie’ back in Arkansas. You may not like him, but you sure better respect him,” I replied.

“You think he’s going to be that tough in ’96?” asked John, in between bites of chicken. “Oh, this is so good!”

I laughed at that. “The secret isn’t in the chicken, it’s in the spices and the stew they make with the flour you dredge the chicken in.” Then I gave it some thought. “Yeah, I think it would be very easy to underestimate Slick Willie. We have the tiger by the tail right now, but it would be very easy to end up inside the tiger!”

I went home the next night and told Marilyn I had cooked dinner for the boys, after which she pointed me towards the kitchen and made me cook for the kids. I made shrimp scampi for them, although I insisted that Marilyn had to help me with peeling the shrimp. We were able to eat by about seven or so. Now that the kids were older, we didn’t have to worry about them going to bed early. The girls were still only ten. They still listen to you at that age. That would change too damn soon for my taste. Charlie was now thirteen, and had recently discovered that he was smarter than I was, or at least so he thought.

He was a pushy little bastard, too! On his birthday back in October he had asked about getting a tattoo or an earring, and he brought it up again. He didn’t have anything particular in mind, just asking, but I decided to shut that idea down real fucking quick! “You get no tattoos that don’t say U.S. Army, and no extra holes in your body that the Good Lord didn’t issue as original equipment! YOU GOT THAT STRAIGHT?!” I thundered at him. He just laughed at me and scooted out of the room.

“You think that was clear enough?” I asked his mother.

“Probably not,” she said with a smile.

“I think I’ll show him a rerun of Heartbreak Ridge, where Clint Eastwood rips an earring out of a recruit’s ear. Maybe that will get through.” My wife rolled her eyes at that. “Wait until your daughters get in on the act, and want their belly buttons pierced?”

“My daughters are good girls and would never do that,” she replied, rather primly.

I snorted. “Yeah, well my daughters would do it and then lie to us!” On my first go, Maggie had not only gotten her belly button pierced, she also got a ‘tramp stamp’ at the base of her back. I don’t have a problem with the piercings so much as the tattoos. They don’t enhance the scenery, as far as I am concerned, and just wait until you’re a grandmother and weigh fifty pounds more, and your grandkids want to know why you have a tattoo on your ass.

On the plus side, Charlie was fundamentally a good kid. He was still in the Boy Scouts, although I had my doubts whether he would make Eagle. I could see him doing the Explorer routine like I had done, or just staying in the Scouts and goofing off and going camping with them. Then again, Marilyn had caught him looking through my latest issue of Playboy, so I figured he might also develop a totally different interest to take up his time. Well, you can’t get into trouble just chasing girls; you only get into trouble when you catch one!

I remember when he asked me what ‘overly developed’ meant. He had been looking at a copy of The National Enquirer, which struck me as rather odd. Certainly neither Marilyn nor I ever read it, so I asked him, and he said he got it from the Parkers. I could imagine Lurlene reading it, and rolled my eyes. “So, what’s it mean?”

“What does what mean?”

“It says that Mom is overly developed. What’s that mean?”

“WHAT?” I went over to him and grabbed the ‘newspaper’ from him and looked at the page he was reading. It was reportedly an article on Congressmen with good-looking wives or girlfriends. There was a picture of Marilyn and me at the Kennedy Center, me in my tux and Marilyn in a black evening gown. That had been a few weeks ago, and the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra, which I supported generously, was having a Tchaikovsky night. The photo made me pay attention, since Marilyn’s dress had been somewhat low cut, though not untasteful. This shot, maybe because of the angle, or maybe because they doctored it, showed an awful lot of very healthy cleavage.

Charlie was pointing at the words. “See, it says that Mom is pretty but overly developed.”

Marilyn came out at that moment to find us looking at the picture. I was trying to keep from laughing, working my jaw to keep steady. Marilyn took a look at the Enquirer as Charlie asked again. I glanced at her and stifled a grin, and replied, “Let’s just say that it means your mother still looks good in a swimsuit.” Marilyn looked daggers at me. I guess that’s not something a father is supposed to tell his son.

Suddenly a light went off in Charlie’s head. His eyes opened wide and he gave a loud, “Ohhhh!” Then he looked at Marilyn, and his eyes glanced at her chest for just a split second, and then darted away, and he repeated, “Ohhhh!”

“CHARLIE!” she protested.

“Get out of here,” I said, swatting him with the paper. He grabbed it and laughed, and ran out of the kitchen.

I was silently laughing at my wife, while she stewed at me. “What do you have to say?” she demanded.

“Who? Me? Nothing, nothing at all! Would you rather I explained to him that it meant his Mom has big tits!?”

“Behave!” I was sent packing from the kitchen, but she had a smile on her face, too. I figured I’d talk to her about this later that evening, much later, in our bedroom.

Back in Washington we had all sorts of fun on the Armed Service Committee. For one thing, the latest round of the BRAC system was happening in 1995. BRAC stood for Base Realignment And Closure. During World War II and the Cold War the various armed services had built bases all over the place, and as a result we had huge numbers of very expensive bases. Since nobody would allow a base in their district to be closed (“It’s strategically important to defend [fill in the blank]”) but everybody thought that somebody else’s base should be closed (“It’s an outrageous duplication and wasteful spending to defend [fill in the blank]”), they came up with a system. An independent commission would come up with a list of bases to be shrunk or closed. The list could be voted yes or no, but could not be modified. It gave everybody political cover when things started closing.

I had seen this up close and personal on my first go. When Griffiss Air Force Base in Rome was put on the list in 1993, the uproar had been deafening, and the locals all screamed that their base was a critical part of the nation’s defense. Instead, they argued, shutter that wasteful and duplicative base north of us, Plattsburgh Air Force Base! Well, the Commission promised they would look at Plattsburgh and the people in Utica and Rome went away happy. Nobody was happy when a few months later the Commission recommended both bases be closed!

Closing bases is a very painful thing. In addition to whatever soldiers or airmen or sailors or Marines are stationed there, you usually have lots of locals working at a base, as well as businesses who sell stuff to the base. It is a major source of income. On the other hand, military spending by its very nature is inherently wasteful. If you want to do well spending government money, a better investment is infrastructure or research or something. You’ll waste less and hire more. I remember that when Griffiss shut down it was very painful for a few years. Lefleur Homes wasn’t selling very many homes in the Rome area when you could buy an existing structure for fifty cents on the dollar. Still, the area came back even stronger.

Anyway, the latest round of BRAC was ongoing, and looked to be as contentious as the earlier ones. We still had too much military for the budget and the threat. The Soviet Union was no more. They hadn’t been able to control Afghanistan, which was a major reason they had collapsed in 1989, and now the U.S. was the undisputed and sole superpower left. Furthermore, the military we had was the finest in the world. Just a fraction of our force had been enough to whip Saddam Hussein in a matter of days.

It was too big and too expensive to maintain an army and a navy at the levels we had built up to during the Cold War. The process had started under George Bush and accelerated under Bill Clinton. Congress and the Pentagon hated it, but it needed to be done. By the time the Republicans took back control of Congress in 1994, the Army had shrunk from 18 divisions down to 12, and the National Guard had from 10 down to 8. The Navy was equally shrunk, from almost 600 ships at the time of the collapse of the Berlin Wall down to about 400 at the time the Republicans took control. The Air Force and Marines were equally slimmed down.

Now, with the Republicans firmly in control of Congress, the call was out to stop this ‘erosion’ of American strength and rebuild our forces to their former glory. Of course we would do this in a prudent and reasoned fashion, avoiding the ‘bloat’ and ‘excess’ found in previous Democratic Congresses and administrations. It was assumed by one and all that as a former soldier I would see the wisdom of rebuilding the Army again. I suppose if I had gone into the Navy I would be expected to shortchange the Army and build some extra ships.

I kept my mouth shut and my thoughts to myself. Even at half our size, the national security of the country was assured. Our Navy had more ships than at least the next dozen nations on the list, and they were almost all our allies. The same could be said of our Air Force. As for the Army, well, unless the bad guys started human wave attacks we could eat anybody else on the planet alive. The only problem that I could see was the overwhelming need to make the services even smaller! Nobody who I met who wanted to build up our forces could come up with a single plausible opponent who could possibly harm us.

Russia? They lost half their empire in the breakup and were gone as a military force. Their Navy was rusting at the piers and their Army was rusting in the fields. They would be hard pressed to protect their borders from the Islamic nut jobs. The Chinese? They didn’t want to attack us! They wanted to buy us! The same went for any number of other former Communist dictatorships around the planet. The same could be said for the former client states who had professed their hatred of us and caused trouble. Now that the Soviet Union wasn’t paying the bills, they were jumping all over each other proclaiming how much they loved us and wanted our assistance.

Only the Islamics were dangerous, and they only had two ways to cause trouble. First was through terrorism, both here in the U.S. and abroad. That was a job for police and Special Forces types. You can’t fight terrorists with armored divisions and aircraft carriers.

The second, more difficult, way they could create trouble was by weapons of mass destruction. Pakistan was already a nuclear power and had spread that joy to all sorts of wonderful people, like the North Koreans and Iran. It would only get worse, along with other cut rate weapons like gas and biologicals. By the time I recycled all three types of weapon had been used. Biologicals never really worked too well, despite all the hype and fear. Gas was easier and cheaper and was handed out by several countries, including Syria, who managed to let it get into the hands of some rebels who promptly turned around and gassed Damascus. After that, nerve gas was kept under a little better control. Nukes did get loose, and the mullahs in Iran gave one to Hezbollah, who detonated it in Haifa. Israel wasn’t amused, and promptly proceeded to kill 8 million Iranians when they retaliated by nuking the ten largest cities in Iran into rubble and glass. That made a lot of the Arab world sit up and take notice, and a lot of terrorists got caught and killed in the resulting uproar.

My problem in the here and now was to allow the process of downsizing the Army and Navy and Air Force to continue, while not appearing to be soft on defense. The easiest way I could do this, it seemed to me, was to be very tough on new program ideas. The services were always on the lookout for the latest whiz-bang gadgetry, and were constantly being bombarded by the defense contractors with proposals for new equipment.

For instance, the M109 Paladin self propelled howitzer has been in service with the Army since 1963. It works, it’s relatively cheap, and it is very accurate. It has been upgraded at least a half dozen times over the last 30 years. Still, we can always do better, so United Defense and General Dynamics came up with the M2001 Crusader, a replacement that was both heavier and less accurate. That was going to be coming before Congress for approval at some point in the next few years. Ultimately it would be found to be a disaster and get cancelled. Not to worry, a replacement for the replacement was in the works, the M1203 Non Line Of Sight Cannon, which was also cancelled. Meanwhile the Paladins soldiered on, and were still in front line service when I recycled.

The paramount military threat of the 21^st century, of course, turned out to be terrorism. Terrorists don’t own howitzers.

Some of what I saw I knew wouldn’t work out so well. There had been a vote in Congress in 1992 to show approval to President Bush to ‘do something’ to help in Somalia. I had voted against it, which didn’t make me any friends. Everybody wanted to ‘do something’ but as soon as anything bad happened (think Black Hawk Down) they conveniently forget. Some places are so fucked up you just can’t fix them. This year I knew Bill Clinton was going to want to get involved in the Balkans, so we could ‘do something’ to help. That was because he didn’t get involved in Rwanda last year (another place you can’t fix) and now needed to show he ‘cared.’ If Otto von Bismarck thought “the Balkans aren’t worth the life of a single Pomeranian grenadier” what made Bill Clinton think he was smarter? It was just one more damn place that can’t be fixed. If I got a reputation as an isolationist, I wouldn’t be unhappy. (I had already voted against NAFTA, the North American Free Trade Act. I remembered that ‘sucking sound’ of jobs leaving the country. This was just the start.)

Some things should get money, but they were the plain vanilla boring things. I was in favor of stuff for ‘readiness’ This is the gas for the planes and ships and tanks, and the bullets for the guns, and the replacement parts for what we already owned. It was money to send people for training and to the various schools. It was for intelligence programs so you knew who the bad guys were and what they were up to. It was for various research and development programs to see what might be around the next bend. None of this is as sexy as a brand new invisible plane or boat. Most of them don’t work as advertised anyway, but boy are they cute and beautiful!

Perhaps the strangest aspect of my getting onto the Armed Services Committee was that I gained a new ‘assistant’ The Pentagon assigns an officer to ‘help’ most members of the committee, so we can better do our jobs of exercising guidance over Congress’ relations with the services. Pretty much everybody on the committee except for the most junior members gets a liaison officer. By objective standards, since this was my first time on the committee, I was a junior member, but since I was in my third term as a Representative and was now surprisingly high in seniority, I got a liaison. This was announced in December of 1994, after the announcement I was moving to Armed Services. Shortly thereafter, on a day when I was in my old office in Longworth prior to moving to Rayburn, Mindy announced I had an appointment with some Army officers.

I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. I knew that Floyd had a liaison, as did the minority leader of the committee. I figured I’d probably get a dog-and-pony-show orientation and a list of phone numbers or something. What I wasn’t expecting was a Major General in a Class A uniform, and a Lieutenant Colonel in a dark blue pinstripe suit. I knew he was a light bird because he happened to be one Harlan Buckminster. My eyes lit up when Mindy, who couldn’t have known of our friendship, brought them into my office. “Congressman Buckman, this is General Thompson…” she said, beginning the introductions.

I reached out and shook his outstretched hand. “General.”

“Congressman.”

“… and Lieutenant Colonel Buckmeyer,” she finished.

“Colonel Buckmeyer! So nice to meet you! Run out of clean uniforms, did we?” I said as introduction.

Harlan rolled his eyes and reached for my hand. “Keep it up smartass. I know stuff about you I am sure Marilyn doesn’t know about yet.”

“And if you don’t, I’m sure you can make something up?” I replied with a laugh, and shook his hand. I turned to Mindy and said, “Lieutenant Colonel Buckminster is an old friend from way, way back.”

Mindy blushed deeply. “I am so sorry, Colonel…”

Harlan laughed and waved it off. “Forget it, Miss. Ask me sometime and I’ll tell you those same stories about the Congressman I am going to tell his wife.”

“An empty threat. I know just as many about you. Come on in, gentlemen. How can I help the U.S. Army today?” I let Mindy out of my office and showed the two men over to the couch it my sitting area. I sat in an armchair facing them. “What brings you here?”

It was the general who responded. “Congressman, I’m with the Congressional Liaison Office at the Pentagon, and I wanted to introduce you to the officer we have selected to be your liaison. Colonel Buckminster will be able to help you with any requests for information or assistance you might have, as well as to answer any questions you might have in regards to your duties on the Armed Services Committee. We think it’s important to provide all the help we can, especially since this is your first time on the committee.”

I arched an eyebrow at this gigantic load of horseshit, and glanced over at Harlan. “And this is the officer you’ve selected? I am sure the colonel told you we have known each other for years.”

“Yes, sir, he did. The rest of the office and I think that will help to make a good working relationship. Is that going to be a problem?” he responded innocently.

“Oh, no, no problem. Exactly what do you see Colonel Buckminster doing?”

At that the general and Harlan alternated explaining Harlan’s duties, which consisted of working half the time with me and the other half the time with the Armed Services Committee, helping out however he could. It smelled to the high heavens, but I couldn’t fault the Pentagon for trying to influence me. After a few minutes, I nodded and said that Harlan would certainly be acceptable, and asked General Thompson if Harlan could stay so we could catch up on old times.

Thompson beamed and said, “Of course, Congressman. Lieutenant Colonel Buckminster can find his way home, I’m sure.”

“We’ll make sure of it,” I asserted. I stood and ushered the General out. Harlan stayed in his seat.

I came back over and sat across from Harlan again. “The last I heard, you were out at Sill doing something staff-like. When did you come to Washington? How’s Anna Lee and the kids?”

“Anna Lee and the kids are fine. I only arrived yesterday. You’re my new duty assignment.”

“That figures. And you just happened to be available, right?”

“You’re not buying that? Are you possibly implying that a general officer of the United States Army might be less than truthful to a Representative of the People in this great democracy?” asked my friend. “Carl, you’ve become so cynical as you’ve aged!”

I snorted and laughed at that. “How many hundreds of officers did they have to sift through to find you?”

He gave me a wry smile and shrugged. “Probably several hundred. I think they took every officer’s name from all the way back to our ROTC training camp classes and added in anybody you might have served with in the 82^nd, and then stripped out everybody who had either left the service or had a command. I got called into my boss’ office at Sill and put on the phone and asked if I had ever heard of you. When I said sure, that you and I were old buddies in fact, I got stuck on a plane so fast my ass is still catching up. I had just enough time to go home and pack a few uniforms and a civilian suit. Anna Lee told me to make sure to send her love and to give Marilyn a hug when I see her.”

I nodded. “That will be tonight. I’ll take you to the house. Listen, you don’t mind this? They yank you from whatever you’re doing to be my babysitter? You’re okay with that?”

“Carl, I am just trying to finish out my twenty before they heave my ass to the wolves. You know what’s happening to the Army. Half the Army is gone, and those of us left are just trying to survive. If you aren’t the reincarnation of George Patton, you get a ‘reduction in force’ notice and don’t let the door hit you on the way out. The only reason I’m still around is my combat experience in the ‘Sandpile’ a few years ago. They’ve been unloading some really good guys in job lot quantities!”

I grimaced and nodded in understanding. “And this is your choice? What the hell were you doing out at Sill, anyway?”

“Strategic planning and readiness. I write memos and doctrines that nobody will read and then file them in places nobody will remember. If I don’t find a new home here, I am probably gone in six months.”

“Jesus!” This was the ugly downside to cutting the military down in size. A huge number of really good, dedicated, brave, and smart guys were being cut loose left and right. I leaned forward and rubbed my face. “Well, we can’t be having that, now, can we? So, you’re going to be the Pentagon’s spy in my office. I might as well introduce you to my Chief of Staff.”

I stood up and opened my office door. I didn’t have far to look. Marty was standing at Mindy’s desk talking to both her and Babs. He saw the door open and looked up, and I motioned him in. “Marty, got a few minutes?”

“Of course, Congressman.”

Marty came through the door and saw I was with someone. I closed the door behind us and invited him over. “Harlan, I’d like to introduce my Chief of Staff, Marty Adrianopolis. Marty, this is Lieutenant Colonel Harlan Buckminster, my new liaison officer from the Pentagon.”

Harlan stood and the two men shook hands. I waved them both to seats and looked over at Marty. “Marty, feel free to call me by my first name when we’re with Harlan. He’s almost as old a friend as you. He and I go back to summer training when I was still at RPI with you.” To Harlan I explained, “Marty likes to use my title when I’m with the staff or people outside of the office, but he’s an old buddy like you are.”

“You were at college with Carl?” asked Harlan.

“I was two years ahead of him. Did the two of you really capture an entire enemy army all by yourselves, or is he just full of crap?” asked Marty.

“I’ll tell you his army stories if you tell me his college stories.”

“Keep it up, guys. I’ll send you both back where I found you,” I laughed. “Hey, Marty, Harlan is supposed to be our new liaison…”

“Yeah, I heard something about us getting a liaison officer. How’s that going to work?” Marty replied, as much to Harlan as to me.

“The way it’s been explained to me, if you need something from the Pentagon, you tell me and I go and get it,” answered Harlan.

I smiled at Marty. “And then he runs and tells his boss what Congressman Buckman is up to.”

Marty nodded and said, “Bingo!”

Harlan smiled at me but looked confused. “You want to explain that?”

I shrugged. “Harlan, correct me if I’m wrong, you’ve been staff before but this is your first duty at the Pentagon, right?” He nodded agreement, so I continued. “Trust me on this. The first thing that your General Thompson is going to ask the next time he sees you is for a total debrief on our visit, right down to the size of the meal we served you at the house and whether we offered you seconds. I am one of the most dangerous legislators they will ever meet, because I’m a legislator who actually knows something about the military. They won’t be able to buffalo me like they would really prefer.”

Marty nodded and agreed. “As far as the Pentagon is concerned, or really, any government agency, the perfect Congressman is somebody who doesn’t know anything about what they are supposed to be regulating. That way the agency can guide them appropriately, which basically means raising their budget no matter what.”

Harlan’s eyes widened some, but he nodded. “There is supposed to be a course on this somewhere, but this happened so fast they haven’t had time to run me through it.”

“Well, you tell them that I’m giving my blessing, but that if you need to take a few weeks to figure it out, I’ll understand,” I told him. “Is this considered a joint billet for Goldwater-Nichols?”

Congressional liaison is a big deal at the Pentagon. The military budget is one of the largest items in the total, and they have huge numbers of officers dedicated to keeping it large and growing it larger. If I had been in the Navy, or was on the Naval and Marines subcommittee, an Admiral would have brought around somebody. There are also officers assigned to the Senate and the various staff committees as well. These are all field grade officers (O-4 through O-6, majors through full colonels, officers who should be running battalions and brigades instead of this nonsense) all of whom were reporting to a flag officer of some sort (generals and admirals) some of who were assigned to specific commands and some of who were assigned to various procurement programs. It’s an impossible muddle.

The Goldwater-Nichols Act of 1986 decided to ‘streamline’ the system, and instead added a gargantuan number of ‘joint’ slots to the system, where Army officers served on staffs combining other services as well, so they could ‘jointly’ work on problems. At some point an officer has to serve in a ‘joint’ position to be considered promotable to a senior rank.

Harlan nodded. “It’s joint, but it doesn’t matter. These days, unless you’re better than Audie Murphy you’ll be lucky to get your twenty in. I am just hanging in until then.”

Marty commented, “Well, they have you stashed somewhere until you find your way around?” Harlan nodded. “Make some friends over there and buy a place down in the Virginia suburbs. There’s a lot of defense contractors out along the corridor to Dulles. Do it right and you won’t even need to move at the end of your time. You can get in with a contractor and hawk their wares for even more money.”

I grinned and nodded. Harlan simply rolled his eyes and said, “I think I have fallen down the rabbit hole!”

“Oh, my friend, if you only knew!” I told him.

Chapter 119: Counterattack

1995

Before John and Helen left for their trip, we had a big party for them at a banquet hall in Timonium. It was a big group of us, people from the company, political types from all over the district and from elsewhere in Maryland, other friends and neighbors, and Allen and Rachel both flew in with their families. Prior to this John had met with me and introduced me to his handpicked replacement, an attorney just a few years older than me, Tucker Potsdam, who had been a tax lawyer with the Buckman Group and didn’t take to the corporate life and the killer hours it occasionally involved. Now he was hanging out his own shingle as tax lawyer and private equity manager. We were going to continue with the fig leaf of independence from active management of my investments. I would talk to the new guy, who would talk to my trustee. Perfectly legal, at least by Congressional standards.

The party turned out to be… strange. Nobody wanted to say the obvious, that we were having a party and talking about a dead man walking. At one point I was sitting at a table with Allen Steiner, John’s son and an old buddy from Boy Scout days, having a drink. He asked, “Does this feel more than a little weird to you?”

“I’ve never been to a funeral where the guest of honor was walking around the room,” I answered.

Allen snorted out a laugh and coughed out a bit of his drink. “It’s bizarre, all right!” He coughed a little and then drank some more.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do without him,” I told my boyhood friend. “I mean, a guy develops feelings for the first man who bails him out of jail.”

That caused Allen to start laughing and coughing again. “Will you stop it? If I keep laughing and inhaling my drink, I’m going to end up in the box before my dad!”

“Hey, I’m just saying, I have history with him.”

He nodded. “Yeah, there were times I was even a little jealous, you know? I was three thousand miles away, and you were still back here with Dad. It sounds stupid now.”

“Allen, you have to know, you and Rachel… Listen, my picture was out in the lobby. Yours and Rachel’s were on his desk!” I protested.

He waved it off. “Hey, don’t sweat it, I know that. I’m just saying, Dad feels the same way about you. I mean, he sat me and Rach down the other night and reviewed the wills and stuff. Good Lord! He’s worth $60 million dollars! He told us he wouldn’t have had a fraction of that if he hadn’t gotten in with you and your company.”

“He earned every cent! I wouldn’t be where I am without what he did for us.” I replied. “It wasn’t just me, not by a long shot!”

“All I’m saying is that when the time comes, you know…” He glanced over at where his parents were sitting, with a somewhat guilty look on his face. “Well, you know… he’d appreciate it if you said a few words. Mom and Rachel would, too.”

I nodded. “I’d be honored. Hell, there’ll be so many people wanting to say nice things about your father, I’ll need to beat them back with my cane!” I drained my glass. “Christ, he’ll probably end up on some tropical island in the South Pacific and outlive us all.”

Allen drained his own glass. “I’ll drink to that!”

In Washington Newt and the Gang of Eight (now Seven, since Rick had moved up in the world) began to get a lesson in practical politics from one William Jefferson Clinton. I was expecting it, even if the others weren’t, and it was still a shock. Some of the others were reeling, and Newt was truly pissed that Slick Willie wasn’t rolling over and playing dead like a good Democrat should. Clinton laid low for the first couple of weeks of the new session, allowing us to introduce one of our Contract bills every day. When asked, as he invariably was, he simply promised to work with the new Congress and the new Congressional leadership to forge legislation that was both bipartisan and able to move the country forward. Very innocuous stuff.

To what extent he was trying to lure us into a sense of false security I’m not sure. While he wasn’t screaming, some of his key lieutenants were. The ones I heard the most from were Dick Gephardt and Dave Bonior, both of whom were highly experienced, thoroughly tied into the moneymen, and as crooked as the day was long. The Republican takeover of Congress was an unnatural event, ranking right up there with having sex with dead donkeys, and needed to be reversed. They immediately began taking our legislation and picking it to pieces in the hopes of destroying it entirely. Even better, if they could destroy it, they could then trumpet how the Republicans had failed in our Contract with America, and should be sent packing at the next election.

Some of the bills were easy pickings for them. The two most obvious items were John Boehner’s Balanced Budget Act and my Rebuilding America Act. These were the two bills most likely to be compromised by the Dems — and everybody else, for that matter! Both were major spending bills, and allowed an infinite number of ways for a Congressman to loot the Treasury on behalf of his constituents, or contributors. Sometimes it is something relatively innocuous and cheap (by government standards) such as the Federal funding of yet another corn museum in Iowa. Other times it can be ridiculously extravagant projects like the ‘bridge to nowhere’ in Alaska, which ran almost a third of a billion dollars, and connected the mainland to a town with only 50 residents. This is pork barrel politics at its most nitty and gritty. Remember the mighty word ‘earmark.’

I warned John and the others what was going to happen, and that if we tried to stop the process we would get nothing but heartache. The best we could accomplish was to control and influence things, and keep the lid on the more ridiculous stuff, by throwing spotlights on them as necessary. We also had to control our own side, who now that they were in positions of power wanted to get their own blessing of pork.

Some of the bills were going to be shitcanned. After a few weeks of review, the word came down that Clinton was going to flat out veto my Defending the 2^nd Amendment bill. He had just signed the Brady bill into law in the last session and here we were trashing it. While I hadn’t touched the section on requiring background checks on handgun purchase, we had totally wiped out the ban on assault weapons and replaced it with a piece on limiting magazine sizes, and were violating states rights on the permit issue. Worse, I was both a murderous bastard (no, Bill didn’t actually call me that, but he came close, citing my ‘proclivity to shoot first and ask questions later’) and calling me a shill for the NRA, the National Rifle Association, which I wasn’t even a member of. I simply shrugged and began working on finding enough votes to override the veto. I could probably do that in the House; the Senate was much more questionable. I would need to line up 67 votes there, and might have to accept a watered down bill to manage that.

All the other stuff, tort reform and welfare fixes and social security and such, they would do the rope-a-dope technique. Every little bit would be fucked with and delayed, and modified so much as to be totally unrecognizable, in the hopes that we would drop the hot potato before they could get Clinton to veto it. Some of it they figured would die of its own weight. We would never get enough Congressmen to sign off on any meaningful Congressional reform, so Bill could stand back and look statesmanlike and sorrowful when we couldn’t even get our own house in order.

Newt and the Majority Leader and Whip, Dick Armey and Tom DeLay, were taking a more laid back approach to some of this. Newt’s big plan wasn’t so much the legislation as the spectacle and effect. He had used the Contract with America to take back both houses of Congress. If we got the legislation to pass, so much the better. We had a big meeting with the Gang of Eight and the Republican leadership of both the House and the Senate in February, and got our marching orders. Newt and Bob Dole were working on driving a stake through Clinton’s heart for the next election. Generalship on the various bills he was leaving up to DeLay and those of us with our names on the bills.

The biggest change between now and the first time through on this for me was that this time we already had the Senate lined up. On my first trip through, Newt had only handled things in the House, and didn’t have any decent support in the other house. Since nothing can go to the President until both houses pass it and cobble something together, this added months to the process. This time we had started much earlier. We had brought some Senators in on things. We had Senate versions of all our bills ready to go the same day we dropped the House bills into the hopper. By April we had most of the bills passed, sometimes over Democratic screaming, but passed. (Well, not Congressional Reform or Tort Reform, they would probably never pass!) Now it was up to Bill Clinton to either sign them into law or veto them.

Clinton had ten days to sign them into law or veto them. If the Congress went out of session before he could sign them, they were effectively vetoed. (This is known as a pocket veto and is a useful tool to get a law passed that nobody really wanted and then get the President to dump it. You simply wait until the end of the session, pass it, and the President just ignores it until the clock runs out. Congress has managed to do something about whatever without really doing anything.) We didn’t give him that luxury. He waited nine days before giving the chop to most of them. Surprisingly, the Rebuilding America Act he let pass, probably because there was sufficient Democratic pork in it. I tried to control it, even going so far as to pull an all-nighter in the committee conference room with the Chairman of the Senate Commerce, Science, and Transportation Committee, Larry Pressler, during final markup. Still, we had plenty of pork for everybody.

I did not envy John Boehner and his Balanced Budget Act, or John Doolittle and his Business Tax Reform Act. Doolittle had promised that his focus was on eliminating loopholes and tax shelters. He was promising to lower rates if we eliminated loopholes and shelters. Everybody liked the first part of that, but not so much the second. Then again, if Boehner could close the budget gap, which had been over $200 billion last year, we could afford lower rates. It had been done the first time through, why not do it again?

Meanwhile I tried to get home and be father and husband. One of the benefits of having a driver and security detail was that it made it easier to haul Charlie and his bike to various races. When I started with increased security and drivers I had bought a Ford F-150 with a hitch package, and a small enclosed trailer to carry his bike. Then, with one of the drivers hauling the gear, the family could follow in a second people-mover minivan. In neither life had I ever learned to drive while towing something, but I could usually find a driver who had learned somewhere. Charlie was now competing outside of Maryland as well, into Pennsylvania and West Virginia and Virginia.

Charlie was making a real name for himself now, and was actually interviewed at a race in Hedgesville, out near Hagerstown but just across the border into West Virginia. He was named along with several other junior riders in a piece on ‘Pros of the Future!’ I commented to Marilyn later that what he really liked about the magazine was the pictures of the pretty girls standing next to the motorcycles. My wife rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Our little boy was growing up, and showing decidedly heterosexual tendencies.

I sat down with him one evening after a Boy Scout troop meeting, one where he seemed a bit listless and disinterested. “What’s with you and the Scouts?” I asked.

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“You, tonight. You didn’t seem all that thrilled to be there.”

Charlie grimaced. “It’s not the Scouts. Next month we’re doing a camping trip down to someplace in Virginia. Some place called Winchester or something.”

I nodded. “That’s in the Shenandoah Valley. Very nice area. Should be fun.”

“Yeah, but that’s the same weekend as a race in Pittsburgh. I mean, I mentioned that to you, right? You said I could go and all.” Charlie was sounding a touch whiney.

“Okay, settle down. Sure, you probably said it, and that’s fine with me. You need to make a decision. You can’t do everything. School’s the most important thing, and if you don’t bring your grades up and keep them there, there’s no racing anyway.” Charlie looked horrorstricken at the thought, but nodded mutely. “After that, you need to decide what you’re going to do. If you can’t do both the racing and the Scouting, you need to make a decision. You can’t do them both half-assed. You need to figure out what’s important to you.”

He nodded again, seemingly lost in thought, so I kept on. “What about school? You were on the JV football team last fall, right? Do you plan to keep playing sports? Can you do that, too? Do you expect your mother to take you to all of these places and still manage to come down to Washington? She’s also taking your sisters to do their stuff, too.”

“Uhhhh…”

“Well, we don’t need an answer now, but you need to start planning. You need to think about what is important to you. Nobody, not even me, can do everything,” I told my son.

He didn’t say much, so I sent him off to think. Marilyn came through from the kitchen at that point and saw his somber face. She asked, “What’s with him? He looks like his dog just died.” Dum-Dum took that opportunity to jump up and try to lick her face. “No, Dum-Dum, not you!”

I had to laugh at that. I rubbed Dum-Dum’s head and she jumped into my lap and lay down for a nap, well deserved after a long day of sleeping. Then she farted and both Marilyn and I had to rub our watery eyes! “It wasn’t me!” I protested.

“No, even you don’t smell that bad. Oh, Dum-Dum, what have you been eating!?” Marilyn sat down in her chair and Dum-Dum jumped across to her lap, eliciting an “Ooof!” from Marilyn.

“I told Charlie he has to set some priorities. He can’t keep racing and doing Scouting and doing afterschool sports. He has to make some choices.” I explained our conversation.

She sighed and agreed. “I know! I mean, there’s his sports and the girls in Brownies and ballet and his Boy Scouts and the church and…” She finished with a line I had heard before. “I need a wife of my own!”

I let her run down for a bit before interrupting. “Marilyn, you’re as bad as the kids. You need to make some priorities. You can’t do all this stuff either. You have to tell the kids what you can do and then stick to it! Unless you want to hire a nanny…”

“NO!”

“… then you need to get serious about your schedule. You can’t keep up like this. You’ll kill yourself!”

As I expected, Marilyn protested that it really wasn’t that bad, that she could do everything she needed to. It was an argument we had had before, both in this life and in my last. She refused to believe she couldn’t do everything. At home this usually meant a long list of projects she would start and then never finish. Time management was not Marilyn’s strong suit. I sighed and half nodded to her. The only way this would end was when the kids all moved out and we were on our own. “We just need to sell the kids off,” I said, which elicited a laugh from Marilyn.

Just then Holly came wandering through. I looked over at her and asked, “When’s your birthday?”

My daughter gave me an odd look. “July 23.”

I nodded solemnly. “Just like last year. And you’ll be how old?”

“I’ll be eleven.”

“Excellent. Only seven years to go,” I announced.

“Seven years to go to what?”

“Seven years to go until you’re eighteen and I can kick you out the door!” I jumped out of my chair and chased her around the living room. Holly started squealing and ran away, to be joined a moment later when Molly came out. Then Dum-Dum jumped up and hopped around on Marilyn’s lap. After a couple of minutes the twins ran squealing down the hallway and their bedroom door slammed shut.

Marilyn rubbed the dog’s belly which made her settle down. “Do we have to wait until they’re eighteen?” she asked.

“Why wait! We’ve got 25 acres here. If we dig a deep enough hole, nobody will find them!” I went into the kitchen to make dinner.

By August I got a phone call from Helen Steiner that I had been dreading. I had been checking with Tucker Potsdam and a few of the people around the Buckman Group all spring and summer. John Steiner had told us that after the going-away party none of us would see him until the funeral, and he had been true to his word. After their round the world trip, they had returned home, puttered around a few days, and then had flown to Europe for an extended tour and vacation. They stayed in Europe until the beginning of July, when John’s health began completely falling apart, and the cancer and pain had spread too much. They came home, and he had hospice begin treating him at his home. He passed away the second week of August.

As I promised him, I acted as one of his pallbearers, and spoke at his memorial service. I don’t remember what I spoke; I had written words down, but never bothered taking them out of my coat pocket, and simply spoke from the heart. Nobody seemed to notice, and everybody had a good cry. In the audience, I saw my father sitting, but I had been closer to John than I had been to my Dad. We didn’t talk. That made it doubly worse for me. I realized that not only one of my oldest friends was dead, but to me, my father was dead also. I drank more than I should that night, sitting in my office at the house.

Then it was back to work. Back in D.C. the American Renaissance Institute came into being. Marty found a guy named Porter Boardman over at the Cato Institute who wanted to move up in the world, and passed his name along to Bob Seaver. We had Bob sound him out on a few things, and began funding things. The only people who knew what I was doing were Seaver and Marty, and we wanted it kept that way. The ARI was set up ostensibly as a think tank devoted to ‘common sense’ ideas, somewhat libertarian, which was how Porter was found. The ARI would have a board of directors and a fundraising staff, they could hire lawyers and lobbyists, and start trying to influence things.

I wasn’t sure how this would play out, but Seaver promptly got Boardman to hire a law firm registered as lobbyists to start pushing to pass D2A. His line was that a major funding outfit wanted it passed. Initially this was just a junior lawyer and a staffer sitting in on some of our meetings at the Heritage Foundation. Still, you had to start somewhere. Ultimately, I’d be able to go to my think tank, just like a regular Congressman, propose some ideas, have them actually write the legislation, and then hire the various lobbyists as needed. As long as the money flowed, nobody would care. We budgeted five million that first year.

A big part of getting things passed is ‘counting noses’, determining who will vote which way and why. We had enough House votes to override, but not in the Senate. As much as I detested working with them, we needed the NRA to bend over and get butt-fucked. The only way I was going to get this passed was to repeal my repeal of the assault weapons ban. This was simply foaming-mouth anathema to them, and the restraint on magazine capacities of over 10 rounds wasn’t much better. The only thing they really liked was the demand for reciprocal permitting and the ‘shall issue’ requirement (and they really liked those parts, which made some of the other stuff acceptable.) Again, I had the House lined up, but digging up ten Democratic Senators was going to be tough — as in, expensive. There would be a lot of campaign contributions for this one.

You have to love Congress. It’s the best that money can buy.

One thing I continued doing was to overtly use my ‘toys’ to swing a vote here and there. You or a constituent needed to fly somewhere? Hey, I’ve got a G-IV that I’m not using this weekend. Why not take that? Didn’t get to Barbados this year? Maybe you’d like a weekend in the Bahamas, a little place called Hougomont? Sure thing, not a problem. Just remember, we have this little vote coming up…

At one point in late summer I had a meeting with Wayne LaPierre of the NRA about the bill. He’d only been on the job for a few years, but he was a hard core gun rights advocate. He was pushing hard for me to remove the magazine capacity restrictions from the bill. I let him fulminate for more time that I really wanted to waste on this, and then shut him down. He was never, ever, going to get what he really wanted, which was a constitutional amendment outlawing any and all restrictions on who could own guns and how many and where they could carry them. If you left it up to him, it would be perfectly legal to strap an automatic machine pistol into your holster and march down the middle of the street, daring anybody to stop you. He wanted the good old days down at the OK Corral, never realizing that what really occurred there was that Wyatt Earp and his brothers and Doc Holliday were actually enforcing various gun control ordinances.

“Wayne, you are never going to get what you want.”

“Carl, we have to fight…”

I held up my hand to stop him. “You’ve had your turn, now it’s mine!” I told him sharply. He settled down, none too graciously, and gave me a mean look. I ignored him. “As I was saying, as long as Bill Clinton or any other Democrat is in office, you are never going to get more than a piece of the pie. You are going to have to fight the long fight, years, in fact, and probably never get everything. There is no way we can get rid of the stuff in the Brady Bill. We just don’t have the votes. I can get the override with the reciprocal permitting and the shall-issue ruling, but the only way is to keep the magazine capacity limit in place. End of story. You ain’t going to get any more than that, and if you don’t like it, get over it!”

He looked like he had a head of steam about to explode, and he cut loose on me. I just sat there and sucked it in, and then shrugged theatrically. “So what!? It don’t matter! Sure, you can buy all the Congressmen you want, but you ain’t going to be buying all the Senators that you need. Hell, I’ve got more money than you, and I couldn’t buy that many! You need to work on the edges. Maryland? Massachusetts? They’ll never vote for this, even if I lined their pockets in gold. Start working on the ones on the fence, and keep your mouth shut and settle for what you can. We get this now, and then in two years we run Clinton out and try again.”

The thought of Clinton losing re-election mollified him slightly, and after a bit, I got him out of there. My biggest worry was that he would demand more than anybody was going to give him, and then throw sand into the gears in response. That was a problem with true believers; it was either their way or no way.

I wondered, if this passed, could I get to meet Charlton Heston? He was the head of the NRA, a figurehead position, but really… he was Charlton Heston! How often do you get to meet Moses? I hoped Wayne could calm down enough to bring out the big guns. A photo op with Heston might convert a few recalcitrant Senators. This was a good ten years before the Alzheimer’s took him, and he was still quite clear and cogent at this point, and extremely popular.

There were some other conservatives who began thinking they had more pull than they really did. Grover Norquist was really pushing hard on his reducing taxation kick, and was going to every Congressman and Senator to get them to sign his ‘pledge.’ He already knew my feelings on the subject, but made an appointment (demanded it, really) and slapped it down on my desk. I wadded it up and tossed it in the circular file while he sat there and stewed. “Carl, don’t think we don’t have influence. How would you like a vicious primary fight in two years!” he warned.

“Grover, how would you like a nice liberal in the Maryland Ninth in two years?” I responded.

“Don’t try that threat with me.”

“Threat? That’s no threat, that’s a promise! Let’s play Suppose for a bit. Suppose you do find somebody to run against me next time around Now, I know damn near every Republican in the district but I suppose you can find a hard core conservative in the western part, or you can bring in a ringer from somewhere else. Now, suppose you give him a few million to attack me. Do you think I can’t afford to counterattack? Grover, I have more money in my wallet than your whole group has in their bank accounts! Now suppose that your guy is good, really good. He might win in a nasty primary bout, or he might lose, but weaken me in the process. What happens in either case is that we then lose to the Democrats, who will listen to you even less than I do. Grover, you can defeat me, but you can’t win the district.”

He argued on, about the moral imperative of what he was doing and about how Democrats really wanted fiscal discipline, too. I let him ramble on and then hit a hidden button under my desk. That buzzed my secretary, who would enter and inform me that I had an urgent call, allowing me to rid myself of nuisances.

One amusing incident occurred around this time. I was over at Tusk Cycle talking to Tusker late one afternoon, and Bucky was working in the shop. He was a high school senior now, and planning on college. He was tall and lanky, a lot like his father, with the same flaming red hair, although it was just an unruly mop, and not down his back. (Tusker’s was turning gray, which I needled him about on occasion.) He came through, and I asked him, “So, where are you planning on going to college?” Tessa had informed her son that he was going to college, and not hanging around the shop for the rest of his life.

He glanced at his father, and then looked back at me. Then he looked back at Tusker, who said, “Well, go on, ask him!”

I gave the pair a curious look, and Bucky stuttered a bit and asked, “Uh, Uncle Carl, I was wondering, uh, would you write me a recommendation letter?”

“Yeah, sure. Where to?” I glanced at his father, who was amused by his son’s nervousness. Bucky was a good kid, with good grades. He had two hobbies that I could detect, motorcycles and girls. If he was into anything more serious, I couldn’t see it.

My namesake breathed a sigh of relief, which I found amusing. Was he actually worried I would say no? I snorted in derision and glanced at his dad, who looked amused. “Well, tell him where you want to go!” urged Tusker.

“I applied to the University of Pennsylvania. Maryland, too, but the University of Pennsylvania is my first choice. I want to study business, and they’re supposed to be really good,” came out in a rush.

I looked over at Tusker, who was obviously proud of his son. “The University of Pennsylvania, hmmm? The Ivy League! Pretty good for the son of an itinerant bicycle repairman.”

“Fuck you, Carl,” laughed Tusker, who flipped me the bird. “I’ll tell Tessa you said that, and let you put up with her.”

“Heaven forbid!” I turned back to Bucky. “Well, why not. My old man went to Pennsylvania. Wharton’s a good school for business, too. I bet the Buckman Group has hired a few MBAs from there over the years. You figuring a letter from me on Congressional stationery might help?” Before he could answer, I looked back at my old friend. I raised my right hand and rubbed my thumb across my fingers. “The Ivy League? You are going to have to repair an awful lot of bicycles!”

He laughed some more. “Now I really am telling Tessa!”

“Give me a couple of days, and I’ll get something for you.” I jotted a note to myself and stuck it in my pocket.

The next morning I was in the front office with Mindy and a few of the others, and I mentioned it to her. She simply nodded and pulled one of the stock recommendations we had around the place. We red-lined a few sentences and added a few replacements, so that it was obvious I actually knew the kid, and she promised to get it typed up on some Congressional letterhead for my signature.

Marty came through as she was reading the final version, and he commented, “If he really is a friend of yours, whatever you do, don’t tell them the truth! Any namesake of yours must have majored in beer and cheerleaders in high school!”

I had to laugh at that, as did a few others there, and Mindy said, “We should write up a real recommendation for him!”

“I should. We can give it to his parents and tell them we’ve already mailed it. Maybe something about how he is expected to be released in time for classes to start in September.” That earned some more laughter.

Mindy grabbed a notepad and jotted that one down. Other phrases that made the cut included, ‘A pre-law curriculum is highly recommended, so that in his future endeavors he will be able to assist his attorneys in his defense’, as well as ‘Buckman is possessed of a spirited and lively sense of humor. A review of property, accident, and general liability insurance requirements should be considered.’ Half the office was weighing in on this, and we wrote a very nice recommendation for a young man applying for incarceration at the maximum security prison in Jessup.

The following weekend we had the Tusks over for dinner, and I gave them the phony recommendation first. Tusker snorted his beer out through his nose halfway through the letter, and was laughing as he passed it over to Tessa. She started squawking as she read it, with Marilyn over her shoulder, especially after I told them I had already sent it off. Marilyn simply said, “You didn’t!”

“Hmmm? I didn’t? Maybe it was this one I sent.” I handed over a copy of the real letter.

Tusker handed Bucky the phony letter. “Keep this. It’s an example of truth in advertising.” The real letter was much nicer, and combined with the Congressional stationery, looked pretty impressive. If he failed to get in, it wouldn’t be because of the letter.

Slick Willie fought us tooth and nail through the summer and the fall. In November I managed to get just enough Senators to generate an override of the veto on D2A. We essentially rewrote the bill as a new bill, which technically meant that the President could legitimately veto it again. However, he could count noses, too, and when he saw the numbers I had cobbled together, accepted it with a certain degree of ill grace. There wasn’t a nice Rose Garden ceremony, that’s for sure!

I was advising some of the other Gang of Eight members, too. A few of them got some funding from ARI to help generate sufficient votes. Slick Willie came up with a tactic that Newt absolutely detested — he surrendered. Specifically, he would veto a bill, but then have a Democrat submit a similar bill, one that generated about 80–90 % of what the first bill did, which he would go along with. This new ‘Democratic’ bill, showing wonderful ‘bipartisan leadership’ that ‘addressed the needs of the nation, and not just the desires of a single interest group’ would pass. As far as Newt was concerned, Bill Clinton wasn’t being beaten into the dust. As far as I was concerned, we were getting an awful lot of what we were pushing for in the Contract, without getting the specific bills passed. We got a big chunk of the welfare reform bill enacted, along with most of the regulatory reform and social security reform bills passed. Clinton punted the tax reform and budget reform bills, promising to roll them into the next budget bill.

This was not at all the way Gingrich wanted to win the fight. He wanted more than just the substance, he wanted the flash and sizzle of ‘winning.’ He wanted to beat Clinton, and to have it publicly acknowledged that he had beaten him. He wanted Clinton to stand and fight, get beat up in the process, look ineffective, and then die from poor leadership abilities during the 1996 elections. As I told Newt months before, Slick Willie was more than capable of teaching Newt a thing or two. Clinton knew when and where and how to fight, and what battles to fight and what battles to cede. He was actually making Newt look more than a little childish and intransigent at times.

Bill Clinton, I think, knew how this was pissing Gingrich off. For reasons of his own, namely winning re-election, he couldn’t allow a Republican ‘victory’ on anything. Still, I had to wonder if he knew just how much it was pissing Newt off at a personal level. This became a full blown crisis in the late fall.

Clinton had managed to push John Boehner’s budget bill and John Doolittle’s tax reform bills into the hodgepodge of the general budget. When the fiscal year ended at the end of September, we still didn’t have a budget. The Republicans in the House, most definitely including me and the rest of the Gang of Eight, wanted to cut spending and balance the budget. Just as much, however, Clinton wanted to increase spending on any number of social programs. These were items like Social Security, education, and health care. Yes, we had already hit on a few of these in the Contract, but this was an end run on those. These were all popular programs designed to appeal to the Democratic base, and it wasn’t a surprise considering that we were about to enter an election year.

Everybody stood their ground, and no budget bill was forthcoming. Normally, when this happens, and it happens a fair number of times, they pass what’s called a ‘continuing resolution’, which simply means we get to keep going at last year’s budget numbers until we could get things sorted out. Gingrich got totally pissed off and decided to throw sand in the gears. He demanded a limit to increasing the national debt. I tried to talk him out of it, in a private meeting with Newt, John Boehner, John Doolittle, Dick Armey, Tom DeLay, and a few others. Newt saw this as simply a tactic to force Clinton to his will.

“Newt, I am warning you, this will have consequences beyond what you can imagine. You are messing with the promise of the United States government to pay its debt. I guarantee that this will not look good on Wall Street!” I warned him.

“Exactly! That’s why he’ll cave in! He has to! He’ll never stand the heat if Wall Street starts complaining,” was the riposte.

I noticed the others were just watching as I argued with Newt. “Why in the world would that matter to him? The Republican bankers and investors on Wall Street don’t like it? What a surprise! He’s already convinced half the country that we’re out to drive a stake through his and Hillary’s hearts. What are you going to do? Link the continuing resolution and the debt ceiling together? What will he do?”

“If he wants the resolution, he’ll have to take the ceiling.” Gingrich was too focused for his own good.

I shook my head. “And what if he doesn’t? What if he says that the obligation to pay our debts is greater than the obligation to balance the budget? What then?”

Around me there was a look of confusion on a few faces. The actual effects weren’t really very clear to them. I knew what would happen, since I had seen it on the first try. “He’ll have to!”

“Nuts! He will shut the damn thing down and point a finger at you. He won’t be the bad guy, you will! When Great Aunt Martha doesn’t get her Social Security check, he’ll point at you. When Uncle Cletus doesn’t get his pension check from the VA, he’ll point at you. When Little Suzie’s hospital cuts off her dialysis treatments because they didn’t get paid, he’ll point at you. How long do you want to put up with that? You think that’s going to play so well back home?”

Gingrich was practically sneering at this. “Carl, it will never come to that. He will break. He’s the President. Even if what you say will happen happens, it will be all his fault, and people will know it. He will look weak, and it will kill him next November.”

“People in this country love an underdog. Hell, it’s how some of us got here, by portraying ourselves as the underdog. He can play that sob story for quite a while. He’ll offer to meet and compromise and work with you and be bipartisan, but if you don’t meet him at least part way, the blame will be on the people in this room. The voters might not like Clinton for what’s happening, but they sure won’t like us for it either! Hell, you might even be playing into Slick Willie’s hands! He can do the political calculus as well as anybody in this room. You don’t think this is going to mess up Dole’s bid for office? How many of us will be weaker next year because of this. We don’t need this, Newt.”

The consensus in the room was to let Newt keep pushing, although I knew it was going to prove an unmitigated disaster for the party. The existing resolution ran until November 13, at which point we needed either a budget that would pass, or another continuing resolution. Gingrich was demanding that the next resolution include a debt limit ceiling, which Clinton wasn’t going to approve. Newt figured that would require Clinton to pass a budget.

I met with Newt once more on this, privately, the day before the vote on the second resolution. “Newt, you know I have been a support to you, ever since I got into Congress. You know that! But I have to say, this is not good. This is going to backfire on us, and on you more than anybody. Don’t do this! Sever the link and make nice. The voters sent us here to fix things, not break them.”

“Carl, you’ve told me this before, and it is getting old. I put up with a lot from you, and yes, you’ve been a loyal supporter. Now, I am telling you this is going to go through, and I am telling you that you are supporting it. Is that understood?”

“Just don’t expect me to smile when the wheels come off this thing.” I left his office shaking my head silently.

On the 13^th Newt and the rest of the congressional leadership met with the President to try to figure out a compromise. Newt refused to compromise. On the 14^th, big chunks of the government shut down. In most ways it was the pinnacle of Newt Gingrich’s political career.

I wondered what was to become of mine.

Chapter 120: Mister Perfect

I couldn’t remember for the life of me exactly what had happened on my first go-around, but I knew it had been bad, with Newt and Bill shutting down the government for a chunk of the winter. It was the same now. From November 14 through December 22, for 39 days, they wrangled and snarled at each other. It unfolded pretty much along the lines I had predicted, with both sides losing respect from the public, but the Republican House losing more than the President. Then it got ugly.

It came out by the end of November that Gingrich and Clinton had gotten into a pissing match when they both flew to Israel for Yitzhak Rabin’s funeral at the beginning of the month. Gingrich complained, to a reporter no less, about how he had been forced to exit Air Force One from the back of the plane.

When the President flies somewhere in Air Force One, the cameras focus on him coming out the front door, waving to everybody, and meeting the dignitaries. Everybody else — and I do mean everybody! — wife, kids, friends, reporters, staffers — they all go out the back door, and nobody sees them on television. Newt decided that he deserved to go out the front door with the President! He was shut down and sent packing to the rear. New York’s Daily News ran a cartoon on the front page showing a crying Newt in a diaper, which made national headlines. It only made Newt more difficult to work with.

I avoided the man as much as possible. He had been heard to mention my ‘disloyalty’ for disagreeing with him, even though I had voted with him. I heard about that from John Boehner and Jim Nussle. I shrugged, and they pretty much did, too. They were smart men and could see the damage being done even if Newt couldn’t. There was even some grumbling from a few people about whether making Gingrich the Speaker of the House had been such a wise thing after all.

Three days before Christmas, Gingrich caved and severed the link between the continuing resolution and the debt ceiling. Clinton promptly proposed a smattering of budget cuts and tax increases so we could pass a budget in January. It wouldn’t balance the budget, but it would cut the deficit.

In some ways, I didn’t care. I had bigger fish to fry than Newton Leroy Gingrich. The Democrats were feeling frisky, and with the populace starting to reconsider their decision two years ago to throw out the Democratic rascals, a new crop of Democrats were pushing to throw out the Republican rascals. My last two re-elections had been relatively easy. In ’92 I faced the stunned and half-beaten survivor of a nasty primary fight. In ’94 I had been gifted with an opponent who spent more time insulting the Democrats than coming after me. The Democratic Party was hoping that the third time was the charm, and I was very much afraid it might well be!

My opponent was to be Steve Rymark, an Assistant State’s Attorney for Baltimore County. He was 36, four years younger than me. He was tall, lean, and trim. He ran marathons. He had a full head of thick blond hair. His wife Donna was a runner-up Miss Maryland, tall, blonde, and leggy. Between the two of them they had about a million perfectly capped and blindingly white teeth, which they both showed in their incessant smiles. They had two adorable children, both blonde and with dimples. Donna was two months pregnant when Steve announced he was running against me. They lived in Cockeysville, just inside the district line. They were the most beautiful and adorable family on the planet!

It just kept getting better. He had made a name for himself in a case putting away a couple of Republican county commissioners last year for bribery, and then followed it up with the successful prosecution of a cop killer in the fall. (There went the law and order vote!) She had just written and illustrated a children’s book about a family of happy dragons, which had been reviewed by the New York Times. (And goodbye to the family values vote, too!)

If I wasn’t running for office I would have voted for him!

Marilyn took a look at their picture in the paper and pronounced, “He’s cute!”

“Nothing like a little support there, honey!” I told her, earning a raspberry in response.

Charlie took a look at the picture of Steve and his wife standing next to him, and pronounced, “Wow! She’s hot!” I might have to put up with Marilyn, but not Charlie. I smacked him with the newspaper and he took off, laughing.

I was using John Thomas as my campaign manager, and we ran a preliminary poll two weeks after Rymark announced he was running. The results were dispiriting, to say the least. So far I had won three elections by margins of 15 to 25 points. Right now I was down in the single digits. John and I looked at each other and called a meeting of everybody we could think of for the following Friday. I got on the phone and called Brewster McRiley and told him to shag his ass to Westminster; we were going to need all the big guns this time around. We brought Marty up and called in the various heads of the Republican Committees in the three counties I represented. For some extra flavor, we had Marilyn and Cheryl Dedrick, my Field Representative present. If anybody had a feel for the pulse of the Maryland Ninth, it was the person who spent her time sorting out the problems of the locals. Theoretically she was to keep her time separate from the campaign, as was Marty, as government employees. On the other hand, if I lost and Steve Rymark took over, they wouldn’t be government employees for long. They had a stake in this, too.

We agreed that we had to do the usual things, opposition research and extensive polling, as well as research into what the voters were thinking about me. In this regard Cheryl had a few comments, though, which were unpleasant but not unexpected. “The letters we are getting here at the office are relatively content with how we handle the routine stuff, but they aren’t too happy with some of your policy stands. You are being linked closely to Newt Gingrich and that is not playing well here. We got a lot of letters and calls about the monuments down on the Mall being shut down. We’ve had some calls from veterans complaining that they can’t get any response out of the VA, Johns Hopkins oncology department is complaining about the shutdown at the National Institutes of Health… the list is endless.” She laid out a spreadsheet with a summary of complaints and shutdown departments on it. “For all that people complain about hating big government and wanting to shut it down, when it actually happens they don’t really like it.”

Marty nodded and tossed a stack of phone logs on the table. “We’re seeing the same thing in Washington. Everybody wants to shut down government, just not the pieces they like, which turns out to be the whole damn thing anyway. You and the rest of the Gang of Eight and Gingrich are considered by many to be the reason for the mess.”

I sighed and nodded. “The Gang of Eight is no more. We were just a group of guys who liked each other and could work with Newt to topple the Democrats and ram through the Contract with America. We’re not even eight now; Rick Santorum is a Senator and above this pettiness. Besides, Newt isn’t talking to me at the moment.”

There were a few snorts and chuckles around the room. Jack Nerstein summed it up nicely. “Even worse than being wrong is being right, when being right means you disagree with the other guy.” I gave him a wry smile, pointed a finger at him, and nodded.

“So we can’t expect any help from him?” Millie Destrier commented.

“You don’t want any help from Gingrich,” interjected Brewster, who had been listening up until now. It had been a bit over six years now since I had met McRiley, and he was no longer the brash kid. He had managed or overseen seven Congressional and Senatorial elections by now, and won a total of six of them. The one loser was caught in bed with a hooker and his wife divorced him, actually serving him with the papers at a campaign rally designed to put his problems behind him. That one gave the late night comedians a lot of fun!

“Yeah,” I agreed sourly.

He continued, “He doesn’t forgive or forget, and if you aren’t an ally, you’re an enemy.” I opened my mouth to protest, but he waved me quiet. “I know, I know, you’re not an enemy, I know that. Newt is incredibly shortsighted at times, and he doesn’t look past the immediate tactical victory to the long term strategic loss. Right now all he sees is that he just lost to a man he despises. Newt’s natural instinct is going to be to double down and attack again. That is not going to be in your interest.”

“I am going to have to distance myself from him, which I am sure he will be happy to help with.” I could just see running ads saying I wasn’t really a key ally in the Contract with America. Unbelievable!

There wasn’t much we could come up with. This was going to come down to plain old fashioned campaigning. We came up with two major thrusts.

First, just like an old time smash-mouth football game, we were going to have to keep running the ball, going for two or three yards at a time, and not give up too many yards to the other team. There would be no Hail Mary passes or glorious 99 yard kick returns. The legendary Vince Lombardi, longtime coach of the Green Bay Packers, would start each season by holding up a football and saying, “This is a football!” We were going to go back to the basics.

In campaign terms, this meant doing the basics. I needed to contact everybody who had ever donated or helped or worked on a campaign and ask them to do it all over again. Nobody could come up with any dirt on either of the Rymarks. (When discussing Donna Rymark, John Thomas had shaken his head in disgust and commented, ‘What are we going to say? Her tits are too big and her legs are too long?’ Millie and Cheryl countered by pointing to a picture of Steve Rymark in running shorts, with what looked like a roll of socks stuffed down his pants, and said, ‘Some of us like other things, too.’; Marilyn simply giggled. Great! American democracy was being determined by penis length and bra size! How the hell did I ever get in this mess?) We were going to have to buy a lot of ads and push all the wonderful stuff we were doing for everybody, and not dwell on any of the big policy debates in Washington. It was going to be expensive.

There was a very strange response to Donna Rymark, one that I hadn’t expected. I came home one evening to find my wife chatting on the telephone in the kitchen. She tilted her cheek towards me, so I leaned down and kissed her. I glanced at her and noticed that something seemed different, but she was yapping away, so I dumped my briefcase in my office and went to the bedroom and changed out of my suit. When I got back to the kitchen Marilyn was hanging up the phone. “How was work?” she asked.

“Every day it is a privilege and honor to represent the Maryland Ninth and protect the citizens thereof from the godless hordes bent on their utter destruction.”

“You’re a selfless hero.”

“And in need of a drink.” I pulled a bottle of Louis Jadot Burgundy from the wine rack. I looked at Marilyn again. “Is that a new outfit?”

She lit up. “You noticed!”

“I always notice what you’re wearing.”

“No you don’t!”

I had to smile at that. “Guys always notice what women are wearing, so they can figure out how to get it off of them.”

That earned me a squawk of protest. “You are an awful person! If I told the citizens of the Maryland Ninth what you said, you’d lose the women’s vote, for sure!”

“But I’d gain the men’s vote,” I said, shrugging. “So, that’s new?” Marilyn had on a tight black skirt that ended about an inch above her knees, but had an interesting slit up the back a few inches higher. Up top she was wearing a tight fitted red tunic-shirt that overlaid the skirt, unbuttoned down to a point you could see a touch of cleavage, with a gold sash tied asymmetrically at the waist. She also had on some nice sheer hosiery, and some pointy-toed high heels.

“You like it?”

“Yeah. Very nice.” She looked both cute and sexy. “Are those pantyhose or stockings?”

“None of your business,” she replied primly.

“I think it is precisely my business!” I moved closer and managed to back my wife against the kitchen island. Even as she laughed and protested, I managed to reach down and begin tugging the hem of her skirt northward. Marilyn’s propriety was saved, however, when the back door slammed and the twins roared in.

“You can behave!” she told me, grinning.

“Huh! So this is how you spend your day, while I am off serving the populace? You go shopping?”

“Precisely. Some of our friends decided to do an intervention.”

“What?!”

“That’s what I said,” she admitted. “It was decided that we needed to fight fire with fire, so to speak. I needed to dress better to match Donna Rymark, so Taylor, Cheryl, and Missy decided we needed to update my wardrobe.”

I rolled my eyes. “Just how much did all this cost me? And by the way, Missy Talmadge is a Democrat. Isn’t she rooting for Steve Rymark?”

“Yeah, but she wanted to go shopping, so she went with us anyway.”

“Good Lord!” I muttered. “So you bought some new outfits?”

She smiled and nodded. Then I took an even close look at her. “There’s something else.” Marilyn had a mysterious smile on her face, and it took me a few seconds. “Did you do something with your hair?”

She put a hand up to her head and said, “Do you like it? I got it trimmed a bit.”

“Very cute.” Still something seemed a touch different. I looked at her from different angles, and then it hit me. I grinned and said, “You colored your hair!” Marilyn had been starting to get a few gray strands, and they were now gone.

Marilyn’s eyes opened wide! “No, no, I didn’t!”

She looked way too guilty! “You did! I can tell! You did!” I started laughing, and it only got worse when she slugged me in the shoulder. That made me keep going. “Does the rug match the drapes?! Do the collars match the cuffs?!”

Marilyn shrieked at me loud enough to get the girls to come into the kitchen, and she tried to punch me a second time, so I wrapped her up in my arms as I kept laughing. Holly looked at her sister and said, “They’re crazy!”

“They’re weird!” replied Molly.

That made Marilyn start laughing, too. At that time I was informed that I wouldn’t be seeing any collars, cuffs, rugs, or drapes for the rest of my life, which just kept me laughing. I just had to keep going, though. “Did you guys go shopping for new glasses?” Marilyn is nearsighted. It hit me when I was 18, but before I ever met her. She had never known me when I didn’t wear glasses. For my wife, however, it had started in her early 30s, and was now to the point where she needed glasses to be able to watch television or see a movie. Since she refused to admit to her vision problems, and refused to wear her glasses, she was constantly squinting or trying to fake it.

“NO!” She smacked me again, and started me laughing some more.

I retaliated by wrapping her up again in my arms, and this time I managed to pull her skirt high enough that I could feel the tops of her stockings. “Want me to find out if you’re going commando?”

She laughed. “Later, and if you don’t start behaving yourself, never!”

“Since when did you want me to behave myself?” I pinched her ass and then let her go and poured the wine. Marilyn blushed at that. “Any chance you guys did some shopping at Victoria’s Secret or Frederick’s of Hollywood?” That got an even bigger blush as a response.

With Marilyn trying to match Donna Rymark in the style department (although she would never be able to match her in height) our other big thrust was going to be somehow publicly distancing myself from Newt Gingrich. We had to paint him as an out of touch demagogue who had lured me astray, but now I was back on the path of goodness and righteousness. This left a sour taste in my mouth. I had known full well what I was doing when I helped to oust the Democrats, and I firmly believed that the elements of the Contract with America were for the good of all of us.

The one thing I agreed with, though, was that Newt was nowhere near done with his feud with Bill Clinton. I knew he was going after Slick Willie on every front he could, and in the most over the top fashion possible. For one thing, Monica Lewinsky was already working at the White House as an intern. I had seen her in passing once, and almost did a double take when I realized who she was. Pretty girl, I suppose, though more than a bit chunky for my taste. On the other hand, I like curvy brunettes, and if she had lost about twenty or thirty pounds around the midsection even I might have been tempted. Maybe she just gave great head! Clinton couldn’t keep his dick in his pants if you sewed the zipper shut, and no matter what I did in the here and now, Newt was going to hammer him on it.

In other areas, Clinton was equally vulnerable. On the personal side, Ken Starr was already investigating the Clintons about their Whitewater Development investment, and this was just going to dive deeper and deeper into their messy and complicated financial affairs. On the public side, there was the controversy about the White House Travel Office, improper access to various FBI files, and already some glimmerings of various espionage scandals involving Chinese businessmen with ties to Beijing. I told Marilyn that he was a great politician but I wouldn’t let him in the front door of the house, and I wouldn’t leave her or the kids alone with him. I’d make him come in through the utility room, and then wash my hands after shaking his.

All this meant that Gingrich had plenty of fuel to build a fire under the man, and he had no intention of not lighting the match.

What did it mean for me? No matter what my personal thoughts, I couldn’t be seen being petty. If Newt started pushing on Clinton’s marital infidelities or his pot smoking or draft dodging, I couldn’t allow myself to be drawn into it. I had to stand back and maintain a statesmanlike attitude. Some of it I didn’t care about (smoking marijuana) and some didn’t apply to me (my zipper was firmly closed, thank you very much, but Newt was a well known womanizer; the pot was calling the kettle black) and some I just didn’t want to touch (I served, but nothing good would come of me going after Clinton; better to just behave myself when asked about it.)

There was one way to differentiate myself from Rymark, though, and that was to push myself as a leader. Every politician worth his salt tells the voters he is going to be a leader, but damn few ever really are. In my case, I could point to legislation I had sponsored or co-sponsored, and the Contract with America, and say, ‘Like it or not, you have elected a leader of Congress. Do you want a leader, or not?’ I was going to have to run on my record, such as it was.

More than a few moments for this occurred during the election season. The President had signed the new version of the Defending the Second Amendment Act into law in November. Almost all laws have some form of waiting period, typically 90 days or more, before the law kicks in. This period allows the states to take measures to put the law into effect. For instance, if we passed a law requiring the states to inspect school cafeterias (just for example; they do it already anyhow) the delay allows the states to write the rules, hire a few inspectors, print up inspection forms, and so forth. In the case of D2A, the law went into effect on February 20, 1996, the day after President’s Day.

The new law was, to put it mildly, controversial in Maryland. It proved popular with large portions of the public, but not with the higher ups in the State Attorneys’ offices or the Maryland Attorney General, or with upper ranks of the State Police. It was surprisingly popular in Baltimore itself, which is very black and very Democratic, but when you thought about it, you realized most violence in the black community is from other blacks. Regardless, Rymark was publicly against the law, and the Attorney General for Maryland had vowed to sue, all the way up to the Supreme Court, to have it overturned.

That gave us an opportunity for some showmanship. The current Attorney General was Joe Curren, a long time political powerhouse with a history of supporting gun control laws. He was so anti-D2A that he had ignored the 90 day requirement to prepare for ‘shall issue’ concealed weapon carry permits. He simply said that Maryland was going to ignore the law, and deny all permits and refuse to accept out of state permits, just like before. I got together with John Thomas and Brewster McRiley, and we decided to fight fire with fire. We announced publicly that I would be traveling to Baltimore on February 20 and would apply in person for my Federally approved gun permit. Curren took the bait, and responded on the evening news that he would be on hand to personally deny the permit, and if I were to actually have a concealed weapon on my person, he would order me arrested on the spot!

We got a permit application and filled it out. Then we did something that I didn’t think Curren was expecting — we hired a lawyer. Not just any lawyer, either, but David Boies, a partner at Cravath, Swain, and Moore, one of the most preeminent attorneys in the country. He had fought a bunch of high profile cases, sometimes defending and sometimes attacking, but almost always winning. He was going to cost us a fortune, so we had the American Renaissance Initiative foot the bill. At that point Wayne LaPierre and the NRA weighed in, wanting to contribute and get their name attached. I called Wayne and told him in no uncertain terms that the NRA was about as popular in Maryland as a ham and cheese sandwich in Jerusalem, and that if he wanted this to go through, to back off and shut up. He blustered at that and threatened to pull any funding from my campaign, but it was a hollow threat, since he had never donated dollar one.

February 20 dawned cold and clear, and we drove from my office in the Rayburn building up I-95 to Baltimore. John Thomas was earning his pay, since when we arrived at 10 AM at the corner of St. Paul and East Lexington, there were already cameras and microphones set up. There were also a number of State Police officers standing around, and when my party and I got out of the limo, several of them came over to us. The highest ranking officer present, a major, got in my face and asked, “Are you Carl Buckman?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Are you carrying a handgun, sir?”

The cameras were rolling, I could tell, and I simply smiled and told the truth. “No, I am not.”

“Sir, it has been reported than you are carrying a firearm. Are you denying that report?”

It was like the guy was reading from a script. “I deny I am carrying a firearm, officer,” I replied.

“Sir, since I have received a credible report that you are carrying a firearm, I must insist that you be searched. If you are carrying a firearm and have no permit to do so, I will have no choice but to place you under arrest. If you wish to leave, however, I will not do so at this time.”

Ah! Arrest me before we could get to the permit process. Behind me several others began protesting loudly and longly, but I simply smiled and raised my hands over my head, and stepped forward. A couple of beefy sergeants stepped forward, and while one eyed me while resting his hand on the butt of his gun, the other gave me a very thorough frisk, even to the point of having me remove everything from my pockets. I wasn’t carrying a gun, or anything else for that matter, not even a nail file. I only had my driver’s license in my pocket for identification. I smiled all the while this was going on, and after they stepped back and shook their heads, I simply smiled and turned back to the major. “Satisfied?” I asked.

He grumbled something but stepped out of the way. I led the way through the doors into the lobby. Joe Curren was standing there looking unhappy that I wasn’t being arrested for packing heat. Behind us the rest of the group came in, including the camera crews. I waited until everybody was set, and then stepped forward. “Attorney General Curren, my name is Carl Buckman. I am here to apply for a concealed carry weapon permit pursuant to the Federal Defending the Second Amendment Act of 1995. Here is my application.” I flourished it for the cameras. “As per the provisions of the law, you have five business days to issue an approval or denial. Can I expect a response by the end of business the 27^th?”

Curren smirked, and turned to face the cameras. “The State of Maryland denies the constitutionality of this so-called act. Maryland law states that applications must be made to the Secretary of the State Police and require 90 days for review. Therefore this application is denied as improperly filed.” With his own flourish, he tore it in half and then dropped the pieces, to let them flutter to the floor.

That was all it took for me. I stepped back and David Boies popped forward. Before Curren could react, Boies had a blue document in his hand, which he slapped into Curren’s hand. “My name is David Boies and I am the attorney for Mr. Buckman. This is a Federal court order demanding…” He was off and running. How he managed to do it was beyond me, but he basically had a Federal judge slap a show-cause order on the state demanding to know why Maryland wasn’t obeying the new Federal law. He had other Federal paperwork with him, too, and one of them was a writ that allowed me to carry a concealed weapon while waiting for the Federal court case to be resolved. Joe Curren had not been ready for that one, and he turned an interesting shade of purple.

Boies was a real showman, that much I had to give him. He led the way out of the building, with the reporters in tow, and we went to the rear of the limo. There, in the trunk, was my old.45. I ostentatiously removed my suit coat and pulled on a shoulder holster, and then loaded a magazine into the pistol, and placed that in the holster. Then I took back my jacket and put it on. I was now officially ‘carrying a concealed weapon.’

From the doorway the State Police major looked livid, and looked like he was going to barge out and have me arrested on the spot, but then I saw Curren place a hand on his arm and hold him back. Boies had told us that while I could be arrested, the odds were that this would really piss off the tame Federal judge he had in his pocket. If he got pissed off enough, he could send Federal Marshals out to cut me loose and issue bench warrants demanding the presence of Curren and any State Police personnel involved.

I had a few people who thought my arrest would make for great television, and were hoping I would get the cuffs slapped on me. My own thinking was rather more divided. Yes, it would be great television, but, getting arrested? I told Marilyn before this started that while I had seen more than my share of jails over the years, the only time I had ever actually been charged with anything was the time I got caught sleeping on the beach with Marty and Ricky when we were on that road trip, and that wasn’t even a misdemeanor, but just a violation. Up until now, if I had to fill out a job application, for instance, when it asked if I had ever been arrested or convicted, I could honestly say, ‘No!’ Marilyn wasn’t amused by my thinking. She didn’t want me being arrested by anybody for anything.

As soon as I had my suit coat back on again, I slapped a smile on my face and turned to face the cameras. It was cold, but I would just have to suck it up. Doing this all in a trench coat wasn’t going to cut it. The questions were immediately forthcoming.

“Congressman Buckman!? Do you plan to wear a gun from now on?”

“Well, that’s kind of the point of the concealed weapon permit, isn’t it? You won’t know if I am or if I’m not!”

“Why won’t you answer the question?”

“I did answer the question. If a criminal decides to attack or rob somebody now, he won’t know if his victim will be able to fight back, will he? Maybe that will keep him from trying.”

“Won’t that mean he’ll just get a gun of his own?”

“The criminals already have all the guns they could ask for. This just evens the playing field for all the regular citizens out there.”

And then I got the question I knew was coming, the big one, the one that had to be asked:

“Congressman, the State’s Attorney has been quoted as saying that the only reason you are doing this is to justify your killing your brother. What do you say about that?”

I straightened up and faced the cameras as best I could. I was starting to freeze, but this needed to be done right. My political future was depending on it.

“Yes, this is about my brother, but not to justify it. No this is to prevent what happened to me from happening to somebody else.

When a madman decided to attack my family, I did the proper and legal things. I went to the police. They told me they couldn’t protect us. My wife was being followed, her car was vandalized and set on fire, our home was firebombed. We had a psychotic killer trying to butcher my wife and infant son, and I was told I couldn’t protect them either. I asked if I could get a permit to carry a weapon, a weapon I had worn honorably while serving my country, and was told not to even bother asking.

I was told by the police that the state of Maryland would prefer that my family be hacked to death by a madman than that I carry a gun to protect them. I was told that if I carried a gun I would be the one arrested, not whoever was chasing us. And I was told that if I was smart, I should do it anyway, since I was rich enough to be able to hire lawyers to get out of jail.

So, is this about my brother? Yes, because I don’t want any of my fellow citizens to have to go through what I did 13 years ago. I want them to know that if they are confronted with a criminal, it won’t be them that has to face the music, but the criminal. And I want them to know that I stand with them and will fight this battle for them! There is a reason for the Second Amendment, and it is time the politicians in Annapolis understand that!”

And there we had it. I had worked on that ‘impromptu’ response for several days with Marty and Boies and a fellow from ARI, and it was full of buzzwords that were guaranteed to play well in the media. ‘Madman’ — ‘Psychotic’ — ‘Butcher’ — ‘Hack’ — all these words were to evoke a horrific image of what could happen to the viewer. ‘Honorable service’ — ‘Protect’ — ‘Battle’ — all of these words were chosen to showcase me in the best light, and highlight my service to the country, and to the voters. We agonized over our choice of words as much as any speechwriter working on the State of the Union address.

We called it quits at that. They kept shouting the same questions over and over again, but I just smiled and waved and got back into the limo. Once we were rolling down the road, David Boies looked at me and asked, “Do you really plan to wear that thing everywhere?”

I snorted a laugh. “God forbid! I have a security detail to handle that sort of thing now. If the bad guys get close enough to me that I need a gun, I should be able to pick one up from one of these guys.” On hearing that, the driver snorted, and the security guy in the passenger seat turned around and rolled his eyes at me. “No, I think I am going to take this home and stuff it in my desk, where I normally keep it.”

Boies shrugged and we talked over the probable events for the near future. By filing suit in Federal court and serving papers already, we had kept the matter out of the Maryland courts, and probably cut at least a year off the time this would languish. We could expect a resolution by the end of 1997 or sometime in 1998. We drove back to my office in Washington. I made an early day of it and flew home mid-afternoon. I wanted to watch this on the news tonight.

What I hadn’t expected was Charlie to brace me when I got home. WBAL hadn’t waited to run the episode on the 6:00 News, but ran it earlier, at 5:00. “Dad! I saw you on the news when I got home! Are you really carrying a gun?! Cool! Can I see it?!” He was really excited.

I wasn’t. Whatever this was, it sure wasn’t cool! “Settle down, son. Let me say hello to your mother first.”

Marilyn came in from the kitchen. “How was your day? I saw you on television, too.” She had a look on her face that seemed to combine pleasure that I was home, and displeasure about my being on television.

“Okay, I guess.”

Marilyn gave me a nice and simple kiss, and then leaned in and whispered in my ear. “You need to have a talk with your son.”

I just nodded back at her. I hung up my outer coat, and then crooked a finger at Charlie. “Follow me.”

Charlie had a look of concern on his face at that, as in ‘What did I do?’ I led the way into my office and after he came in, I pointed him to the couch, and closed the door behind us.

“Charlie, I think we need to have a little talk. You think this is cool?”

“Yeah! Carrying a gun around…”

“Charlie, this is many things, but cool is not one of them.” I took off my jacket and tossed it on an armchair, leaving me wearing the shoulder holster with my Colt in it. I pulled the gun from the holster, removed the magazine, worked the action to make sure there wasn’t a round chambered, and handed him the weapon. “Here, take this.”

For somebody so interested in it, when faced with the reality, he reached out and took it rather gingerly. He gripped it so lightly he almost dropped it on the floor, and had to fumble around for a good grip. He looked at me nervously. I reached out and took it back from him. “Didn’t think it would be so heavy, did you?” I sat down at my desk.

“Uh, no.”

“It’s heavy in more than one way. Charlie, this is a gun. It’s not a toy. Its sole purpose is to kill people. I hope I never have to carry this thing again. I sure don’t plan to wear it around every day. It’s one thing to take it down to the range in Parkton and shoot off a few magazines to stay in practice, but I never, ever want to have to use it again for real.” I turned in my seat and unlocked my desk. The Colt and the holster went in the bottom drawer. I relocked the desk and put the keys in my pocket again.

He looked at me for a moment and then said, “Dad, what was it…”

“… like? What was it like?” Charlie nodded. “What was it like killing my brother?” He nodded a second time. I sighed at that. “Jesus, Charlie, it’s not something you talk about, you know? I mean, killing your uncle? That’s who he was, you know?” He just sat there and looked at me, not saying anything, but waiting for me to continue.

I couldn’t look at him. I looked over at the far wall, not really seeing the bookshelves, but seeing the kitchen that day back in 1983, and even further back, to a night in 1981. I turned back to my son. “Killing a man changes things, Charlie. It’s not like on TV or the movies. There’s a cost to it. Every day I think about it. Every day that I go into the kitchen I am reminded of where I had to shoot a man and leave his body on the floor for the police to remove.” Charlie’s eyes opened at that. I don’t think he ever linked the facts of my killing my crazy brother with the reality that it occurred in the same room he ate his breakfast cereal in.

“There’s more to it than that, Charlie. I had to do it, make no mistake. He really was crazy and he really was trying to kill you and your mother, but when I killed him, I also killed the rest of my family. My sister, your godmother, your Aunt Suzie — she basically ran away from home. She changed her name and moved half way across the country to get away from our parents and me. I had aunts and uncles and cousins, Charlie. I haven’t talked to any of them since then, not even my own godmother. My parents, the grandparents you’ve never met, call me a monster. My family is gone, Charlie. There’s a cost you pay when you kill someone.” I tapped the desk where I had put my pistol. “It’s not a toy, and it’s never cool.”

My son sat there for a minute, and then said, “Sorry, Dad.”

I simply smiled and waved it off. “Don’t worry. No harm, no foul.” I nodded towards the door.

Charlie stood up and went to the door. I sat there for a moment longer, and then I heard him say, “You all right, Dad?”

I snorted a touch and turned to face him. “It’s okay. Anytime I wonder about that day, I just look at you and your mother and your sisters, and I get better.” I stood up and motioned for him to leave, and then followed him into the kitchen.

Marilyn was in the kitchen taking a loaf of bread out of the oven. It smelled wonderful. She and the twins had made a Crock-Pot full of spaghetti sauce, and a pot of water was boiling on the stove. I grabbed a bottle of Chianti out of the rack. “Is everything all right?” she asked.

“Just fine.”

Behind me, our son was standing stock still in the kitchen, realizing this was where a dead guy had laid. He looked at me guiltily, asking me silently, ‘Here?’ I didn’t say a word, but subtly pointed towards the end of the island, where Hamilton had landed on the floor. Charlie’s eyes opened wide, and he backed out of the room.

Marilyn looked at me and asked, “What in the world was that all about?”

I smiled and poured some wine for both of us. “I’ll tell you later.”

Steve Rymark proved himself a formidable opponent. In some ways, not only did he run on his own record, he ran on mine, in a negative fashion. He was a big believer in gun control, so D2A showed I was an out of control gun nut, playing into the hands of the National Rifle Association. Additionally, of course, I was part of the Newt Gingrich Gang of Eight that shut down the government and raised taxes. Whatever was going wrong in government, you could be sure that it was my personal fault.

There wasn’t much I could protest about with this. It was true. We had fundamentally different views of the Second Amendment. I was one of Gingrich’s protégés, even if he wasn’t speaking to me at the moment. I was a charter member of the Gang of Eight. We had shut down the government and we had ended up raising taxes. I had voted for the linkage between the continuing resolution and limiting the debt ceiling.

When you get handed lemons, make lemonade. We worked up some quotes and sound bites that would make me sound leader-like. When I got hit by questions or complaints, I was to adopt a tough love attitude — these were things that had to be done, or the country was going to hell in a hand basket.

“Yes, I was part of the government shutdown. Am I happy it got to that point? No, of course not! Did we need to institute the discipline to fix our problems? Yes we did!”

and

“This stuff is important! Budgets and deficits and taxes are important! It’s not fun and it’s not sexy and it’s not exciting, but it’s important. Somebody has to lead on these issues, and if it isn’t going to be Bill Clinton, then it will have to be us. I am one of those leaders!”

and

“Budget deficits matter! We have borrowed money from around the world to pay for things that we should be paying for ourselves. One of these days they are going to come calling! Why are we borrowing money from China to pay for [fill in the blank]? If it’s that important, we have to either pay for it ourselves, or find the money elsewhere. We have to stop spending money we don’t have!”

and the ever popular

“I pay my bills! You pay your bills! Your kids are paying their bills! So why can’t the government pay its bills?! This stuff matters!”

All this was part of the stump speech. The overall approach was one of sorrow. Yes, I know it was a terrible thing, but if Clinton wasn’t going to behave responsibly, and take action, then we would have to force him to take action. That was when we got to the second half of the speech, the results we had to date.

“Was it pretty? No! Was it fun? No! Was it necessary? Yes! Did it work? Yes! The budget deficit for this year is half what it was last year! Next year it will be even lower! We need to clean up our act and get our financial house in order! We are going to eliminate the deficit, but only with the continued support of the voters — you folks out there. We have to fix this mess, and to do that, we need to stay with the program and send me back to Washington to lead this fight!”

We were just going to have to see how it all played out.

Chapter 121: Children, All Sorts

1996–1997

Well, I survived the ’96 election. As close fought elections went, this was cleaner than most, simply because neither of us gave the other any dirt to throw. I’m not talking about our records as public servants, but about the personal stuff. By now my life was an open book. What was Steve Rymark going to accuse me of, killing my brother? Please! Old news! As for him, believe me we looked! His zipper seemed tighter than mine. Donna Rymark simply glowed as she grew bigger during the campaign. When she gave birth to another son in August, the only thing we could think to do was to visit them in the hospital, all of us, kids included, each carrying a large box of infant disposable diapers and smiling for the cameras.

It was an expensive election. We had to match Rymark ad for ad, and he had a lot of money to spend. There was a feeling at the Democratic National Headquarters that a bunch of us who were tied to Gingrich were vulnerable, and they funneled some money to local candidates. Additionally, the Maryland Ninth is not a poor district, especially in the Baltimore county area, and Rymark had more than a few donors able to give the maximum. He had a war chest ample to fight me.

Rymark spent a lot of time beating on me about being a member of the Gang of Eight and shutting down the government and being a buddy of Gingrich. The best I could come up with was that he was a liberal Democrat who hated the Second Amendment. I just kept up my regular ground game, donating to worthy causes, speaking to every group available, and pushing the incumbency card hard. November 5, my 41^st birthday, I managed to get reelected. It was a 55–45 win, which was roughly half the margin I had been averaging. By most standards it was a landslide, but to say it was unnerving was an understatement. Steve Rymark called at half past eleven that night and conceded quite graciously. By the time I made my speech, it was too late for anybody to give a shit.

Maybe I’d get lucky and in 1998 he’d run for something else, anything else! On the downside, most of the upcoming races would have Democratic incumbents, like Parris Glendenning for Governor or Barbara Mikulski for Senator. Then again, the good news for me was that we were no longer in an era when the loser could try again in a few years. Nowadays, if you lost, you were generally through. I probably wouldn’t have to face Steve Rymark and his unbelievably adorable family ever again. On the downside, if Donna Rymark ever decided to run for office, I was up shit creek! If they went to picture ballots, all she had to do was wear a low cut blouse and I was totally screwed.

Ultimately, about a month after the election, Steve was approached by the re-elected Clinton White House and offered a position as the United States Attorney for Maryland, replacing Lynne Battaglia, who took a job as a Federal Judge. It was a no-brainer move. At the start of the year he had been an assistant county prosecutor, and at the end of the year he was the Federal prosecutor responsible for the entire state. If he did well there, he could run for Senate or Governor someday.

If the Democrats were hoping to tar and feather the Gang of Eight and ride us out of town on a rail, they uniformly failed. All of us survived the election, as did Newt. The same could not be said for all of our colleagues, however. The Republicans still controlled the House, but we lost 10 seats to the Dems, making it 228-206-1. Newt held onto his position as Speaker, but there was some loud grumbling. More than a few of our colleagues were looking at the results, and at the much tighter races they had fought to stay where they were, and were pointing fingers at Gingrich for making life a lot more difficult for them. On the plus side, nobody was pointing fingers at me or anybody else in the Gang of Eight (Seven now, since Rick Santorum was a Senator and beyond us mere Congressmen). For one thing, they had all voted as Newt had demanded we vote, so the blame for their seriously depleted campaign chests was on him.

I’m not sure if Newt noticed the finger pointing. I am sure that if he did notice, he didn’t care. He was on a mission, a mission to destroy Bill Clinton. He began talking about impeachment, at least quietly, and seemed to be looking for an excuse to make it happen. He took the stunned looks on the faces of those he talked to as approval.

Impeachment is a big deal, a damn big deal! It had only been used twice so far, once on Andrew Johnson after the Civil War, and once on Dick Nixon after Watergate. Johnson’s real crime was that he was a moderate in a time of radicalism; the Republican Congress wanted the South to suffer and Johnson wanted things to settle down. They trumped up some charges and put him on trial; Johnson won by a single vote. Nixon’s offenses were much more serious and legitimate, and it never actually got so far as an actual impeachment. Nixon was told that he would be impeached if he didn’t resign first, so he resigned. They never actually got around to drafting the paperwork.

Now Gingrich was hunting around for anything he could lay his hands on to fry Clinton’s ass. The Constitution is delightfully vague in some areas, and this was one of them. A President can be impeached for ‘treason, bribery, or other high crimes and misdemeanors’. Treason and bribery were pretty self-explanatory, but what was meant by high crimes and misdemeanors was left blank. Johnson’s crime was ignoring the real powers in Congress and the Cabinet, not precisely what the Founders had in mind. Nixon’s crimes actually involved real crimes, like ordering break-ins and running a slush fund out of the Oval Office. Clinton’s crimes, such as they were, seemed to fall quite a bit lower down the scale, but Newt was pushing hard.

So far, all that was known for sure was that there had been allegations of bribe taking in the Whitewater real estate mess in Arkansas; although Clinton never got the money, a friend did. To what extent any of this was credible was questionable. There was a single person making the complaint and it was a legal quagmire. Considering that the Clintons actually lost money on the project made a lot of us figure it wasn’t worthy of the investigation — if you make money, okay, it’s bribery; if you lose money, you’re stupid and deserve whatever happens to you. As far as Clinton’s numerous marital affairs, so far there was just a whole lot of smoke but no sign of any fire; how that would end up in an impeachment nobody could figure out. You don’t get impeached for screwing around, you get divorced! The same applied to all the other little nonsense around the joint, the FBI files and the Travel Office issues. It’s embarrassing, but not something to be impeached over.

One of the most common jokes at the time was:

‘Q: What do you get when you cross a crooked lawyer and a crooked politician?

A: Chelsea!’

On the plus side, since I wasn’t a Senator, I didn’t have to vote on the impeachment. I resolved to not vote for the impeachment in any matters crossing my desk in the House. If Hillary cut his schlong off with a rusty machete that would be sufficient for me.

My enemies weren’t only on the Democratic side. Newt Gingrich was of the opinion that if you weren’t for him, you were against him. Shortly after the election, I discovered I was no longer on the Armed Services Committee. I was now back in Science, Space, and Technology. I was about in the middle of the pack. I think that if the House had a committee on extinct animals, I would have been assigned there. On the plus side, my old buddy Harlan now had enough time in the Army that with accrued leave and a variety of other credits he could retire in February of 1997. He managed to get an assignment for a few months directly with the Armed Services Committee, and found himself a future position with United Defense, the manufacturers of the M109 Paladin howitzers that he had worked with earlier in his career.

I lost a couple of junior staffers when it became known that Gingrich had me in his sights. My senior people could see what was happening, but they could also see that Gingrich was getting more than a little nutty. I told them that Gingrich was going to wear out his welcome sooner rather than later, and that sticking with me might just work out better in the long term. At least we didn’t lose our offices. The House rules wouldn’t let Gingrich send me packing off to Cannon and the Cages, which was certainly something he had to be contemplating.

Meanwhile a massive crisis was brewing in the Buckman household. It had been simmering for a dozen years now, and was now finally erupting into a full blown disaster. The twins were twelve-and-a-half years old, rapidly approaching thirteen, and were in the seventh grade. My wonderful little angels were no more. They had died, killed by zombies, and their brains had been sucked out and replaced by the spawn of Satan.

Almost on a daily basis came anguished cries of ‘MOM!’ and hateful stares at me as they screamed ‘YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND!’ followed by a SLAM as a bedroom door closed suddenly and forcefully. These outbursts were generally caused by my simple existence and perpetual survival on the planet. From what I could determine Lucifer’s daughters simply objected to my possession of life.

I was at a loss to explain the cause of this sudden hatred for me. Marilyn was no help whatsoever, rolling her eyes at these outbursts and telling me to leave them alone, it was ‘growing pains’. Both girls hit puberty within a day of each other. They were changing, too. Up until now they had been short and a bit scrawny, with their mother’s round face and upturned nose, but my family’s straight hair. Now, while they were still short, they were filling out, and weren’t all that scrawny anymore. In fact, they were growing breasts and their hips were getting broader. Worst of all, I was not the only male noticing. Their brother Charlie tended to tease them mercilessly, occasioning head slaps from the parental unit nearest him when we caught him. That wasn’t the bad part. The bad part was that other males were noticing, males who were not interested in teasing them. It seems that even the daughters of billionaire Congressman can get bra straps snapped and requests for ‘dates.’

Neither their mother nor their father went along with any of this nonsense, but only I had to suffer their wrath. Marilyn escaped most of it. It just wasn’t fair.

I had gone through this once before, with Maggie. (Alison, with her Williams Syndrome, had been nowhere near as nutty.) I had thought Maggie was impossible, but I had never contemplated going through adolescent hormones with twins! I started telling Marilyn I was going to permanently move to Washington. “Only if I can go with you!” was the response. The screams of outrage from Holly and Molly got especially loud when I asked Marilyn what she thought of sending the girls to boarding school in Switzerland, and only bringing them back when they turned eighteen. Both Marilyn and I knew the girls were listening to us and watching, so when she said we should look into it, they ran screaming to their room, and slammed the door behind them. She watched them run, and then looked at me and smiled. “You’re mean!”

Music began blaring from down the hall. “You think so?”

My wife snorted and went back to making a pie.

Another time they announced they were going to leave, “And there’s nothing you can do about it!” This was told us right after an argument before dinner, so we were all in the dining room together.

I nodded thoughtfully, and then commented, “Well, you might just want to know, you’ve heard about GPS, right? The global tracking stuff? Well, when you two were babies, we were worried about kidnappers, so we had tags surgically implanted inside you. We can find you anywhere in the world.” I was keeping a straight face through this. Marilyn simply rolled her eyes, and Charlie grinned and nodded.

The girls were thunderstruck, of course. They didn’t realize GPS wasn’t around when they were born. “You didn’t!” cried Molly.

“Where is it?!” yelled her sister.

“Small of your back, near the spine.”

“Yeah, I have one, too,” added Charlie. He spun around, lifting his shirt up from behind and running a finger along his lower back. “Right about here. I can feel it under the skin…”

Both girls screamed and ran from the dining room. Moments later we heard the door to their bedroom slam shut. Marilyn said, “Will you stop teasing them?” to me, and to Charlie she added, “And your father doesn’t need any help from you!”

Charlie looked over at me, and I said, “Nice touch there — ‘you can feel it under the skin.’ They’re down there right now looking for the scars and trying to trace it out.”

Marilyn swatted me. “You’re not helping!” She sighed and stood up. “I’d better go tell them.”

“Can we do it after dinner? It’s actually nice and quiet right now.”

“NO!” She left the dining room and headed down the hall. Charlie and I finished setting the table and we served ourselves. Ten minutes later Marilyn led the twins back into the dining room; she looked amused, the twins looked murderous. Charlie started laughing and then grabbed his plate and ran out of the room before they could kill him.

At least they weren’t actually dating yet. We had decided that wasn’t happening until high school. Marilyn had told me in no uncertain terms (stern face and finger wagging, etc.) that no junior high school boys were going to have the same level of fun with her daughters that I had enjoyed at that age. I laughed pretty good at that — and agreed!

The summer of 1997 I went from being extravagantly wealthy to oil sheikh wealthy, although it wouldn’t show up for a few years more. At the summer barbecue, held the first weekend in June this year, I managed to have a quiet break with Missy Talmadge, my lawyer Tucker Potsdam, and Dave Marquardt. We had been working with Dave since we made our first investment in Microsoft fifteen years ago, and now he was a partner in the Buckman Group’s Silicon Valley investments. Even though I was no longer active in the Buckman Group, I had spent a lot of time there, and still knew the business.

(Normally Jake Junior would have been there as well, but he had taken the G-IV to Ireland with his family. His wife had family still over there, and they were taking a vacation. I simply told him to bring me back a bottle of whiskey from as many Irish distilleries as he could find, and I’d run a taste test afterwards.)

Dave Marquardt asked me, “So, what do you think is going to happen in Cupertino this year? When do you think they are going to file Chapter 11?”

Cupertino meant Apple Computer, of course. I smiled at Dave. “Now is the time to buy Apple cheap,” I answered.

Dave and Missy stared at me. “Buy? Are you kidding me? The stock is dropping through the floor!” exclaimed Missy.

I nodded. “Steve Jobs is going to slit Gil Amelio’s throat sometime soon and take over again.”

“So what? They threw him out once before for screwing up. Why would he do any better now?”

On the face of it, that was true. He had been forced out back in ’85 in a boardroom coup, and had spent the next decade puttering around Silicon Valley and Hollywood. NeXT Computer proved a bust; Pixar and the Disney connection were wonders. When Apple bought NeXT last year, they were letting a wolf back into the fold. “Look, on the face of it, what you said is correct. My take on it is that Moses has been wandering around in the desert long enough, and it’s time for him to lead his people again.”

“He doesn’t have enough money to do what needs to be done over there,” commented Dave.

“Have you followed the technology he developed with NeXT? He’ll suck that into Apple and prune away the deadwood. Don’t forget, the man might be an asshole, but he’s a supremely talented asshole, and he has a vision for what he wants to do, which is something neither Sculley nor Spindler nor Amelio did.”

“That still doesn’t get him the money to keep the doors open.”

“He will after you and Bill Gates put in a couple of hundred million,” I told him.

That made everyone blink. “Are you serious?” asked Missy.

I shrugged, but nodded. “Hey, I’m just a dedicated public servant who has no control over his investments, since they are all managed by a blind trust, so what do I know.” That earned me some sly grins and smiles, since everyone there knew about how easily the rules for blind trusts could be manipulated. “What’s the downside, though? If we split it with Microsoft, a mix of voting and non-voting stock, a hundred million each, the most we lose is the hundred million. Let’s face it, it’s serious money, but it won’t bankrupt either Microsoft or us. What’s the upside? Again, let’s face it, you ain’t going to be buying Apple stock much cheaper. It is all upside potential. We could make a fortune on this when he turns it around, and I know the guy is going to do that!”

“What’s in it for Bill?” asked Dave.

“Microsoft Office for Apple, and no grief from Jobs about it. Bill makes his investment back just on the basis of additional software sales.”

Dave Marquardt looked thoughtful at that. He was on Microsoft’s board just like Jake Junior was. The kind of deal I was describing was definitely possible, if the two men pushed Gates on it. He looked over at Missy. “You know, he almost makes sense!”

“That’s a very frightening thought, isn’t it? Jake gets back next week. When he does, how about we sit down and talk about it?”

One of the nice things about private enterprise is that speed is so much faster for everything. If I had proposed something like this with Congress, it might come up for review in about ten years or so. Instead, Missy (and Dave on a conference call) sold it to Jake Junior when he came back from Ireland, and then they called Bill and told him they wanted to see him. He wasn’t about to turn down two board members, so they flew out the next day, and ironed out the details inside of a week. Gates met with Jobs about a day after Jobs ousted Amelio. The ultimate deal announced in Boston at the summer MacWorld Expo was that the two companies would invest $185 million between them in a 50–50 split, with a mix of 70 % nonvoting and 30 % voting stock. Steve Jobs and Bill Gates made nice on stage, and swore undying love and devotion for each other, and announced a bunch of Microsoft software would be made available on Apple computers.

In a few years we would be as wealthy as Croesus!

That summer I faced a crisis totally uninvolved in politics. It was in July, a hot day, and I had worked in Washington that morning. Rather than fly back home, I had Tyrell fly me to Westminster in the early afternoon, where I drove over to my offices and I had a meeting with Cheryl and my staff, and then walked next door to have a meeting in my campaign office. Then I went home. I went into the house, curious about the little red Nissan I saw parked in the driveway. Charlie didn’t own a car, although he did own a motorcycle that he couldn’t drive on the road yet (he was still 15.) I went into the house and found Marilyn knitting something in the living room. She looked up at me and said, “Hi, honey. Home early?”

I leaned down and kissed her, and then flopped down in my recliner. “Somehow I just couldn’t bear another minute of solving our nation’s problems. Whatcha’ making?”

“You said you wanted a new pair of slippers.”

I smiled and nodded. Marilyn makes some really great slippers from rug yarn, warm and floppy, and surprisingly durable. They were sort of like really oversized socks that were stiff enough to stay up above my ankles. My last set was blue and a bit ragged. These were two-tone red. “Sounds good. Now, if I can get you to start knitting a flag, I’ll take some photos, and we can use them in the next campaign.”

“Yeah, right! Me and Betsy Ross!”

We both had a laugh at that. Dum-Dum was sleeping on the couch and snoring. “Where’s the kids?”

“The girls went shopping in Towson with some friends. Charlie’s in the pool.”

“Whose car is that outside?” I asked.

Marilyn grinned. “That belongs to his new girlfriend, Missy Something-or-other.”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh, boy! Let me guess. She brought her bikini?”

Marilyn simply smiled and kept knitting. Charlie was a ‘chick magnet’ at Hereford High. He was a big kid, good looking, handsome, muscular, and a jock. He had played both basketball and football on the varsity team last year, unusual since he had only been a sophomore. He might not have been able to drive, but it seemed like there was a steady stream of young ladies available to give him a lift. I would occasionally get an amused comment from one of the security guys who tailed him around, that they couldn’t keep up with the changing cast of young ladies.

“I’m going to change,” I announced. “What’s for dinner?”

“Hamburgers? We can grill them?”

I glanced out the window. It was a beautiful and sunny day. “Sounds good.” I stood up and grabbed my briefcase. I went into my office and dropped off my briefcase, and then I went to our bedroom and changed into a Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts. When I came out of the bedroom, I went into the kitchen to grab a cold beer, and as I did so, I looked out through the window to the pool. Nobody was in the pool. Curious, I went out through the patio door.

No, my eyes weren’t deceiving me. The pool was empty. There were a couple of beach towels on the grass at the side, and a pair of pink flip-flops, but no kids. Grimacing to myself, I set my beer down on a patio table and went over to the pool house. The shades were partially drawn, and I couldn’t really see inside, but the noises I heard made me very suspicious. Half dreading what I was about to encounter, I grabbed the doorknob and twisted. The door popped open, and there was Charlie, naked as the day he was born, laying on his back on the carpet, with an equally undressed Missy on top of him, straddling him and grinding down on him. I think they looked even more shocked than I felt when they looked up at me.

“Oh, Christ!” I muttered.

Missy squealed and rolled off my son, trying to cover herself and scrambling for her clothing, and leaving Charlie laying there, his tallywacker pointing at the ceiling. “DAD!” he protested.

I stepped back. “Playtime’s over! I want you two dressed in two minutes!” I closed the door behind me as I left the pool house.

Inside I could hear the two of them scrambling around and getting dressed, and arguing about me. At one point I heard her say, “You said you could hear his helicopter coming a mile away!” I didn’t catch the response. I smiled to myself. I’d have to keep that in mind for when the girls started dating.

It was over two minutes, but not by much, when the door to the pool house opened, and Charlie and his girlfriend scooted out. Their faces were a mix of fear, shame, and worry, especially since I was standing there with my arms crossed and my ‘Father’ look on my face. ‘Father’ doesn’t smile; my ‘Dad’ look is a lot more pleasant. I was blocking the path back to the house.

Charlie tried to lead Missy around me, but I stepped in their way. “Hold on, you two. We need to have a talk!” I informed them.

“What?!” they both blurted out.

I pointed back to the pool house. “Let’s return to the scene of the crime. We’re going to have a discussion.”

They looked horrorstricken at that, but I simply moved forward and chivied them back inside. Once there, I closed the door and said, “Open the blinds and get some light in here.” I sniffed theatrically, and added, “And open the windows while you’re at it.” There was a distinct aroma of passion in the room. Both of the teens had the decency to blush in embarrassment. After the windows were opened and a breeze began blowing, I pointed at the couch. “Sit!” They sat down, painfully upright. I sat in an armchair in a much more relaxed pose.

“Okay, let’s have a little conversation. Let me ask you a few questions. What kind of birth control are you two using?” I started with.

I don’t think they were expecting that question, or maybe they just weren’t expecting any questions, just a lecture. They looked at each other. Charlie started gabbling out an answer and she squeaked out, “I’m on the Pill.”

I nodded. “Uh, huh. Were you also using a condom?”

“What?” they both uttered.

“A condom. You do know what they are, correct? Or were the both of you virgins before today?”

They started squawking about my questions, and Missy stood up. “You can’t ask me that! I’m leaving!”

I shrugged. “There’s the door. You leave and I’ll be on the phone with your parents before you ever make it home.” It was true, too. The security guys had her license number. I could make a call to the State Police and get a name and phone number before she cleared the driveway. Missy stopped dead in her tracks with a look of sheer horror on her face. I pointed back at the couch. “Or you can sit down and act like a grown up. You two think you’re old enough for adult fun and games, then you’re old enough for an adult conversation. Sit!”

Missy sat back down next to Charlie, looking defeated. “Now, were either of you virgins today?” Both turned beet red, and shook their heads in the negative. “Uh, huh. Next question — have you had other sexual partners before today?”

They both looked at each other. Charlie answered very slowly, “Yes.”

Missy nodded, and also said, “Yes.”

“Did both of you get tested for a sexually transmitted disease before you two became sexually active with each other?”

“Dad! It’s not like… No!”

“Jesus! What kind of girl…”

I held my hands up and told them to be quiet. It took a second. “Listen, I don’t care who you are screwing or how many. What I care about is that nobody gets AIDS! You’ve heard about it, right? You’ve taken Health class, right? Were you paying attention!? There’s no cure! You’ll die from it! Use condoms! Jesus Christ, why the hell do you think they sell them!?” I chewed their asses a few minutes more, and then sent them on their merry way. Charlie I told to stick around.

Charlie gave Missy a very self-conscious kiss at her car, and then she took off. I wasn’t sure how serious this romance was, but this couldn’t have helped. So be it. As she left, I called him back, and pointed to the pool house. Time for another conversation. He came back over and I ushered him back inside, and closed the door again. “Sit down, Romeo. We need to finish this.”

“Dad…”

“Shut up, Charlie. I didn’t get into this in front of the young lady, but we need to talk.” He shut his mouth. I settled back into the armchair. “Do you own any rubbers? Have you ever used a rubber?”

“No.”

“No, you don’t own any, or no, you’ve never used one?”

Charlie sheepishly admitted, “Neither.”

“So, all of your girlfriends have been on the Pill?” I pushed.

“Dad!” I waited there and motioned for him to continue. “Uh, most have been on the Pill.” My eyes opened wide at his idiocy, and I sat upright. Alarmed, he continued, “She said it was the wrong time, we’d be safe!” It tumbled out in a rush.

“Listen up! You know what they call morons like you? Fathers! Your grandparents use the rhythm technique. They’ve got 13 kids. It ain’t real reliable!” Charlie’s eyes opened wide at that. He knew about his mother’s family.

“So that brings us to another topic. Are you in love with Missy? Are you planning to marry her?” I asked.

That earned me a confused look. “What? No! We’re just having fun.”

“Okay. There’s two parts to that. First, girls get a lot more serious about who they fool around with than guys do. You might be surprised if I asked her that question. Second, if you don’t plan to marry her, what happens if she gets pregnant?”

“Huh?”

I shook my head. “Did you see her taking a birth control pill? Or did you simply believe her when she told you?”

Charlie protested, “Missy’s not like that!”

I shrugged. “No, she’s probably not.” Charlie smiled at that. I snapped my fingers at him. “Pay attention. I said probably. Listen very carefully to me.” He nodded. “There are at least a couple of reasons I could see somebody lie about that. First, well, let’s face it; I am a very rich man. Are there some young ladies who would be willing to get pregnant as a way to blackmail you, and through you, to blackmail me? What do you think?”

Charlie stared at me. “You’re kidding me! That happens?”

“It could happen. I’m not saying it will happen, just that some people would think of it. Or somebody’s father could think of it. Or somebody’s real boyfriend could think of it,” I answered.

“Shit!” He looked at me after that, and said, “Sorry.”

“Here’s another possibility. This one is actually more probable, I suppose. You might think this is all just fun and games, but suppose she doesn’t. Suppose she thinks she’s in love. Suppose she thinks the only way to keep you from leaving her is to get pregnant. Suppose she thinks the only way to escape her parents is to get married. Suppose, suppose, suppose…” I shrugged again. “Charlie, I’m not saying this is happening with Missy, or any of the other girls you’ve met, but it has happened to other guys before. The only way to be absolutely sure is to keep Charlie Junior wrapped up, or simply keep your pants zipped.”

“This is crazy!” he protested.

“Maybe I’m just paranoid. Or maybe I’ve seen too many guys get into trouble by sticking their dicks in every hole available. So here’s something else I want you to do. How is it that you are screwing these girls and your mother and I find out when we walk in on you? If you like a girl enough to stick your dick in her, maybe you should have her come to dinner and meet us?”

“DAD!”

I stood up and motioned for my son to rise. “From now on, no more of this foolishness! The pool house is off limits for fun and games. What if your sisters had looked in the windows or come in the door?! You want to tell me how you explain that one?”

“Dad, what… I mean, where…”

“Do I look like I care? Figure it out! As for the rubbers, I’ll take you down to a pharmacy and show you where they are, but you have to buy them.”

Charlie had a terrified look on his face. “No, Dad, I can’t…”

“Wake up, Charlie! You think you’re man enough to need them? Then you’re man enough to buy them! And don’t think you can get one of the security guys to buy them for you, either. I am going to give them specific orders not to help. Man up, Charlie!” He looked dejected at that, but didn’t argue with me. “Now let’s go inside. Your mother is sure to be curious about where we are,” I told him.

Suddenly Charlie got a nervous look on his face. Me catching him wasn’t anywhere near as scary as his mother finding out. “Uh, Dad, you don’t have to say anything to Mom, right?”

I clapped him on the shoulder, man to man. “No, I won’t tell her.” Then I gave him my biggest and most evil grin. “You will!”

I led the way into the house; my now warm beer I grabbed as we passed it. Marilyn was in the kitchen, heading towards the laundry room. “Where have you guys been? You left your beer outside, you know,” she told me. I held it up to show I had grabbed it. Charlie promptly tried to slip past me and head out of the room. I grabbed his arm and pushed him towards his mother. She saw this and said, “Okay, what’s going on?!”

I kept my mouth shut. Charlie looked like he’d prefer facing a firing squad. He had a wild look in his eyes, and he was babbling a bit. I set my beer in the kitchen sink, and got another cold one, all the while staying between him and escape.

“Um… uhhhh… Mom… uhh… me and Missy…” he started, with the rest coming out in a rush.

By this point I felt safe stepping back, to open my new beer and take a sip. The results were fairly predictable. “CHARLIE!” followed by Marilyn clocking our offspring on the back of the head.

“Mom!?”

She smacked him on the head again and then started chewing his ass. I stood there, leaning against the refrigerator as she chewed on him, mostly about the same things I had said, like his sisters walking in on him, and his general irresponsibility. Then she turned to me and crossly said, “Well, don’t just stand there! Don’t you have something to say?!”

I shrugged. “I already said my piece to him. You’re doing fine all on your own.”

“Hmmmphhh!” She turned back to Charlie and sent him to his room to contemplate his sins. Charlie scooted out of the kitchen like a cat whose tail got stepped on. Marilyn looked at me, to find me with a sly smile on my face. “He’s your son!”

I smiled broadly at that. “Do you want me to summon him back here, so we can discuss your virginal attributes on your wedding day?”

“You wouldn’t dare!” I opened my mouth to say something, and she got in my face. “You just behave!” I started laughing at her, and she joined in a moment later. “It’s not funny!” she protested. That just made us laugh harder. After a bit, we caught our breaths. “Did this ever happen to you?”

“What, my parents walking in on me and a girlfriend?” Marilyn nodded at that. I simply snorted. “You saw my parents’ house. Where in the world would I have any privacy there? I committed my sinning elsewhere. It did get me in trouble, though, sort of.”

“How so?”

“Well, my parents never walked in on me, but Hamilton broke into one of my foot lockers and dumped a box of condoms on the table at dinner that night.” My wife gasped, and I described the incident. “It was one of the deciding factors in my moving out. He was totally out of control at that point.”

“That must have been fun!”

“Yeah. Mom demanded that Dad do something about me. It was all my fault that Hamilton had caused the nonsense.” Being reminded of my asshole brother made me grimace. “I should have drowned the little asshole at birth.”

We were interrupted at any further traipsing down memory lane when the twins came in the door, yelling and arguing with each other. Marilyn and I gave each other the Look and the she went off to settle the latest problem. The two girls spent about an equal time screaming at each other and whining for their mother to take their side in the dispute. The gist of the dispute was that while at the mall they had run into one Bobby Snyderman, who was absolutely dreamy and cool and cute and hot and in, and that he had been flirting with both of them, and now they were convinced it was true love, and each of them wanted their twin sister to jump off a tall building and leave her alone! I decided to do like my son had done, and scram! I headed to my office and closed the door, leaving Marilyn to deal with the screaming.

Marilyn came into my office about ten minutes later, looking exhausted, and flopped down on my couch. “This is all your fault!” I was informed.

I laughed and replied, “How is this my fault?”

“You’re a man. It has to be your fault.”

I laughed again. “Hey, remember the rules. I deal with boy stuff, you deal with girl stuff. I told you even before they were born that they were going to be impossible once they got to this age. I think I’m going to start staying in Washington.”

“And leave me with the kids!? Forget it! I’m going with you! They can starve!” We shook our heads at that surprisingly pleasant thought. “So, earlier, you spoke to Charlie and Missy?”

I told her the gist of my conversation with the two teens. She nodded. “You walked in on them?” she asked, amused.

“I had a pretty good idea what was going on.”

“He’s your son!”

I waggled my eyebrows at my wife. “Later on, after the kids are asleep, why don’t you put on a swimsuit and we can go outside and I can give you a more detailed description.”

Marilyn coughed at that. “In your dreams, mister!”

“You know, that little red number I bought for you.”

Marilyn’s eyes widened at that. I was referring to a very risqué suit I had bought her on Paradise Island. It was extremely small, with the emphasis on the word extremely, with a thong bottom and side ties, and a minimal bra top. It was very sheer and red, and had the added virtue that when wet it became almost transparent. “No way!” she protested.

“I am almost positive I saw it here after our last trip. You put it on and we can go swimming, and I can show you exactly what I caught them up to.”

“Forget it!” She was smiling at me.

“I think I am going to ply you with booze tonight, to see if I can convince you otherwise.” I stood and led her back to the kitchen, to make drinks. It was relatively quiet at that point. Either the girls were all screamed out, or they were in their room plotting something nefarious for the other one, or me, or Bobby Snyderman. I kept my wife’s gin and tonic filled, and strong, through dinner and afterwards.

By the second drink, Marilyn suspiciously commented, “I think you are making my drinks stronger than normal.”

I gave her my most innocent look. “Who, me?”

“You are up to something!”

Holly chimed in at that point, “What’s Dad up to?” Molly piped in a second later asking the same thing.

Their mother looked at them and said, “Never you mind! Your father knows what I am talking about.”

“Dad?!” asked the twins, together.

I just laughed. “I have no idea what your mother is talking about.” Then I looked at Marilyn and clinked the ice cubes in my glass. “Refill?”

Marilyn’s eyes twinkled. “Yes, please.”

I smiled. I had a funny feeling I was going swimming later that night!

One thing I worked on in my spare time was another book. I couldn’t really work on it last year, since I was tied up in a lot of speechifying and running for re-election. Now I had some time, and I wanted to touch on a topic that was going to radically affect the Republican Party. I had seen some of this during the latest campaign, and it needed to be addressed. Maybe with the name of a Congressman on it, it might get more attention paid to it.

Why do Congressmen write books? The answer is that very few of them actually do. Most don’t have the time or the intellectual capacity. Most books by politicians are written as either memoirs or biographies by a ghost writer, or as a manifesto for their future agenda in a higher office. They might be involved in the final editing, but they just spout their ideas to the ghost writer, who tries to make it coherent.

At that point things get very amusing! Most books by politicians don’t get read. Most politicians are boring people with the ethics of used car salesmen. (I should know, since I had become one.) Who wants to read about how Congressman Crankypants worked his way up through the Boise political machine and climbed to the peak of Idaho political power? And after learning those fascinating details, who wants to learn his plans once he is elected to Supreme Pontifex and Grand Imperator? The answer is — NOBODY!

So, what to do? Since all politicians are chronically short of money, the Congressman can sell his book, and since book royalties are exempt from the limits on outside income, he pockets all the royalties. However, since normal humans don’t actually want to read the book, sales will probably be limited (i.e. nonexistent!) Maybe the campaign can help, by buying a few books and then giving them away to campaign volunteers and donors, so they can learn more about the wonders of Congressman Crankypants. Down this slippery slope more than a few politicians have fallen. Raise the price a little too much, raise the royalty rate a little too high, have the campaign buy a few too many copies, and all of the sudden you have the perfect recipe for laundering campaign funds into the Congressman’s pockets. Excuse us, Congressman, but the Justice Department has a few questions for you!

None of this actually applied to me. Leaving aside the fact that my royalties were donated to charity, I allowed Simon and Schuster to set the pricing and made sure my co-authors were prominently listed, and for my name I used Carl Buckman, PhD, not Carl Buckman, Congressman. Furthermore, I wasn’t writing a memoir or a biography, and all my books had been fact based — infrastructure, political economics, and now, demographics.

The demographics of the country were changing, and it wasn’t to the benefit of the Republican Party. Minorities were increasing in size, and where people lived was changing as well. Back in the Fifties, the magical and mystical days that Reagan pointed to during his Presidency, white Protestants had the numbers, the money, and the political power. That was no longer the case. Blacks were numbering about ten percent of the electorate, and they could vote now, and their incomes were rising as well. Ironically, after the blacks fought the fight for voting and civil rights, the Latinos were now an even larger population group. Other major groups were single women and the young and the gays, and none of these groups were being addressed by the Republicans in any meaningful way. Where they lived was changing, too. Urbanization was increasing, and by 2010 the majority of Americans lived in metropolitan regions, and not out in the country.

Putting it bluntly, the Nineties and Oughts were the last hurrah of the white man. By 2010 or so, we were simply the largest minority in a nation chock full of minorities. By 2020 the Republican Party was jokingly referred to as the party of angry white men, irrelevant when it came to the Presidency and the Senate, but more than capable of generating enough angry white male votes to totally fuck up the House.

The only way to combat this was by bringing these groups within the confines of the Republican Party. There was no earthly reason to let the Democrats brand themselves as the party of inclusion. Make the Republican Party the big tent party, bring the Latinos and Asians in, court the blacks with middle- and upper-class incomes, and stop branding cities as evil, compared to the ‘heartland.’ There’s a reason nobody wants to work on the farm — it’s incredibly hard, pays peanuts, and is dangerous (farming and ranching has some of the highest rates of accident and death of all occupations.)

Right now, the storm clouds were on the horizon, and visible to everybody, but nobody actually believed them. Maybe it was simply my degrees in mathematics, and the realization that this stuff actually had consequences. As I had stated in my previous books, two plus two equals four, not three and not five. Maybe you don’t like the answers, but they are going to smack you in the face soon enough.

I called Simon and Schuster and discussed it with them. We would get a couple of hard core quantitative types, demographers and actuaries, and they would be the ones running the numbers. I would write most of the text and try to give the numbers a human face. Birth rate statistics and immigration rates can be incredibly dry and boring stuff, but they have real long term consequences.

I made sure to devote an hour or two a day to the project. Like my earlier books, I broke it down into a number of chapters, each devoted to a specific subject. One might be a history of minority voting patterns, which then led into a chapter on minority birth rates, which led to a chapter on the white majority status, and then into illegal immigration, which led to birthrates and assimilation among immigrants, and so forth. It was almost a survey course of modern demographics and population studies. Fortunately, by now I had written enough books that I had a handle on time management and could figure out how to do the writing.

To what extent any of this would have an effect, I just wasn’t sure. Ignorance is bliss, especially when it is willful ignorance. There were an awful lot of Republicans who didn’t want to know that the easy ride was over. Starting in the Sixties, when the Democrats became the party of desegregation and civil rights, and whites fled to both the suburbs and the Republican Party, there was a built-in constituency, and it was big. Reagan had played to this base superbly, and I knew that left to his own devices Bush 43 would do so also. Still, demographics don’t lie. Minorities had higher birth rates and immigration was overwhelmingly minority. As for movement away from the rural areas to the cities, that had been going on for generations. Still, if you can learn what is going to happen, you can adapt.

The Future Republican Party: Demographics and the Changing Electorate was scheduled to come out in the fall. It was an off year, so no major elections were in the works. If anybody read it, maybe it would change their behavior next year, which was an election year for Congress. We’d have to wait and see.

Chapter 122: Impeachment

1997–1998

The Future Republican Party came out in November, just in time for the New York Times Christmas list. As far as Newt Gingrich and some of the Republican powers were concerned, it was about as welcome as a loud and juicy fart in church. These guys were busy riding the white male vote, and the word that the fast and fun ride was going to stop was not welcome. I found myself doing the Sunday morning talk show circuit and having to face fellow Republicans who disagreed.

This took one of two forms. First were the academics, who argued that the trends I was quoting weren’t actually happening (No, the Latinos aren’t really growing that fast; no, people really weren’t moving to cities; no, etc. etc. etc.) Then you had the politicians, who tried to argue with a straight face that the Republican Party was inherently attractive to all Americans, including the minority groups. The real amusement came when the talk shows then brought out several minority leaders (a vice president of the NAACP and a director of the Southern Baptist Leadership Conference were particularly amusing) to argue about just how welcoming the Republicans were.

I think my best moment in the debate came one morning on Meet the Press. Russert asked me, “Congressman, some of your fellow Republicans are calling you too intellectual. Others say you are being pragmatic, and others are saying you’re too idealistic. How do you respond to these criticisms?”

I smiled and said, “Why can’t I be all three? Take immigration, for instance. The intellectual in me says that immigrants have a higher birth rate than native born Americans. The pragmatist in me tells me to appeal to this large and growing group of Americans. Most importantly, the idealist in me says that these people are crossing burning deserts and cramming into rusty cargo ships and riding leaky rafts and sailboats to get to this country. They look at America as a shining beacon to the rest of the world. I say to them, ‘Join us! Be part of us! Help us hold up this beacon!’ I say, from all three viewpoints, I can either be regressive, and hide in the past, or be progressive, and I choose to be progressive and face the future!”

Newt was not amused. I was violating the Eleventh Commandment, ‘Thou shalt not tell the truth if the truth goes against our talking points!’

He was still in charge of the House, and still had enough Republican Congressmen to give Clinton a boatload of grief. I couldn’t remember when it all came out on my first trip through, but the dam broke on the Lewinsky scandal by the end of 1997. In retrospect, I wondered on occasion if Newt was pushing this so hard to deflect from what I was saying about the party he was in charge of. Kenneth Starr, who had started by investigating the Whitewater real estate mess the Clintons were involved in, just kept digging and digging. In this he was aided and abetted by Gingrich, who was convinced there had to be a smoking gun somewhere, and that he could use it to shoot Slick Willie. When the Office of the Independent Counsel was created, there was no limit on what he could look into, or how much he could spend doing it.

As much as I despised James Carville, the man was right when he commented, ‘Drag enough hundred dollar bills through the trailer park, and you’re bound to find something or other.’ Ken Starr was tossing hundred dollar bills around left and right, and then leaking all the results directly to the right wing media like the Drudge Report and Fox News. ‘Fair and balanced’ — my ass! Starr probably had these guys on speed dial.

So, for Bill Clinton’s 1997 Christmas present to his family, he gave them Monica Lewinsky and a semen coated blue dress. To say it was a national scandal was to put it mildly. Hillary’s response was equally scandalous. Half the country wanted to see her divorce him, preferably on television, and the other half wanted it over, but couldn’t understand why she forgave him. I asked Marilyn if she would ‘stand by her man’ if I got caught cheating on her. She looked at me quizzically and responded, “Have you lost your mind?”

I smiled. “I take that as a negative.”

“Extremely negative!”

“As in, I’d be divorced before the dust settled?”

She smiled and pointed a finger at me. “Faster!”

I smiled back. “Then I guess I better not let you catch me.”

“What was that?!”

“Nothing, dear.” I smirked at her.

“You behave!” she finished, and threw in some finger waggings for extra emphasis.

Newt was milking this for all he was worth. He was demanding that Clinton be called before Congress to answer for his crimes. Exactly how cheating on your wife was a national crime was convoluted, to say the least. It involved the fact that he had said he wasn’t cheating on her, and had therefore perjured himself in testimony before the Justice Department, through the Office of the Independent Counsel. Considering that the Counsel’s office was leaking like a sieve, if he had admitted to it, it would have been on the news before he had managed to get home.

Meanwhile Ken Starr kept digging. He wasn’t just investigating Bill, he was also investigating Hillary. The odds were that he was also investigating Chelsea. Considering she was only 17 at the time, that seemed rather a pointless gesture, but I heard a whisper regardless. This was dragging on interminably. John Boehner told me that Newt was timing the whole thing so that it was going to come to a conclusion about the time of the mid-term elections.

John was still a friend and still talking to me, though he knew that Newt didn’t approve of that. John made up for it by going along with Gingrich on almost everything else. We were sitting in my home office in December of 1997, having a few drinks and talking shop one night. He was giving me Newt’s plans, since I was no longer in the inner circle.

I listened and nodded, and then asked him, “John, let me ask you something. Ever cheated on Debbie?”

“Carl! That’s a hell of a thing to ask!” he protested.

“Ain’t it though,” I responded. “You know, I don’t care. It’s not my business. It’s yours and your wife’s. Don’t you think this is the same thing?”

John had the decency to look uncomfortable at the question. Was it because he knew I was right, or because he had cheated on his wife? I didn’t know and really didn’t care. “That’s true, but it’s not about the cheating, it’s about the lying. That’s the crime.”

“That’s a subtle distinction, don’t you think? We aren’t destroying a man because he cheated on his wife, but because he lied about it? You don’t think that’s more than a little hypocritical coming out of the mouth of Newt Gingrich? He cheated on his first wife with his second, and from what I hear he’s doing the same with her. Gingrich keeps pushing this, it is going to come back and bite him in the ass, and probably not just him. There are going to be some heads rolling over this!”

“Carl, even if I agree with you, it doesn’t matter. Newt thinks this is a winner for him and for us. You have to admit, he’s been right so far,” argued my friend.

I shook my head. “No, he hasn’t been. We lost ten seats in the last election. We do it again and we have a one seat margin. Newt screwed up when he decided to shut the government down. This is a mistake also. We have almost a year before the election. Newt thinks he can keep up the outrage for the next ten months. Here’s what’s going to really happen. For the next few months, until sometime this summer, people are going to be outraged. After that, people are going to get sick and tired of it. The Clintons are going to get sympathy, you know, ‘It’s a private matter, leave them alone!’, that sort of thing. By the time Slick Willie turns Carville and the other attack dogs loose, people will be blaming Newt and the rest of us for this mess.”

“So what would you have us do? We can’t let it drop. Newt won’t let it drop.”

“Hey, I didn’t say we shouldn’t use it to pressure the man. I’m just saying that this is going to go too far. You impeach the President for ordering break-ins and rigging elections. You don’t run an impeachment because he got a blowjob from an intern! That’s why they invented divorce, John!”

He shrugged and gave me a helpless gesture. “You know the man. What do you expect me to do?”

“Talk to people. I went to lunch with George Will last week, and Marilyn and I went to dinner with Tim Russert and his wife two nights ago. I talked to both of them about these sorts of situations. There is a definite life cycle to these things. At the start there is a lot of outrage. It builds and builds, but then after awhile, everybody is sick and tired of it. After that, if you keep pushing, you start building sympathy for the person you are tormenting. ‘Can’t they leave that poor man alone?!’, that sort of thing. Newt is going to keep pushing this long past the expiration date!” I told him.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Here’s something else to tell people. You know and I know, Newt ain’t the only fellow in Congress to have fooled around on his beloved spouse. If the press really is as liberal as you think it is, don’t you think somebody is going to start investigating Republican marital infidelities? Newt wants to push this into the November elections? It’s a poor sword that won’t cut both ways!”

John simply grunted at that.

Not much happened through the first half of 1998. As far as the Republican powers that be were concerned, I was assigned to the Committee on Purgatory and Limbo, although I kept on talking to people. There was a backlash building slowly against Gingrich and what he was trying to do. It was like a snowball; it just needed a little bit of help for it to start to roll down the hill and grow.

I remembered enough about politics from my first go to know that the actual impeachment proceedings of Clinton occurred during the lame duck session of Congress, following the mid-term elections, November thru December of 1998. Clinton would be charged in the House and be acquitted in the Senate. This time around, Gingrich rushed things. Sensing that the public was tiring of his endless carping, he decided to go for broke, and impeach Clinton before the election. I heard from several people that Newt had commissioned several very private polls that were telling him what he wanted to hear — we would pick up two dozen or more seats in the House, and half that many in the Senate, more than making up the losses we suffered in 1996. The drama of televised impeachment hearings would make up for the disgust with the political process the general electorate was feeling.

The response from my fellow Congressmen, on both sides of the aisle, was muted at best. The overall consensus was that nobody needed the grief during an election year. The Democrats were worried that if Clinton could be impeached, it would hurt them November 3^rd, and if he wasn’t impeached, it still wouldn’t help. Curiously, more than a few Republicans considered the whole thing one of the tawdriest spectacles they had ever seen, and wanted no part of it. Only the most rabid or tactically minded of my party welcomed this. Most of us thought this was the most incredible distraction to our real job of getting elected again.

As for re-election, I was running against the mayor of Westminster, a fellow named Jerry Herzinski. I had known Jerry for a number of years, and he decided to throw his hat in the ring. While I wasn’t taking the election for granted, I had to admit that Jerry was nowhere near as tough an opponent as Steve Rymark had been two years ago. Jerry had the Democratic machine going for him, and a decent enough record as a small town mayor. Unfortunately, when God was handing out charisma, Jerry was standing behind the door and got passed by. Watching and listening to paint dry was more exciting than listening to Jerry give a speech. He had a decent enough war chest for ads, but the man was simply boring! I couldn’t ignore him, but every independent poll had me beating him by double digits.

Newt went for broke, calling Congress back into session over the summer recess, and ordering his top lieutenants to prepare the paperwork to start the official impeachment process. The House Judiciary Committee voted to impeach Clinton on an even half-dozen charges, with perjury and obstruction of justice being the two most important, and a mix of obstruction and contempt of Congress charges rounding out the others. From there it would go to the full House for a vote. If we voted for impeachment, it would then go to the full Senate for a trial, with Bill Rehnquist, the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court hearing the trial. It would be the biggest spectacle since Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette had their day in court a few years before.

It was too much for me to stomach. Shortly after the formal charges were made, the Capitol Hill reporters began swarming, searching for soundbites. As one of the better known Congressmen, and one of the more moderate, they began to beat down my door looking for my thoughts. I called Marty, Mindy, and my other senior people together to formulate my response. Cheryl drove down from Westminster. We met over at the house in Massachusetts Avenue Heights. Marilyn and I made dinner for everybody, and then after dinner we all retreated to my office. “I want everybody here to give me your unvarnished opinions. Most of you know my thoughts already, but I want yours. Do you think this is going to be a winner for us? Not if you think it’s right, but if you think Clinton can be impeached. Junior person goes first.” I pointed at Mindy. As my Executive Assistant — my secretary — she was technically the most junior among us. “Mindy, what do you think?”

Mindy shook her head. “From everything I am seeing from the letters and emails from people in the district, people are sick to death of this! Not to be rude, but the guy got a hummer. That might be tacky, but it’s not something to be tried for.”

I turned to Cheryl, my senior person back at the Field Office in Westminster. “Is that right? Do the people back home want this over, or do they want an impeachment?”

Cheryl sighed. “This is not helping you, Congressman. From everything I am seeing, and the rest of the office is reporting, as disgusting as most people think Clinton is, they really would prefer that Gingrich be impeached rather than Clinton. Your stance so far is helping in this regard, but only with the people who know about it.”

“Explain that,” asked Bill Ferguson, my Press Assistant. He was actually part of my ‘permanent’ re-election committee, paid for by the campaign, and thus not counting against the limits on my Congressional staff.

“A lot of people figure that Congressman Buckman is a Republican, and is therefore part of the anti-Clinton conspiracy. The ones who have paid some attention, however, know that the Congressman is not in favor of the impeachment, and aren’t holding it against him. I would put the anti-impeachment letters and emails at two to one, or three to one, versus those in favor of it.”

“Bill, what are you hearing? More important, what do you think?” I asked.

Ferguson shrugged. “I think Cheryl and Mindy are right. The Maryland Ninth is not planning on burning Bill Clinton in effigy. Newt Gingrich is another matter, however. He is widely considered to be a huge blocking force in Congress. He was at the heart of the shutdown and now is at the heart of the impeachment.”

“What do you think, though? What are your personal feelings?”

He shrugged again. “I don’t have any personal feelings. For me it’s more tactics, and the tactics here are not helping us. You have a fairly clean reputation. You are both pro-women’s rights and pro-family, which is a tough act to cobble together. As long as you and Mrs. Buckman don’t get divorced before the Clintons, you’re safe.”

I glanced over at Marilyn, who had a dry look on her face. “You don’t tell about my girlfriends and I won’t tell about your boyfriends.”

“Very funny!”

I continued around the room. Nothing about this was going to affect anything we were working on legislative wise. The big effect was going to be whether this would backfire during the elections. If Gingrich won and Clinton was impeached, it would probably hurt the Democrats badly — maybe! It might also unleash a sympathy vote in their favor. If the Republicans lost, it hurt us, no matter what. In many ways, the best possible thing to happen would be for the House to fail to vote for impeachment. The only way this was going to happen was for somebody to take a stand against Gingrich.

Everybody in the room was looking at me. “You guys want me to go publicly on the record against Newt Gingrich and the impeachment?” I asked.

Marty looked around the room and answered for everybody. “Yes. For one thing, this is good for you, the politician. It will let everybody back in the district know you are against it, which matches their feelings. More importantly, it tells everybody here in Washington that this is a bad idea for the nation as a whole. This is not why we have impeachments. This is not a high crime or misdemeanor. If you can shut this down, you are taking the high road.”

“If I shut this down, Newt Gingrich is going to come after me with an axe. We are going to find ourselves on the fifth floor of Cannon and you guys are all going to be in the Cages.”

“So what!?” he countered. “You’re rich! You can build us a sixth floor, with an atrium and a garden and a spa!”

“Oh, Christ!” I muttered. I glanced over at my wife, who simply smiled and took my hand.

I looked around the room at the others. Like me, most of them had come to Washington in the hope of doing something good, and like me, they realized that an impeachment over lying about getting a blowjob was not something good. I could see it in their faces. Lead, follow, or get the hell out of the way! So went the old saying. After about thirty seconds, I nodded at Marty. “Okay, I will come out publicly against it. How do we manage this for the greatest effect?” There was a sense of relief around the room, and some smiles as well. I rolled my eyes at them. “And when this fails, you are all invited to my political funeral. Now, what do we do?”

Marilyn kissed me on the cheek, and then stood up and began refreshing everybody’s coffee. She wasn’t much of a political strategist. She did know right from wrong, though, so my stand was fine with her. “I’m going to make some fresh coffee. I’ll be back in a few minutes. You don’t need me to write a speech,” she announced.

Mindy popped up to help her, and the rest of us got down to the tactics of doing this and making it happen quickly. It was already out of the Judiciary Committee. In two weeks we would be having the vote in front of the entire House. We had two weeks for a four term Congressman to wage war on the Speaker of the House. Win or lose, this was going to radically change things.

Two days later, I had a press conference scheduled on the Capitol steps. Since the preparations for this couldn’t be hidden, I had a visit from Bob Livingston, the head of the powerful House Appropriations Committee and one of Newt’s main henchmen. He was politer than Newt, in that the day before the press conference, he appeared at my office and asked to see me. Newt would have simply barged in.

After admitting him to my office, I ushered him over to an armchair. I sat down across from him. “How can I help you, Bob?” I asked.

“Carl, I’ll come to the point. Newt knows you are having a press conference tomorrow, over on the steps to the Capitol. He’d like to know what you plan to say.”

“The Speaker couldn’t ask himself? I know he’s a busy man, but he couldn’t even pick up a phone and call?” I countered.

Bob didn’t have much of a response to that. What was he going to say, that Newt only called his friends and allies, and I was now neither? “Well, Newt was busy, so he asked me to look into it. What do you plan to say during the press conference.”

No way was I answering that. The one thing we had all agreed on the other night was that this was going to be closely held, very closely held. We had written the speech that night, and Mindy had typed it up. There weren’t going to be copies handed out ahead of time, no digital versions would go to a teleprompter, nothing leaked to sympathetic reporters. If Newt caught wind of this, the press conference would be cancelled for some reason. If nothing else, Gingrich would personally phone in a bomb scare to the Capitol Police! I waved it all off. “Oh, nothing big. Just some personal thoughts about my future in the Maryland Ninth. I’ve been wondering about whether it’s worth it. I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

Livingston eyed me curiously, but then took his leave. Let him go back to Newt and tell him that I was leaving Congress. Newt would enjoy that immensely.

The next day, I found a large number of reporters down on the Capitol steps, facing a podium. Newt and a few others had let it be known that I was going to announce my retirement from the Congress, and the turnout was greater than I would have gotten otherwise. Fine and dandy. I was declaring war on Newt Gingrich, and a surprise attack would be useful. I left the Capitol and marched down the steps, flanked by Marty and Jerry Ferguson. At the podium I waited while the last minute sound checks were run. There was a nod to me from one of the sound men, and then I began.

“Thank you all for coming. As everyone here knows, in two weeks time, the House of Representatives will be voting as a grand jury on articles of impeachment on President Clinton. If the House passes these articles, the case against the President will then be tried before the Senate, with Chief Justice Rehnquist presiding. The impeachment of a sitting President is the most serious judgment a Congressman can make, and requires him to make a fundamental evaluation of his purpose in Congress.

Like my fellow colleagues, I have agonized over my response to this. How will I vote if it comes to that? After much thought, my actions are clear to me. I will not vote for impeachment.

The Constitution is clear on this. The President can only be impeached for treason, bribery, and high crimes and misdemeanors. There have been no charges of either treason or bribery. The charges are those falling into the category of high crimes or misdemeanors. But what are those crimes? President Clinton cheated on his wife and then lied about it. This is not what our Founding Fathers meant by high crimes and misdemeanors! You do not get impeached over a matter of marital infidelity! You get divorced!

Does this mean I approve of President Clinton’s behavior? Hardly! As both a man and as a husband, I find Mister Clinton’s behavior disgusting and reprehensible. I would be ashamed to introduce him to my wife and children. If he were to shake my hand today, I would count my fingers and then wipe my hands off. He has grossly abused the trust of his wife and family — but he has not abused the trust of the nation! His misbehavior does not rise to the level that the framers of the Constitution had in mind for reasons to remove the Chief Executive. I remind everyone that our Founding Fathers were men themselves, with all the failings of men.

So I announce today that I will not vote for impeachment, and I will work against impeachment. Instead, I will introduce an Article of Censure to Congress. While I feel the President’s misbehavior does not warrant his removal from office, I feel just as strongly that the entire Congress is as disgusted as I am by that misbehavior. This would be the proper method for us to express that displeasure. Let us end this impeachment and pass a censure, and then let us wash our hands of this sordid affair. Thank you.”

Chapter 123: The Soapbox Rebellion

To say my announcement was a shocker was a gross understatement. I think I would have gotten less of a reaction by lighting a large bomb in the basement of the Capitol! After I finished reading my statement, there was a roar from the reporters as each one of them began yelling out questions. I declined and began moving away. Meanwhile, around the fringes of the group, and out of camera range, several Republican Congressmen and senior staffers were standing there in stunned silence. Rather than watching me announce my impending retirement from Congress (to be responded to by pious thanks for my long years of service) they had just watched me declare war on Newt Gingrich. To a man, they turned and hustled away, staffers running interference, as reporters hounded after them demanding to know how they would vote.

For me, it was oddly liberating. For over a year now, I had been dancing around with Gingrich, starting when I argued with him about the government shutdown. Now the dance was over. It was war.

That night, after dinner, Marilyn found me in my home office, simply sitting in an armchair, staring out a window and thinking. She came in and sat down on my lap. “Care for some company?” she asked.

I smiled at her. “Sure.” I wrapped my arms around her.

Marilyn made herself comfortable, and then said, “I just want you to know, I’m very proud of you. I know this has been hard for you, but you are right and Newt Gingrich is wrong and I am proud of what you said today.”

I hugged her, and then said, “Thank you. I wonder if this is how Caesar felt when he crossed the Rubicon.”

“Huh?”

I smiled at her. “You’ve heard of Caesar crossing the Rubicon, right?”

Marilyn smiled and shrugged. “Yes, but I never really knew what it meant.”

I nodded in understanding. “Ahhh… well, this was all a few years ago, of course, but when Julius Caesar decided to take over Rome, the rule was that no Roman general could march an army into Italy. The line was a little river in northern Italy, the Rubicon. Actually, it’s more a stream than a river. So, anyway, old Julius got summoned to Rome to answer for his crimes, and had to leave the army behind, on the far side of the river. If he went without them, he would get thrown in jail. If he took them with him, though, he was declaring civil war.”

“And he took them with him?”

“That’s what the saying refers to. He took them with him. It means you’ve made a decision you can’t back away from. You’ve placed your bets and rolled the dice, for good or bad.”

Marilyn smiled. “Well, Caesar won. So will you.”

I snorted and gave my wife a wry smile. “I’m not sure that’s a great example. Caesar was opposed by Pompey the Great, another famous general, and after a few battles, Caesar ended up chasing Pompey to Egypt, where Pompey’s head ended up in a basket.”

“Yuck!”

“Yeah! On the other hand, that’s where Julius Caesar met Cleopatra. Maybe I need to keep an eye out for beautiful foreign queens.”

That earned me an elbow to the ribs. “Forget it!” she told me.

I chuckled. “Well, it didn’t end so good for Caesar, either. Eventually he ended up back in Rome, where his friends killed him on the floor of the Senate. Let’s just hope I don’t get invited over to the Senate any time soon!”

Marilyn climbed up off my lap and headed towards the kitchen. “So much for politics!”

As she left, I called out, “Hey, got anything in the way of a Cleopatra costume?”

“Forget it!”

I laughed at that.

The next couple of days I began calling and talking to pretty much any Republican Representative I could. There weren’t many. The vast majority refused to talk to me, although none actually said as much. They simply weren’t available, or were on another call, or had another appointment. I did speak to Wayne Gilchrest, who agreed with me and promised to vote with me against the impeachment. I also spoke to John Boehner, who also said he agreed with me, but refused to make a commitment either way.

By strict party line vote, which was what Newt was counting on, the Republicans would have 228 votes to impeach versus the Democrats’ 207 votes not to impeach. To beat the impeachment, I needed to switch 11 votes, to come to a 217–218 score. Well, 10 votes anyway, since I was one of the 11.

It was actually more complicated than that. Since the actual articles of impeachment had six specific charges, it was possible that some of my counterparts could try to have it both ways, by voting against some of the charges, but for the others. The two big charges were the perjury and obstruction of justice charges. The other four were the contempt of Congress and obstruction charges relating to that. I could easily see a number of Congressmen ignoring those four, but still voting for the first two. Worse, there were a few conservative Democrats who were as disgusted by Clinton as anybody else, who might cross the line in the opposite direction! Realistically, I needed more than ten votes.

My political career was swirling the bowl. On the plus side, I was still filthy rich, so I wouldn’t have to go to work as a lobbyist. I had actually had that thought for the briefest of moments, and then snorted in laughter, and called ARI. The American Renaissance Initiative began pushing Republican Congressmen to vote against the impeachment. Nothing like spending a little money to help.

The one thing I had never figured on, though, started Thursday morning. The House vote as a grand jury would be on Tuesday September 15. Two Thursdays before that, the morning of the 3^rd, I was in the Westminster Field Office, meeting with Cheryl and the rest of the staff. Mid-morning, who walked in but Fletcher Donaldson. Fletcher was still with the Baltimore Sun, and was now their senior political correspondent, with both bylined articles and an opinion column that was on the verge of being syndicated. He ignored the protesting intern who tried to bar my open door, and stuck his head around the corner. “Carl, you want to call off your attack dog here?”

I snorted and waved him in. “Fletcher, you are rude, crude, and socially unacceptable!”

“My mother would agree with you. Let’s talk.”

I rolled my eyes at that, and said, “I’m sure I have an appointment. Let me call in and make one!” I brandished my cell phone and mimed making a phone call.

Fletcher ignored this as well, and sat down across from me. He leaned back in his chair and threw his feet up on my desk. “So, Carl, you want to tell me about your pissing match with Newt, and how you expect to win?”

I leaned back and threw my own feet up on the desk. To the extent that any politician can have friends in the media, Fletcher was a friend. Certainly, we were on a first name basis. “Fletcher, I have no idea what you are talking about! Newt Gingrich is a personal friend and a mentor, and has earned my respect and the respect of all of his colleagues, both Republican and Democrat.”

“Carl, I’ll bet you’ve been practicing that line for a week now. I’ll also bet you practiced the line to your kids about those quarters under their pillows coming from the Tooth Fairy.”

We batted it back and forth for about ten minutes, with Fletcher trying to get something from me about me going up against Newt, and my protesting my innocence. Then Carrie, the young intern who had tried to keep Fletcher out of my office, appeared in my doorway, a worried look on her face. “Uh, Congressman, uh, you should see this.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I’ll be out in a few minutes, Carrie.”

“Uh, sir? You really should take a look at this.”

I glanced over at Fletcher, and shrugged. I stood up and got to the door before he did. “Carrie, keep him here and don’t let him out.”

The poor girl dutifully tried to stay between Fletcher and the doorway, so he feinted right and slipped around her to the left. Carrie scampered behind us, looking more than a little flustered. I found most of the staff staring at the mail bin, a plastic box the Post Office brought around every day with the office’s mail. “Well?” I asked.

Cheryl pointed at a large and misshapen envelope, and then at two others that were similar. One was already open. “Look,” she said, pointing at the desk it was laying on. Sitting there on the desk was a small bar of soap, of the size and type typically found in hotel bathrooms, still in the wrapper. “It was in the envelope, along with this note.” She passed it onto me.

I turned it over in my hands. It was a simple enough note, written on plain white paper. “Wash your hands well, and vote no on the impeachment.” It was signed “Ellie Hines.” There was a return address on the envelope, for “E. Hines” in Arcadia.

While I read this strange missive, Cheryl opened the second envelope, and shook out a second bar of soap, with a similar message. I took it and set down the first note, which was grabbed by Fletcher before I could stop him. The third bulky envelope contained a full size bar of soap, partially mashed in the envelope, and a message saying to vote no on the impeachment.

We all stared at the mail, with Fletcher reading them as well, and the silence was broken by my cell phone ringing. I flipped it open and lifted it to my ear. “Hello?”

“Carl, it’s Wayne Gilchrest here. You’ll never guess what I got in the mail today!”

“A bar of soap!”

“How’d you know?!”

“Same here! I got three. Was there a note?” I asked.

I heard a paper rustle. “It basically told me to vote no on the impeachment. Did you have something to do with this?”

“I had no idea.”

Wayne said, “I’m making some calls. You should do the same.”

I grunted agreement, and looked around the room. Fletcher Donaldson asked, “Congressman, could I get a statement?”

I didn’t know what to say, but Cheryl saved me. “This is the voters saying they want the impeachment voted down, and they want Congress to censure the President instead.”

“Yes, exactly,” I said in agreement.

“Right.” Fletcher pulled his car keys out. “It’s always interesting talking to you, Carl. I’ll see you around!” He was gone before I could say good-bye.

I had Cheryl call the office down in D.C. to see if any soap had shown up there, but the answer was no. That changed the next day. Friday I flew down to Washington and read the Sun. Fletcher had a piece on the Opinion page about the soap I had received, along with most of the Congressional delegation from Maryland. He had spent part of yesterday afternoon calling around to the various Field Offices to see what was going on. In Washington, when the mail came around, I received four bars of soap, and I called back to Westminster and was told another three had come in. I also got a bunch of phone calls from my fellow Congressmen, asking me, “What the hell is going on, Carl?!”

That Thursday and Friday it was just a trickle of soap. By the following Tuesday, the 8^th, the day after Labor Day, it was a torrent! Hundreds of bars of soap were pouring into the Capitol, all with an admonition to wash our hands and forget about the impeachment, or get to work solving problems, or stop the bickering. The point they were making was obvious. The impeachment was nowhere near as popular as Newt thought it was. By the end of the week, one bright young Democratic staffer down on the first floor had placed a garbage can out in the hallway with a sign on it saying “Soap Only”, and the name of a Washington D.C. homeless shelter on it. All those bars of soap would be donated to charity! I don’t know how many homeless people there were, but they must have been the cleanest in the nation! We got sent a lot of soap!

Jerry Ferguson managed to book me to speak on This Week with David Brinkley on Sunday. It was the last chance I would have to publicly speak against the impeachment before the vote the following Tuesday. The topic of the day would be the ‘Soapbox Rebellion’, so named by Fletcher Donaldson in an opinion piece that went national. Brinkley didn’t bother pitting me against a Democrat; his second guest was Majority Leader Dick Armey, one of my putative bosses that I was ‘rebelling’ against.

The basic arguments came down as follows:

Armey: “This is very simple. This isn’t about whether or not President Clinton cheated on his wife. This is about whether he lied to Federal investigators. The president lied to the Department of Justice, and through them, to the United States Congress! This is a nation of laws, and no man is above the law, not even the President!”

Me: “Yes, the President lied. He lied to Ken Starr, he lied to the Department of Justice, and he lied to Congress. More importantly, though, he lied to his wife and his daughter. However, what he lied about had nothing whatsoever to do with the performance of his office, and everything to do with his personal life. I make no apologies for the man. I am simply saying that this is not what impeachment was designed for. This trivializes the Constitution. The man does not belong in Federal court, he belongs in divorce court!”

There were several questions about whether the Soapbox Rebellion was some form of power grab by me. I smiled and waved it away, repeating my litany that Newt Gingrich was a friend and a mentor, and I was proud to work with him. We wanted the same things, and simply differed on tactics. This made Armey noticeably squirm as he agreed that Gingrich held me in the highest possible regard, especially when he was pressed about some statements Newt had been heard to utter about destroying me. I just kept my mouth shut.

Finally, there were some questions about whether a censure would mean anything, which I sidestepped somewhat. It wouldn’t, and I knew it. On the other hand, it was a peace offering to all my fellow Republicans who wanted to do something, just not impeach the President. For several days junior staffers at the White House had been intimating that the President would be willing to go along with some form of censure, as long as he got to help write it. I was ignoring that. He would take what he got and like it!

That week I made the cover of Time. There was a split picture, with Newt on the left side, looking left, and me on the right side, looking right, and down below a bar of soap, and the title, ‘Rebellion!’ I didn’t make the cover of Newsweek, but a bar of soap did, along with the title, ‘The Soapbox Rebellion!’

Two days later, the Articles of Impeachment were voted on in the full House of Representatives. The four minor articles were all voted down by a margin of 257–178. The obstruction of justice article, related to lying to the investigators, failed by a much slimmer 220–215. The big one, perjury, the charge that Clinton was most guilty of, failed by a single vote 218–217.

There was an uproar in the House. A second uproar occurred moments later, when John Boehner stood up and moved to have the Article of Censure voted upon. It was already in the hopper and everybody had read it by now, but technically it needed to be voted out of the Judiciary Committee first. Never mind that, and never mind the Democratic leadership that half-heartedly tried to derail this rebuke. The Article of Censure passed 411-24. Afterwards, John met me and we shook hands. He had voted with me on all six counts of the impeachment, and had managed to sneak in the censure. It was a good day for both of us.

Newt tried to avoid the cameras afterwards, but wasn’t successful. He tried to make lemonade from the lemons, by praising his colleagues in their generosity and forbearance, in choosing the lesser of the punishments they had available to them. Bill Clinton didn’t say anything, however, and his Press Secretary, Joe Lockhart, simply stated that Clinton and his advisers were examining their possible responses.

This became really and unpleasantly obvious a couple of weeks later. I received a phone call from Dick Armey’s office, requesting my presence at a meeting on Wednesday, September 30. Armey was the House Majority Leader, second in importance in the Republican Party to Gingrich himself. Dick wasn’t much more of a fan of mine than Newt was, but he told me that the White House Counsel’s office had requested a meeting with the House leadership, and me, to discuss the wording of the censure. I was requested because I was the guy who had pushed for and written the Article of Censure.

I was curious what Clinton expected to do with the censure. All it really said was that he had disgraced his office and the Congress. He didn’t have to do anything. It seemed as if he didn’t even want to do that. Also to be present was the rest of the senior House leadership, Armey and DeLay on the Republican side, Dick Gephardt and Dave Bonior on the Democratic side, and Newt as Speaker of the House. The meeting was held in a conference room in the Capitol itself.

The meeting started one man short. Newt cancelled at the last minute, claiming a sudden illness. I suspect he was sickened by his inability to impeach the President, and even more sickened by having to participate in a meeting with me. None of the others wanted to deal with me either, the Republicans because Newt didn’t like me, and the Democrats because I was a Republican. When the small party from the White House came in, the dissension in our ranks was obvious, and pleasing to them. Clinton had sent over a party of three, two flunkies from the Chief of Staff’s office and Chuck Ruff, the White House Counsel.

Ruff was the only one who counted, and he opened the meeting with fifteen minutes of legal gobbledygook. Basically, the Articles of Censure had never been properly voted out of the Judiciary Committee, had never properly been sent to the floor of the House, wasn’t in the proper format, etc. etc. etc. The White House wanted to cooperate, of course, but thought it best that this be done properly. Perhaps we could do this more carefully, take our time with the process and the wording, and make sure it was done right.

There were any number of looks on the faces of the rest of the room. The two flunkies seemed very pleased with themselves. It was obvious that the tactic was to delay, delay, delay. The White House wanted this pushed back beyond the mid-term elections, and then to quietly die. They had dodged a bullet with the impeachment, thanks to a foolish junior Republican Congressman, and now they were going to do it again. Most of the Congressmen had looks of disgust and disbelief on their faces.

I decided to shut down the entire meeting. I was sitting towards the end of the table, allowing the powers that be to face each other. The murmurs of discussion ended as I stood up slowly, and heads turned to face me. I slowly made my way down to a position across from Ruff, standing between Armey and Gephardt. “Let’s make this simple. I’m the guy who started this, and I’ll be the guy to finish it.” Before anybody could argue, I continued in my best Strother Martin impersonation, “Whut we’ve got he-ah is a fail-yuh ta communicate.”

One of the flunkies, the one on Ruff’s right, bridled and protested, “Look here! You can’t…”

I turned to look at him, with no emotion on my face. “Shut up, sonny. You had your say, now it’s my turn.”

He turned red and looked like he was going to say something, but Ruff laid a hand on his forearm and shook his head. Ruff looked at me and said, “It’s your turn, Congressman.”

“Alright then. I’m not a lawyer. I used to be a businessman. I know about making deals. This was the deal. We don’t impeach your boss, and he takes a censure. Now your boss doesn’t like the deal. He got the impeachment quashed, but doesn’t want to take the censure. Do I have that right? Don’t bother answering. It was a rhetorical question.”

“Now that we’ve sorted out the important issues at hand, let’s look at the alternatives. First, you can fight the censure. You can bitch and moan about the process, but you’re going to look silly. Everybody on the planet knows what Clinton did, and what Congress thinks about it. You can try and fight it, but you’ll just drag out the process. While you are dragging it out, though, the big loser is going to be me. I’m the guy who orchestrated the failure of the impeachment, and I’ll be the guy who looks like an asshole. I don’t like looking like an asshole, so I’ll probably fight back. Sound right, so far? How will I fight back? Maybe by writing a check to the Independent Counsel’s Office, to cover the cost of reopening every investigation they ever thought about. They’ll investigate Slick Willie, they’ll investigate Hillary, they’ll investigate Chelsea, they’ll even investigate Socks the Fucking Cat! Then they’ll keep investigating everybody who ever worked for Slick Willie, like everybody on his staff who was stupid enough to recommend this.” I kept looking at Ruff, but out of the corner of my eye I could see the two flunkies glancing at each other. “I’m a pretty rich guy, so I can write a pretty big check. Trust me, this time they’ll dig deeper and get the proof they need. You know and I know that there was a lot of stuff that was left off the table for national security reasons. The gloves will come off! Six months from now your boss will lose the impeachment, and he’ll be on trial for treason and bribery and begging Al Gore for a pardon before the next election.”

“Now, you don’t want what’s behind Door Number One, so let’s see what’s behind Door Number Two.” I bent forward and leaned over the table, supporting myself on my two outstretched arms, and looked Ruff straight in the eye. “What’s behind Door Number Two is a big, steaming pile of shit that your boss dropped there, and a spoon. And just what will your boss do when he opens Door Number Two on national television? I’ll tell you what he’s going to do! He’s going to slap his biggest smile on his face, take that spoon, dig in deep, pick up a healthy heaping spoonful, and suck it down! And then after that, he’s going to slap on an even bigger smile, lick his lips, and go, ‘YUM! TASTY!’ That’s what he’s going to do! Is that understood? He is going to suck it up, take his punishment, and get on with his life and being the President, because the only other choice is to have me turn his remaining two years in office into a living hell. Are we clear on that? He has until the end of business Friday to announce his gracious acceptance of the censure and his hope the nation forgives his mistakes. And then this all goes away, and we can all get on with our lives.”

I stood upright. “Now that we have settled the negotiations, you can go back down to the other end of the street and report in. Do that now. This is the Capitol, the People’s House. You are here as our guests.” I pointed towards the door. “There’s the door. Close it after you leave.”

The room was silent. Ruff looked at me hard, and then packed his briefcase without another word. His two flunkies noted this, and packed their own briefcases. They stood when Ruff stood, and followed him out the door.

I went back down to my seat. I could feel the eyes of the others on me, Armey with a certain degree of loathing, and DeLay, Gephardt, and Bonior with an equal degree of curiosity. Armey said, “You want to explain what the hell that was all about?!”

I turned to face him straight on. “Back when I was a battery commander, I had this sergeant, an old country boy, who used to say that when you wanted to get an ornery mule to do something, the first thing you had to do was to get the mule’s attention, and the best way to do that was to take a two-by-four and smack him as hard as you could right between the eyes! Then, once you’ve got his attention, you can get the mule to do what you want.” I pointed over at the door. “I just got their attention.” I hadn’t brought a briefcase, so I simply headed for the door myself. “See you fellows later.” One way or the other, we’d know what would happen by Friday evening.

Chapter 124: A New Job

The rest of 1998 was almost as big a watershed event for the Republicans as 1994 had been. For me, it went fairly well, though parts were expected, and parts weren’t.

On the Friday after I told Chuck Ruff where to head in, Clinton capitulated. The White House press corps was informed at the morning press briefing that the President would make a brief statement, and there would be no questions afterwards. At ten o’clock that morning, the camera began rolling and Bill Clinton appeared behind his desk in the Oval Office. He only spoke about ten minutes, and apologized to his family and to the American people, and thanked Congress for the understanding they had shown. He never specifically stated the words impeachment or censure, but it was sufficient for my colleagues and me.

The next thing that happened was that Buckman v. Curren came to an end. This was the Federal court case that had been ongoing since I had attempted to get a gun permit in Maryland under the Defending the Second Amendment Act. Maryland Attorney General Curren had denied the permit, and my attorney, David Boies, had promptly filed suit in Federal court, and gotten me a stay on the denial. That was over two years ago! Since then it had been to Federal court, where we won, and Maryland had appealed. The Fourth Circuit, which covered Maryland, the Virginias, and the Carolinas, made a technical ruling that did not invalidate the law, but sent the case back to trial, where we won the case again. Back to the appeals process we went, and we won that before the standard three judge panel appeals court, and then when they lost, Maryland appealed it to the full court, en banc. They also lost that, and even worse, they lost the request to stay the order until they could appeal it to the Supreme Court.

Now, at the start of October, the Supreme Court announced the cases they would hear, and they refused to hear Buckman v. Curren, which meant that the lower court’s ruling held, and the state of Maryland was shit out of luck! I did a number of talk shows about the meaning of the ruling, and how it was a victory for law abiding citizens everywhere in the country.

I did not start wearing a gun. I was perfectly content to let my security people handle that problem for me. If I was just an average asshole, however, I would have definitely worn it. From everything I was hearing from local law enforcement, while there had been an initial rush for permits, most of them were people who had already applied and been turned down, because they didn’t ‘need’ a gun (like I didn’t need one with Hamilton!) It didn’t seem like there was any kind of a rush for half the state to be getting permits. I was hearing the same from my colleagues from other states.

On another front, Jerry Herzinski did not prove to be the world beating candidate the Democratic Party had hoped for. Yes, he was a good small town mayor, but he could put a tweaking meth addict to sleep. You want to have your supporters more excited at the end of your speech than at the beginning, but it’s supposed to be because you have them worked up, not happy to see you finish! I was not taking him lightly, but everything was pointing towards a major win on November 3 for the Republican candidate for the Maryland Ninth.

For one thing, by now, my constituent services team really had their shit together. If they couldn’t fix a problem themselves, they made no bones about putting me to work. I would be provided with the names of the people to call and lists of bullet points to argue, and sent out ‘either with your shield or on it’, as Spartan hoplites were told by their mothers. In other words, get it fixed, or don’t come back to the office! Some of my constituent services people were pretty tough cookies, and I didn’t want to chance that they meant it!

For another thing, never underestimate the power of incumbency. There are the obvious advantages, such as taking credit for using government money to do something your constituents want. “This bridge repair was brought to you by the efforts of Congressman Buckman!” Combined with my penchant for strategic donations by the Buckman Foundation, this was a very winning combination.

Incumbency has another advantage, the advantage of inertia. For years now it had been known and proven that incumbents — regardless of party, regardless of record, regardless of the amount of money spent, regardless of almost anything — have a 90 % chance of re-election. Eventually the odds would catch up to you and somebody else would push you out (like me with Andy Stewart) or the voters would send a message to the White House by a mass purge in Congress, like in 1994. I was not facing that this year.

I won re-election by 22 %, one of my highest margins ever. It was… intoxicating!

The effect in the House was interesting, to say the least. Newt had been running several polls all year long, and they were telling him that because of the Clinton sex scandal the Republicans could be expected to pick up between two and three dozen seats in the House. This would more than make up our losses in ’96 and cement him as a great leader of the House, like Sam Rayburn and Tip O’Neill. He then proceeded to share these polls with all his top buddies.

The actual net result? Zero! We lost four Republican seats to Democratic newcomers, and stripped four Democratic seats in return. To what extent the polls were accurate and to what extent Newt was simply finding things he wanted to find wasn’t clear. I can say with 100 % certainty that Newt blamed me for the discrepancy, because he reported this in the Washington Post. We had been on track to use the scandal to pick up all those seats in the House, when a rogue Congressman had to muck things up for everybody, derail the impeachment, and make friends with President Clinton.

This sounded great in theory, but a significant number of my fellow Republican representatives were not in agreement. I wasn’t as much of a rogue as Newt was making me out to be, and I had a large number of friends who weren’t buying Newt’s explanation. Among them was John Boehner, the Republican Conference Committee Leader, not quite as critical as the Majority Leader or Whip, but a nice step up the ladder. A revolt was brewing, he told me. Newt Gingrich had worn out his welcome. During the votes for leadership positions after the election, he would be voted out of his Speakership.

Somebody, maybe John, had a big mouth, and it got back to Newt. Newt called a meeting of the House Republican leadership (not including me, go figure!) and forced a response. I heard about it afterwards. Bill Paxon of New York announced he would challenge Newt for the Speakership. Since nobody really wanted Paxon, he was told to sit down and shut up. Newt told the rest of them that he didn’t want to ‘rule over a pack of cannibalistic wolves’ and said he was quitting as Speaker. Was it a bluff? I can’t say, but if it was, it failed. The wolves began arguing about who would take over. Newt’s four years at the helm were not considered successful, and the top people were tainted with him. Bob Livingston was going to be the next Speaker, as Newt’s chosen successor.

Well, maybe not.

There were new scandals brewing in Congress itself. Egged on by Hustler publisher Larry Flynt, everybody and their brother in the House, especially the Republicans, was being investigated for extramarital affairs. Flynt had promised a reward of a million bucks for documented proof, although it was never clear to me what you needed to get the million. Charlie even got in on the act, asking his mother to put on a blonde wig and sit on my lap, so that he could get a photo and send it in for his piece of the million. Smartass! I chased him around the kitchen as his mother and sisters laughed, and then gave him a swift kick in the pants!

The results were predictable. You can’t pick 535 random people and find zero who haven’t cheated on their spouse. The likelihood is so vanishingly small as to be meaningless. The first victim was Bob Livingston, one of Newt’s closest henchmen, who was fucking around on Mrs. Livingston. With Livingston out of the running, Dick Armey stepped up. Too bad for Dick that he was too tightly tied to Newt. Nobody wanted him as Speaker either. At that point, Newt simply told us all to fuck off, and resigned his seat representing the Georgia 6^th.

And that was my opportunity. Things had gotten too crazy, too much had been said, too many bad feelings were floating around. There was a significant chance that the Democrats could find a few Republicans disgusted by the entire affair and join with them to vote in a Democratic Speaker in a Republican dominated House. That needed to be shut down, and shut down hard! I talked to as many of the more moderate Republicans I could speak to. Interestingly, I also spoke to Tom DeLay, who was equally disgusted by what was going on. So he and I made a deal.

When the vote for House leadership positions came, Denny Hastert decided to go up against Armey for Speaker. On the third round of voting, Hastert won. That was when DeLay slipped a knife into the back of Armey. Tom got himself nominated for House Leader, which was Dick’s current position, and won the vote. Armey was stunned. The second half of the deal was the quid pro quo. My buddy John Boehner nominated me for Majority Whip, and DeLay seconded the nomination.

I was asked my philosophy of governing by one of the newbies, a fellow from out in the Midwest. I stood up and scratched my head, and then grabbed the microphone. “My philosophy? How about getting something done around here?! How about accomplishing something?! I’m not from some district that doesn’t have Democrats in it. I’m from the Maryland Ninth, where I am damn near the only Republican in the district. If I can’t work with the people on the other side of the aisle, I don’t come back here. If I don’t try and get something done here, I don’t come back here. If I don’t at least show some level of courtesy to the Democrats, I don’t come back here. So here’s my philosophy — Do your damn job! Every one of us told the people back home that they could trust us to fix the problems around this joint. So do it! I am going to ask every person in this room to figure out ways to lower the volume of nonsense we have been spouting, and work together to get some things done. So that’s my philosophy. Do your damn job! And you tell me what I have to do to help you. And that’s my job, to help you!”

I set the mike back in the mount and looked out at the others. Some of the people there had stunned looks on their faces, but others were nodding and whispering to each other. Then we took a vote.

I was the new Majority Whip.

I suspect that when the news got to the White House that for the next two years when they asked to see the Congressional leadership they would be seeing my smiling face went over like a lead balloon. In fact, a few people asked if I would shake his hand, and suggested I take some hand sanitizer for when I did. I smiled and laughed with them, but that would be ballsy, even for me. I would behave myself, or Marilyn would smack me, I’m sure.

At Christmas, we did the usual and flew up to Marilyn’s family for a few days. Everybody had heard about my promotion, and I spent a fair bit explaining to my brothers- and sisters-in-law what the job was, or at least what I thought it was. Everything went pretty well, but there was a somewhat uncomfortable conversation on Christmas day. It wasn’t about the truly dreadful meal, which Marilyn’s mother cooked — Marilyn got her abysmal kitchen skills honestly — but the question asked over dinner. Harriet looked across the table at Charlie and asked, “So, Charlie, where do you plan to go to school next year?”

I kept any expression off my face as I turned to face my son. I had been pushing him on this same question for almost a year now, and not gotten much in the way of an answer. Marilyn had argued through his junior year that I didn’t need to push him, but even she was starting to worry. He only had one more semester until graduation. So far he had only told us that he just didn’t seem to like the idea of going to college. I told him that he could enroll at one of the community colleges, go there for a couple of years and figure out what he wanted to do, and then transfer to a four year school. Essex or Hagerstown were certainly close enough if he wanted to live at home, or he could live on campus anywhere in the state.

There had been a time when Charlie was younger, just hitting his teens, when his growth spurt seemed like it wasn’t going to end. He had been talking about football a lot, and when he hit Hereford High and got picked for JV football, he was still growing. Then his spurt came to an end, as they all do, and Charlie peaked at 5’10" and 195, all solid muscle. Charlie was a linebacker. When I asked him once what his qualifications for the job were, he laughed and said, “Coach says I’m fast enough to catch them and big enough to eat them!” For a normal guy, he was on the large side, and certainly in excellent shape. For a football player, he wouldn’t even make it to Division III ball. College and professional football was now nothing but the Land of the Giants. He wasn’t going to college on a football scholarship, or with his grades, any other type of scholarship. Not that we needed one, but it would be nice to see him get an education.

He had hemmed and hawed at all of these ideas, so I put it to him differently. “So where do you plan to work?”

“Huh?”

“Charlie, you need to figure out what you are doing with your life. If you think you can just live here, think again. Once you are out of high school, the free ride is over. We’ll put you through college, but you need to get a job and start paying room and board. If all you have is a high school degree, the only jobs you are going to get will involve your saying the words ‘Would you like fries with that?’ Or do you plan on going pro with the motocross racing?” Charlie had decided to drop from Scouting several years ago and had concentrated on football and motocross. For the last year, since he had turned sixteen, he had gotten his pro ticket from the AMA. Going pro, however, would necessitate a lot of travel and expense.

Charlie got a little more animated at that. “I’ve been thinking about that. I talked to Bucky and Uncle Tusker, and they are interested in sponsoring me, but Bucky is still in college. He won’t be much help.”

“Well, then, you’d better decide on the Army or the Navy, because you ain’t hanging around here for the rest of your life.”

At that our son nodded and stood up, and headed towards his room.

Marilyn was sitting in the living room at the house when we had this conversation, and had remained silent throughout. After Charlie took off, she told me, “We are not charging our son room and board.”

I smiled at her. “I know that and you know that, but he doesn’t know that. He needs a swift kick in the ass at times.”

She glanced towards the hall where the bedrooms are, and then looked back at me and smiled. “Very true.”

That conversation had been during the fall, and I just couldn’t get him to commit to anything. Now, with his grandmother asking, he shrugged and said, “I think I’m going into the service.”

I sighed and nodded at the answer, since it seemed to me that Charlie was doing this just because he couldn’t come up with any better idea. Marilyn pursed her lips and looked unhappy, but didn’t argue with him. That task was immediately taken up by the entire remainder of Marilyn’s family. They were still as big a bunch of draft dodgers as they had been when I started dating Marilyn. The difference now was that when they met me, I was already committed to serve. Charlie was still talking about it, and wasn’t signed up yet.

Harriet had the general gist of the family’s argument. “Have you lost your mind? Why in the world would you want to do something that stupid?!” I kept my mouth shut but gave her a rather dry look at that. They even offered him a job after he graduated, working for Lefleur Homes.

Charlie jumbled out a bunch of reasons before Marilyn had the decency to shut her family down. Afterwards, I tapped him on the shoulder and led him into the den. “So, what’s going on? Why are you doing this? I know it’s not the money. Your mom will never actually let me throw you out into the snow, you know.”

He laughed at that. “Mom told me that. I didn’t think you actually would. I just don’t want to keep going to school. I think I’ll go crazy if I have to keep doing that!”

“Yeah, well let me tell you, you join up, you’ll still be going to school. Don’t you dare think otherwise! This isn’t the days when they handed you a musket and lined you up and told you to bang away at each other! The training is constant, and some of the fields are more technical than anything you will find at a community college,” I told him. (You want technical training? Join the Navy!)

He nodded, but replied, “Even so, it’d still be different.”

“Then let me tell you something else. This is still something more than just avoiding school. I don’t care whether you join the Army or the Navy, or even the Coast Guard, but you damn well better have a reason more than not having anything better to do.”

“So why did you join up?” he returned. “I’ve read your bios. You had other scholarships, and you had a lot of money, even then. You didn’t need to join the Army to go to school, did you?”

“We’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you!”

“Are we? I’ve talked to Aunt Suzie, too.”

That stopped me. “What does my sister have to do with this?”

“She told me about the family history. She told me that she got the photos from your father that were in their house before they sold it. The photos of you and your father and grandfather in uniform. And I’ve seen that picture of you getting your medal. Mom’s real proud of that one. She says you’re her own personal hero.”

I gaped at that and sat down heavily in an armchair. “Oh, Charlie, those are the worst possible reasons! If you think you need to join because of some family destiny, you are so very, very wrong. And believe me, I’m no hero.”

“But the medal…”

I looked at him sadly. “Charlie, that medal and two bucks buys you a cup of coffee. Men died that day. I’d rather just have the cup of coffee, and I don’t drink coffee.” I looked out the window, not really seeing the view. “You want a medal, Charlie? Hell, I’ll give you the damn thing!”

“Dad, you told Mom once that it was your turn to do your duty. That’s what she told me once, anyway. Maybe it’s my turn now.”

“Shit!” I muttered to myself. Then I looked at him. “Do me a favor and get an office job. If anything happens to you, your mother will never forgive me. The Army is always looking for truck drivers and clerks.”

My son laughed at that and left the room. Moments later Marilyn came in, to find me still sitting there and staring out the window. She came over and sat down on my lap. “I heard what you told him. He’s simply too much like you.”

“I had been hoping for something better,” I told her.

She put her arms around my neck, and I put mine around her waist. “You’re always too hard on yourself. He’s a good boy, and some day he’ll be a good man, like his father.”

“Just remember, I tried to talk him out of it.”

She hugged me and answered, “I know. I heard it all. You’re still my hero, no matter what you say.”

“You could have done so much better than me.”

“Nonsense!” Marilyn kissed me. “Enough of this.” She stood up and led me back to the rest of the family.

Later that day I told Charlie that he needed our approval to do this. None of the services would even touch him until he graduated from high school, and until he turned 18, he needed our signatures. He was to bring the recruiting sergeant to the house some night after we got home.

That occurred two weeks later, on a Wednesday night. I was under orders to make sure I was home in time for dinner. We were to meet Sergeant Rodriguez at 7:30. The girls were more curious than anything else, Marilyn and I were rather resigned, and Charlie was very nervous. He was pacing back and forth and looking out the windows, and Marilyn and I were looking at each other and simply shaking our heads and rolling our eyes.

A few minutes before the appointed time, I went down the hall to my bathroom. Needless to say, that was when the doorbell rang. Well, there were plenty of other people to handle the matter. Then I heard Dum-Dum bark, and smiled to myself. Definitely, somebody else could handle the problem!

I took a piss and then washed up. As I started heading back out of the room, I heard Marilyn comment, “Oh, dear!” That made me wonder what the problem was.

I quickly found out. Marilyn was standing there in the living room, holding Dum-Dum in her arms. Dum-Dum was now at least 15 years old, and she was an old dog. She had a bit of a limp these days (well, so did I), and her face had a lot of white hair, and she wasn’t moving too fast anymore, but she was still excited to see people. She was squirming in Marilyn’s arms and was licking the sergeant who had bent down to allow this. Charlie was standing there holding the sergeant’s coat. I came closer and then the sergeant stood upright and turned to face me. That was when I realized why Marilyn had said, “Oh, dear!”

Sergeant Rodriguez was a member of the United States Marine Corps!

I couldn’t help myself! I swear to Christ, I couldn’t help myself! I turned to Charlie and said, “The Marines!? Are you kidding me? The Marines!?”

Marilyn laughed and set down the dog, who scampered around a bit before heading off to jump up on the couch. “You behave!” she told me. To Sergeant Rodriguez, she said, “Don’t mind him. He used to be an Army paratrooper.”

The sergeant smiled and nodded in understanding. “Yes, ma’am. Army paratroopers are just guys who wanted to be Marines and didn’t make the cut.”

Marilyn laughed heartily at that. “Carl, I think we have found your match!”

I gave a wry smile and shook the sergeant’s hand. “Nothing personal, Sergeant, but my understanding was that the Marines were the guys who found jump school too hard. Welcome.” I turned my head to my grinning son., “If this is a joke, you will spend the rest of your very short life digging your grave out back!”

He laughed and said, “It would almost be worth it.”

I snorted and turned back to the sergeant. “Well, I can always kill him later. Come on in. I’m sure my wife has coffee on.”

Sergeant Rodriguez was perfectly charming, and made a fine case for Charlie to join the Marines. Despite my many jokes over the years about recruiting sergeants, the days are long past when they could lie about everything and not give a damn about the consequences. At Lefleur Homes I had hired several recruiting sergeants, since they made excellent salespeople. Ever since the advent of the all volunteer force, military recruitment has taken on an almost professional air, with recruits signing contracts, and the military having to honor the contract in most cases (assuming nobody is shooting at you at the moment.) It was also obvious that the sergeant had done his homework. He knew who I was, as in I wasn’t some routine schlub sending his kid out. I had a fair amount of juice.

I listened to the sergeant, and also watched Charlie’s face. It was obvious to me that my son wasn’t doing this just because he couldn’t think of anything else. He had obviously swallowed the Kool Aid.

They don’t just let any old asshole in the Marine Corps. It’s not like the old days where you could just sign up, or be sentenced in some cases, and be sent off as cannon fodder. Charlie would have to take both the ASVAB, a military SAT type test to see if he was smart enough, as well as a pre-ASVAB to even get that far. There would be a couple of physicals, including drug testing. I wasn’t too worried about that, since I hadn’t seen any indications of it, but the parents are always the last to know.

At the end of the spiel, I looked over at Marilyn, who gave a resigned shrug of her shoulders. That was probably about as much of a positive sendoff as a Lefleur was going to give. I nodded back to her, and then turned to face the sergeant.

“Okay, I think it’s my turn to speak, for both me and Charlie’s mother. First and foremost, Charlie is not leaving here until after he graduates from high school, and he is going to graduate, and he is going to graduation. There will be no exceptions on that. Is that understood, Mister?” I asked our son.

“Uh, yeah, sure.” I gave him a hard look, and he swallowed and said, “Yes, sir!”

“Good. Remember that phrase.”

Sergeant Rodriguez snorted at that. “Fine by us, Congressman. We don’t want him if he doesn’t graduate.”

I nodded. “Where are you out of, Sergeant? Towson or Reisterstown?”

“Towson, sir.”

“Do you have some form of physical conditioning program? Something to toughen these kids up before they report in?”

I received a smile in return. “Yes, sir, we do. We will be expecting Recruit Buckman to attend, too.”

“I’m in shape!” protested Charlie.

I gave him a disgusted look. “You think you’re in shape. You are soft and weak. You couldn’t pass the Marine standards right now, let alone Army standards. You will cooperate with the sergeant or find another job. Got it?”

“Yes, sir!”

I nodded. In reality, Charlie was in perfectly fine shape to join up, but he could use the discipline and structure involved.

I looked back at Rodriguez. “Okay, a question for you. You can’t have him until graduation, which is in June. He turns 18 in October and you don’t need our permission then. That makes me think you will be sending him to boot camp in between.” I made the last sentence into a question.

“In August, sir.”

“Parris Island?”

“Yes, sir.”

I shrugged. South Carolina in the summer. It should be delightful! From what the Sergeant had told us, boot camp would run 13 weeks, so he would be tied up with them until sometime in November. He would get a week’s leave at that point, and then off to the School of Infantry for another couple of months of combat training at some place near Camp Lejeune. That would probably keep him busy through Thanksgiving and Christmas. He’d probably get another leave after that, and then find his ass shipped off to his duty station. At that point he’d be assigned to a battalion and follow them wherever they were sent. He would have a four year commitment, followed by another four years in the inactive reserves.

“Okay. We’ll go along with this, but we won’t sign the papers until after graduation. Then you can take him and be welcome to him! I do want to ask a favor, though.”

“Yes, sir?”

I sighed. “Sergeant, you know who I am. I’m a U.S. Congressman, and I am relatively well known. I can’t require you to do this, but I can ask, as the father of a young man. I know how the services work. When you put through his paperwork, I want to see a mistake. Don’t enlist him as Charles R. Buckman. I want you to enlist him as Robert C. Buckman. And I don’t want you to use his address here. We can use the address in Washington.”

Sergeant Rodriguez’ eyes widened at that, and both Marilyn and Charlie started protesting and asking what I was up to. Even Dum-Dum looked up from where she was sleeping. I kept my eyes on the sergeant, however. “Sir, that would be very unusual. Why would I do that? Charlie will have to provide his birth certificate,” he replied.

“I am aware of that, Sergeant, and I am also aware that clerical errors get made.” I then looked at my son, and gave the rest of the answer. “Charlie, I am a rich and powerful man. Most of the kids you have grown up with, most of the girls you have dated, you first met them when I wasn’t anywhere near as rich or powerful. But out there, out in the rest of the world, the people you meet will only know you as the son of a rich and powerful man. Bobby Buckman, of Washington, however, nobody has ever heard of. The friends you make, you’ll know they’re your friends because of you, not because somebody wants something from me. The same goes for your duty assignments. There will be people who will want you to do things in the Marines because they think they will be able to get stuff from me.”

“Huh?”

“It happens, Charlie. Maybe you get assigned somewhere nearby, or maybe you want to have one type of duty and somebody in the Pentagon sees your name and decides you should do something different. Hey, it happens,” I told him.

Then I looked back at the sergeant. “So, there it is. I can’t expect it of you, and I can’t even really ask it of you, but for his sake, not for mine, change his name. If he wants to do this, let him, but let him just be a regular guy.”

Sergeant Rodriguez wouldn’t commit himself, but simply promised to think about it. I couldn’t ask more than that. After a bit more, we let him leave, and told both him and Charlie we wouldn’t stand in his way. After he left, though, I tapped Charlie on the shoulder and pointed back to the living room. “Why the Marines?”

“Because it’s not the Army,” he said. I was quite hurt at that, and it must have shown. Charlie, said, “Dad, I need to do something different. I know you were in the Army, and I can’t go through life being compared to you. I have to do something different.”

“Is it that bad?” I asked softly.

“No, it’s not like that. It’s just… I need to do something different. The girls, they’re more like you. Holly and Molly… I can see them going to college and becoming scientists or something, like you did, but that would drive me crazy! I’m never going to be an office type of guy, so let me try something else.”

I looked over at Marilyn and we gave each other a resigned look. Marilyn sent our son to bed and then looked over at me. She didn’t say anything.

I simply said, “The Marines?!”

She just started laughing at me.

There proved to be limits to my power as the Majority Whip. I could delay legislation and influence legislation, but I couldn’t stop legislation. Case in point — the Gramm-Leach-Bliley bill, otherwise known as the Financial Services Modernization Act. Wall Street was pushing this hard, very hard! In the sake of modernization, they wanted us to dismantle the Glass-Steagall Act from the Depression. There were also other minor issues, but this was the big one to me.

Glass-Steagall mandated the separation of commercial banks from investment banks. Commercial banks were what normal people thought of as banks, where they got car loans and mortgages and cashed their paychecks. Investment banks, on the other hand, were the basis of what is known as ‘Wall Street’. You might have stocks and bonds with them, or a retirement account. To a considerable extent, the Buckman Group would be considered part of Wall Street, since we did so much investing and had clients and investors. There was a big difference in how the two groups were regulated, and what they could do. The biggest difference was that if a commercial bank went under, the depositors were safe. The Feds would come in, examine the books, shut it down, and sell the bank, in most cases overnight. If an investment bank made the wrong bets on Wall Street, tough luck! You lost your money! You want to play with the big boys, wear your big boy pants.

I knew how this story would end, and it wasn’t pretty. In fact, it was a major factor in the financial sector collapse in 2008. After Glass-Steagall was repealed, investment banks and commercial banks bought each other up and became indistinguishable. Then, when something bad happened, like an investment bank failed, it took down any commercial bank part of it, and the Fed ended up investing almost a trillion dollars cleaning up the mess.

I fought it, and I fought it hard, but too many people wanted it. I tried to delay it and modify it, but everybody thought they were smarter that the market and the economy. Depressions? They were a thing of the past! We had out-regulated and outsmarted the bad things that could happen. What a clusterfuck of thinking. The best part was that everybody seemed to think that since I made my fortune on Wall Street I should be in love with this. I made a few speeches and went on the talk shows and said that I was a big boy, and if I fucked up, I would lose my money but nobody else’s. If I was brave enough to bet my money, why did they want to gamble with the public’s? I might as well have talked to the wind. I was well in the minority when it came time to vote on this abortion.

I didn’t have to worry about behaving properly around the President and the First Lady. Bill and Hillary weren’t about to invite me over to dinner unless it was a scheduled and formal event. That occurred in January when the freshmen Congressmen and Senators were invited for the regular welcome dinner, along with the House and Senate leadership. As the lowly Whip, I didn’t make a speech. I was involved in various group photos, some with the President and some without, and some with our spouses and some without. Likewise, at the start of any new legislative session, you get the wonderful group photos of the President meeting with the leadership of the House and Senate in a big conference room, along with various Cabinet members. Everybody smiles for the cameras and promises to work together for the benefit of all. Then we pull out our knives and sharpen the points, the better to stick in each other’s backs.

The overall impression I got from most of Bill’s staff was that if they could drown me in a barrel of used motor oil, it still wouldn’t be sufficient.

I didn’t much care. I left a lot of the care of the district in the hands of my regular staff, and did like a good Representative should — I obeyed my staff! Marty and the Constituent Services people would decide what I had to do, Mindy would write it up for me, and I would do their bidding. It was a lot like an upside down pyramid, with a dozen or more chiefs ordering around a lone Indian. It made you wonder who worked for whom.

The Whip’s office worked a little differently. I actually had two separate offices and two separate staffs. The Whip’s staff was totally separate from my district office and only worked on leadership items. I spent a fair bit of time working with DeLay and Hastert figuring out how to get legislation passed, and then I would go back to the staff with instructions. There is still an immense amount of really piddly fiddlework involved in getting things done, and it’s the Whip’s job to do it. You have to meet prospective Congressmen, the guys who want to challenge somebody for a seat. Then there’s the mundane aspects of running a big bureaucracy. Who gets on what committees, when do votes get scheduled, where people are at any given moment — it all has to be kept track of! If a vote on some legislation is scheduled, are the good votes present and the bad votes out of town? Make it happen! There was one memorable case where a senior legislator who happened to be in Washington State needed to make it to D.C. in time for a critical vote, and the Whip arranged for him to go to the local Air Force base to get an ‘orientation flight’ in an F-15 to fly to Andrews Air Force Base outside of Washington in time for him to vote.

It wasn’t all bad. True to my word, I worked across party lines to deal with the Democrats. In fact, if somebody, especially a Republican leader, couldn’t be seen to be consorting with those evildoers on the other side, they might have a word with me to get me to do it. Since I was going to burn in the fires of Republican eternal damnation anyway, why not? The same was true for the Democrats. If something needed to be whispered in a Republican ear, they could easily whisper it in mine.

I remember talking to Dave Bonior, my counterpart in the Democrats, and we proposed coming up with a special committee, where we could put each party’s crazies, and let them drive each other nuts. I would propose one of our homophobe Creationists, and he would propose one of his Communist eco-freaks. It became a running joke for us.

My biggest task was to keep the pressure on the Clinton Administration. To the extent that I had any form of national reputation as anything other than the billionaire murderer who had bought a House seat, it was as a serious deficit hawk. (I also had a reputation as a neo-isolationist, but that was a whole different story!) Now, in 1998, by all forecasts we would actually turn a surplus! The default Democratic response to this unnatural occurrence would be to spend more money, to bring us back into the much more natural deficit state. As a deficit hawk in a position of leadership, I had to keep the Republican Congress riled up, keep the pressure on, and not allow any backtracking.

This wasn’t hard to do. It simply involved unrelenting public pressure on the Administration. All the ‘business’ Republicans, as opposed to the ideological and social conservatives, took every conceivable opportunity with the press and the various talk shows to push the benefits of deficit reduction, and now, the surplus. In particular, we were pushing the need to maintain a surplus for the foreseeable future, in order to pay down the debt. In this we were aided, ironically enough, by Alan Greenspan, the Chairman of the Federal Reserve.

Greenspan was, in my modest opinion as one of the richest men in America (and not just because I knew a lot of future history), incredibly overrated as a financial genius. He had recently started claiming that budget surpluses were bad, that paying off our national debt would lower the value and trading status of our national debt instruments like Treasury bills and Treasury bonds, and would otherwise lead to the end of Western Civilization and life on this planet as we knew it. By now I had enough reputation on the subject to be able to go on the Sunday morning talk shows and argue the opposite.

I used the same technique I had used in the House bank scandal and the House Post Office scandal. While others had argued about various outrages, I reduced it to a level that the most average viewer could understand. Now I pushed, “How hard can it be? Average Americans dream of the day they can pay off the mortgage. Average Americans hold mortgage burning parties, and half of them invite the bankers they got the mortgage from! Being debt free is every person’s dream; why shouldn’t it be this nation’s?”

Inasmuch as the only responses to this extremely plain spoken and practical question were highly technical high finance explanations that required doctorates in economics to understand, public opinion was on our side. I knew that in the future, at least in my original timeline, the problem would be solved in a totally different way. The Republican Party, in thrall to the no-tax coalition of Grover Norquist and the billionaire elite donors to the party, drastically reduced taxes, especially on the rich, and put us back into deficit. This was totally separate from the fact that we managed to blunder our way into two separate wars, without any coherent plans to pay for either. The Presidency of Bush 43 put us trillions in debt!

Grover wasn’t a major factor in my calculations at the moment. He couldn’t threaten me with having donors withdraw campaign contributions from me. He was still in the process of forming his unholy alliance with the Tea Party, which really didn’t exist yet. He could threaten me with trying to find candidates to run against me in a primary, which was a distinct possibility. Primary battles generally play to the hard core party base and not the much larger electorate found in the general election. In addition, primaries have lower turnouts than general elections. Combine the two and the hard core conservative base can overthrow an incumbent, but then lose in the general election to a more moderate candidate from the opposing party.

While it wasn’t having a credible effect on me, at least at the moment, I could see that it easily could affect some of my colleagues. I told Marty to give it some thought and then to pass along to the American Renaissance Institute the benefits of supporting other deficit hawk candidates and incumbents.

One big problem for me that spring turned out to be the disaster at Columbine. In April a pair of Goth crazies decided to shoot up their high school in Colorado. As the author of the Defending the Second Amendment Act I found myself at the center of the firestorm over gun control. It was a no-win position to be in. It faded after a few weeks, as all of these things do, usually because something else dreadful takes everybody’s attention. What a God-awful situation!

By mid-spring it was obvious that Charlie really wanted to join the Marines. He was participating eagerly in Sergeant Rodriguez’ prep workouts, and his grades seemed sufficient to escape Hereford High. We relented by mid-semester when the sergeant showed us the paperwork that he was going to run through as Robert NMI Buckman, and we signed. I then told Charlie that if he tried to weasel out of graduation, he was going to be sent to Parris Island in pieces. Even Marilyn got into the act with, “I didn’t go through ten hours of labor all on my own not to see you graduate!” combined with vigorous finger wagging.

“She gets scary at times,” he whispered to me later.

“Tell me about it!” I whispered back.

Charlie graduated, and then he and a bunch of his buddies drove down to Ocean City for a week. He had asked if he could fly them to Hougomont, and I laughed that one away! No way did I need to start an international incident and war when those twits decided to moon somebody I might actually know, like the Prime Minister! We simply managed to rent a house for the week, and made them all cough up some cash, and then sent a couple of drivers to keep them out of trouble. I reminded Charlie that a prison record would keep him out of the Marines.

On the plus side, nobody ended up needing bail money, and no angry fathers of young women chased down Hereford High’s football team. On the down side, I don’t think the rental agent was overly amused by the number of empty beer bottles left in the place. It was with a sigh of relief that we turned Charlie over to Sergeant Rodriguez in August.

Later that fall, we were faced with a tragedy. Dum-Dum had been moping around ever since Charlie had left for the Marines. She was his dog. He had picked her from the litter, he had named her (after a fashion), and he had taken good care of her. She had mostly slept in his room, usually on his bed. Once he left for Parris Island Dum-Dum had been disconsolate, going back and forth between his empty bedroom and ours. The first week of October, she started having accidents in the kitchen and family room.

I had a bad feeling about this. We had gotten her in late 1982, when Charlie was a little over one. Now he was seventeen, and Dum-Dum was sixteen. In dog years that was just way beyond old. Marilyn took her to the vet, who kept her overnight to run a few tests. We got a call the next day; Dum-Dum wouldn’t be coming home. She was suffering from kidney failure, and probably cancer. Marilyn called me about it, but neither of us wanted to drag out the old girl’s pain. We had her put to sleep.

Holly and Molly wanted to know why we couldn’t get a transplant or something, and Marilyn had to explain that it would be cruel to drag out Dum-Dum’s pain and suffering. Marilyn and the girls cried their eyes out that night, and I can’t say I was in any better shape. The twins wanted to get a new dog right away, but we decided to wait a bit. I told them we could do something next year.

Charlie graduated from boot camp in November and Marilyn and I took a few days off and flew down to South Carolina. Once there, we managed to leave the security team at the gate and act like the other parents down to see their offspring march around. Nobody seemed to know who Charlie was related to, and when we offered to take him home with us for his leave, he told us that some of the guys were heading to Miami for a few days, and would it be all right if he went with them. He promised to come home when he got leave at Christmas. Our little boy was growing up.

Meanwhile, the Republican campaign for the 2000 elections was well underway! Everybody and their brother had been making pilgrimages to Iowa and New Hampshire, well, everybody who was running, anyway. How these two miniscule states ended up being the arbiters of national politics completely escaped me. The political future of an incredibly complex and multiculturally diverse nation would be decided by a bunch of fundamentalist farmers and hardheaded Yankees. This couldn’t be what the Founders had in mind when they thought this mess up!

This was the third presidential election since I had gotten to Washington in 1990 and I had learned one thing from them. The single solitary lesson I had learned was that never, under any circumstances, did I want to run for President! It was one thing to run around a couple of small Maryland counties nights and weekends, keeping my name and face fresh in front of the voters. It is something completely different to try and do the same thing across fifty states and face down a dozen guys who would happily sell their mothers to a Mexican whorehouse and rape nuns to get the job.

As 1999 ended it seemed like everyone and their brother was running for the Republican nomination. We had Senators, a Governor, a former Vice President, some Cabinet Secretaries, and a bunch of businessmen who were all vying for the privilege of whomping on Al Gore’s ass. While a bunch of Democrats were talking about running for the Democratic nomination, other than the Vice President, to my knowledge none of them had even formed the obligatory ‘exploratory committee’ prior to declaring. This was one of those legal fictions allowing candidates to run all over the country giving speeches and ‘learning about the concerns of the people’ while collecting campaign funds without legally campaigning.

As far as I was concerned, there were only two serious candidates for the Republican nomination. George W. Bush was the Governor of Texas, and the son of George H. W. Bush, the former President. John McCain was the senior Senator from Arizona, and was the only member of the Senate with the political chops and skill to run for the office. The others, like Steve Forbes or Pat Buchanan or Dan Quayle were either has-beens or wannabes without either a clue or a chance.

In ’92 I had of course supported President Bush, who had been the only guy running. I ignored Ross Perot as nothing but a troublemaker. Four years later I had supported Bob Dole. I had known he would take the nomination, but seriously, none of the others interested me anyway. I slept soundly supporting him. Bob had been thankful, of course, but it wasn’t like I was any sort of power in the House, and the Maryland Ninth wasn’t going to vote for him in any case.

My, oh my, how things had changed! The Maryland Ninth still wasn’t going to vote Republican, but I was now the Majority Whip, and had a certain degree of influence. I began to be courted by the candidates, being asked to be seen with them, to go to fundraising dinners, to become known as an adviser. Sometimes the candidate themselves might come calling and sometimes it might be one of their campaign staff. Some were serious players with good ideas (I liked Orrin Hatch, Liddy Dole, and Lamar Alexander, but I knew they would never generate the money it would take to make even a serious run) and some were jokes (Herman Cain!) The worst to me were the ones doing it because they had a cause that they were pushing, at the expense of everything else, like Pat Buchanan and his hard right agenda. Pat had already lost in 1992 and 1996, and had gotten shriller and more unelectable with every election. Another pathetic excuse for a candidate was Steve Forbes, who made a big push for me to support him, simply because we were both ludicrously wealthy. Big difference? I made my money (with a fair bit of foreknowledge, to be sure) and he inherited his, a lot of which he spent with a campaign and message which failed to resonate with anybody.

For most of 1998 and 1999 I was able to tap-dance around the issue, simply promising to support whoever was nominated. It was obvious early on that the only two serious players were going to be Bush and McCain. The party establishment, the RNC and the state parties, were all lined up behind George Bush, and I was certainly hearing this from both groups. On the other hand I knew, without any shadow of a doubt, that George Bush was going to be one of the most disastrous Presidents this nation had ever seen. On practically every choice he made, whether foreign or domestic, he managed to come down squarely on the side of the wrong choice! McCain could be a hothead and a loose cannon, but he was simply smarter.

I had a meeting in my Westminster office with Millie Destrier (Bob had died last year, a real loss, because Bob was just a hell of a nice guy!), now the head of the Maryland Republican Committee, Jack Nerstein from Carroll County, and John Steiner’s replacement for Baltimore County, Macy Adams. All three of them were pushing me to publicly come out in favor of George Bush. It was late in the day, after hours, and the four of us were having drinks. Nobody was around to overhear us and we all knew each other long enough to be candid.

I had listened to their arguments, and had simply replied, “I can only promise to support the candidate who eventually wins. Why should I commit myself now, and maybe end up backing the losing horse?”

“With George, you know you’ll be backing the winner,” countered Millie.

“That is circular logic, Millie, and won’t stand on its own,” I said with a smile.

“It’s not circular if you look at who is going to win. When you look at the donors and the campaign contributions and the rest of the supporters, none of the others have a chance! This is going to come down to either Bush or McCain,” said Macy, and I nodded in agreement. She continued, “Between the two of them, McCain just doesn’t have the backing. It’s going to be George Bush.”

I gave a wry shrug at that. It might be true, but I didn’t have to like it.

Jack asked, “Carl, what’s your real problem with Bush? There’s more to this then just hedging your bets.”

“And say there was? Say that you are right and I am wrong, and George Bush becomes the next President of these United States. I do not need it getting out that the House Majority Whip doesn’t think much of the President! Tell me how that plays out well for anybody?” I replied.

“So tell us! Listen, I swear I won’t tell anybody what you said here tonight,” he said. The others promptly made the same promise, which I was free to value for whatever I felt it was worth.

I sighed. Here was another dilemma — do I tell them their candidate was a moron or do I tell them I don’t trust them not to tell tales out of school? “Okay, just hear me out on this, and if anybody ever flaps their mouth, I’ll hear about it!”

I freshened my drink and Millie’s, the others were all right. “Listen, George Bush has a lot of stuff going for him. On paper, everything is perfect! Republican establishment, money, education, military service, a background in business, owner of a sports team, governor of a big state — everything you would ask for if you sent down to Central Casting for a Republican Presidential candidate. But if you start digging at anything, it becomes real obvious real fast that there is nothing underneath the surface.”

“How so?” asked Macy.

“Look at his business dealings. He’s a Texas oilman, right? So, somebody want to tell me how he managed to run three separate oil companies into the ground? I mean, it’s oil. You go somewhere in Texas, you stick a pipe in the ground, and you make a fortune. Everybody wants to buy the stuff, and he can’t figure it out on three separate tries. Whatever money he has actually made on his own came from his time with the Texas Rangers, when he was the General Manager. Again, somebody want to tell me how that is important? Nobody cares about the front office. The coach is the important guy! He wasn’t even that important in the front office. He was a minority owner who looked good schmoozing.”

The others all looked at each other, not quite sure how to respond. I kept going. “Take a look at his record in Texas. Texas is one of the weakest governorships in the nation. The governor there is practically a figurehead for the bureaucracy and the various department heads. Again, not an impressive record. Overall, the man strikes me as being a mile wide and an inch deep.”

“And you think John McCain would be better?” asked Millie.

At that, I simply threw my hands up and shrugged. “That one I can’t answer. Is this a case of the devil you know versus the devil you don’t? McCain has a reputation for being hotheaded and a maverick. Is that somebody we want as President? I just don’t know. I do know, however, that this ain’t as cut and dry as everybody tells me.”

We ended the meeting about where we started, with my refusing to support George Bush, or anybody else for that matter. They weren’t happy with me, but I think they understood me. I just tried to keep my sanity and do my job and be a father. The twins were now sophomores at Hereford High and wanted to date. Their mother and I, however, were less than sympathetic, and the screams of outrage from the fruits of our loins were deafening! They wouldn’t turn 16 until the summer, which meant that they would miss all the dances and parties and etcetera, etcetera, etcetera! We weren’t so worried about the dances and parties, but were terrified of the etcetera! What if they met guys like… me!? Suddenly my misspent youth was coming back to haunt me, in spades!

We relented in May, and allowed the girls to go to the Junior-Senior Prom. Both girls had been asked by juniors, who were just two of the numerous young men sniffing around the house all year. This wasn’t an unexpected turn of events. The twins had turned out as beautiful as their mother, and despite my considerable genetic height advantage, neither one of them seemed to be any taller. In fact, they were probably the shortest cheerleaders in school. Marilyn spent two weeks fretting and warning the girls about the perils of older boys. I decided on an approach that was more… practical.

The twins were too young for prom dresses, so Marilyn and Tessa went out with them and found some very nice cocktail length dresses. If there had been any thought that the two dresses would be somewhat demure, it totally failed. Thirty years ago I would have been after the two of them for a threesome! Marilyn insisted that the girls could only go as a double date. I made my plans accordingly.

The schedule was that the two young men, one Joseph Mangione and one Robert Smithson, would be at the house at 6:30, take the girls to dinner, and then from dinner go to the Prom. Unbeknownst to my daughters, I had my security team do a quick investigation on the boys and their families, which simply proved I was as paranoid as my brother. They were all amazingly normal and boring — and had never been in any trouble. Somehow I wasn’t reassured.

The girls were driving the pair of us crazy that evening, dressing too early, then changing into sweats, then changing back, and meanwhile running back and forth between their bedroom and ours. I was decidedly not a welcome guest, and was sent off to my office, which was fine with me. Marilyn was hard at work toning down their makeup and perfume plans. By 6:15, the back and forth now included the front door and windows, in a triangular pattern. I wondered if my impending arrival at a girl’s door had ever occasioned this much anxiety. I certainly hoped so, if simply so I could share the misery.

An excited squeal announced the impending arrival. I hurried to my preplanned position, in the kitchen, sitting at the kitchen table. I had let Marilyn in on my plans enough to know she was to bring the boys into the kitchen, so I could meet them.

“Don’t you think that’s a little too much?” she asked.

“Don’t worry. It’s almost certainly going to be harmless. Well, relatively harmless. I mean, probably. There’s really going to be very little danger. Not much, anyway. Actually, you’ll probably need to have the first aid kit ready,” I replied.

“I don’t want to know!”

I heard Marilyn call Holly away from the front door and into the living room. When the doorbell rang, Marilyn went to the door to answer it, and I went to the kitchen island and pulled my preparations out. From the living room, I heard Marilyn inviting the young men in, a mumbled reply, and a couple of high pitched squeals. Then I heard Marilyn say, “Well, before you all go, we’re going to take a few pictures, but I think your father wanted to talk to Joseph and Robert first.”

“Mom!” sounded from both the girls.

“Your father’s bark is much worse than his bite. He’s in the kitchen. I’ll be back when I find the camera.” Marilyn moved away, and the twins came around the corner with two tall and gangly young men wearing bad tuxedos in tow.

“Dad, this is…” Molly started, but stopped in midsentence, stopping dead in her tracks and causing a pileup in the entrance.

“What’s wrong… Dad, what are you doing?!” squealed Holly. She and the two boys were all staring at me, sitting at the kitchen table.

What really had their attention, however, was what was on the table. I had spread out a few old newspapers and had my Colt 1911A1 on it, partially disassembled, along with a box of ammunition, a spare magazine, and the appropriate cleaning supplies. As they stared, I finished disassembling the pistol, and then stood up. “Hi, fellows, nice to meet you. Why don’t you have a seat, and we can talk.” The two boys had an appropriately terrified look in their eyes as I shook their hands and directed them to seats.

“Daddy! What are you doing!?” gasped out Holly.

“I was at the range earlier. I always clean my gun afterwards, you know that.”

“MOM!” yelled Molly, scurrying off towards our bedroom. Holly squealed in outrage and followed her.

That left the two boys staring at me as I ran a cleaning cloth over my pistol. “It’s very important to take care of a pistol. I’ve had this one since I was just a little bit older than you fellows. I had to kill a man with this gun once. I had to clean it after that, too.” The two looked at each other nervously. I picked up the box of ammunition. “You boys ever see what happens when Federal Hydra-Shoks hit a target? I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself! I mean, when it goes in, it makes a hole about so big…” I made a small circle with my fingers. “But then the head flattens out, like a mushroom, and when it comes out the other side, it’s about this big!” I held my hands about a foot apart or more.

I ran out of time then, as Marilyn came into the kitchen, followed by the twins, both of whom were gesticulating, complaining, and glowering at me. Marilyn said, “See, nothing is happening. Your father is simply cleaning his pistol. You’ve seen him do that dozens of times. Now, let’s get some photos.”

“Sounds good! I’m sure that tonight is going to be a night that all four of you will remember.” Marilyn gave me the evil eye when I said that, but I just smiled innocently.

After the photos, we sent them on their way, with instructions to be home by 11:00. The girls protested, pro forma; the boys eagerly agreed. Afterwards I reassembled my Colt and cleaned up the kitchen. Marilyn pulled out the makings for our own hamburgers and beans. “You don’t think that was a little over the top, honey? Those boys will never want to ever come back here!”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Carl!”

“So what? Let me tell you something. I just put the fear of God into those two, and they will be telling their buddies about the crazy killer father of the two hottest cheerleaders in school. You don’t think that might be beneficial?”

“Not if your daughters never speak to you again!” she said, laughing.

“Think of the quiet.” I made us a couple of Seven and Sevens. “Think I ought to be sitting in the living room at eleven, wearing my shoulder holster?”

That got another laugh. “That, I think, really would be overkill.”

“A singularly appropriate remark, wouldn’t you say?”

Marilyn snorted at that. I didn’t wear the holster. We simply ate our dinner and then watched television in the living room until the kids came home. They arrived around ten minutes early, in perfectly fine condition. The girls brought their dates into the foyer, and I heard one of them state, “Don’t worry! Daddy’s not like that!”

If they had been hoping for a goodnight kiss, they were disappointed. The two young men saw Marilyn and me sitting there, smiling and waving at them, and they took off like they had jets up their butts! Holly and Molly shrieked in anger and stomped off to their room. “I HATE YOU!” and “YOU RUINED EVERYTHING!” came wafting down the hall.

Their mother sighed and stood up. “I’d better go talk to them.”

“They’ll get over it,” I told her.

“You’re a real meanie.”

“You should see me pulling the wings off of flies.”

Chapter 125: Vetting

The campaign unfolded just about like I thought it would. About half or more of the candidates dropped out even before the primaries started, when their exploratory committees went exploring, and discovered that the far horizon had no money on it. About half a dozen stayed in, but the only two who counted were Bush and McCain. Neither of the two choices thrilled me. I knew Bush would be a disaster, but after seeing the hash McCain made of his campaign in 2008, I wasn’t overly sanguine about him either.

Bush smacked McCain around in the Iowa Caucus, but then McCain won in the New Hampshire primary. After that pretty much everybody else dropped out of the race, although there were a few primaries they ran in because their names were already on the ballots. After South Carolina, though, things really went against McCain. Bush began running a very dirty and negative campaign, with intimations that McCain had fathered a child with a black prostitute. Karl Rove, Bush’s campaign director, swore up and down that he had nothing to do with it; nobody believed a word he said.

By Super Tuesday it was all over. On March 7, 2000 there were 13 Republican primaries, and except for a few small states in the Northeast, George Bush won big. It was the final nail in the McCain coffin. The convention was to be held in Philly at the end of July, but by the end of March the pundits and politicians were already chattering about who would be Bush’s nominee for Vice President.

Dick Cheney, a longtime Republican power player, was placed in charge of George Bush’s search for a Vice Presidential candidate by the end of April. Cheney had been in Washington forever, going back to being an intern for Dick Nixon. He had been a Wyoming Congressman for years, and had once had my job, as Republican Whip. Then he served under George’s dad (the smart Bush) as Secretary of Defense. Since then, he had been out of the public spotlight, and in Dallas running Halliburton. He was also the most disingenuous choice possible for the job of picking a Vice President. After much deliberation and soul searching he found the perfect candidate — himself! I couldn’t wait to be ‘surprised’ again at this.

Well, I actually was surprised, when at a dinner with George Will, his wife Mari, and Marilyn, George commented, “I heard the other day that you were on the list for Vice Presidential choices.”

I stared at him for a second, before replying, “I think you better check your sources on that one. If I’m on the list, it’s only because the Tooth Fairy had a conflict of interest.”

Marilyn looked at us curiously. “You’re being considered for Vice President? When did you plan to tell me?”

I arched an eyebrow and answered, “As soon as somebody considers me. I think our friend here is just trying to get a rise out of me, and see if I snap at the bait.”

“Congressman Buckman, how can you think such a thing!?” said a pious George Will. Mari simply rolled her eyes.

I pointed towards him and looked at Marilyn. “Uh, huh! See!” I turned back to him and said, “Nice try.”

“So who is on the list?” asked Marilyn.

I shrugged. “The long list or the short list? The long list is just about anybody who’s a Republican with a pulse. The short list is the serious one.”

Mari added, “By that standard, Carl actually is on the long list.”

“So, Congressman, for the record, what is your response?” asked George.

I put my most serious face on and grasped my lapels, trying to look pompous, and replied, “I fully intend to support whichever candidate is chosen, and assist them in their run for the White House.”

“So you are saying nothing.”

“You have grasped the overall concept. Who’s on your short list?” I countered.

He shrugged. “Eh, the usual suspects. The safe bet is McCain, simply because he was number two, and it shows party unity, but that won’t happen.”

“Why not?” asked Marilyn.

“Because he doesn’t need him, and they generally don’t like each other,” I said. Turning back to George, I asked, “Who else? What about Liddy Dole? It would be good for the women’s vote.”

“That’s an interesting idea.” We tossed around a few more names, and Cheney never popped up once. George finished with, “So you’re not interested?”

“In what? In playing this game? Sure, I love the game. In running for Vice President? I think the Tooth Fairy has a better chance. Hell, throw your name in the hat! You’re smarter than most of them anyway.”

“I couldn’t afford the pay cut,” he laughed.

That evening, as we drove back to the house on 30^th, Marilyn asked me, “Was he serious about that?”

I laughed. “NO! He was just trying to push my buttons and get me to say something that he could then use to go after some other poor schmuck. He’s just trying to stir the pot and see what bubbles to the top.”

“Oh. Would you want to run for Vice President?”

I opened my mouth for a snappy rejoinder, but then closed it again. It was actually a fair question. I glanced over at her and said, “I don’t know. Leaving aside that the odds of this ever happening are somewhere lower than the odds of me ever seeing Heaven, I don’t know. As Majority Whip, or some other House leader, I would probably have a lot more power than the Vice President. The only reason it actually makes sense is if I wanted to run for President some day.”

“Would you?”

I was saved from answering by our arrival in our driveway. “Saved by the bell, the doorbell in this case!” We went inside without finishing our conversation. I opened a bottle of wine and we shared that while snuggling together on the couch, but all the while, I was thinking about those two questions.

Would I want to run for President? God forbid! To spend two years shaking hands in Iowa and New Hampshire, crisscrossing the country, begging for money, never seeing my wife and children for weeks upon end, while reporters and investigators climbed so far up my ass that I would see their smiling faces when I brushed my teeth? I shuddered at the very thought! If you have to have ‘fire in the belly’ to run for President, I could honestly state that I didn’t.

Vice President was a different topic, though. For one thing, you really don’t campaign for the job so much as you campaign for the Presidential candidate. You only have to be in campaign mode for the summer and fall, maybe four months. After that, you either lose and go home, or you win and go to sleep until the President dies. In my case, as a Congressman, I would need to run two campaigns, one for Vice President and the other as Representative of the Maryland Ninth. It looked as if the Democratic candidate for my House seat was as ham-handed as some of his predecessors, so I was reasonably confident I would win again. If I lost as VP, I would still have my day job. If I won, they’d have a special election to replace me. That’s one of the reasons Presidential nominees often ask Senators to be a VP; if they pick one who isn’t up for re-election, a loss doesn’t mean he’s out of a job.

One of the best reasons to be Vice President is if you want to become the President! If the President is good and successful (Reagan) his Vice President (Bush) is a shoo-in. However, if the President is unsuccessful or unpopular (Johnson) it’s a much tougher row to hoe. Hubert Humphrey did not beat Dick Nixon. Still, it’s good for name recognition. More than a few failed VP nominees have then gone on to run for President.

Vice Presidential selection is as much of an art as it is a science. At one point in our history, you selected a nominee who would complement the Presidential nominee. If the top guy was a northerner, the other guy was a southerner. Mike Dukakis from Massachusetts selected Lloyd Bentsen from Texas, for example. (The same thing applied with JFK and LBJ, curiously enough.) Maybe you select a moderate (George Bush) to tone down a conservative (Reagan) or maybe you select somebody who can carry an important state for you (Ike picking Californian Nixon, or JFK and LBJ again.)

That’s the theory, anyway. In practice, you get some very strange results. Kennedy and Johnson had just come off a brutal primary season, and they hated each other’s guts. Supposedly, Kennedy used Johnson to get him the critical Texas votes in the election, but I also heard that the election was rigged by Mayor Daley and the Chicago machine and a wonderful graveyard vote count.

It is actually much truer that the VP nominee rarely helps and almost always hurts. Dan Quayle looked like an eager little kid next to Bush 41 and Sarah Palin was a whack job with the IQ of a mouse. One of the worst examples was in 1972, when George McGovern selected Thomas Eagleton as his choice, only to have it discovered that Eagleton had received psychiatric treatment for depression. He had to be replaced, which did wonders for McGovern’s campaign after he announced he would back Eagleton “100 percent!” Certainly, with my ‘billionaire murderer’ stigma, there was no way anybody would ever want me running.

We were finishing our wine when the girls came downstairs and found us still snuggling on the couch. They were in sweatpants and t-shirts, and Holly asked, “What are you doing?”

Marilyn giggled and answered, “I’m snuggling with my sweetie!”

“Mom! Oh, that is so disgusting!”

I bit my tongue to keep from laughing. Marilyn said, “Give me a break! Where do you think you two came from?”

“GROSS!”

Molly chimed in, “I think I’m going to vomit!”

The pair of them made gagging noises and headed towards the kitchen. Marilyn giggled again, and groped me through my pants. “Gross!” she said. “Want to go upstairs and see if we can be disgusting?”

I snorted in laughter, and led her up the stairs. “As long as we don’t vomit!” I whispered.

It became doubly curious a few weeks later, when on one of the Sunday morning talk shows, my name was mentioned as a ‘long shot’ candidate. I was considered a leader in the House (as Whip that was true enough, I suppose, though after less than a full two year term you really couldn’t call me ‘tried and tested’) and a leading intellectual in the young conservative movement. That one had me scratching my head, since I wasn’t all that conservative. Monday morning Marty was asking me about it, and the only thing we could come up with was that somebody was using my name to drive their own agenda. It was certain that nobody had approached me from the Bush campaign.

A week later Fletcher Donaldson tracked me down and called me to ask me my thoughts on being on the short list. “Fletcher, if I was on the short list, don’t you think somebody would have told me? Where are you getting this stuff?” He refused to tell me, and I let Marty and Marilyn in on this latest rumor. In most cases, being known as being on the short list was considered a good thing. It showed you to be a ‘serious’ leader worthy of consideration for higher office, and who wouldn’t want that? I’d even heard of Congressmen and Senators lobbying Presidential nominees to leak that they were in the short list, so that it would help them in their regular re-election bid.

The second week of May Marty announced that I had an appointment with a couple of staffers from Governor Bush’s election campaign, but it was to be in the Whip’s office. In some ways this didn’t surprise me; in fact if they hadn’t wanted to meet with the Whip it would have surprised me more. I took the subway train from my office in Rayburn over to the Whip’s office in the Capitol. What did surprise me, once they had been shown in and we seated ourselves, was when they announced that they weren’t from the campaign, per se, but were from Dick Cheney’s office. “Congressman,”, one of them started, “we wanted to talk to you about whether or not you’d be interested in becoming the Vice Presidential nominee.”

I tried to keep the surprise off my face. This definitely wasn’t what I had suspected the conversation was to be about. “Is that a job offer?” I asked, smiling.

“That might be a little premature,” commented the other man. “We’re just curious about your thoughts on the rumors floating around the Capitol these days.”

“I’ve heard those rumors. I’ve been curious about them, too. I know I didn’t start them, so who did? Any ideas gentlemen?”

Staffer Number One simply smiled and shook his head. “Not really, Congressman.” Yes really, we leaked it.

My mind was racing at this point. Was this part of the selection process? Leak a name and see what happens? Does the candidate start some kind of response? Does he begin pushing his name in the press, or stating he doesn’t want the job, or complaining about the other candidates? So far I hadn’t done any of those things. My responses had all been a variation of two themes, and I gave them both again. “Well, of course I want to do anything I can to help Governor Bush in his bid for the White House. I’m just surprised that my name ever came up when there are so many much higher profile candidates.”

“Congressman, you never actually came out in support of Governor Bush during the primaries. Why is that?” asked Number Two.

I gave a noncommittal shrug. “It was always my position that I would support the eventual winner. My concern was for the future. If I supported the Governor, I’ve just made Senator McCain unhappy, and I have to work with him. If I support Senator McCain, I have the same issue with President Bush if the Governor wins, and even if he loses, I didn’t want to insult his father, the first President Bush, who I hold in the highest respect.” That seemed a decent enough argument. “Besides, I’m damn near the only Republican in the Maryland Ninth, and I don’t think I am going to sway anybody else in the state to vote Republican. I suspect Maryland will vote for Al Gore.” I gave a wry smile as I said this.

I received a smile in return. Two asked, “You were a supporter of the Governor’s father, correct?”

“Very much so. He was in office when I first came to Capitol Hill, and I consider him a fine gentleman and a good President. I definitely supported him in his re-election run,” I answered firmly.

One nodded and asked, “Back to the reason we are here. What would your thoughts be as to being on the ticket?”

I stared at the man for a moment, and then looked back and forth between them. They weren’t smiling or joking. “This is serious? I’m being considered for the short list?”

“Yes, sir. This is serious. Your name has been brought up in conjunction with the short list.”

I sagged back into my chair at that. My brain was running in about a million directions. After about thirty seconds, I repeated it. “Seriously?”

“Yes, sir.”

I blinked at that. “Well, it’s certainly not something I had considered. I figured somebody was just trying to stir the pot and see what rose to the top. All I can tell you is that I would have to give this some serious thought.”

Two said, “I would think, Congressman Buckman, that in the last few weeks, since these rumors started, that you’ve had a chance to think about this already.”

I gave him a hard look. “There’s thinking about it and then there’s thinking about it. I would certainly have to discuss this with my wife and family.”

They glanced at each other and nodded imperceptibly. One opened his briefcase and brought out a thick manila envelope. “Congressman, as you can imagine, there are certain time constraints we are operating under. We are just starting the process of vetting all the candidates. If you are interested in being on the short list, we’ll need to know within two weeks, and we’ll need this paperwork filled out by then.”

I raised an eyebrow at that. “Oh? What is this, a job application?”

One gave a small shrug and an even smaller smile, and Two simply nodded. “It’s simply some background material Mister Cheney and Governor Bush will need to help make the decision.”

I eyed the envelope. “Let me look this over. I’ll be in touch.”

“We’ll need this filled out in two weeks, sir.”

“I’ll be in touch.” I stood up, ending the meeting.

One then said, “This needs to be kept in the strictest confidence, of course.”

I eyed him and cocked my head to the side. “Well, that ends my plans to tell the New York Times, doesn’t it? I need to talk this over with my wife.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Good day, Congressman.”

“Good day.”

I showed the staffers out the door and then closed it behind them. I went back to the couch and sat down. Grabbing the envelope, I opened it up and leafed through the paperwork. It was a lengthy form with over 80 questions. If I thought the vetting process had been bad when I ran for Congress, this was ten times worse! Vast sections were about my finances, they wanted details of all my living relatives (and Marilyn’s) out as far as we could find them, and details about my education and military experience I wasn’t sure I could ever remember. I needed to provide copies of my voting record since I entered Congress along with copies of all speeches ever given. There were releases which needed to be signed so they could obtain transcripts, public records, and even my medical records. There was stuff in there I had never heard of. No way would I ever be able to fill it out; this would require my lawyers and accountants. The response would probably involve enough paperwork to fill a van.

Still, none of it meant anything unless Marilyn gave me her approval. Did I even want to do it? Maybe, if I could have any kind of influence on George Bush, if I was selected, if we made it into office. There were a lot of ifs in that statement. First things first. I pulled out my phone and hit the speed dial for Marilyn.

“Hello?”

“Hi. You busy?”

“Not particularly. I was just about to switch the laundry from the washer to the dryer. What’s up?”

“Are you alone?”

“No, I have the pool boy, the lawn boy, and a couple of maintenance guys waiting for me in the bedroom. Why?”

“Marilyn!”

“Of course I’m alone! The girls are in school. What’s up?”

“Listen, you can’t tell them, or anybody else. You know, like you wouldn’t tell your mother all the things you like having me do late at night…”

“CARL!”

“Okay, you know those rumors about me being on the short list for the VP slot? They aren’t just rumors. I’m really under consideration,” I told her.

“What? Really?”

“That’s about what I said,” I admitted. “I just had a couple of staff guys from Dick Cheney’s office in here sounding me out. They left me with some paperwork I need to sort through, and I have to give them an answer in two weeks.”

There was silence for a moment, then she asked, “What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know. What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know. Do you want to be the Vice President?” Marilyn asked.

“Yes. No. Maybe. If I could actually do anything, then maybe, but no way do I want to do this if you don’t want me to.”

“They didn’t ask me.”

“Marilyn, I’m serious. I know you’ve said I should do something if I thought I could, but this is a whole different level of weird! If I say yes, and if I get selected, and if we win in November… well, it really affects all of us!”

“Huh.” There was some more silence, then she said, “I’m not saying no, but I want to talk about it tonight.”

“Fair enough. See you later.”

I couldn’t think enough to get anything else accomplished that afternoon, so I called for my driver and packed the envelope into my briefcase. I was home about an hour later, arriving just after the girls came home from cheerleading practice. Tonight was spaghetti night. I really wasn’t in the mood for small talk, but no way did I want to discuss this over the dinner table with my daughters.

They noticed as well, and Holly said, “What’s going on? You two are up to something!”

Molly piped up, “Yeah, you two are doing something!”

I gave them my innocent face. “No idea what you are talking about.” Marilyn smiled and rolled her eyes.

“No! See! Look at Mom’s face! She can’t keep a secret! You two are trying to hide something!” pushed Holly.

Marilyn grimaced at that, though I was tempted to laugh. She really can’t keep a secret and has no ability to hide something. I shrugged, and responded. “It’s really nothing. Well, the Swiss boarding school called this afternoon and told us the check cleared, but other than that…”

“Not funny, Dad! Not funny!” squealed our youngest. Her sister just glowered at us.

I shrugged and Marilyn buried her face in her napkin, hiding her smile. We finished our dinner and the twins headed into the living room to watch television. I helped Marilyn in the kitchen, and then we headed off to my office. I made sure to close the door, and then positioned my chair so that I could see if the girls tried to sneak up and listen. I had caught them doing that once or twice, but the door was a French door with glass panes, and I could see them approaching if they tried.

I turned to where she was sitting and commented, “You know, that Swiss boarding school idea keeps sounding better and better!”

“Don’t tempt me. They have already announced we are having a big party this July when they turn sixteen,” she replied.

“Sweet sixteen and never been kissed?”

That earned a groan. “I think I’ll be satisfied if they are simply single and without child!”

I gave a worried look out the door and down the hallway. “Do I need to clean my gun again any time soon?”

She waved it off. “No, it hasn’t gotten that bad yet. Give them time, though. I’m glad they’re on the Pill.”

“WHAT!?”

She rolled her eyes. “It helps them keep regular periods and eases their cramps. I thought you knew.”

“Oh, good Christ!” I muttered. I looked back towards the living room. “I am really liking the idea of a boarding school. Someplace high in the Alps, girls only, run by nuns, and with a drawbridge and a moat. A really deep moat!”

Marilyn snorted at that. “If you become the Vice President, maybe we can get the Secret Service to start shooting their dates.”

“We’ll have to ask, for sure!” I turned back towards her. “All joking aside, do you want to do that?”

“Maybe. Would we have to move to Washington full time? The girls have two more years of school here, and they would freak out. Where would we live? The Naval Observatory?” The Vice President’s residence is on the grounds of the Naval Observatory, in northwestern D.C.

I nodded. “Yeah, it’s probably only a mile away from the place we have now, if that. I wouldn’t think we would have to live there full time. Nobody cares about the Veep. We could keep our current schedule. Summers you could all stay down there with me. I am guessing I might have more travel than I do now. The biggest job is advising the President. I might not make it home every night, or even every other night. Once the girls have graduated, we can live there full time.”

“Is this definite?” she asked.

“Hardly! They gave me a job application around ten feet long. If I get through that, I’m simply on the short list, and George Bush picks from there. The usual procedure from that point is that there is a public announcement a few weeks before the convention, and that is at the end of July. After that, I would be on the go until the election, non-stop, in November. Figure a solid four months.”

“So this just might get you on the list. You wouldn’t have to accept or decline until later.”

“If I make it to the list, right.”

“Do you think you might make it onto the list?” she asked.

“I have no fucking clue! There are times I can’t figure out how I ended up a Congressman! Wait until I have to explain to some shitkicker in Alabama why my parents disowned me, and he agrees with them that I shouldn’t have married a Yankee, a Catholic, or a Democrat!” I replied.

That made my wife laugh. I wasn’t so sure how funny it would be. You develop a thick skin in politics, but switching from a couple of counties in Maryland to the entire nation would be a challenge. At home I didn’t have but a few television stations and one newspaper to contend with. When Bumfuck TV 6, “The News That Bumfuck Needs!” decided to go after Marilyn and the kids, I could easily see myself punching out a reporter!

There was one thing I could do in the meantime, and I handled that immediately. Pulling out my cell phone, I hit the speed dial for Tucker and asked for a meeting the next day. Since I was really Tucker’s only client, he agreed to meet me at his office early. I would dump the packet with him and let him and the accountants worry about it.

For the next few days, Washington D.C. played the ever popular game of “Who’s the nominee?” There were all sorts of names being tossed around other than mine. Colin Powell could have had it if he wanted it, but did George Bush want a guy who had worked for his father? Otherwise it was the standard mix of Senators and Governors, with names like Bill Frist, Tom Ridge, and George Pataki being tossed around. The fun part of the guessing game wasn’t to point out anybody’s particular strengths, but to point out their weaknesses, as to why they wouldn’t be picked. This one was too liberal (me, for instance), that one was too conservative, maybe somebody wasn’t known to a national audience, maybe someone was too well known by everyone. My name was just one more thrown around, and Marilyn delighted in reporting to me my various character flaws, as revealed on television.

We got the packet back to Cheney’s office by mid-May, and I was told I would be contacted at some point. It was a waiting game at that point, and my best guess was that somebody would make a decision in June. At the minimum, they would need at least a few weeks to print up the bumper stickers and signs before the convention in Philadelphia starting July 31.

By the end of May, I hadn’t heard anything, and after talking to a few Senators I knew had been approached, I realized they hadn’t either. I was smelling a rat, and its name was Dick Cheney. I gave it some thought, and then called George Will.

“George, you doing anything this evening?” I asked.

“I was going to watch a ball game. Why? What’s up?”

“Come on over to the house. Let’s talk. I can make dinner for us or you can come over after you’ve eaten.”

“What’s this about, Carl?”

I didn’t answer. “You want anything fancy? I was just going to make hot dogs and Michigan Sauce.”

“Okay, be that way. I’ll see you at six.”

George showed up on my doorstep a few minutes after six, still in his suit from the office. I was already in shorts and a sport shirt, and barefoot. He had been to the house before, as a guest at various dinner parties, but it was unusual to have him there alone. He glanced at my attire and said, “You were serious about the hot dogs?”

“Sure! Take off your tie and jacket. Get comfortable.” He shrugged and took off his suit coat and tie, and then followed me into the kitchen.

I already had the hot dogs and fixings out, and a can of baked beans was on the counter. “You want two?” I asked.

“What’s that?” he said, pointing to a small pot on the stove.

“Michigan Sauce.”

“Which is?”

“It’s sort of like chili. It’s a family recipe from my wife’s side of the family. If I actually told you what’s in it, she’d have to kill you.” He held up two fingers and I opened the package of hot dogs. I pulled out four and fired up the broiler. “Beer?” When he said yes, I pulled a couple of bottles of National Bohemian out of the refrigerator. “National Bohs. It’s the last of them, though. Pabst is shutting down the brewery and going to tear it down. They’ll still make it, but it won’t be in Baltimore.”

“Trying to prove you’re a man of the people, Carl?”

I shrugged. “Trying to stay in office, if nothing else. It’s pretty popular stuff back in Maryland.”

“So, why’d you want to see me? It’s not like there’s a ball game on, so I can’t sit back and pretend I’m at a stadium somewhere and have hot dogs and beer.” George’s biggest interest outside of politics was baseball.

“George, we’re just a couple of fellows talking politics, you know, on background. What could be more innocent,” I answered. “You know, off the record.”

His ears perked up at that. “Off the record?” On background and off the record were key phrases meaning that he couldn’t use me as a source. “Okay, I’ll play along.”

“Well, let’s just chat a bit first while we eat, and then we can go into my office. I have something for you.” He gave a cautious nod, and I continued, “Hearing anything from the other people on the short list?”

“Is there a short list? I thought you were auditioning for the short list.”

I smiled. “That would be the question, wouldn’t it?” I had the beans on a burner, low, along with the Michigan Sauce. I rolled the franks on the broiler tray, and set some condiments on the kitchen island along with rolls. I grinned at him and commented, “It’s a little less formal when we don’t have a room full of politicians.”

“I wouldn’t have thought you to be a beans and franks kind of guy,” he replied.

“Marilyn and I are really very low key. We are simply middle class kids who got very, very lucky.”

“And I can believe as much or as little of that as I want. So, what about the short list? Is there one?”

I shrugged elaborately. “Not that I can tell. Now, I don’t know what you’ve been hearing, but you probably know more of the candidates then I do. The way it was put to me was that if my answers to the questionnaire were okay, I would go on the short list, and then George Bush would interview us and make a choice.”

“That’s what I’ve heard, too.”

“Only nobody’s being interviewed or being called back. What would that suggest to you? Bush’s got between now and mid-July to make a pick.”

“More like Cheney’s got to make the pick. He’s the head of the nomination committee.”

“So again, what would that suggest to you?” The hot dogs were ready, so I pulled them out of the broiler and put them on buns. I set the pans of sauce and beans on hot mats and placed them on the island along with serving spoons. “Dig in.”

We loaded up our plates, and George took a couple bites of his hot dog. He smiled and said, “This is pretty good. What’s in it?”

I smiled back. “That’s Top Secret, burn-before-reading and all that. If I told you, Marilyn would kill both you and me.” I took another bite myself, and then said, “It’s sort of like chili, only without the beans and peppers.”

“It doesn’t have the heat of chili.”

I shook my head. “No, it doesn’t. Different mix of spices.”

“You were saying about Cheney?”

“Let me ask you a question. Who’s smarter, George Bush or Dick Cheney?”

That got me a snort of laughter. “George got a Gentleman’s C and thinks that’s the same thing as a real C.”

I nodded in wry agreement. “The smart one in that bunch is his brother Jeb.”

“So, Dick Cheney is smarter than George Bush. So what?”

“So, he’s a lot smarter. George has him running the selection process for his Vice President and also for his Cabinet. Who do you think is going to end up in these jobs? People owing their position to Bush or people owing Cheney?”

“Again, so what?”

“Okay, so what?” I paused a second and washed down some dinner with my beer. “So Dick is vetting all of us. What happens when he goes to George Bush and says that every one of us is fatally flawed and would be a complete disaster as a nominee. Every one of us would hurt the ticket. That nobody on the list can be used.”

“That’s pretty unlikely, Carl. There are some pretty qualified people on that list, and I’m not talking about you!” he replied.

“George, I’m still not sure why I’m there. The only thing I can think is that he wanted one Congressman to show he was being even handed or something, and he figured neither Hastert or DeLay would want the job. The question still stands, though. If none of us is qualified to be Vice President, who does that leave George Bush to choose?”

That caused Will’s eyebrows to raise. “Are you suggesting Dick Cheney is going to recommend Dick Cheney as the Vice Presidential nominee?”

I smiled. “George! I suggest nothing! We’re just two fellows having a light dinner and talking shop. If you were to ask around and find out I’m wrong, please, let me know.”

We finished our meal and I set the plates in the kitchen sink. “You said you had something for me?”

“It’s in my office.” I led him out through the dining room into the foyer, and then down to my office.

He stepped inside and said, “So this is the infamous clubhouse? I don’t think I’ve ever been in here before.”

“You heard about the name?” I said with a laugh.

“What, the He-Man Democrat Haters’ Club? I think we’re both dating ourselves, Carl, when we say we know where that came from.”

“Marilyn was never amused by that,” I admitted. I pointed him to an armchair and sat in a swivel chair near my desk. I reached into the desk and pulled out a manila envelope. “Here, take this. It’s a blank copy for you.”

“What is it?”

“Open it and find out.”

George shrugged and opened the flap, and pulled out a copy of the questionnaire I had been given. It took him several minutes to work his way through the various pages, and then he looked up at me. “All of you had to provide this information?” I nodded. He looked through it a second time. “About the only thing he didn’t ask was if you drank or used drugs.”

“Considering George Bush’s past history, that might not be a discussion they want to have.” George Will pursed his lips at that, but didn’t deny it. The Governor had already admitted to ‘youthful indiscretions’, including a drinking problem, and there were unanswered allegations of a heavy coke habit when he was younger.

“On the face of it, there is nothing here that a campaign wouldn’t want to know about a prospect,” he commented.

“That is very true,” I agreed. “Still, at the level they are asking? And here’s another couple of questions for you. First, has Dick Cheney had to fill this out? And who would do the vetting on him? And second, let’s say that somebody is being considered for a Cabinet office and Dick doesn’t want them there. What’s to keep him from leaking something from the files he has collected to the New York Times and killing it off? Would you trust him?”

“Like who?”

I shrugged. “Keating is on the short list, right?” George nodded. Frank Keating was the Governor of Oklahoma. “Former FBI agent, former assistant U.S. Attorney, former Associate Attorney General, good conservative credentials… sounds like a shoo-in for the Attorney General’s slot, right. I can tell you right now that Cheney doesn’t like him or want him. Wait until Cheney turns over his file on Keating to the press.”

“What about your file?”

I threw my hands up at that. “What in the world is less secret than my life? What could they possibly find on me that hasn’t already been used against me. Besides, no way do I have any kind of chance. I am much too moderate for the hard core Evangelicals that George and Karl Rove are courting. It’s more likely I’ll be burned in effigy than be elected to a national office.”

“So why tell me?”

Again I shrugged. “I just thought you’d be curious to see how the process was really working. You’re a curious guy, right?”

That didn’t get an answer, and after a few more minutes, he left with the envelope.

Things got interesting that Friday. George Will had apparently been following up on my information and his column detailed the influence Dick Cheney was having over George Bush. It detailed how Bush had turned over the entire Vice Presidential and Cabinet selection process to Cheney. It also stated that Cheney hadn’t been through his own vetting process, which he must have gotten from somebody else. It ended with an interesting conclusion.

An administration is more than simply who the President is; an administration is the people he chooses to implement his policies. To that extent then the forthcoming election would seem to be a contest between the winner of the Democratic primary, Al Gore, and the unelected winner of the Republican primary, Dick Cheney.

George Will might be a conservative and a Republican, but first and foremost he was a journalist and pundit. He must have known what a bomb he was igniting in the campaign. The Sunday morning talk shows were loaded with senior campaign operatives and consultants arguing that Governor Bush was in complete charge of the selection of the Vice Presidential nominee and the other cabinet members, and that there was actually a process in place to begin interviews. Notably absent from any discussions were either Bush or Cheney.

The following Monday morning, I got a call from Cheney’s office and was asked to meet with a few staffers for a more personal vetting that afternoon. Joe Allbaugh, the campaign manager, had gone through my responses and now had more questions. There were some questions that had arisen with my responses. I met with them in the Whip’s office. It became very obvious to me, very quickly, that I was not going to be a serious candidate. Among the exchanges, we had the following topics:

Military Service:

Q: Explain, in detail, how you earned your Bronze Star.

A: I’m sorry. That drop was classified Top Secret.

Q: It will be critical to know so that we can properly use this in the campaign!

A: That was classified Top Secret. I am not allowed to speak about it.

Q: Congressman, that happened 19 years ago. We need to know the details.

A: Good for you! Now, all you need to do is trot over to the Pentagon and get the Chief of Staff to sign off on my breaking security, and have him put it in writing, and I will be happy to tell you!

Q: This isn’t very helpful, Congressman.

A: Top Secret! I still hold a reserve commission and a security clearance. What branch did you serve in and what was your clearance? (No answer to that one!)

Charity:

Q: Why do you donate to Planned Parenthood?

A: Because I want to. They do good work.

Q: That isn’t going to be popular, Congressman. You shouldn’t be donating to a charity for abortions.

A: Fine, then don’t donate your money to it. It’s my money; I’ll give it to who I want to. (This also applied to a number of my other donations. I was either giving to the wrong people, or not giving to the right people.)

Church:

Q: Where do you go to church?

A: I don’t.

Q: Never?

A: When I do go to church, I accompany my wife to her church. She’s a member of Our Lady of Grace in Parkton. They’re Catholic.

Q: It’s important to show that you are a Christian and a regular member of a church, Congressman.

A: Then ask my wife to run.

Business:

Q: Congressman Buckman, why did you invest in [insert name here — they named several firms]?

A: So I could make money. Why do you think I invested in them? (At that point these financial wizards would want to know why we structured a deal this way or that, and I told them that when they were multibillionaires, they could feel free to give me advice.)

Q: Why does your blind trust invest primarily in the Buckman Group and related companies?

A: Maybe because I built a great investment company and I taught them how to make a lot of money. You should give it a try someday.

and finally, my favorite, Personal:

Q: Why did you parents disown you?

A: Because they didn’t like me. (I think by this point they were agreeing with my parents!)

Q: Why did you think it was necessary to shoot your brother?

A: Because he broke into my house and was trying to kill me.

Q: You have a black belt in karate. Why didn’t you use karate to disarm him and capture him?

A: Because he had a big knife.

Q: Why didn’t you simply shoot it out of his hand?

A: Were you always this dumb, or did you take a special class?

At that point the interview was over. We never did get to my voting positions or public statements. I am sure that they went back to Dick Cheney with the conclusion that I was both unsuitable and uncooperative. I told Marilyn about it that night, and she was more than a little amused. She told me, “Carling, your biggest problem is that you don’t tolerate fools very well, and to you, most people are fools.”

“So? You married me. Does that make you a fool? Then how come I tolerate you?”

At that she giggled and said, “Would you like me to demonstrate?”

I smiled and nodded. “Maybe you’re not so foolish after all!”

Chapter 126: Selection

Marty Adrianopolis was leaving me.

It wasn’t as tragic as it sounded. He was a great Chief of Staff, and I trusted him implicitly, but he had a fatal flaw. Marty was a firm believer in married bliss. He had proved this twice before. Now he was seeing a good looking blonde about ten years younger who worked in Steny Hoyer’s office (it was our own little version of James Carville and Mary Matalin, only reversed.) Marty needed to make more money than he could make on a government paycheck.

“So, what are you thinking?” I asked him.

“Well, I’ve been talking to the guys over at ARI, and I figure I can slip over there and become an executive director, something at that level. That way I can still work with you on your projects, but I can actually make some money without jumping through so many hoops,” he replied, smiling.

It was certainly something I would have proposed, so I simply nodded. Since I was the major funding source of the American Renaissance Initiative, I had a lot of say in the matter. “I’ve got no problems with that. The only question is going to be timing. I want you to stick with me through the election. After that, during the lame duck session, we find a replacement, and then you head over to K Street. Have you negotiated your new salary yet?” I asked with a smile.

He grinned back. “It won’t be cheap! Jenny has expensive tastes!”

“Maybe we need to head to Vegas first, and get the over-under on how long this one lasts.”

Marty flipped me the finger at that. “Third time’s the charm! Hey, what do we do if you actually get selected as the nominee for Vice President? What happens then?”

“You mean, right after the heavens open and Christ comes down for the Second Coming?”

“Exactly!”

“I am guessing that things get complicated. I can still run for Congress at the same time. If Bush wins, they’ll have a special election, probably in January. We’ll run a candidate in the Maryland Ninth. If we win, you’ll need to stick around to help them settle in. Figure a few months to find a new Chief of Staff. It shouldn’t delay things more than a few months,” I told him.

“Any ideas on who you’d run? You’re going to have a lot of influence on this,” he commented.

“Think Cheryl would go for it? She knows the district and the players.” Cheryl Dedrick headed up my Westminster staff.

“She’d be a good choice, and it wouldn’t hurt with the women’s vote. Wait until you get selected, then talk to her about it.” I nodded agreement with this. A lot of Congressmen got started by working on somebody’s staff.

I left it with Marty starting to consider his replacement at the end of the year. Two weeks after my confrontation with the two doofuses who vetted me, I got a call from Joe Allbaugh. Would I be willing to meet with Governor Bush in a few days? I actually stared at the phone in my hand for a second before responding affirmatively. Even if I wasn’t going to be selected, you don’t piss off a guy who might well become the next President. You take the meeting! I was to meet the Governor in a suite at the Hay-Adams.

Unsurprisingly, when I got to the meeting, Dick Cheney was present as well, and he didn’t look overly happy to be there. As far as he was concerned, he didn’t want anybody getting in his way of selecting the next Cabinet, and certainly not either George Bush or the prospective Cabinet members. He was only here because the campaign was reacting to the pressure from the media. Al Gore, on the other hand, was trumpeting the transparency of his selections. This was total hogwash, as well. Al was selecting a Vice Presidential pick for the same reasons of expediency as anyone else did, and his Cabinet choices would be mostly recycled Clintonistas.

Still, our meeting was cordial. While Cheney was unhappy, it didn’t seem directed at me. Rather, he was pissed that his elaborate scheme had been exposed for what it was, but he didn’t know by whom. He did ask me at one point. “Carl, you know you aren’t the only person being considered for Vice Presidential nominee. Any thoughts on where George Will’s wild accusations came from?”

I kept a neutral face on and simply held my hands palm up, in an unknowing position. “Dick, there’s about a dozen of us on the short list, and with all the documentation you required, each of us had about half a dozen lawyers and staffers pulling things together. And that’s just on our end! What about the other end, whoever was pulling together the information and reviewing things and vetting us? I would daresay that the better part of a hundred people knew about the process, and could have leaked it.”

“Maybe so, but that certainly wasn’t the process we were using! The Governor and I are looking at everything together, and I am certainly not making the choice myself!” he declared. George Bush didn’t say anything through this.

“I’m sure of that, but that doesn’t make as good a story on the news, does it?” There, throw George Will under the bus on this one. “All it takes is a selective bit of disinformation and you can start trouble. Maybe one of the candidates is trying to torpedo somebody else?” I shrugged in confusion.

After that we got to some more substantive issues. Cheney would raise a few questionable points about my past and Bush would ask me to explain what had happened. My wealth was an amusing topic, and it was pointed out that I was richer than all the other Congressmen and Senators combined. I smiled and agreed with that. There was some discussion of my military record, which was considerably more exemplary than either of theirs. Cheney had been a major league draft dodger, getting about a half dozen deferments; Bush had served in the Texas Air National Guard, and his service there was suspect at best. Both wanted to learn about the Bronze Star, and that surprised me. I would have thought they could have gotten somebody at the Pentagon to unearth it (Cheney had been Secretary of Defense and Bush’s father had once run the CIA) but it must have been buried deep. I pleaded national security, but then smiled and said, “Of course, as President Bush, you will be able to look it up. I would be happy to explain it to you then, sir.” That got a large laugh from George Bush; not such a big laugh from Dick Cheney.

A big chunk of the meeting was about my family. My current family was everything a good Republican could ask for. We just had to keep quiet about them being Catholic. My parents and brother, though, were the very definition of a clusterfuck. We could count on that coming up, and they were surprised it hadn’t derailed me already.

“Governor, believe me, people have tried. My first campaign that was a major theme. It was simply huge! After that, though, I was able to develop a track record, and was able to run on that. Still, I can’t hide it. My parents and my brother will be ripe pickings for reporters.”

“So, they’ll talk to the press?” pushed Cheney.

I arched an eyebrow at that. “I think it will take a small miracle to get my brother to make a comment, I mean, considering I shot him in my kitchen.” Then I shrugged. “My father won’t be saying much, either. He’s in a home with Alzheimers’. My sister and her family live in Minnesota and they’ll be fine. We are in touch with them and my sister and I are close. My mother will be more than happy to go on national television and damn me as the Anti-Christ, but she’s been under psychiatric care off and on for twenty years.”

“I really think that kills off any chance of going further. Wouldn’t you agree, Governor?” prompted Cheney.

“Congressman, I haven’t made any decisions yet, but I suspect you may be more use to a Bush Administration as the Majority Whip, and perhaps, someday, Majority Leader or Speaker of the House,” said Bush.

“Of course, sir. Believe me, I understand. Please let me know if there is anything more I can do for you or the campaign.” We all shook hands and I took my leave.

So much for any hopes for higher office. I smiled to myself as I left and shook my head in amusement. I still wasn’t sure how I ended up on the short list, other than by being the top Congressional leader who might be interested. Hastert would have almost as much power as the Speaker, and DeLay was hoping to succeed Hastert. It would take another ten years for me to get to that point, or at some point try to run for Governor or Senator, both of which seemed far-fetched, to get that level of power.

Maybe I should push for Ambassador to the Bahamas? Wait until the kids are off in college in a couple of years and then Marilyn and I could work on our tans year round. I would have to ask her about that! We could work on the rum consumption problem facing America, as well as the beach sand deficit. I really needed to give this idea some strategic thought!

For the next ten days or so, there was a steady stream of the high and the mighty traipsing through the Hay-Adams, all of whom were noted by Fox News as being considered for various positions, and this was all indicative of how the Governor was taking a hands on approach to these critical selections. How dare anybody dispute this!? In some ways, this wasn’t helping Governor Bush. After anybody was reported meeting with Cheney and Bush, Rush Limbaugh’s next show would discuss why they weren’t appropriate. I was highlighted as an ‘extreme liberal, a closet Democrat, who has bought his elections and shares the left wing Democratic agenda with his New York Democrat wife!’

Marilyn found this extremely funny, though she seemed less amused when he commented that she had obviously used my billions on extensive plastic surgery and a boob job! It was my turn to look at her curiously and ask to see the ‘evidence.’ The twins also wanted to know if their mother had implants, and wanted to know if they could have them, too. I snorted and bit my tongue and let their mother chew on them for a bit. Our daughters did not suffer from the curse of flat-chestedness. They were D-cups like their mother, without the enjoyment of three pregnancies to help the process along.

I was not the only choice to be singled out as inappropriate. Colin Powell, one of the most respected men in the country, was also labeled as a Democrat, Fred Thompson of Tennessee was a ‘Johnny-come-lately’ to the political party, George Pataki was from a Democratic state (New York), and so on. There was nobody who was conservative enough for Rush Limbaugh! The man was more of a raving lunatic than usual on the subject.

On the Fourth of July I attended the obligatory parades back in Hereford and Westminster and spent the rest of the day drinking around the pool with my ‘enhanced’ wife. Our daughters were elsewhere (they wanted to be anywhere other than where their hopelessly ancient and clueless forebears were) and Charlie was out at sea, so I managed to talk Marilyn into wearing a very extreme swimsuit and then chased her around the pool. I caught her and examined her enhancements up close and personal. My wife’s comment was that perhaps I needed to spend my billions for some enhancements of my own, which earned her a good smack on the rear when we got out of the pool. Then I chased her into the house and we spent some more time examining our original equipment.

On July 5, the world got exceedingly strange. George Bush called me direct, and asked me to meet him at his suite at the Hay-Adams the next day, and I wasn’t to speak to anybody about this, not my wife, not my staff, nobody. I simply thought this was weird. Up until now I had always heard from Cheney’s staff. It seemed like he wouldn’t be involved in this discussion. Could this be some final private vetting? That didn’t make sense. There were already some unofficial reports saying that I was no longer under consideration, though nothing so crass was coming out officially from the campaign.

At ten the next morning, Thursday, I went over to the Hay-Adams and went up to the Governor’s suite. After going through the discreet magnetometer and being eyed by the Secret Service agent standing post at his door, I was allowed in and found myself with George Bush. It was just the two of us, and he led me to a small parlor and we seated ourselves in armchairs. “Thank you for coming, Congressman Buckman.”

“It’s my pleasure, Governor. Perhaps someday I can say, it’s my pleasure, Mister President.”

He smiled at that and nodded graciously. He might be a moron, but he knew the game when it came to being pleasant and making his guests feel welcome. “That’s very kind of you. I wanted to talk to you some more, and get a feel for how you think the campaign is going.”

“Really? I was under the impression that I would be playing no further part in the campaign. According to Fox News and some of the other outlets in favor of you, there is no question but that I would be a hindrance, not a help. I’m not sure I could be elected dog catcher according to them.”

He made a wry smile at that. “Perhaps you’ve heard the old prayer, ‘Lord, protect me from my friends. I can take care of my enemies myself!’ While I will grant you that a significant portion of my support comes from a more conservative element in the party, I do have to appeal to other groups as well. Not everybody agrees with that, but it is true.”

I made an accommodating gesture and nodded. Where was he going with this? “Well, of course, Governor, as the leader of the Party, you would have to reconcile different philosophies.” I smiled. “Consider it good practice for after the election, when you have to get the Democrats to go along with you!”

“Let’s hope so. Oh, by the way, is your wife really a Democrat?”

I laughed. “Very much so. Her parents are torn between their love of their daughter and their despair that she married out of the faith, so to speak. Then again, several of her brothers are Republicans also, so it gets spread around somewhat evenly.”

He laughed at this. He really was a consummate schmoozer. “You have a history of working across party lines as needed. You’ve been a leader in bipartisan legislation, and it’s my understanding that you are a major conduit between the parties when something quiet needs to be whispered back and forth.”

Was that what he wanted? He wanted me to whisper something to the Democrats? “It’s always been my experience that the best results, in either business or in politics, are those where both groups can smile at the end and feel they’ve come away a winner,” I explained. What did he want me to tell them, and to whom?

“Newt Gingrich told me that you warned him against the government shutdown. You told him it would be a mistake, and so would the impeachment.”

What in the world!? What was he asking me about Newt for?! “I consider Newt to be a friend and a mentor. I worked closely with him for many years. We simply disagreed on tactics, not strategy. We both wanted the same things.”

“Such as?” he asked.

“First and foremost was our desire to bring the budget under control. I know you agree with me that for forty years the Democrats have been treating the Treasury as a piggy bank to be raided at will. We have been buying things on the national credit card with no thought to how we would pay it back. Thanks to the Speaker’s leadership on this, we took back control of the House and the Senate, and were able to impose some serious financial constraints. The budget has been balanced for two years now, and should continue that way into the future.”

“Very true. I would think, though, that we’ve turned a corner now. A tax cut is in order, wouldn’t you agree?” he asked.

“Perhaps, but only if we can keep spending down. We must maintain at least a moderate surplus in order to pay down past debt.” Where was he going with this? Treasury? Budget Director? You needed a PhD in economics and finance experience for that sort of stuff.

“You also were the chief architect of the Contract with America.”

“Governor, I was just one of many people involved in that,” I protested.

“No false modesty. You came up with the idea, and then let Newt take control. Why was that?”

“Practicality. Nobody is going to pay attention to a junior Congressman. Everybody pays attention to Newt Gingrich!” We both laughed at that, but I still didn’t understand what was going on. There’s an old joke that if you’re in a poker game, and you can’t figure out who the chump is, it’s you. I was feeling very much the chump at the moment.

“Congressman, these are some of the compelling reasons you are being considered for the Vice Presidential nomination. Properly handled, these positions can play to the base of our party, while your bipartisan nature plays to the other voting blocs.”

I practically coughed up breakfast when he said the words ‘Vice Presidential.’ Still, I managed to keep my game face on, and simply looked at him curiously. “I’ll be happy to help in any way I can, Governor.”

He smiled and said, “Do you know the difference between being involved in something, and being committed to it?” Of course I knew the answer, but I simply allowed him to continue. “Well, this morning, I had bacon and eggs for breakfast. Now, the chicken, she was involved in my breakfast, but the pig, he was committed!”

I dutifully laughed. “Well, Governor, you can count on my commitment, that’s for sure.” Commitment to what?

“I was hoping you would say that. You see, Congressman, it’s been very expensive getting to this point in my career. I mean, surely you can understand this, from your own experience.” What the hell?! Did he want a campaign contribution? I simply nodded in understanding and agreement. “Well, I would think a sign of that commitment might be a suitable contribution, no, an investment, in the future.”

The cheap bastard was hitting me up for money! I kept my emotions off my face. “I would think you’ve already picked up a substantial sum for the campaign, and it’s only going to increase.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of the difference between being involved and being committed. I was thinking more along the lines of a personal commitment, man to man, as it were.”

Suddenly it hit me! Stripped of all the subtlety and innuendo, George W. Bush was proposing to sell me the Vice Presidency of the United States of America! I choked down my outrage, and leaned back in my seat. He kept his silence and simply watched me. There were no witnesses, no recorders. Who would credit such an outrageous charge?

It made sense, actually. The Bush family was wealthy, but it was all family money, which meant it was actually his father’s money. George had a few million on his own, but it was nowhere near the level of dear old Dad. He had probably netted about $15 to $20 million when he sold his chunk of the Texas Rangers, but his oil investments had been a bust.

What the hell did I say to this? My mind was zinging back and forth at the speed of light, or even faster! Was he so confident of winning the election he could skip the pretence of having a Vice Presidential pick who could help? As Vice President, I would be in an intimate position with one of the dumbest guys to ever make it to the Oval Office. At least, that was how I remembered him from my first run through. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he was smart like a fox! It actually made sense, in a way. Cheney had been out of the government for eight years. How the hell did he really end up as Vice President? Did he know the difference between being involved and being committed? After years of running Halliburton he probably had the funds necessary. I couldn’t see any of the others with the funds sufficient to do this. Who else had he approached? McCain? He didn’t have the money, but his wife did. He would never go along with something like this! Was that the reason he despised George Bush so deeply? Or did George figure McCain would flap his yap and blow the deal?

“Governor, have there been other indications of commitment? What level of commitment has been offered?” I asked. Let the bidding begin.

“There have been offers. Signs of the trust and commitment needed,” he admitted.

“Governor, I can’t begin to determine the commitment necessary without knowing what else has been suggested.”

“Congressman, I think we’ve both been in business long enough to know I can’t simply give you a level and accept that you’ll do that plus a dollar.”

Don’t you dare compare yourself to me as a businessman, you idiot. I was eating guys like you for lunch long before I got into politics! “No, but I can make a few guesses, can’t I? I would expect the likeliest individuals, those with the assets to make such a commitment, would be able to invest perhaps $4 or $5 million. Am I at least in the proper area? I need to at least know something, Governor,” I responded.

He smiled at that. “And if you were correct in that, what would your response be?”

It was in the single digits, then. Probably all the info I would get. “I won’t get in a bidding war. I’ll give you a number. You can take it or leave it.”

“Of course.”

I rubbed my finger along the side of my jaw for a moment. This man was everything I despised in a politician, stupid and venal at the same time. Could I pay him enough to let me protect America from him? “Twenty.”

The twit’s eyes bugged out. “Twenty million dollars?” I was probably doubling his net worth.

“Of course, with that level of investment, of commitment on my part, I would be expecting an equal commitment from you. I would want to be included in all the major decisions, a chance to give you my thoughts on everything,” I cautioned.

“Absolutely, that goes without saying!”

“It won’t be a lump sum, either.”

“Oh?!” he answered warily.

“Unh, unh. Five now, five after being nominated at the convention, five after the election, and five after the inauguration.” I didn’t trust the man as far as I could throw him.

“That seems reasonable. When do you see this happening?”

“Do you have the account number?”

“What?”

I pulled out my cell phone. “Give me the account number and I can have the first five million wired to it. You’ll have confirmation by tomorrow.”

“Oh.” He thought about it for a moment. “I’ll have to get that for you.”

What an idiot! The man was not a mastermind of finance. “Tomorrow morning, then. I’ll make my preparations. You’ll get confirmation within 24 hours.”

“Excellent. I’ll call you later today.” He smiled and stood up. “Now, I think I need to make a few preparations.”

“Of course.” I stood up as well, and went to shake his hand. However, when he took my hand, I didn’t let go. “One thing, Governor, my word and my deals mean a lot to me. I’ve made a lot of deals over the years. I’m sure you heard what I told the Clinton team a couple of years ago, when they tried to break a deal. I think we can all assume I would be equally unhappy with any other deal being broken. I mean, it would show a lack of commitment, wouldn’t it?”

“I quite understand, Congressman Buckman, I quite understand,” he said, still smiling.

Don’t smile, asshole. You’ve just been had.

Chapter 127: A New Campaign

That night I had Marilyn come into my office with me and I told her what was happening. Not entirely, though — I didn’t tell her about the commitment, just that I was being selected. I didn’t do this until after the girls went to bed, but I didn’t want them to have any chance to overhear us. This was too insane to let them know. They would never be able to keep their mouths shut! Marilyn was simply astonished, since we had both come to the conclusion prior to this that I had no chance in the world of being named for anything whatsoever.

“You’re kidding me? When will this become official?”

“Not sure, exactly. I’m expecting a call from him tomorrow, and then we’ll be announcing it a few days later.”

Bush messengered me the account number the next day. I had then called Bob Seaver, who had already been warned about laundering the first five mill and who had run it into the account, although I didn’t tell him who was getting it. It wouldn’t show up until the next day (it never goes as fast as they show on the TV crime shows!) and we would make an announcement Tuesday the 11th. Bush’s people would handle that, and the details weren’t exact yet. That would give us almost three weeks until the convention.

“Well, won’t you be important then!” she teased.

“You know, us important guys have certain expectations,” I replied.

“Really? Just what kind of expectations?”

“Well, I mean, the kind of expectations that require some really serious effort to fulfill. I mean, really serious effort!”

“Oh? Just how serious?”

“Let’s just say that it might be a good idea to see if you can earn your way on to the Vice President’s staff. Remember Monica Lewinsky? I am figuring I will need to audition an intern or two!”

“Yuck! You are such a pig!” she protested.

We were in my office as I told her all of this, so once she began protesting, I grabbed her and we wrestled on the couch until I got her undressed, and then I showed her just how serious she needed to be. Afterwards, we repeated the demonstration in our bedroom.

I got a call from the Governor by lunchtime Friday that the transfer had gone through, and I had until Tuesday before the announcement. That was still being sorted out, but I would get the details Monday morning. In the meantime, I needed to make certain preparations. I called Marty and told him to shag ass to the house for dinner that evening, and then repeated the call to Brewster McRiley. He complained that he was in Chicago, and I told him I didn’t care. He needed to be in Westminster that night, and then I asked him if he wanted me to send the G-IV. That got his attention and he agreed to come, so I sent the plane. I called Cheryl and told her to bring her husband as well, and I called Millie Destrier, Jack Nerstein, and Macy Adams. Finally, we told the girls they had to stay home that evening; they couldn’t go out with any friends. They wanted to argue, but we told them it was for a serious meeting and they needed to be there as adults, which both intrigued and flattered them. They were still fifteen but not for long. They would turn sixteen before the convention.

I couldn’t see spending a lot of time cooking and playing host tonight. I called Nick Papandreas and asked him to make up a buffet platter, a big one, and I’d come over and pick it up. I left Holly and Molly with their mother to help make some iced tea and lemonade, and clean the house. They must have sensed it was important, since for once they didn’t argue with us. We expected people to start arriving any time after six, although Brewster might be the last to show.

He was. Most of the others had arrived by 6:30, when a call came in from the Westminster airport that the Gulfstream was on final approach. I had a driver waiting for him, so we should expect him a few minutes before 7:00. Otherwise, Macy Adams was the only one late, and she showed up right after the call. “What’s going on, Carl?” she asked, like every other guest.

I gave the same answer the others had gotten. “I’ll explain when we’re all here. In the meantime, grab some food.”

At 6:50 Brewster arrived. I shook his hand and invited him inside. He asked, “Okay, Carl, what’s up? What was so important that you sent a plane to pick me up in Chicago? I was damn near expecting the chopper on the pad to fly me to the door! What happened? Bush pick you or something?”

I nodded and simply answered, “Yes.”

Brewster stopped in his tracks and said quietly, “You’re not kidding me, are you? Bush picked you?” Around us the room was suddenly quiet.

I nodded to him. “We came to an agreement on my commitment to the campaign. Now we need to have a talk, all of us.”

Suddenly the room exploded in questions. I smiled at the uproar and loaded some seconds on my plate. I sat down at the head of the table, and then I held my hands up in a quieting gesture. “Okay, here’s the long and the short of it. I met with the Governor yesterday morning. We talked and he promised to call me with the news today. He called me this morning, and I told him I would need a couple of days to make arrangements. The official announcement is on Monday. We have this weekend to make some plans.”

Molly was the first one to speak. “Dad, you’re going to be the Vice President?”

I smiled at my youngest. “Well, we have to win an election first, but that’s the general idea, anyway.”

Molly looked at her older sister, and they were silently talking to each other. You could almost see the brain waves traveling back and forth between them.

“One election or two?” asked Millie Destrier.

“Now, isn’t that an interesting question.” I replied. “That’s the real reason I invited everybody here tonight.”

“I don’t understand,” commented Holly.

I nodded to the girls. “Okay, let me explain how this works. I’m up for re-election this fall. You already know that I’m running against Rob Hollister. Now I have to run two elections at the same time.”

“You mean you’re still going to run for re-election at the same time you’re running for Vice President? Can you do that?”

It was Millie Destrier who answered that. “Yes, it’s legal, just unusual. It only gets complicated if your father wins both elections. I mean, if he only wins one and loses the other, he only has the one job to worry about, and if he loses both, he’s out of a job anyway.”

“So what happens if he wins both? Can you be a Congressman and a Vice President at the same time?”

Everybody smiled and shook their head. “Nope, it doesn’t work that way,” said Macy.

“No, your dad becomes the Vice President, and then we have a special election to elect a new Congressman,” said Jack.

“So, who becomes the new candidate for Congressman?” asked my wife.

“That would be one of the topics for tonight. The people in this room are basically going to be the ones who decide that. Not you and the girls, so much, but you know what I mean.”

“Maybe I should change to become a Republican? Do I get a vote then?”

I grinned and waved off the idea. “No! Forget it! Do you know how many votes it’s worth with you as a Democrat?! It’s a great human interest item!”

Brewster smiled and agreed with me. Around the table the other political types nodded as well.

Cheryl Dedrick cleared her throat, and I turned to face her. She looked over at her husband, Jim, who I recalled was a paving contractor in Reisterstown. Then she said, “I don’t know how you pick the candidates, but can I put my name in the hat?”

I glanced over at Marty, who I had discussed this with already, who shrugged and nodded. Then I looked over at the others before answering. “The only person I’ve talked to about this is Marty, but you were the name we talked about. I wanted you here tonight, you and Jim, to raise the question. You’d be interested?”

She looked over at Jim again, and then nodded. “We actually talked about it when you were being mentioned for the Vice Presidential slot. Then, when you said they told you no, we kind of wrote it off. But, yes, I think I could do it.”

I looked around the table to the other professionals. “Any thoughts on this? Have any of you been thinking on this?”

Macy commented, “Don’t take this the wrong way, Carl, but I figured you never had a chance for the VP slot. I couldn’t even figure out how you got on the short list. No offense meant.”

“None taken. I was as surprised as you were.”

Millie asked, “Carl, are you planning on running for both offices? It’s too late to run somebody else. They would have had to register months ago.”

“I don’t have a choice, not if we want a chance to keep the Maryland Ninth in the Party. I have to run as hard here as we had already planned, as well as spend my every waking moment campaigning for Bush. What else can I do? I am going to have to rely on you guys to help me win an absentee campaign.”

“And that’s why you needed me here,” added McRiley.

“And that’s why I needed you,” I agreed. “I don’t know what you would be able to do with the Bush campaign, but I am going to need the help here. I have to win this election here. If I win as VP and lose in the Maryland Ninth, I become a national joke. We are going to have to do this full bore.”

“And afterwards?”

“I work just as hard for my hand-picked successor, whoever that ends up as. Likewise, we’ll be able to crank up all the resources we can from the RNC. So the question really arises, who am I hand-picking as my successor? Marty and I vote for Cheryl. Any other candidates you guys have been thinking of?”

Nobody else had any names, but nobody had any issues with Cheryl. This wasn’t going to be decided tonight, but we’d come up with a name by the convention. Marty and I explained how he would be leaving after the inauguration, though he agreed to hang around long enough to help the next Republican victor find a replacement. It was late when we finally broke up and everybody went home. We gave Brewster and Marty guest rooms for the night. Marty took Charlie’s room. Charlie was at sea in the Indian Ocean and had just deployed; he wouldn’t be back until around Christmas. He would get to miss the circus this was about to become. I almost envied him. Then I called my sister in Rochester, swore her to secrecy, and let her know what was happening.

By Saturday lunchtime somebody talked. I began getting phone calls on the unlisted number from reporters asking for comments. I just referred everybody to the Bush-Cheney team. I did accept the call from Joe Allbaugh with the itinerary for the announcement. We were to fly to Houston on Sunday afternoon. There would be a suite for us at the Four Seasons. The announcement would be made right after lunch from the deck of the USS Texas, docked as a museum ship in Houston. Would we be able to make the travel arrangements? I assured him it wouldn’t be a problem, and then called and made sure the G-IV was ready. We began packing our bags. By Saturday afternoon reporters and camera crews began camping out by the driveway and parking on the side of Mount Carmel Road. I called the head of our security detail in and gave him the good word. He would need reinforcements!

Sunday morning, the political talk shows were all over the rumor. My bet was that somebody from the Cheney-Rove camp had leaked it, for good or for bad, perhaps in a desire to get me to say something stupid and premature, and thus derail the whole thing. The most amusing segment came on ABC’s This Week, with Sam Donaldson interviewing my old buddy Fletcher Donaldson (no relation.) Fletcher had discovered that, almost by default, he was now the go-to guy on all matters Buckman. He had been covering me for the Sun for ten years now, and was probably the only reporter who had ever been inside the house. I had talked to him the other day, but only to tell him to call the Bush campaign, and that he knew me well enough to know I wasn’t going to say anything else to him.

“So, Fletcher, you’ve known Carl Buckman the longest of any reporter I know of. What’s he really like?” asked Donaldson.

Fletcher looked like he had bought a new suit for the occasion, and gotten a haircut, to boot. He said, “He’s a very plain person, for one thing. He truly and honestly thinks he’s a really boring guy and lives a really boring life. He’s been married to his college sweetheart for over twenty years. Both he and his wife Marilyn were middle class kids. They live in the same house they built when he left the Army, a rancher out in the outer Baltimore suburbs. His kids go to the local public school. His son went into the Marines. Marilyn spends her time either being a stay-at-home mom or helping out as an intern at the Congressman’s Westminster office. On fall weekends, they make jam…”

“They make jam?” asked an incredulous Donaldson. “As in jam and jelly?”

Fletcher nodded. “I’ve had some. It’s pretty good stuff, too. They always make extras and he takes it down to this office and lets his staff and visitors have some. They also make pies together. Marilyn’s a pretty good baker, but Carl says he’s the better cook. It gives them something to argue about, their son once told me.”

Cokie Roberts butted in at that point and said, “How does he reconcile the difference between being what he thinks is normal and boring with all the other things he is involved in?”

“That one is tougher to explain. I mean, I’ll grant you, his resume is beyond belief. He’s one of the richest men in America. In eight years he rose to the third most powerful position in the Republican Congress. He’s written three books, earned a doctorate in mathematics, and been a decorated soldier. And he’s also one of the most down-to-earth and grounded individuals I’ve ever met. He still thinks of himself as a kid from the suburbs who just got lucky. Really, really lucky!”

“He also killed his own brother,” commented Roberts.

“Ah, yes, and that’s actually Carl’s weak spot. Not his brother, no. That was actually totally legitimate. His brother was insane and broke into their house and tried to kill him. No, Carl’s weak spot is his family.”

“How so?” pressed Sam Donaldson.

“Carl Buckman’s personal family when he was growing up was an absolute disaster. His brother and mother were simply nuts, and his father refused to handle the problem. When Carl was 16 he moved out, into an apartment near where he was going to school and which he had to pay for personally, and he’s been taking care of himself ever since. His parents actually disowned him after he married Marilyn. Maybe it’s overcompensating, but Carl is just incredibly protective of his wife and kids. You want to see some fireworks on this campaign, just wait until somebody starts heckling and insulting Marilyn Buckman or his daughters!”

Fletcher was right in that, and I would have to behave myself, because somebody was going to try it, just to start some fireworks. They continued batting it around until the commercial break, at which point they segued into whatever message the Bush campaign was trying to send with this nomination — which still hadn’t been confirmed. After that, we turned off the television. The LongRanger landed and flew us to Westminster, which wasn’t something the reporters had been expecting. They had been planning on chasing us down the road in their cars, the idiots! From Westminster we flew to a small airport outside of Houston, where a limo was waiting for us. We went direct to the Four Seasons, and then were whisked straight to the suite, without ever checking in.

Karl Rove was waiting for us. He was polite enough, but I could tell he was unhappy. He was a favorite of the Bush family, both father and son, and close to Dick Cheney. He had been in the political game since college, and he liked it, and he liked it dirty. I was a major upset to the apple cart. Still, he was professional enough to go with the flow. He laid out the following program:

Monday, July 10, at noon we would be making the announcement on the Texas. George Bush would speak first, and then I would come onstage, and after that, Marilyn and the girls would be invited out. I think this was the first time they realized that they would be involved. The twins looked excited, Marilyn looked nervous. Tuesday, July 11, through Thursday, July 13, I would be working with the campaign team on a stump speech and a schedule of appearances. Marilyn would get her own staff and schedule, which really made her nervous. Rove either didn’t notice or didn’t care. I suspect it was the latter. Friday, July 14, through Saturday, July 29, I would be touring the country campaigning for the Governor. The details were still being firmed up, but I could expect a variety of appearances through the ‘heartland’ to introduce me, and appearances every Sunday on the talk shows. Sunday, July 30, we would all fly to Philadelphia for the convention, which would start on Monday, July 31. This would run four nights. I would speak the third night and Bush would speak the fourth night. Marilyn would get her own schedule of appearances. In addition, on Wednesday, August 2, she would be one of the first speakers at the convention, and would introduce me. At that point Marilyn turned ghost white and began protesting. She was terrified of speaking publicly! She basically refused to do it! Karl didn’t care. If she wanted me to become the Vice President, she would do what she was told. The kids were the same. They would learn their lines and behave. He wasn’t quite that rude, which would have earned him a punch in the nose, but he came close.

The girls were actually sort of excited by the idea but their mother was on the verge of tears. I took her hand and said, “Don’t worry. Let me handle this.”

“I can’t give a speech! I’ve never given a speech!”

“I know, I know. Calm down. Let me handle this.”

Karl started saying something, “Congressman…”

I turned to him and cut him off. “Zip it, Karl. It’s my turn now. You want to order me around, fine, knock yourself out. You ever talk to my wife or children that way again, and I’ll bounce you out the door and tell the reporters why. You got that?” He babbled something but I just overrode him. “Now, let me explain something very clearly. My wife has never given a speech in her life. I’m the politician in the family, not her. I didn’t marry her because she gave a great speech!” The twins giggled at that, but their mother was clinging to my hand. “Now, I will talk to Marilyn and we’ll get some speechwriters in, and I can probably convince her to give it a shot, but that’s all. If it doesn’t work out, Marilyn won’t be campaigning.”

I turned back to Marilyn and said, “Don’t worry so much. If I can do it, anybody can do it. Hell, look at some of the other idiots you’ve seen speaking! You’re smarter than they are.”

Marilyn had relaxed when I stood up for her (like I wouldn’t?) and some color was returning to her face. “But what if I mess up?! What if I can’t do it or miss my lines or freeze or something? What if…”

I laughed and hugged her. “Well, I’ll just have to divorce you then, won’t I? Now calm down. We’ll figure this out.”

I turned back to Rove, who seemed rather put out by all of this family drama. “What’s next on your list?”

“Well, tomorrow morning we’ll be contacting the Marines and see if we can’t get your son transferred, or at least put on leave, so he can help.”

“Stop it right there. My son is a Marine. He’s an adult now. What he’s doing is more important than whatever you have planned. He stays out of it. If I hear that you’ve even thought about calling the Pentagon or the Marines about him, I will go on national television and denounce you personally and publicly. Is that understood?” I told him.

It was with a considerable degree of ill grace that Rove accepted these restrictions. It was important to remember that when dealing with Karl Rove, he had the moral sense of a hungry wolf eyeing a wounded fawn. He could have given lessons in dirty tricks to Richard Nixon. One time when he was in college, he used a fake name to infiltrate the Democratic headquarters of the fellow who was running for Illinois Treasurer, stole a few reams of letterhead stationery, and then used it to send out invites to drunken orgies. He had done other stunts over the years, like planting bugs in his own office and then claiming the Democrats were doing it, and leaking information on other campaign operatives that would then make him look better. During the recent primary, Rove had managed a whisper campaign against McCain insinuating that John McCain had a love child with a black New York City prostitute, none of which was true.

At that point we took a brief break and Rove brought in some of the aides and assistants who would be working with us. Things actually began to improve, because some of these people were actual humans. Karl might have been born with the number ‘666’ burned into his flesh somewhere, but he did have some normal people working for the campaign. This could also be simply that as the Vice Presidential nominee, I didn’t rate the real spawn of Satan that worked with George Bush. I got the wannabes who had to practice being evil.

We dined on room service that evening, not wanting to be seen publicly yet. I split my time until late, alternating working with a speechwriting team on my speech on the Texas on Monday, and working with the team who were coaching Marilyn. This consisted of fifty percent holding her hands and fifty percent toning down the nonsense that they had planned. It came down to a compromise. They would write a few short test speeches, and then have Marilyn and the girls practice them on a mock stage. Then they could make a judgment before we broke apart at the end of the week. My wife and children agreed to this, though the girls were much more excited about the idea. They’d learn soon enough — ha, ha, ha!

The next few days went about like I thought they would. The official announcement was made on the deck of the USS Texas, an ancient battleship tied up to the dock in Houston. It was a fine choice for the event; the Bushes were popular in Texas and a World War II battleship made a great patriotic backdrop. George Bush made a wonderful speech extolling me to the heavens, and then I came trotting out through a hatch, smiling and waving to everybody. After that I invited Marilyn and the girls to come out, and they made the same trek, smiling and waving to everybody. Then I made a speech extolling the wonders of George Bush and ‘compassionate conservatism.’

Nobody actually understood what compassionate conservatism was, but it didn’t really matter. It was sort of like Humpty Dumpty in Alice in Wonderland, who said, “When I use a word it means just what I choose it to mean — neither more nor less.” (As Robert Heinlein once commented about what sovereignty meant, it was somewhere between sober and sozzled in the dictionary.) The curious part to me in the whole exercise was that I was giving a stump speech for somebody other than me. Up until now, I gave a speech about how wonderful I was, not somebody else.

Tuesday it was Marilyn’s turn. While she is very good talking to people one on one, and frequently talked to people after campaign appearances with me, or to reporters, she had never once given a speech or talked in public with a microphone and cameras. They rigged up an empty hall in the hotel with a podium and some lights and a camera, and Marilyn came out and gave a stump speech.

Like I told Karl Rove, I didn’t marry Marilyn because she gave a good speech. Marilyn’s career as a public speaker looked to be abysmally short. She never got the hang of memorizing a speech, and would simply read the words off the notes in front of her. Forget about the teleprompter, since she refused to wear her glasses or contacts. Her timing was terrible, and her speech pattern was either too fast or too slow. It was painful to watch, and got worse as the day went on. On her last run through she was crying.

On the plus side, Holly and Molly were naturals! They were gorgeous and outgoing, bubbly and cute, and could handle a five minute speech without batting an eye. They were judged to be a real advantage.

The best we could do was simply to keep Marilyn off of the podium. What they couldn’t understand was how warm and personable she was in person, just talking to people, and yet be so horrendous in front of an audience. How could she introduce me at the convention, in what was now a tradition? I settled it by suggesting that we combine her introduction with another tradition, the biographical film on me. She could do the voice-overs and talk about me in a personal sense, without having to memorize lines or stand in front of a crowd. They scribbled out some trial notes and sat Marilyn in an armchair and tried it, and that went well. Her speechwriters began some serious scribbling. We had found a job for Marilyn!

Wednesday they had her try this some more, and Marilyn worked out much better. She was fine as long as nobody slapped a mike and a camera in her face. By the end of the day, we had settled on how she would handle things. When we split apart to do our campaigning, I would take the girls to the Heartland and Marilyn would go with her bunch to Baltimore, where a bunch of writers would comb through our family photos and develop my biography.

As for me, I had to do some campaigning! Thursday night we would fly to Lexington Kentucky, where I would give a speech at a fundraiser. Friday we would board a bus and drive south into Tennessee, stopping every few hours to give a speech. I would have my daughters with me, and we could give them a shot at speaking. They thought this was incredibly exciting. I knew better, but I was just their father, so they didn’t have to listen to me. I simply smiled at that. They’d learn.

Chapter 128: Stormy Weather

Thursday, July 20, 2000

They learned, all right! By Thursday they were heartily bored and sick and tired of the whole thing. The first day or two had been interesting. Marilyn and I had never taken the kids to Kentucky or Tennessee, not even on vacations, so everything was new and interesting to them. We would roll into some little town, and the local Republican committee would have a stage set up somewhere, maybe the local school or the courthouse or veteran’s hall. The local organizer would introduce Holly and Molly, who would then do four or five minutes and introduce me. I would come out and hug my daughters, and then deliver a stump speech. Afterwards we would meet the local reporters, have a meal, and climb back on the bus. Two hours later we were someplace else.

During all of this I would be surrounded by ‘consultants’, who would basically plan everything I did, from the time I woke up, until the time I went to bed. There was a wardrobe consultant, so that I would be appropriately dressed. If I had to wear a suit, they would decide what color suit and shirt and tie; if I was in shirtsleeves, they would decide how far up the arm they would be unrolled. If they didn’t stay at the appropriate height up my arm, they would be more than happy to staple them into position. There was a speech consultant, to edit the stump speech as needed. There would be somebody to liaison with everybody locally. There were food consultants to tell me what I was eating and when. There was probably a bathroom consultant, to make sure I took Vice Presidential dumps at appropriate times.

You have to be real damn careful with consultants. Consultants are professional worriers. You can’t make a joke, since it might just offend somebody. You can’t say you are for something, or against something. You can’t give details lest they be turned against you. The best politicians know when to ignore the consultants and let the chips fall where they will. The worst campaigners ended up like Mitt Romney, afraid to say anything to anybody without it being run through a consultant, and ending up looking phony and plastic.

Do all this for twelve hours a day or more, and it gets real old, real fast. The twins learned not to eat very much at these things. By the end of the day I wasn’t sure where I even was, and I needed help to not fuck up by not knowing where I actually was and who I was speaking to. By Thursday the girls were making up mock versions of their speeches, and our chief handler caught them practicing them in front of some laughing reporters on the bus. As a VP candidate, I had national correspondents along with me, not so much to cover what I was saying, but in the hope I would manage to fuck up massively on camera. I was sent back to stifle my daughters, and it really burned his britches when I sat down with the reporters and laughed along with them. Afterwards I told him that as long as my daughters were poking fun at their dad, the reporters would laugh along. If they poked fun at the Governor, I’d clamp down on them. What a nitwit.

I figured I’d call Marilyn and get them sent home over the weekend. It would give them a break and she could use some feminine companionship for a bit. I probably wouldn’t see her again until the convention. At 2:00 we rolled into Springboro, Oklahoma, which was somewhere east of Shawnee, which was somewhere east of Oklahoma City. We had already been through Kentucky, Tennessee, Mississippi, and Arkansas. Friday and Saturday would see us into Nebraska and Kansas. By Sunday I would be doing mock speeches in the back of the bus myself!

Still, everything looked fairly average. It was warm, but not ridiculously so. The weather forecast was for a heavy thunderstorm in the afternoon, which is pretty normal. My speech was in the high school gymnasium, and even though it was the summer, they had the “Pride of Springboro” — the Springboro Okies basketball team and the Okie Cheerleading team — there to liven things up. Well, that was the plan, anyway. As we got off the bus and headed into the school, I commented to the girls that it looked like we were going to get a real thunderboomer, it was dark and getting darker, with clouds on the horizon, and that in these flat plains, they’d probably be able to see it coming from miles away.

We went inside and used a couple of empty first grade classrooms as makeshift dressing rooms before heading towards the school gym. Outside the sky kept getting darker, and the wind seemed to be picking up as well. Still, I’ve been in thunderstorms before, and as long as the power stayed up, nobody cared. We were directed to the gym, where a stage and backdrop were set up, and were moved to hide behind the backdrop. The local dignitaries were there, the mayor, the school principal, the town council, and the local Republican honchos. I would meet the various Congressmen and Senators at dinner that night in Oklahoma City.

After a few minutes, Holly and Molly made their way to the stage, amid a lot of cheering and applause. They did their speech and then called me out. I came out and gave them both a hug, and sent them off the stage. “Thank you! Thank you! I am so glad to be here! Now, let me ask you, are those girls great, or what!” There was some more cheering and applause, and the twins dutifully came back out with smiles on their faces, waved again, and departed. “It’s good to see the cheerleading squad here, since my girls are cheerleaders back at Hereford High. As for you fellows on the basketball team…” More raucous cheers “... basketball is a big deal in Oklahoma! … Sorry guys, they’re still a little young for you! I might let them start dating when they hit their thirties!” More laughter at that.

Suddenly the world’s loudest siren went off, seemingly right over my head! Everybody in the room started talking, and I looked over at the guy next to me, who happened to be the mayor. “Fire alarm?” I asked.

“Like hell! That’s a tornado siren, mister!” He grabbed the microphone from me and started giving orders. “Everybody, down to the crawlspace! We’ve got the time, but drop your stuff and get down to the crawlspace!” He kept exhorting people to move their butts, while the school principal and a few members of the basketball team started directing people.

One of the campaign guys yelled in my ear, “We should be leaving now!”

Just that moment I heard a big crash outside, probably from the wind picking something up and throwing it around. I grabbed my girls and yelled back, “Like hell! We’re going to the crawlspace!” Maybe the twit could go outside and check, and he could beat us to Nebraska, air express, so to speak. I pushed the girls in front of me towards the crowd heading down a flight of stairs. Suddenly the lights went out, but emergency lighting kicked in, and we found ourselves in a large and filthy concrete basement. The noise from outside the building reminded me of a freight train, and the ceiling above us was shaking and dust was raining down. I pushed the girls to the floor in a corner and lay on top of them. Then I felt somebody land on top of me, and I looked around to find the terrified face of Jerry McGuire, one of my traveling security guys. I was protecting the girls, but he was protecting me.

The freight train kept getting louder and louder, and there was a sound of screeching torn metal, and dirt was falling around us, probably decades’ old dust off the ceiling of the crawlspace. I should have been terrified, but I was too scared for that. I had my eyes closed to keep the dust from blinding me, and around me I could hear people crying and screaming. I don’t think I was one of them, but I know my daughters were. Eventually the freight train left, just vanished suddenly, and all we could hear were some sirens, regular sirens. The tornado siren was quiet, mercifully.

People started climbing to their feet, and helping others up. Somebody opened the door to the school, and light came in, and people began moving out of the crawlspace. Everybody was gawping at the sight. The roof was missing over part of the school, and that’s where the light was coming from. We kept moving out. All of us who had been in the crawlspace were filthy, and the twins had runnels of tears going down their faces. They had their arms around me. “It’s okay, it’s over,” I told them. “Let’s keep moving.”

The surprising part to me was that after the storm blew through, the weather outside was bright and sunny. The general direction of traffic was towards the outside, so we moved in that direction. For once the reporters were ignoring me. They had a real life calamity to play with! Outside it became really obvious that Springboro had been well and truly trashed! The tornado siren over the school had been toppled over and had crashed through the front end of the campaign bus. We were stuck in Springboro for the foreseeable future. Around us, the remains of several houses were laid flat. Off to one side a sudden fireball lit the sky, and a bunch of people began running that way, including the reporters.

Organization began to grow, however. The school gym and lunchroom were still viable and safe, and they would be a makeshift shelter. A volunteer fireman and the mayor were on a walkie-talkie sorting things out. Another local big shot called for volunteers to search some of the nearby homes. I turned the twins to face me. “You two need to stay here. I want you to go down to the gym and volunteer. People need help.”

Molly started crying. “NO! You have to stay here!”

“Molly! Molly! I have to go help! You two are safe here. You help out here, so I can help out there.”

“Daddy!”

“You have to help!”

I pushed them into the arms of their security guard, a young woman in her late twenties named Amanda Baines. She and Jerry were listed in the entourage as campaign staffers, not security. She hugged the girls and herded them towards the building. “Come on, let’s get cleaned up and help out.”

As soon as they were out of my hair, I turned to Jerry and said, “Come on, let’s go.” I ran up to the fireman, and asked, “Where do you need us?”

I don’t think he recognized me, and he just pointed at the next street over, which didn’t look as badly hit. “Check those places and see if anybody is trapped inside.” He turned away from me when somebody yelled that nobody was under one pile of rubble and they moved on to the next. I shrugged at Jerry and we went in the opposite direction. We went over a block and looked around. Looking down the street, it seemed that these houses ranged from just some loose siding and shutters to imminent collapse.

“Maybe we’ll get lucky and everybody was at the campaign rally,” I told Jerry. That had been the reason that the destroyed house had been abandoned a moment ago; people knew everybody in the small town of Springboro and the family was at the rally.

“Let’s hope so,” he replied.

People were coming out of their homes around us, and staring in amazement. At the house we were in front of, however, nobody was coming out. We wandered around to the back yard and yelled out, “ANYBODY HOME!” as loud as we could.

We were on the verge of leaving when Jerry said, “Did you hear that?”

“What?”

“From over there!” He led the way around the corner and there was some crying from what looked like a basement door, one of those things on a slant with some doors on top. Now I could hear the sounds, but no way were we going down to the basement. Part of the garage had collapsed onto it, and we weren’t going in that way without a chainsaw and a crane. “ANYBODY DOWN THERE?”

“SAVE MY CHILDREN!” came out weakly.

I looked at the house and then at Jerry. “Oh, shit!”

“Mister Buckman, this place is going to come down any moment!”

“Then we’d better move quick.” The place looked like a fairly traditional center hall colonial two story. I ran back around to the back and scrambled up onto the remains of the back porch. It didn’t collapse under my weight, so Jerry joined me and we managed to pry the back door open. Inside it was dark, and everything looked like it had been knocked off every shelf and out of every closet. I ducked my head and slowly went inside, stepping softly.

“Oh, this is a bad idea!” I heard behind me. Then there was a loud creak as Jerry put his weight on the floor.

I turned and said, “Hold it!” I heard some voices ahead of me and to one side. “Wait for me. Give me a moment.” I kept moving forward through the kitchen, as the building creaked around me, and got closer to the voices. They were from a door to the cellar, just off the hallway, which looked sprung. I got down on my belly and stuck my head through the opening. “Anybody down there!”

“HELP! WE’RE TRAPPED! YOU HAVE TO GET MY BABIES!”

“Oh, shit!” I muttered to myself. “WE’RE COMING!” I yelled down the stairs. I began tugging on the door, and opened it enough to be able to slide through. I turned back to Jerry. “I’m going down into the basement. You can probably make it over to here.”

“I’m coming with you!”

“No way! I’ll send the family up. You have to get them outside!” I wriggled my way through the cellar door, and wedged my back against it, pushing it even further open. The door shrieked at the abuse, but I got it to the point somebody could come back up. “I’m going down now!”

There were a couple of windows in the basement, so I had some light. It looked to be about eight foot deep. I was halfway down the stairs when there was a loud crash and I went tumbling into the basement. When I climbed to my feet, the stairs had detached from the wall and collapsed under me. Jerry’s head was at the top, at the door. “You all right!?”

“Just peachy! You stay there. I’ll send people up.”

“How many?” he asked.

Good question! “I don’t know yet!” I went towards where I heard some voices crying and found the problem. A rack of canned goods had fallen across a doorway into their little emergency shelter. I pushed the rack out of the way and was able to easily open the door. “I’m coming in!” I called out.

I was greeted with a scene from a bad movie. Two little children were there, along with their very pregnant mother. She was bleeding badly from a cut on her right calf. Over in the corner a dog was nursing some puppies. All I needed to make this a disaster-of-the-week film was the requisite escaped convict and a nun.

Mom was crying for me to get her kids out, but she was in bad shape. I tried applying pressure to her cut, but it wasn’t helping. Meanwhile Jerry kept yelling for me to tell him what was happening, and I couldn’t answer. I looked around wildly and found a roll of cotton clothesline. I had no choice. I fashioned a tourniquet just below her knee, using a piece of scrap lumber to twist it. Thankfully she had passed out by that point, so I managed to get her up into my arms and carry her towards the steps. The little kids were trailing along with a flashlight.

“Where the hell have you been!?” he demanded.

“Sightseeing! Listen, she’s hurt bad. You need to drag her outside and get her some help!”

“Oh, crap! Lift her up here!”

I managed to pull over a couple of crates I could step on, and then lifted the young mother up as high as I could. It wasn’t enough. I just didn’t have the strength to lift her over my head and to where Jerry could grab her. I set her back down and ran back for the clothesline. I tossed it up to him, and he let down enough for me to tie it under her arms. Then, with him pulling and me lifting, we got her out. “I’ll be back!” he yelled. Above us the floor creaked ominously, and I grabbed the kids and ran back the other way.

They were little kids. The boy looked about five or six, his sister about three or four. “Who are you?” he asked.

“My name is Carl. What’s yours?”

“I’m Billy. That’s Molly. She doesn’t talk to strangers,” he answered.

“That’s cool. I have a little girl named Molly, too. When we get out of here, I’ll introduce you to her.”

“Is Mommy going to be all right?” he asked. Molly just looked at me with the widest blue eyes I had ever seen. They were both blond and blue-eyed.

“Oh, sure! You bet! She’s going to be fine! We’ll see her as soon as we’re out of here.”

Just then the dogs moved around some, and one of the puppies came over and sniffed at me. “You have to save the puppies!” cried Molly. It was the first thing she had said. “We have to save the puppies!” she insisted.

“I promise! How many are there?”

“Four. There’s three boys and a girl,” said Billy. “Maggie’s the mom.”

I looked over at Maggie, who was nursing the pups. She was a big shaggy dog with strains of golden retriever in her. This was going from bad to worse. “We’ll save everybody!” I said. I just hoped somebody would save me!

“Do you like puppies? Dad says we can’t keep them all. Would you like a puppy?” he asked.

This kid was going to be a salesman someday! I bit off the idiot reply I wanted to make. I just had to say something to keep these kids calm and under control. “I love puppies! I’d like the girl puppy.”

Just then, I heard a voice at the top of the stairs and I went back, followed by the kids. Jerry was back at the top, and had thrown down the rope again. “Come on! Let’s get going before this whole place collapses!”

I tied a bowline around Molly and we got her out fast, and then Billy went up. Outside I could hear Molly crying for the puppies. Jerry yelled down, “Come on, get up here!”

“In a minute!” I ran back and found a couple of big plastic trash bags. I scooped up a couple of pups and tossed them inside and then ran back down to the stairs. “Here! Take this!” I tied the clothesline to the bag and he pulled it up.

The bag was squirming and he yelled down, “HAVE YOU LOST YOUR FUCKING MIND!?”

“Yes! There’s more coming!” I ran back and corralled the last two pups into the other bag, and went back. This time I was followed by their mother, Maggie, who did not look overly amused. The last two pups went up. A minute later, Jerry was back, and I tied the rope to Maggie’s harness. Thank God she didn’t have a collar! She went up. “That’s it! Get the dog out and come and get me out of here!” I told him.

I heard the floor creaking as Maggie was dragged barking from her house. Jerry was cursing the mutt, but managed to get her outside. By now I could hear sirens around the house, so somebody must have figured out where the fun action in town was. Then I didn’t care anymore. The creaking became a crashing, I dove for the floor, and everything went dark. I screamed from something ripping into my chest and left arm. It got quiet at that point.

I saw what happened on the news later. One of the reporters, with a cameraman lugging around his equipment, missed the mad rush to the explosion on the other side of town, and caught the tail end of Jerry and me heading to the other street. They caught Jerry crawling into the house after me, and started filming, and then others started gathering. By the time Jerry got the mother out, somebody had called an ambulance. When word hit that Congressman Buckman was involved, all the reporters left the scene of the fire. They were there by the time the kids started coming out. It was decided that the place was too dangerous for more than one person, so Jerry would go back in and hand off the kids and dogs to one of the people outside. After Jerry got the dogs out and was on the verge of coming back for me, the house shifted and partially collapsed a second time. That was when something fell on me and knocked me out. After a couple of minutes, things settled down and a bunch of guys were able to pull me out of the rubble. I came to as I was being pulled out.

The sunlight outside looked pretty good to me. I hurt all over, so that was probably a good sign as well. A paramedic type was trying to work on me, so I grabbed him with my right hand. My left arm didn’t seem to be working so well. “The woman, is she alright?” I asked. I hadn’t wanted to use a tourniquet, but I didn’t have a choice. You can do more harm than good if you fuck it up!

“Settle down, Congressman.”

“The woman, did she make it!?” I demanded, a little more strongly.

“Yeah, she’s fine. She’s on her way to Shawnee. You’re going next,” he told me. “Now, calm down.”

I sagged back a little at that. Maybe I hadn’t cost her a leg. “The kids.”

“The kids are just fine. And the dogs, too. That was stupid, Congressman!” he told me.

I couldn’t argue with him. Just then I heard a screaming rampage and the words, “DADDY! DADDY!” Holly and Molly came busting into the circle around me.

I grinned at them and gave them a thumbs-up sign with my right hand, and that got a lot of applause and cheering around me. A cop was keeping them back, but they outflanked him and ran to the gurney I was being lifted on. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”

The final part of the entire mess was when a little blond haired boy managed to sneak through the entire group and made his way past the cop to the gurney. “Hey, Mister! You want your puppy?”

I twisted my head enough to see that Billy had a squirming brown fuzzball in his arms. “Oh, my sweet suffering Jesus!” I muttered to myself.

Holly and Molly stared at me and then at little Billy and the puppy. “Daddy?!”

I laughed, and that hurt. “Holly, take care of those two kids. Molly, take care of my puppy!”

Holly wanted to argue, and Molly just stared in confusion. “We’re going with you.”

“No room!” replied the ambulance guys.

“Take care of the kids!” I ordered her. Then something went into my arm and things began getting fuzzy. “Take care of the kids…” Things got dark and quiet again.

When I woke up I had that hospital room feeling. It was bright and white and out of the corner of my eye I could see a window. I tried to twist my head around a bit, but that hurt and I groaned a touch. Then I heard something rustling and I kept twisting around, and saw a pretty nice sight. Marilyn was in a cheap armchair near my bed and was stirring alive, sitting up slowly and rubbing her eyes. She saw me and smiled. “We have to stop meeting like this!”

I smiled and laughed, but that hurt, and I said, “Oh, don’t get funny. Where am I?”

“You’re in Shawnee, Oklahoma, in the hospital. How are you feeling?” Marilyn stood up and came over to me. “Oh, God, why do you have to keep scaring me like this!?” She bent down and kissed me quickly.

I groaned a touch. “Even that hurt!” I said, smiling. “How are the girls?”

“They’re fine. They’re back in Springboro, taking care of the kids you rescued.”

“Huh?” What was she talking about? “What’s going on? How’d you get here, anyway?”

“What, do you have amnesia or something?”

I gave her a perplexed look. “No. The last thing I remember was being dragged out of the basement of that house and talking to the ambulance guy and the girls. Then he stuck a needle in me and here I am. What happened? What day is it?”

“It’s Friday. It’s only been a day. You’re national news, Carl!”

“Huh?”

“Some of the reporters managed to get a satellite feed going while you were in that basement. They reported live on your rescuing the Torquists. They even cut into the afternoon soaps and Oprah. I watched them drag you out of that house!” she told me.

“Who are the Torquists? Was that their name? We weren’t really introduced.”

“No kidding. That’s the family’s name. Andrea called me when they pulled you out all covered in blood, and she told me the Gulfstream was being fueled up and to get my butt out here. I landed last night, while you were in surgery.”

“Huh! Are they all right? The Torquists, I mean. And why are the girls there? And can I get some water?”

Marilyn smiled down at me. “You bet, hero.” She poured some water in a glass and held the flex-straw to my lips. I sucked it dry. “Yes, everybody is fine, everybody except you. And Mrs. Torquist. She’s in intensive care right now, and she had her baby last night.”

“Oh, Christ!” That would have been all I needed! “So, what’s with Holly and Molly?”

“Don’t you remember? The last thing you said to them before being loaded into the ambulance? You ordered them to take care of the kids. They said you kept repeating it, that and something about a puppy. Did you get a new puppy, Carl?” she asked, grinning.

It started coming back to me, the idiot promise to the little kids in the basement and the scene around the ambulance. I groaned and mumbled, “Oh, Christ!” again. I looked over at her. “Did I?” She grinned and nodded. “Oh, Christ! So the girls are still there? Why?”

“They were saying something about you giving them your final orders, your dying orders. Molly was being very melodramatic about it all. They’re fine. Mrs. Torquist’s sister lives nearby and she took the kids and the dogs and the twins in. I went over there last night after they started working on you and calmed them down, but they insisted on staying there.”

“Where’s their father?”

“He’s a long haul trucker. They tracked him down in California. I sent the plane to bring him home. He’ll be here this afternoon.”

“You’d better call them and tell them I made it after all. Good Lord! My dying orders!? You’re kidding me, right?” I rolled my eyes. “So, you flew here from home, saw me here, drove to Springboro, saw the girls, and then came back? Did you get any sleep? What are you, Superwoman?”

“Able to leap tall husbands in a single bound!”

Marilyn opened her purse to pull out a cell phone, and a nurse came into the room. “Congressman! You’re awake!”

I nodded, which hurt, and asked, “What happened to me?” From what I could see, most of my left arm was bandaged, and I could feel some pain in my chest and some constriction there, and what felt like a bandage on the left side of my head.

“I’ll get the doctor!” She scurried out of the room.

I glanced over at my wife, who was talking into her phone. “… he’s fine. He’s wide awake and chasing a nurse out of the room. Here, you can talk to him.” She handed me the phone. “They’re your daughters!”

That’s never a good sign. I took the phone and held it to my ear, all of which hurt. “Who’s there?”

“DADDY!” screamed Holly. Then I heard her yelling to somebody in the background. “IT’S DAD!”

“Hi, I’m just fine. Now, you two are relieved of duty! Let those poor people have some rest and I’ll see you later today.” I felt suddenly tired, and Marilyn took the phone from me.

She smiled at me and said into the phone, “Now, will you two calm down!? I’ll be there sometime around lunch and rescue the people you are staying with.” I heard the ‘That’s not funny!’ from where I lay in the bed. My wife hung up on the girls and turned back to me. “How old were you when your family kicked you out?”

“We still have a few weeks to go before they’re that old.”

“Feeling better?”

“Water, please.”

Marilyn got me some more water and then the nurse returned with another woman, about the same age, but with a more serious look about her. She smiled as she saw that I was awake and alert. “Congressman Buckman, I’m Doctor Elizabeth Shooster. How are you feeling?”

I gave her a wry smile. “I think you’re supposed to be telling me that, Doc. What happened to me?”

She looked at Marilyn. “Is he always like this?” she asked, smiling.

“No, usually he’s much, much worse.”

I shrugged, but that hurt. “How about, I hurt all over?”

“That’s to be expected, but it will pass. All right, here’s what happened to you. When the building collapsed, something jagged — probably a wooden floor joist — clipped you on the side of your head, and then kept moving down, and buried itself in your left pectoral muscle and…” She stopped when she saw I had no idea what she was talking about. “It dug in here and here…” she explained, tracing a few areas on her own chest, “… and also dug into your upper left arm.” She tapped her own arm in emphasis. “While that was happening you also cracked a couple of ribs on the left side. They’re not broken, though. You also lost a lot of blood. So, when you came in we pumped some blood into you and removed the wood and splinters, and sewed you back together and taped your ribs.”

“Now what?”

She shrugged and smiled. “Now you get better. We have you on lots of antibiotics and some painkillers. You’ll be here a few days and then we can send you home. You’ll be wrapped up for a few weeks, but you’re in excellent shape. Three months from now and you’ll just have a few more scars to talk about.” She sounded like she was finished, but she didn’t leave, and she looked like she wanted to ask a question.

That was interrupted when Marilyn’s cell phone rang. Her eyes opened wide when she saw the name pop up on the little screen. She flipped it open and said, “Governor?” After a few minutes chatting, she gave the phone to me. “It’s Governor Bush.”

I wasn’t surprised. “Carl, how are you feeling? I hear you’re out of surgery and awake.”

“I’m just fine, Governor. It was nice of you to call. Thank you.”

“Listen, I’ll be flying in later. I’m at a fundraiser in Denver right now. We can talk and make a few plans, do a press conference, that sort of thing.”

“Of course, sir. I look forward to it.”

“Well, you get better! That was a hell of a thing you just did, I want you to know that! A hell of a thing!”

“Thank you.” The phone clicked and I flipped it shut. Marilyn took it back. I looked at the others. “George Bush is coming in. We’re going to do a press conference.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Congressman. There are reporters camped out all over the hospital trying to get in here. The Governor, of Oklahoma I mean, he ordered up the State Police to keep order! Everybody wants to see you and to talk to the doctors and everybody! It’s crazy out there!” said Doctor Shooster.

“And now George Bush is coming?” added Marilyn. “What’s he trying to do?”

I smiled at my wife. She could be a bit naïve at times. “He is going to bask in the sunlight of my reflected glory, or something like that. Politics 101, hun. Everything that is good happens because George Bush is wise and good; everything that is bad happens because Al Gore is wicked and evil. You ought to know that. By the time George gets through with this, Springboro will rename itself Bushville, since he was wise enough to send me to save the town from the tornado that Al Gore caused.”

“You weren’t this cynical when I married you,” she told me.

“I was just hiding it well.” I turned to the doctor. “Okay, how about you and me and your hospital’s communications director write up a press release. We can do a press conference tomorrow.”

“I’ll ask him about that. I’ll come back around lunchtime.”

“I need to find your daughters. What do I say when the reporters ask me in the lobby?” asked Marilyn.

“Just say that I am awake and feeling much better and we’ll be issuing a release later on.”

“Oh, by the way, I talked to both Tusker and Tessa and Marty and your sister while you were out but you need to call them as well.” Marilyn gave me a quick kiss, and then I closed my eyes and went back to sleep.

I woke up again around noon, when Marilyn returned with our daughters, who were carrying a large cardboard box. They both came in, shrieking happily, and set the box down on the end of the bed, where it began moving. I looked over at their mother. “Don’t tell me, that’s not…”

“Oh, yes it is!” She peeled back the lid and a gigantic fuzzy brown head popped up.

The girls picked the pup out of the box and set her down on my chest. “We named her Stormy!” announced Holly.

“Yeah, after the storm,” added her sister.

I bit off a smartass reply, and simply warned, “If this thing pees on me…”

Stormy didn’t pee on me, but she did crawl forward and begin licking my face. How do you say no to a puppy licking your face? I reached up with my good hand and began to rub her fur, and she began licking my hand. This thing had an inexhaustible supply of saliva. She moved back to licking my face and I wiped my hand on the bedsheets.

Doctor Shooster came in at that point, followed by a corporate type and a nurse with some food, and gave a pro forma protest at seeing a dog in the hospital. This sort of abated when she put her hand on the critter and was licked. We sent them out of the room, with orders to find a leash and a collar. I wolfed down my Jell-O and juice while we crafted a press release. It didn’t say much, other than that I was alive and awake, in good health. It was expected that I would survive and be released in a few days, and that we hoped to have a press conference tomorrow. The communications director added a section where I was thanking the hospital for the excellent treatment I was receiving. I thanked him, somewhat dryly, for rectifying my oversight. Then we sent him off, Doctor Shooster was sent home to get some rest, and I went back to napping.

I woke up again a few hours later, when Marilyn came back in with the girls, sans puppy. “Hey, where’d you get the clean clothes?” I asked them.

“The bus was trashed, but we could get into the luggage compartment. We got all of our suitcases and yours,” explained Molly.

“We left Stormy in the motel. She’ll be okay until we get her home,” added her sister.

“Carl, feeling up for some visitors?” asked Marilyn. She nodded her head towards the door.

“Company coming to call?” I asked. She nodded without saying anything. “Do I look okay?”

“No, you look like a house fell on you.” She went to the door and opened it.

Governor Bush came bouncing in, followed by a few members of his entourage. He had with him a photographer, who took several pictures of the Governor shaking my hand and looking solicitously at me, like the Governor was there and getting prepped to perform surgery on me. We talked briefly and he was curious about why we couldn’t do the press conference today instead of tomorrow.

A black nurse came in as he was asking that question and told everybody to get out, and she answered the Governor by stating, “He can’t have a press conference today because all his stitches will come out and he’ll bleed to death. Now, everybody out! I have to change some bandages!” She was an intimidating woman, and everybody skedaddled, except for Marilyn.

I smiled at the nurse. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure. Besides, I’m a Democrat. Maybe I can make it hurt.”

I laughed at that, and that hurt enough. The bandages didn’t take long, but then she and Marilyn gave me a sponge bath. I was going to need something a lot more serious before I could do a press conference. The nurse said she would remove my catheter tonight, and give me a chance to move around some, and if I was reacting well, they’d cover my bandages tomorrow and give me a chance in a sit-down shower and see if I could get a shave. By the time they were done, the Governor and his crew were gone.

By that evening Marilyn was sleeping in the armchair, and she snoozed through my dinner of broth, green salad with no dressing, Jell-O, and decaf green tea. At this rate I was going to ask to be put back into the basement. When my wife woke up, I kissed her good-bye and sent her to the motel to spend the night with the girls. After that, a nurse pulled my catheter and helped me to my feet, to let me walk around a bit and work my muscles. An Oklahoma State Trooper was stationed outside my door, so it would be an enterprising snoop who could disturb my sleep.

I woke up the next morning feeling better, much better! The general achiness was gone, although I had a general throbbing in my left arm and chest, and some sharp pains in my ribs when I moved around. Marilyn and the twins came over while I was eating my Corn Flakes with skim milk and drinking my OJ. I wasn’t sure when I was getting out of here, but the first stop was going to be a McDonalds! After breakfast I returned some calls to my friends and family, assuring them I was still alive, and then Doctor Shooster came in, checked me over, and gave me a clean bill of health. She cleared me for a bath and a shave prior to the press conference. A nurse, Pat Richards, was promised to assist me.

Pat Richards turned out to be a guy. He saw the surprise on my face and grinned. “Not what you had in mind for a shower with a nurse?”

“Not hardly! Do me a favor and don’t tell my wife.”

He gave me an evil grin. “I’ll do worse! I’ll tell a reporter!” That elicited a groan from me and I surrendered. He laughed and scrounged up some plastic wrap and covered my bandages, and then wheeled me to a handicap accessible shower. I sat on a special seat and he helped me as I cleaned up one handed, and afterwards slapped some shaving gel on my face and gave me a disposable razor. I was almost feeling human by the time we got back to the room.

Back in the room I discovered that Charlie had called while I was in the shower. The news and footage of the rescue had been shown on his ship, and it had taken him almost two days to manage a phone call. He promised to try and call again over the weekend, and then told his mother to tell me that I was too old for this kind of behavior and I needed to start behaving myself. I told her he was right! She was laughing pretty good at that.

Richards changed all my bandages when we got back to the room, which fascinated my daughters and grossed out my wife. A fair bit of the swelling had been reduced and the seepage around the stitches was almost ended. They were able to reduce the bandages on the side of my head to a few butterflies. My daughters were sent out to play in traffic while I got dressed. My briefs and slacks were easy enough, but a shirt was very tricky. My left arm was strapped against my chest, keeping movement down, but preventing me from putting on a shirt. It was decided to get the shirt on and then put my arm in a sling tied around me, but we had a hard time getting a shirt on over the bandages. Marilyn came up with the idea of just cutting the left sleeve off, since the sling would hide the missing sleeve. That worked out pretty well.

The press conference was scheduled for noon, and if I behaved myself, I could escape sometime after that. It was an impressive offer, so I decided to behave myself. Unsurprisingly, Governor Bush showed up, but I was surprised when Frank Keating, the Governor of Oklahoma also appeared, along with Don Nickles, one of the two Republican Senators, and half the Oklahoma Congressional Caucus, Steve Largent, J.C. Watts, and Frank Lucas. “Hey, guys, thanks for coming. I really appreciate it. It means a lot,” I told them. I shook hands with all of them. They formed an honor guard of sorts as Marilyn and the girls walked me down to the press conference. I asked Don, who I had worked with on D2A, “If you guys are here, who the hell is running things back in Washington?”

“Nobody. You ought to know that by now, Carl!”

George Bush managed to ‘help’ me into the room where the press conference was being held. The others led the applause as I appeared. Thankfully he allowed my family to sit down next to me. Instead, he and the other dignitaries formed a phalanx behind me. Everybody wanted a piece of the Carl Buckman phenomenon. Of course, if I screwed this up, they would be the first to throw me to the wolves!

I was seated on the right hand side of a dais, really a long conference table covered with a table cloth and a skirt with the hospital’s logo hiding the front, with several microphones on it. One was in front of me. Marilyn was on my left and the girls on my right. Next to Marilyn was Dr. Shooster. Beyond her was another woman in her late 30s or early 40s, and she smiled and waved at the twins as we came in, and they waved back. Most ominously, on the floor next to our chairs was a big cardboard box that was moving on its own. I whispered to my wife, “Is that what I think it is?”

She gave me a big grin. “Oh, you know it!”

“Yeah, well I sure hope somebody has a copy of a newspaper around here!”

Marilyn’s eyes popped open at that, and I noticed one of George Bush’s aides off to the side. I motioned to him and caught his eye, and made the ‘Who? Me?’ face. I nodded and beckoned him over. When he came over and leaned down, I whispered, “We’re going to need a newspaper!”

“What? Why?”

“Because there’s a puppy in that box and it isn’t house broken yet. You better find a newspaper. A copy of the New York Times would be perfect!”

Sudden understanding came to him, along with a big grin, and he took off out a side door. George Bush gave me a curious look which I silently smiled at and gave him a hidden ‘OK’ sign with my good hand.

Once we were all in place, Dr. Shooster looked out into the crowd and asked, “Are we all ready?”

Most everyone was, but one of the TV guys yelled something about a bad feed. We waited a few more minutes for him to fiddle with something, and then he yelled out, “Try it again!”

“Try what again? I’ve never done this before,” commented the doctor.

“Got it!”

She looked at me in confusion and I covered the mike with my hand and said, “We’re fine. You’re doing fine. You can start now.”

She nodded and I sat back as she started. Around us some flashes started up, and the camera lights were blinding. “Hello. Thank you all for coming. My name is Doctor Elizabeth Shooster and I am the attending surgeon for Congressman Carl Buckman. I was also consulted on the treatment for Mrs. Sylvie Torquist. Congressman Buckman and Mrs. Torquist were the only victims of the tornado that hit Springboro two days ago who were treated here, and as far as I understand it, the only two victims who received more than cuts and scratches. I think we can all be thankful that the level of injuries was so light.”

That seemed pretty good for the destruction I saw in Springboro. Doctor Shooster kept going. “With me up here is Congressman Buckman and his wife Marilyn and his daughters…” She looked down at an index card before continuing, “… Holly and Molly. On my other side is Mrs. Anna Simpson, the sister of Mrs. Torquist, who will be able to speak for the Torquist family.” Mrs. Simpson flashed a big smile and waved at everyone. She was a blonde like her sister, though older and more heavy set.

“I asked if the Springboro police or fire department wanted to contribute to this press conference, but they indicated that they were too involved with operations in Springboro to send somebody to attend. However, they did wish to thank the Congressman, and said that he had as good a view of what happened as anybody, and that he could speak for them.”

Thanks for the vote of confidence, guys. Now watch me step on my crank! The doctor wasn’t finished however. “As a doctor, I will be speaking to the medical condition of the two patients.” She bent over and picked up a medical dummy, upper half only, and set it on the conference table. “Congressman Buckman was injured when the Torquist home collapsed on him after he rescued the Torquist family. At that time he received a mild concussion and some abrasions to the left side of his head. There was also penetrating trauma from wood splinters to the left side of his chest and upper arm, along with two cracked ribs.” As she mentioned each injury, she pointed it out on the dummy. “While Congressman Buckman’s injuries were significant, they were not life threatening, and the Congressman has responded very well to surgery and treatment. I anticipate releasing the Congressman from our care either later today or early tomorrow.”

I smiled at Marilyn. It couldn’t be any too soon for me.

“Mrs. Torquist’s injuries were considerably more severe, and were complicated by the fact that she was pregnant. I have received permission from the Torquists to provide relevant information. Before the Congressman was able to reach Mrs. Torquist, she had been injured by some falling shelves in her storm cellar, which gave her an extremely deep cut on the back of her right calf, penetrating and partially severing her posterior tibial artery.” She now pulled out a dummy leg. “Congressman Buckman was able to fashion a tourniquet and remove Mrs. Torquist from the basement, where she was transported here. Further medical treatment required that we perform an emergency Caesarian section here, and then we transported Mrs. Torquist to Oklahoma University Hospital in Oklahoma City for vascular surgery to repair the arterial damage to her leg. While I am not a vascular surgeon, the doctors I spoke to at O.U. expected that Mrs. Torquist would fully recover and come home again in a relatively short time. In addition, while the delivery of their baby wasn’t planned, the birth was only about a week early and the baby is in good health. For more on the Torquist family, you will need to speak to Mrs. Simpson here, as the family spokesperson. Now, I’m going to sit down and let the others here speak.”

And pandemonium ensued!

Everybody began speaking at once, and both the doctor and Mrs. Simpson seemed stunned by it. Finally I stood up and motioned people to silence with my good hand, and then said into the mike, “Okay, one question at a time, just like when we were all back in the first grade!” That got me a few laughs, so I sat down and pointed at somebody in the first row. “You first.”

“Congressman, why did you go into the basement? Why didn’t you wait for trained rescue people?”

“There wasn’t enough time,” I answered. “When we were yelling to see if anybody was in there, we were told to save her children. That put a whole different light on things. We had to go in, right then. By the way, my job was the easy one. All I did was hang around in the storm cellar. The guy we really ought to be thanking is one of my staff, Jerry McGuire. He’s the guy who kept going in and out of the house to bring out the Torquists.” I looked around but didn’t see Jerry. The rat must have ducked out when he heard me mention him.

Another reporter popped up. “Why didn’t you rescue the children first?”

“Because Mrs. Torquist’s injuries were pretty bad. I’m no doctor, but she was losing blood pretty fast. The children were uninjured. I simply did the best that I could at the time.”

Doctor Shooster broke in at this point. “The Congressman is correct in this. Mrs. Torquist lost an awful lot of blood before he got the tourniquet on her. If he had waited even a few minutes while rescuing the children, both Mrs. Torquist and her unborn baby would have died. As it was, she needed massive transfusions both during the ambulance ride and here.”

Huh! I had no idea!

Another question came in, this one really dumb! “Congressman Buckman, weren’t you frightened to go into a house on the verge of collapsing?”

“Of course I was, but you can’t let that stop you. All I knew was that there were people trapped, at least a woman and some children. Once I was inside, I was much more scared of messing up the tourniquet than anything else. Like I said, I’m no doctor, but I do know you can screw that sort of thing up and really hurt somebody!” I looked over at both the doctor and Mrs. Simpson. “She’s going to be all right?”

“She’ll be fine,” assured Doctor Shooster.

Mrs. Simpson got into the act, which was fine for me. “I talked to Tom this morning. Sylvie is doing fine. The surgeons think the damage is fully repaired, and that she can come home in another week to ten days. She’s a tough girl. She and Tom said to make sure I thanked you for saving her life. Oh, and I wanted to say that your daughters are simply darling girls. The kids loved them.”

Holly and Molly lit up at that, and the conversation turned on them. Another reporter asked, “How did you meet the Congressman’s daughters?”

“They stayed with us last night. Mrs. Buckman came over last night and checked on them, but it seems they had orders from their father to take care of the children.” She turned to us and asked, “What was that about, anyway?”

I rolled my eyes at that and Molly answered, “Oh, Dad told us to take care of them right before he went to the hospital. We figured it was his last request, you know?”

I must have slapped my head and looked to the heavens at that, but there was some laughter around the room. I looked over at that and said, “Sorry about that. I heard about my ‘dying orders’ the other day. I appreciate your taking care of them.”

She waved it off. “Everything was fine. Ever since my boys moved out we had the room, and they were good with the kids and the dogs.”

A reporter asked, “Did you really think your father was dying?”

Holly looked over at her sister, who nudged her and whispered something, and then Holly turned and said, ‘Well, maybe, I don’t know… it’s just…" She looked at the rest of us for a second and continued. "All my life — all our lives — we’ve heard how Dad is so brave and a hero and all, and to us he’s always been just… Dad, you know? And then during the tornado, when we were down in that basement, we were down on the floor and he was on top of us, like nothing could get to us without it going through him first. Then, afterwards, all I wanted to do was run away and hide, and he said no, that we had to help people. And now this… it’s just… I — we — suddenly realized that Dad is always about helping other people, not himself. Nothing is ever about Dad. And he told us to help Billy and Molly, so that’s what we were going to do, no matter what." She gave a wry shrug at that.

I didn’t know what to say. I looked over at Marilyn and she was smiling but her eyes were glistening. Great!

“Mrs. Buckman, when did you learn about your husband rescuing this family?” was yelled out.

Mariyn’s eyes opened when she realized a question for her. I passed her the microphone and she answered, “Probably like everybody else did. I had a day off from the campaign and I was watching television when they interrupted the show, and I could watch him being pulled out of that basement.”

“How did you feel?”

“Scared, mostly, but then when the story came out, I felt proud. It was like what Holly just said. I’ve known Carl since we were in college. He’s not about himself, he’s always about helping others. I married a hero.” The politicians behind me began applauding at that.

Meanwhile, this was all going out live. Needless to say, the next question was about the dogs. I glanced over and saw the aide on the side, who was smiling. I motioned him over and he ducked down and ran over. I took the newspaper, a day old copy of the New York Times, and I whispered, “Stick around.” He nodded.

The inevitable question came up. “Congressman, did you really adopt a puppy during the rescue?”

I laughed at that. “I had to! I promised the kids I would save them and I’d hate to break a campaign promise!” I turned to look at Governor Bush. “Governor, we keep our promises, don’t we?!”

He smiled back and yelled out, “Absolutely!”

At that point I turned back to his assistant and said quietly, “Let’s have that box.” He lifted the box up to the conference table, where it moved a bit. “Let me introduce the newest member of the Buckman family. My daughters named her Stormy!” I popped the lid off the box and the pup dutifully stuck her head out and looked around. I awkwardly reached in with my good hand and lifted her up, and she licked my face. The room erupted in applause and cheering.

I had a funny feeling something was about to happen, so I told the assistant, “Leave me the cover section, but spread out that paper back here.” His eyes widened a bit, but he smiled and tossed the cover section on the table. I turned back to the group and said, “Excuse us, but this little girl is still a puppy. I think we need to set her down.” The fellow picked up Stormy and set her down on the newspaper, and she dutifully squatted and peed about ten gallons out. I made a wry look at the audience, and nodded to them. More than a few of the politicians looked horrified, but nobody could see from the audience. When she was finished, she looked around and tried to wander off, but the assistant grabbed her and put her up on the table. She came over and licked my face again.

Only one thing to do! I picked up the front page of the New York Times, probably the most liberal newspaper in the country. I held it so that everyone could see the cover. I leaned into the microphone and said, “Stormy prefers the New York Times because it’s extra fluffy and absorbent. The New York Times — Stormy tested, Stormy approved!”

The laughter was pretty deafening at that, and we needed to bring this to an end. I pushed the pup down the table to the girls and stood up, picking up a microphone. “I think it’s time to let some people go home. I’d like to apologize to the people of Springboro that I wasn’t able to meet more of them the other day before we were so rudely interrupted. Here’s two more campaign promises. First, the people behind me, your Governor and Senators and Congressmen, are going to bust their butts to help get Springboro back on its feet, and your next President, President George W. Bush, will be helping make that happen.” I looked back and saw the people behind me were all loudly agreeing to this. I turned back and continued, “Secondly, I am going to be recuperating for a few more days, and then I’ll be at the convention in Philadelphia. However, my first stop after that will be in Springboro, and I’ll see what I can do to help them myself!”

Chapter 129: Home Again, Home Again

With that we shut off the mikes and despite the reporters still calling out questions, we all started moving out. Behind me at my feet was the soiled newspaper. Great! I dropped to one knee, to try and roll it up one handed, when the young assistant dropped down next to me and said, “I’ll get that, Congressman.” He already had a small trash can ready. I steadied the trash can for him and he rolled it up and stuffed it inside. “We’re out this way, Congressman.”

I looked around and saw that the twins had already bundled up the mutt, and were following their mother out the door we were heading towards. “What’s your name?” I asked him. He was about 24 or 25.

“Frank Stouffer, Congressman.”

“And what do you do in this traveling circus?”

“Mr. Rove has me assigned to the Governor.”

I nodded and was about to speak further when Doctor Shooster tapped me on the right shoulder. “Congressman, you can’t leave yet. I need to check you out first.”

I grumbled at that, but was much more polite when Anna Simpson came up and shook my hand and kissed my cheek. “Thank you so much, Congressman! I know Tom and Sylvie want to thank you. Maybe when you come back you can meet them. You are coming back, aren’t you?”

I smiled. “I just said it on national television. I don’t think I can back out now. If she’s not out of the hospital by then, I’ll look her up, for sure.”

“Thank you.” She kissed my cheek again and then looked over at the twins. “You did real good with those girls.” Then she was gone.

I said good-bye to the other politicians. They were planning on an inspection tour of Springboro, to ‘assist.’ God help Springboro! Before they left, I asked George Bush, “What’s that kid of yours, Frank, do for you?”

He gave a shrug. “He’s one of Karl’s boys. Why?”

“Can I have him? He seems smart.”

“Why? What do you need him for?”

“I need a dog-robber,” I told him.

He glanced at Frank and pointed at me. “Stick with the Congressman. You belong to him now.”

Stouffer looked surprised with that but rolled with the flow. “Uh, okay.” He turned to me and said, “What’s a dog-robber?”

“Old time Army term. It means an aide-de-camp, somebody who helps out a general, who will rob a dog of his bone if ordered. Go get your stuff from wherever you’ve got it stashed and get back here before we leave. Pick up a dog crate big enough to handle Stormy and a few dog bowls,” I told him.

“Where?”

“Figure it out, dog-robber!”

He looked alarmed, but took off.

Marilyn looked over at him as he left, and then smiled at me. “Behave, Carl, he’s not a second lieutenant.”

“Honey, that is exactly what he is!” At that I followed the good doctor back to my room for a final checkup.

Unfortunately for the billing department, I proved healthy enough to be released and deny them the pleasure of another day’s charges. We were on our way towards the door by five or so. As we reached the lobby, Frank Stouffer came racing in, out of breath, and yelling, “Wait!” He had a suitcase in one hand, a hanging bag over his neck, a large plastic animal crate in the other hand, and stuffed under that was a bulging plastic bag with the name of a pet store on it. He was being followed by a protesting cab driver, demanding payment. “I caught you!”

“A good thing you did, too. It’d be right embarrassing to miss the flight.” I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my wallet, but couldn’t handle opening it and paying the cabbie. I handed it to Marilyn and said, “Can you pay this guy?”

Marilyn snorted and smiled, and pulled a fifty out. “This cover it?”

The cab driver was suddenly all smiles, and he took the fifty and took off. The rest of us distributed the loot and Jerry McGuire, who had miraculously reappeared after the press conference, led us outside to a limo. From there we headed towards the airport, where the G-IV was waiting for us. We got on the plane and it was wheels up for Westminster.

My daughters had been wearing nice knee length dresses, which combined with some high heeled sandals, made them look older and more mature. I noticed that Frank had eyed them curiously. When he sat down in front of me, facing backwards, I told him, “Frank, you do realize that they aren’t even 16 yet, don’t you?” That wouldn’t happen until tomorrow. “Do I need to take you down to the range and show you what happens to a hollow point when it hits something?”

He laughed at that. “No sir, I’m good on that. They are pretty cute, though, you have to admit that. They’ll turn 18 sooner than you think.”

I waved that off. “So? Six months from now I’ll be the Vice President and have access to military weaponry. You have any idea what happens when a beehive round goes off? It’s awesome!”

“I’ll take your word for it, Congressman.”

“So, Frank, you work for Karl Rove? What’s your background?” I asked.

Frank explained that he was a graduate of Princeton with a degree in Political Science and had attended Yale Law. He was one of the young political class flocking to Washington, with no experience outside of Washington or the Ivy League. His job with Karl Rove was his first job. He was 25.

I nodded as he told me this. “Okay, first things first, you no longer work for Karl Rove. You work for me now. Is that understood?”

“How… am I on your Congressional staff?”

I shook my head. “When we land, get Brewster McRiley on the phone and I’ll handle it from there. You’ll technically be on the staff of McRiley Associates. You have a problem with that?”

“Uh, no sir, why would I?”

I eyed him curiously. Was he naïve or dumb? “Let me be very explicit. You do not talk to Karl Rove from here on in without clearing it with me first. I am guessing you got orders from him to give him a daily report on what I was up to?” Frank turned beet red at that. He’d be a lousy poker player. “I’ll take your silence as a yes. No more. You work for me, not Karl. Is that understood, or do we need to part ways?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, sir, which?” I pushed.

“Yes, sir, I understand. What’s the problem with Mister Rove?”

“No problem, but Karl Rove doesn’t work for me and doesn’t have my best interests at heart. I pay Brewster, and as long as my checks clear, he stays loyal to me. Karl Rove ain’t loyal to me. You following this?”

“I follow you sir. Uh, how do I contact Mister McRiley?”

“Figure it out, Frank!”

Marilyn had been listening to us, and she reached across the aisle and swatted at me. “Will you behave!?” She turned to Frank and said, “Get a pen and pad and I’ll give you a few numbers.” He scrambled and pulled a pen and notepad out, and Marilyn read off some numbers from her cell phone. She gave him Brewster’s, but also Marty’s and mine, and the numbers for my offices in D.C., and the ones for the campaign and the local Westminster office for the Maryland Ninth, and several others.

I chuckled at all this, and then said, “Now, when we land, I want you to get yourself a room over in Parkton, and rent a car. We’ll get somebody to give you a lift over. Make sure you keep receipts for everything. Always have at least a grand in cash in your wallet, mostly twenties and fifties. You’d be amazed how much easier things work when you deal in cash. You can take tomorrow off, since it’s Sunday, but be at our house early Monday morning. I might be on sick leave, but I still need to work.”

Frank kept jotting down notes. The next few months would either break him or make him. We’d have to see which.

Marilyn asked me, “You really have to work this week? You need to rest. Doctor Shooster said you needed to rest.”

“It will be a working vacation. You need to finish whatever they have you doing with the convention speech, and I have to write one of my own. I started one, but just don’t like it,” I told her.

Frank popped up at that. He shuffled through a briefcase and handed me a manila envelope. “Here’s your speech, Congressman. Mister Rove gave this to me to give to you.”

I eyed the envelope curiously. Up until now, all of my speeches I had written myself, although I had frequently gotten some input and editing assistance from my staff. Now I was going to give a speech written by somebody else. “Who wrote it?”

“Mister Scully.” I gave him a blank look. I knew Mike Gerson was the chief writer for Bush, but wasn’t aware of the second tier yet. “Matthew Scully, he works for Mister Gerson.”

“Well, give it here, let me read it.”

I took the envelope and opened it to read it. The best speechwriters would write for the speaker’s voice, using his tone and his style and his substance. The worst would simply slap some shit together. This was about in the middle. It wasn’t just slapped together, but it was obviously written for somebody else. It was also rather generic. I was going to have to write my own speech and incorporate what I could of this one. I needed to give the speech of a lifetime; this one wasn’t that. It was okay, but I wanted more.

I started reading, but drifted off and slept most of the trip back to Westminster. We had some limos and vans waiting for us when we landed. As we walked off the plane, Marilyn said, “You need to rest. You look pale.”

“If you are going to play nurse, shouldn’t you get one of those little nurse’s costumes?”

“OH, THAT’S SO GROSS!” yelled Molly.

“THAT’S… I DON’T WANT TO HEAR IT!” screamed her sister. “LA… LA… LA…” she sang out loudly.

Marilyn and I looked at each other and grinned. Neither of us had known they were within earshot.

My entire traveling circus went over to the house, and then I sent most of them off to either find some motel rooms nearby or simply to go home and rest. I was still tired, and needed to rest for a bit. I told Marilyn I wanted to sit in my chair for a bit, but she pushed me down the hall into the bedroom. I did give the girls a few orders, but simply to get the puppy situated and sorted out, and to unpack and relax. They needed some down time as much as I did.

I sat down on the bed and kicked off my shoes. I looked at my wife and smiled. “You never did answer me about the nurse’s costume.”

“GROSS!” she said mimicking her daughters, making me laugh.

I stretched out on the bed and eyed her invitingly. I had been away from home for too long.

Marilyn grinned and closed our bedroom door, flipping the lock. “Would you prefer me to wait until I went out and got the outfit?”

“It’s not all that critical to the healing process.”

She came closer and spoke seductively in my ear. “How about I simply take off my clothes and suck your cock? Think that will help you heal up some?”

My temperature must have risen at that, among other things. “It’s an excellent start! I’ll probably need some additional treatments like that later on, too.”

“We’ll see. You’re not as young as you used to be. You might not be able to handle the treatment!” I snorted derisively at the comment. Marilyn did a quick little striptease in front of me and then undid my pants and pulled them down to my knees. Then she knelt by my good side and went down on me. I ran my good hand over her naked back, and then, as I got closer, ran my fingers through her hair and kept her head in place. I sighed happily as she got me off, and swallowed me down.

She sat up on the bed and wiped her lips on the back of her hand. I smiled and said, “Nurse, I’m feeling better now, but I think I need another treatment.”

Marilyn giggled and said, “Sorry, but that will have to wait. Your insurance won’t cover multiple treatments.” I swatted her bare behind and she scampered into the bathroom and cleaned up and brushed her teeth, and then slipped into a simple halter top sundress. I had my own pants pulled back up by the time she came back and she helped me with the belt and zipper.

Before she left, I slipped a hand under her dress and ran my fingers up to her pussy, to find that she was going commando. “I like the way you nurses dress when you’re off duty.” She just laughed and told me to get some sleep.

It was late when I woke up, after dinner, in fact, and I went to the bathroom and cleaned up some before limping out to the living room. Marilyn was watching Wheel of Fortune while the girls were teasing Stormy with an old sock. She came over and sniffed at me, and then headed over towards a corner. “Grab her! She needs to go outside!” I yelled at them, and they picked her up and ran her out the patio door.

“Feeling better?” asked Marilyn.

I glanced and saw the girls were outside still, and replied, “Still looking forward to a few more treatments.”

My wife blushed and grinned. The twins came in and she said lowly, “Later.” The she raised her voice some, and asked, “Want some dinner? We heated up some canned beef stew.”

“That’s fine. I’m not ready for anything big. Anything’s got to be better than broth and Jell-O!” Marilyn laughed at that and headed for the kitchen. “How about some booze, too!”

“Are you taking those pain pills?”

“Advils only.” I reacted well to ibuprofen. Most people can take one pill an hour, or up to 24 a day, before their liver explodes. I had popped half a dozen when I woke up. I was good at the moment.

When the girls returned with the pup, I played with her for a bit, and taught the twins how to housebreak her. It was going to be their responsibility. If they saw her heading behind the furniture or looking for a place to squat, grab her and get her outside. If you catch her too late, rub her nose in it and swat her with a newspaper. Praise her when she goes outside. All the standard stuff that people having been doing for millennia to housebreak dogs. Most importantly, don’t listen to your mother about what to do; she thinks Stormy can speak English and will understand without rubbing her nose in it or smacking her.

“I heard that!” came from the kitchen. That just made us speak a little more quietly.

It’s not hard to housebreak a dog. It just requires some patience and vigilance. I remember hearing somewhere that the bigger the dog the easier it is to housebreak them. I have no idea if that was true or just an old wives’ tale, but if so, I expected Stormy to be incredibly easy to train. She had all the earmarks of being a really big dog, much bigger than I was used to. All of my dogs, this life and last, had been some form of hound mix, in the 30–40 pound range. At barely three months, this thing was already about 10 pounds, and seemed to be growing just in the few days we already had her! She was sure devouring Puppy Chow, that was clear!

By now Stormy was snoring in my lap, so when Marilyn brought me some stew and a gin and tonic, we traded. After dinner, I read Scully’s speech while Marilyn watched television. I hadn’t known what I was going to say, but while listening to the late news, everything sort of crystallized. I would spend the next couple of days working on it.

We put some newspapers down in the laundry room and I let Stormy out on a leash before we put her in the room and went to bed. I was ready for another treatment, so Marilyn stripped me naked, and then pulled off her dress, and we made love — carefully! I had to stay on my back, and I only had one hand to work on her with, but we figured it out, and finished with her riding me while playing with her clit, and with my fiddling with her nipples. My ribs were aching afterwards, but I could live with that.

Frank Stouffer showed up the next morning while we were eating breakfast, so I invited him in and made him some eggs and bacon. He had managed to get some hotel rooms for himself and some of the other staff in Parkton, and had rented a car. I hadn’t expected him that morning, which was a Sunday, but I shouldn’t have been surprised. Until Election Day, there were no days off. I gave him orders to get in touch with Matt Scully and have him come on out here. At the minimum, if he couldn’t make it out here today, I needed the speech in a digital format, Word or a text file, something I could begin changing. He would complain, like any good author would, but he would feel better about it if he was involved.

After that, we all headed into the living room to watch the Sunday morning talk shows. The primary topic was the upcoming Republican convention in Philadelphia, along with reports and summaries of what the Governor and I were up to. The Democratic convention was two weeks after ours, and Al Gore still hadn’t named a running mate. Would he stick with Joe Lieberman, or pick somebody different? Had I changed things so that a different calculus was needed?

By lunchtime, I sent Frank off and checked my email. The speech file had arrived, along with a note that Matt would be here Monday morning, and requested we get him a room. I forwarded it to Frank and followed up with a phone call. Then I went to work.

The Vice Presidential candidate has a specific job in that he is often called on to be the Presidential candidate’s attack dog. He was supposed to be rude and mean and go after the other side, while the Presidential candidate stayed away from it all, looking, well, Presidential. The speech was very much in this line, with me going tooth and nail against Bill Clinton. We were painting Al Gore as Clinton 2.0, which was a pretty accurate description. If anything, he was even more liberal than Slick Willie, who had an instinctive feel for how hard he could push and get away with things. Al was more dogmatic and hard core.

I could do the attack dog role if I needed, but I was more comfortable doing a positive message than a negative one. In this regard, I planned to milk my current ‘hero’ status. The planned format was for my nomination would take place late Tuesday night, so that when I spoke on Wednesday, I would already be the official nominee. Then, Wednesday evening, John Boehner would give my official introduction, and then we would segue into the biographical video that Marilyn was working on. (She still had more work to do, and Monday morning would leave me with the girls, while she flew to Hollywood to finalize her stuff.) Then, after the video ended, somewhere between nine and ten, and still in prime time, I would come out, along with the family. We would wave and smile, and then they would leave and I would do the speech. Afterwards, the family would come back out, to thunderous applause and balloons and confetti, and for all I knew, doves flying and angels singing.

Thursday night, the last night of the convention, we would repeat the process, with Governor Bush. At the end of that speech, my family and I would join the Bush family on stage. Then we would begin three months of hell until the night of the election.

This week the priorities were to write the speech, and do so early enough to get it to the technical people who would put it on the teleprompter and get the necessary placards and signs printed up. I was going to work from home, though I planned to take one day to travel to the Westminster and Washington offices, to show the flag, thank everybody for caring and helping, and prove I was recuperating. Otherwise, I really did need to recuperate. The convention was going to be a tough physical grind, and the last thing I could afford — that any of us could afford! — was to have me collapse on stage during my speech.

I was delayed working on the speech for a good reason. I had a chance to talk to Charlie that afternoon. A call came in around half past twelve, and I was in the kitchen when the phone rang. I grabbed it and said, “Hello?” I just hoped security was screening our calls properly. I didn’t need to talk to any reporters today.

“Dad? You’re home!”

“Charlie! How are you?”

“Dad! How are you?! You made the news on the ship!”

Huh! I suppose that made sense. They probably got some sort of canned national news from the Armed Forces Network. “Does anybody know who you are yet?” I asked.

“Nah! Not that I can tell anyway. The rest of the guys don’t know, and if any of the officers know, they haven’t said anything,” he replied.

“So where are you calling from? You on the ship? Where are you?”

“Bahrain.”

“Bahrain?!”

He laughed at that. “We docked and have leave. There’s a whole bunch of payphones here. My cell phone doesn’t work here. This place is seriously depraved!”

“What time is it?” I asked him. What time zone was Bahrain in? That was on the other side of the world! “And what is this about depraved?”

“It’s 2040 here. We’re plus eight compared to the East Coast. And you don’t need to know about depravity. You’re married! To my mother, no less!” he answered with a laugh.

“Just remember, sonny, an old beat up paratrooper can kick a young Marine’s ass any day of the week!” Smart ass kid!

After that we talked about the tornado in Springboro, and then I got Marilyn and the girls on the line with him.

I felt good enough to be able to cook that night, so we invited Tusker and Tessa over for dinner. The girls introduced them to Stormy and then told them about our adventures in the Midwest. Then Tusker suggested that as soon as we were done with the convention, we should head up to Sturgis, South Dakota, and campaign at the annual bike rally. I almost snorted my drink out through my nose, and then almost died of laughter when Tusker and Tessa had to explain to Marilyn some of the antics that routinely occurred at Sturgis. Then I had to ask Tessa if there were going to be any pictures surfacing of her in a wet t-shirt contest, or lounging naked on the back of Tusker’s hog. Tusker didn’t help any by denying her denials. The twins wanted to know how I knew about Sturgis; they had heard about it through their biker brother. That was going to make for an interesting conversation the next time I talked to Charlie!

We also gave the girls their birthday presents, which were some scarves and accessories their mother had picked up in Hollywood, at some fancy boutique. They oohed and aahhed appropriately, but I’ll be damned if I could understand how such small amounts of fabric could command such ludicrous prices. Is it a woman thing? Or was I just being an old fart?

Monday I sent the twins and Stormy off to the vet for a checkup and shots and all the other things you need to do with puppies. They were also assigned to get the mutt a dog license! I’d hate to be hit with an unlicensed dog violation while running for Vice President!

Matt Scully showed up mid-morning on Monday, shortly after Marilyn left for the airport, and by late Tuesday we had a new speech written. I practiced giving it a couple of times, speaking at a makeshift lectern, and then Scully gave me a withering critique and we did a rewrite. I did another practice speech, and he wasn’t as withering. We kept after it through Wednesday lunchtime, at which point he took a copy of the speech to run past Rove, Cheney, and Allbaugh. I didn’t care by then. I was just exhausted by the whole process.

Thursday it was time for me to wave the flag in my various offices. I had the girls tend to my doctoring, and after my shower we were able to remove most of the bandages on my chest and arm. I still needed to keep the ribs taped up. Then I shooed them out and dressed in a good suit, and Frank helped me tie a tie one-handed, and I put the sling on and secured it properly to my chest. I wanted to heal up well enough that when it was time for my speech, I could do it without the sling.

Frank and I headed over to Westminster first, early enough to head into the Westminster Diner and greet people and have breakfast. Nick Papandreas was present, as I hoped he would be, and I invited him to join us. He greeted us warmly, and though he refused breakfast, he did have some coffee. He quizzed me all about the tornado, and then reminded everybody in the diner how I had saved the diner ten years ago. I shook a lot of hands before I could escape and then Frank and I drove over to the District Office and the campaign headquarters, located side by side in the strip mall up the road. I thanked everybody for all that they were doing, and got a lot of applause and congratulations.

By lunchtime we had flown to Washington, and I made a slow tour through the Rayburn Building, visiting friends and stopping at my offices for the Maryland Ninth. I made a nice little side deal with John Boehner that if I made it to Vice President, I would support him for the Whip position I was vacating. He was the head of the Republican Caucus currently, so this would be another step up the ladder. After that, we headed over to the Capitol, where I got to meet with my staff in the Whip’s office as well as Hastert and DeLay. Again, more applause and congratulations. Then Marty joined us for a late supper before we headed back to Hereford.

Friday and Saturday I basically did some work in the Westminster office and did some campaigning throughout the Maryland Ninth. It looked as if I was going to beat Rob Hollister. The polls were definitely in my favor. I also had to field a few questions about what would happen if Bush won over Gore, and what would happen then. I explained the procedure, and then told them that while I couldn’t tell them who would be running in the special election, it would be somebody they would approve of. The Republican Committee had agreed with Marty and me that Cheryl Dedrick would be the choice to replace me. She had sailed through their vetting process a lot easier than I had.

Marilyn came home from Hollywood Friday afternoon. She gave me a DVD with her introduction of me at the convention, and we played it on a television set in my office in Westminster. Marilyn might have been scared to death to speak in front of an audience, but one on one, she was just fine. I had to admit, it looked pretty slick! It ran about twenty minutes or so, going back to when I was a kid growing up in the suburbs, moving on to being a teenaged investor, on through high school and college. The narrator was none other than Magnum P.I. himself, Tom Selleck! As soon as he started talking and I knew who it was, I had to ask my wife if she met him!

“He’s gorgeous!” she gushed. “If he wasn’t already married, I wouldn’t have come back!”

“That would really blow the family values vote, wouldn’t it?” I remarked.

“He’s got money, too,” she teased.

I just threw my hands up in despair at that point.

While Selleck was doing the narration, and various home photos were being run across the screen, Marilyn began talking about midway through the bio. They had her sitting in an armchair, partially in shadow, with shots of her from slightly off to the side. The format was one where she was getting asked questions from off camera, and they were taping and splicing in her replies. She started talking about from when we met in college, through my Army and Buckman Group years, and then about what I was doing as a Congressman. Eventually it came to an end. When this really played at the convention, the screen would go black, and then John Boehner would speak from offstage and announce my entry, and I would come out from behind the curtains.

It was very professional and slick. I told Marilyn, “Hell, this guy is great! Let me know when he starts walking on water, because I want to watch!”

“You’re no help! I think I’m going back to Hollywood and look for Tom Selleck again!”

“I can always grow a new mustache.”

“Yeah, but he still has hair!” she replied.

I made a menacing move towards her and she skedaddled out of my office. “It’s a good thing for you I’m still an invalid!” I yelled after her.

Sunday afternoon we all flew up to Philly in the LongRanger. We even took Stormy with us. If they were going to play me up as the hero, I might as well do it big time. Even Democrats like puppy dogs! We flew into New Castle. Frank was waiting for us there with a limo and the security staff I was traveling with these days. Presidential nominees, like Bush and Gore, get Secret Service protection while they are campaigning. Vice Presidential nominees don’t. If we won the election, that would all change, but right now I was providing my own protection detail.

The convention was being held at the First Union Center, and we had a large suite at the Ritz-Carlton a few miles away. We traveled with Stormy in her cage, since the last thing we needed was for her to find some damn place under a seat to take a leak, take a dump, or take a nap and get forgotten. She was taking well to the housebreaking training, but she was still a little, er… big puppy.

My big appearance was on Wednesday, but Sunday through Tuesday I was to meet major donors and supporters, and otherwise ingratiate myself with the group surrounding George Bush. Neither Rove nor Cheney were any more friendly towards me, but as long as I didn’t get into a flaming argument with them, I would be okay. Cheney in particular was plotting out his position in the Bush White House, and was planning on taking State. On my first go that had been held by Colin Powell, and I hoped he wasn’t out in the cold. I just would listen to the plots and nod and mumble something neutral.

As far as the press was concerned, I was unavailable, resting prior to my speech. I wasn’t on lockdown, but it came close. We ate in a private dining room, and didn’t do any sightseeing. The girls did manage to take Stormy out several times for some fresh air and to let her pee and poop. In the suite, we kept some newspapers on the floor of the bathroom in Marilyn’s and my room.

We had flown in Sunday afternoon. That night we planned to let Stormy sleep in the bathroom. Marilyn and I got into bed, and she was beginning to examine my new scars and compare them to my old ones, in a most intriguing manner, when the mutt began whining from the bathroom. “Go to sleep, Stormy!” I called out.

Stormy quieted down for a couple of minutes, and then started up again. I repeated the order, and after just a couple of minutes, she was whining. Marilyn looked at me and asked, “Maybe if we turn the lights off?” We had been getting frisky with the lights lit.

“Worth a try.” I rolled over and turned off the light on the nightstand and yelled, “Go to sleep!” Then I rolled back towards my wife. Stormy began whining and barking, and there was a scratching on the door. I rolled over and turned the light on again. “This is nuts!”

I got out of bed and opened the bathroom door, wondering if she needed to pee or something, but she immediately tried to jump up and play with me. Marilyn looked over at me and tried to stifle some laughter. I tossed the dog on the bed with her and said, “I know how to handle this!” I pulled my pants back on and then grabbed the dog. “Your daughters are getting a present!”

I picked Stormy up and carried her out of our bedroom and across the lounge to the large bedroom they were sharing. I knocked and barged in. They were both up, but in bed and watching television, wearing t-shirts. They started scrambling for cover. “Daddy!” they both protested.

“Forget it. I’ve seen it before. Here, have a dog. Your mother and I are trying to get some sleep!” I dropped her on Molly’s bed and left.

I heard them squawking through the door but didn’t care. When I got back to my bedroom, I dropped my trousers and crawled back into bed. Marilyn wasn’t interested in checking out my scars anymore, so we simply made love and fell asleep.

Around one in the morning or so, I heard the bedroom door open, and one of the twins came in. “Here, take her, she’s yours! She can’t figure out which of us she wants to sleep with!”

Marilyn woke up with a muffled, “Huh?” just as the bedroom door closed.

In the dim light of the room, I looked down and saw a very happy puppy crawling towards me on the covers. She licked my face, and then Marilyn’s, and then turned around in between us about a dozen times before laying down and going to sleep.

Marilyn looked at me and said, “You’re kidding me, right?”

“This will only be until we get her home, and then it’s back into the utility room at night,” I assured her. “This is not what I had in mind when I said I wanted a threesome!”

“Yuck!”

Chapter 130: Conventional Wisdom

August 2, 2000

We were sitting in the green room behind the stage at the Union Center. It was the four of us, five if you included Stormy, and she seemed to be getting a kick out of jumping from lap to lap. I was looking forward to spending a night at home with her locked in the laundry room. It wasn’t like I had never had a dog sleep in bed with me, but this idiot critter seemed to prefer sleeping in between Marilyn and me, and under the covers no less! It wasn’t exactly the crazy nights away in a strange hotel I had been looking forward to.

John Boehner had been with us until a few minutes ago, when he had been summoned forth. He was about to do his introduction of the bio. We had ABC on the television and were watching as he appeared on the screen, smiling and tan. How the hell any human could be that shade always amazed me, and gave me endless opportunity to tease him. Marilyn was seated next to me and holding my hand. I wasn’t sure who was more nervous, me about the speech or her about the bio movie.

“I first met Carl Buckman in December of 1990 during Freshman Orientation Week. We had both just been elected to Congress, and we happened to be seated at the same table. Everyone at that table knew about the cocky young billionaire who had just bought himself a Congressional district, and there he was at the table with us. Guess what? He wasn’t all that cocky, or at least no more than the rest of us at the table were. In fact he was a pretty nice guy.”

John had started to speak, and I looked over at Marilyn and said, “You wouldn’t believe how much he charged me to say this stuff. His original speech started out, ‘Carl Buckman is a real asshole!’”

She gave me a nudge in the side and said, “Behave! I am going to tell him you said that!”

“Go right ahead!”

“It turned out that Carl Buckman hadn’t bought his seat. He simply had managed to make a whole lot of money, and was now giving it back to the community he loved and lived in. He had been donating for years to every fire house, police station, ambulance squad, and emergency room in northern Maryland. He never thought twice about it. It was where he had grown up and where he had moved back to after getting out of the Army. I once talked to a fellow Maryland Congressman, Wayne Gilchrest, who said that at a dinner party he asked Carl if he would donate to charities outside of his district. Carl simply said, ‘Sure, how much?’ Since then the Buckman Foundation has given out well over $50 million to first responder and emergency groups in his home state and across the nation”

John went on for another ten minutes, telling about my rise from suburban kid to mathematical prodigy to combat soldier to billionaire investor, and then finally, Congressional leader. He piled horseshit upon horseshit, as all the while I made snarky comments to Marilyn quietly. She laughed at me as I did this.

When John finished, we went to the video, where Tom Selleck and Marilyn said the same damn thing all over again, this time with pictures. I had already seen it a few times, using it to set up some of what I wanted to say. The girls, however, hadn’t seen it and they were properly impressed with their mother’s speaking. I even got a few ‘You really did that, Dad?’ remarks out of them, after which I simply rolled my eyes at my wife.

About halfway through the video, a staffer knocked on the door and came in. “It’s time to go, Congressman.”

I nodded. I looked at the girls and said, “Take her outside and let her do her business in the parking lot quick. We do not need her peeing and pooping on national television!”

“She just went half an hour ago!” protested Holly.

“Go!”

The girls scrambled out with Stormy on a leash. Marilyn and I followed the staffer to a place behind the curtains. Two minutes later the twins showed up with Stormy on her leash. I looked at Molly and asked, “Well?”

“She peed.”

Marilyn and I gave each other superior and knowing looks and nods. Then the moment was over. The video ended with thunderous applause from the crowd, and John Boehner’s voice came over the loudspeakers. “Now, please welcome the next Vice President of the United States, Carl Buckman!”

I looked at the others and said, “Showtime!” and headed to where the staffer was pointing.

The lights and flashes were blinding, and the roar of the crowd was deafening. I walked confidently over to the podium, showing a lot more confidence than I felt. The roar kept up as I stood there, so I simply smiled and waved with my right arm. My left was moving okay, but if I stretched, my ribs protested big time.

Finally there was a slight break in the pandemonium and I was able to start talking. “Thank you! Thank you for that warm welcome! I want to take a moment to introduce somebody to you, somebody who just was part of that amazing video, somebody who I owe everything to. Please welcome the greatest woman in the world, Marilyn Buckman!”

I turned and motioned her to come out as the audience went nuts. She gave me a look of terror, but then put a smile on her face and marched out. She kept her eyes on me, and moved a little too fast, but nobody else seemed to care. She waved at everybody as well, and then after a moment, I spoke up again. “I have to confess something here. I saw that video just a few days ago myself, and the first thing that I could think of to say to Marilyn was, ‘Wow! You got to meet Tom Selleck!’” Laughter rocked the place as I grinned at the audience. “Then it got worse, because Marilyn promptly told me that she was heading back to Hollywood, because he was a heck of a lot cuter than me and had a full head of hair.” More laughter.

When the laughter died down, I kept going. “I’d love to introduce you to the next member of my family, but Charlie isn’t available. He is currently on duty, deployed overseas and defending our great nation, with the United States Marines.” We were back to cheering again.

“Finally, allow me to introduce the rest of the family, our daughters Holly and Molly, and the newest member of the family, Stormy!” I motioned them out, and they came out. The girls were pretty good at this, nowhere near as stiff as their mother, waving and smiling to everybody. Stormy was loving it. She scampered on her leash ahead of the others, and when I knelt down, she jumped into my arms. I held her up and showed her to the audience as she licked my face, and the room went fucking nuts! By now everybody in America knew about the puppy I had rescued in Springboro and adopted.

Finally I put Stormy in Marilyn’s arms, and kept the dog’s face out of the way while I gave Marilyn a quick kiss. Then I kissed the girls on their foreheads, and they all left, waving at the cheering crowd. It was showtime, so I stepped back up to the podium. A printout of my speech was already on the podium, and the teleprompter was cued up. “My family and I thank you all for that wonderful welcome. You really have no idea how much it means to us.” Then it was time to get into the speech.

“As I watched and listened to the video a few minutes ago, the overwhelming thought to cross my mind was ‘Who was this man?’ Many times I heard how brave I was, how fearless I was, how nothing scared me, and through it all, I kept asking myself, ‘Who was this man?’

I asked this because I have the same fears as every other man, every other woman, every other parent, every other person in this room. When I was standing in the doorway of an airplane, preparing to jump out into the cold and dark, I was afraid. When I had to defend my wife and children from killers and thieves, I was afraid. When I had to stand between a drunken man and the pregnant wife he was beating, I was afraid. And two weeks ago, when I went into the basement of a collapsed house to help an injured mother, her children, and their pets, believe me, I was afraid!

Fear is an emotion. It is basic to all of us, like love, hate, jealousy, trust, joy. Everyone has fears. I am no different than any other man. I have fears as well. However, you can overcome fear, by deciding to be brave. When I was still a boy, I simply decided to have courage, to not let my fears rule me, but to rule my fears. Courage is not an emotion, it is an active decision we can all take. Courage is a choice!

When I went to jump school, and they strapped a parachute on me, and told me to stand in the doorway, I was offered a choice. You can step back and land in the airplane, or you can choose courage, and make the jump. I chose courage! Courage is a choice!

When my wife was robbed in the Bahamas, and the gang decided to go through me on the way out the door, I was offered a choice. I could jump out of the way and let murderers and thieves run loose, or I could choose courage and stop them. I chose courage! Courage is a choice!

When a madman began stalking my wife, when he vandalized her car, when he firebombed our house, when he broke into our home and threatened my life, I was offered a choice. I could run away and hide from a psychotic killer, or I could choose courage and keep my family safe. I chose courage! Courage is a choice!

When a drunk twice my size began busting up a restaurant back home, beating up the owner and a waitress, and then began hitting his pregnant wife, I was offered a choice. I could ignore it and eat my pie, or I could choose courage and save a woman’s life and the life of her unborn child. I chose courage! Courage is a choice!

When a tornado ripped through the peaceful town of Springboro, tearing up people’s homes and their lives, I was offered a choice. I could stand back and let somebody else handle the problem, or I could choose courage, and save a dying mother and her young children, and yes, even the family dog. I chose courage! Courage is a choice!

Moral courage is the most important courage of all. It is the courage to make the right choices, choices that help not yourself, but others. When friends came to me ten years ago and said they had read my books and heard my speeches, they told me to put up or shut up, put my money where my mouth was, and step up to the plate. However you want to put it, the challenge was to stop complaining and start fixing, and run for Congress. This was a scarier proposition than anything else I had ever done! I chose courage! Courage is a choice!

Courage is about the choices we make in everyday life. It is the choice of a pilot staying with his dying plane just a little bit longer, to miss the elementary school even if he won’t be able to punch out. It is the choice of a fireman going into a burning house to search for a child. It is the choice of a Coast Guardsman who says he has to go out, but he doesn’t have to come back. It is the choice of a father who is dying of cancer, but stays on the job just one day longer, so his children can stay in school just one day longer. It is the choice of a mother who works three jobs so that her children will be able to go to college.

And courage is the choice of a leader, a leader who makes choices to benefit an entire nation, choices to benefit not just a voter, but that voter’s children and grandchildren, choices to benefit everyone, and not just those who voted for him. George Bush has that courage! George Bush chooses courage! Courage is a choice, and George Bush has made that choice!”

At that point I pivoted into the speech that Matt Scully had originally written, but now modified and edited to fit the new slant to the speech I had given. I spent about half of this section praising George Bush and the other half damning Bill Clinton. At times I was really stretching George’s compassionate conservatism to be some form of courage. It was easier to label Clinton’s choices as ‘cowardly’; all I had to do was point out that by spending more than we were taking in on taxes was a cowardly pandering to special interests. Never mind that for the last couple of years we had been running a surplus, that was only because ‘courageous’ Republicans had forced it on him. The bullshit was getting pretty deep by the time I ended.

The big thing was to keep a rhythm and syncopation going. It was like running through a list of bullet points, but at the end of each item, I would thunder out, “George Bush has that courage! George Bush chooses courage!” By the end of this section they were stomping their feet and waving “Courage” banners around, and yelling along with me when I hit the bit about George Bush. We just wanted them rocking the house down!

It was finally time to bring things to a close. I needed to go out on a positive note, but with something dramatic. I paused and let everybody settle down.

“When I was a boy and decided to live my life with courage, I discovered something amazing! Courage is fun! Courage is exhilarating! Courage is intoxicating! Courage is liberating! Courage gives you the freedom to live your life on your terms and not somebody else’s! When our very nation was founded, and we rose up as one people to demand our freedom, we demanded courage from ourselves! Courage gave us the great nation we now have, and only courage will allow us to keep this nation free!

Choose courage! Choose freedom! Choose George Bush! Courage is a choice! Courage is a choice! Courage is a choice!..”

By that point they were all on their feet stomping and yelling and chanting “Courage is a choice!” I led them for a moment, but then stepped back and looked offstage. Marilyn and the girls were all standing there, even the mutt, and I motioned for them to join me on the stage. They trooped out and I picked up Stormy as the place went berserk. You could practically feel the waves of energy and emotion rolling through Union Center. We all waved at the crowd for a couple of minutes, and then moved off the stage.

“Dad, that was amazing!” exclaimed Holly.

Molly put it a little more succinctly. “Holy crap, Dad!”

I looked at them for a moment, as the nervous energy flushed out of me, and I suddenly felt drained. I staggered for a moment, and found a stool to rest on. As others came up to me and shook my hand and told me what a wonderful speech it was, Marilyn looked at me worriedly and asked, “Are you all right?”

I nodded. “Tired is all. I’m still a bit weak, I guess.” We leaned against each other and Stormy licked us both until we gave her to the girls.

At that point, a staffer came up to us and said, “Congressman, Governor Bush would like to have you and Mrs. Buckman see him in his suite, if you could.”

I looked over at Marilyn. “Command performance, hun. Ready?”

“Of course.”

I looked around and found Frank and waved him over. “Frank, let’s get the car and get back to the hotel.”

“Can do, Congressman!”

Marilyn told the girls to walk Stormy and they headed towards the parking lot. Marilyn looked at me and said, “I think even they were impressed by your speech. Choose courage, huh?”

“Just so long as they don’t think they can have the courage to get their driver’s licenses any time soon. Then I’d have to show them the courage of my boot to their butts!” The way those two yammered on their cell phones constantly, they were an invitation to a car wreck!

She turned to the staffer and said, “Give us a moment to freshen up.” He assented and we went in search of a rest room. I was still a bit weak, and my ribs were really killing me from the exertion, but I wasn’t about to collapse now. I used a restroom and straightened myself up, and then went out to wait for my wife. Afterwards we were driven over to the Ritz-Carlton. We went inside and took the kids and dog upstairs, and then continued up to the Bush suite, which was a couple of floors above us.

Marilyn noticed the Secret Service agents standing post in the hallway and outside the door to the suite. “Do we get Secret Service protection, too?”

I shook my head. “Highly doubtful. The candidates get it, but that’s about it. If we win, that’s a different matter. Still, we’ve been living with some form of security for years now, so this shouldn’t be that big a deal.”

We made it inside without setting off any alarms, and were greeted by Governor Bush. He enthusiastically shook my hand, saying, “That was a hell of a speech, Carl! It made me wonder if you were running for President and I was the Vice President! Great speech, great!”

“Thank you, George, you’re too kind.”

“Are your daughters with you?” he asked.

I shook my head. “They’re a couple of floors down. It’s getting late for them and they are probably walking the dog.”

“She’s adorable!” gushed Laura. “She was in that basement, too? Oh my heavens!”

“Your girls here?” I asked. The Bushes had twin daughters also, Charlie’s age, but fraternal, not identical.

Laura shook her head. “They have their own rooms. They’ll join us on stage tomorrow, but otherwise they won’t be campaigning. Your daughters seem to be taking to it well.”

I made a wry smile at my wife. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Never mind him. They think it’s all quite exciting. I am sure that by the time school starts they will be more than happy to stay home!” she replied.

“Can we get you something?” asked Bush.

I noticed several other very senior staffers in the room, Karl Rove and his wife Darby, Dick Cheney and his wife Lynne, and a few others. I saw Joe Allbaugh but he was standing by himself, as was Jim Nicholson, head of the RNC. Several of them had what looked like drinks in their hands, but I noticed the Bushes didn’t. George had taken the pledge a number of years ago, after Laura cleaned him up and dried him out. I nodded, saying, “George, I would just about kill for a drink, but if that’s a problem for you…”

“Don’t be silly. I’ve had my problems, but that is behind me now. No reason to force you to go dry.” He led us over to a bar, where a bartender made Marilyn a whiskey sour and me a gin and tonic.

I sipped it appreciatively. I smiled at the bartender. “Ahhhh… nectar of the gods! I’ll be back!” He chuckled and nodded.

I looked over at George and Laura. “It’s too bad you had to quit. This cures two dread diseases at once. The lime is for scurvy and the tonic cures your malaria.”

“Well, it’s good to know we can send you into deepest and darkest Africa now.” He led us both over to the others, and said, “The man of the hour! When Matt Scully said you were changing the speech, I got worried, but that really nailed it! Tremendous speech, tremendous!”

Around us several more people gave accolades as well as some general applause. I also received several more handshakes. I held up my hand and simply said, “I like to think it was more of an edit. Matt Scully wrote a wonderful speech, but I simply needed him to work with me on it. I figured I needed to bring my A game tonight.”

“More like you’re A-Plus game, if you ask me! You’ve put a real burden on me now! I’ll have to do even better tomorrow night,” he mock complained.

“I have no doubt you will manage it,” I replied, smiling.

At that point Laura pulled Marilyn off to the side, and the political types began a discussion of the speech and the reaction to it. They had all been watching it on a bank of televisions, and listening to the network commentators speaking about it afterwards. Adjectives such as ‘Stunning!’ and ‘Electrifying!’ were being tossed around, along with discussions of the bio. After a bit, I went back to the bar for a refill, and afterwards grimaced a touch. “I need to sit down,” I told the Governor. I made my way to a couch and sat down on it.

“Are you all right, Carl?” he asked. Behind him I could see Cheney and Rove hoping it was something incurable; a perfect scenario for them would be to milk my death and use it to put Bush into the White House with them running it for him.

“I’ll be fine. It’s my ribs. I cracked them, so they aren’t broken, but today was really the first day I haven’t had the sling in place. I’m pretty sore, right now,” I admitted.

“Where’s your cane?” asked Rove. “I didn’t see you with it.”

I shook my head. “I left it back in the room. I didn’t want to draw attention to it on national television, and I figured if I did limp a bit, people would chalk it up to the accident.”

I stayed seated for a bit, resting and letting my ribs protest, and discussing the plans for the last day of the convention and my follow-up trip to Springboro at the end of the week. After that, kiss Marilyn good-bye. I was going campaigning!

Chapter 131: Campaigning

Friday we all flew out to Shawnee, including Stormy, where we were met by Frank Keating, who traveled with us to Springboro. It was a mutual love fest, with Frank thanking me for saving his citizens and me thanking Frank for his inspired leadership and help during the crisis. We started at the school, now being rebuilt, and toured the town, and then met with the Torquists. Along the way I said wonderful things about Springboro and Oklahoma, and whatever it was they did there. I gathered it was either farming or ranching, neither of which I knew crap about. I made a few jokes about chocolate milk coming from brown cows, and everybody seemed to think that was amusing. I also had Marilyn write out several donations to the fire department, the ambulance squad, the school, and so forth. Doctor Shooster showed up, so we wrote out a check to the hospital as well. Leaving aside the wear and tear on me, being in a catastrophe was expensive!

The most amusing part was when we got to sit down with the Torquists for a bit. They were staying with her sister, Anna Simpson, while their house was demolished and then rebuilt. Mrs. Torquist seemed to be in good spirits, though she was wearing enough bandages to cover the state and wasn’t walking yet. Her husband, a truck driver for J.B. Hunt, was effusive in his praise, and kept shaking my hand. Little Molly didn’t really remember me, but Billy asked all sorts of questions and then told me that after I went to the hospital, in the ensuing publicity, he was able to find homes for all three of the other puppies!

I looked over at Frank and said, “Either he’s going to end up taking our jobs, or he’s going to be a used car salesman!”

“Some days there’s not much difference!” he replied. I nodded agreement.

I asked Sylvie Torquist about Stormy’s parentage. This critter was growing by leaps and bounds, and I was wondering where it would stop! Marilyn and I listened in horrified fascination. Mama, who I had hoisted out of the basement, was mostly Golden Retriever, but an Irish Wolfhound had snuck in somewhere down the line. Papa was the St. Bernard next door, who had managed to jump the fence and find true love. I looked at my wife and remarked, “This thing is going to grow up bigger than you and me! Combined!”

“She’s going to end up in the bed and we’re going to be in the dog house!” Marilyn replied. Our daughters thought this was a great idea!

After our trip to the heartland, Marilyn and the girls flew home with Stormy, and I headed to Florida in a leased 737, which we had to travel to Oklahoma City to catch. The plane was packed, with a staff that seemed to grow by the day, and with many more reporters than before the tornado. The staff now included Frank Stouffer and Matt Scully, assigned to me as speechwriter and ‘liaison’ to George Bush; the reporters were all hoping to see me get killed doing something newsworthy.

They were also hoping for me to mouth off about something. Ever since the tornado, for about the last two weeks, the Gore campaign had been laying off me. It’s real hard to campaign against a guy fighting for his life in the hospital after rescuing puppies. They had been laying low, reduced to de rigueur prayers for my recovery and praise for the rescue. Now that I was well enough to campaign again, I was fair game!

Before the plane had even lifted off, I was being slammed for my hard line debt reduction push. I was a heartless billionaire who was throwing widows and orphans off of welfare and shutting down Social Security, Medicare, and Medicaid. I had also managed to do all these horrible deeds while raising taxes on hard working middle class Americans. Why I was running as George Bush’s Vice Presidential choice was a mystery, unless it was symbolic of the fact that George Bush himself deserved to be burned on the same bonfire that I had so richly earned.

None of this was unexpected. It was pretty much standard operating procedure for a modern political campaign. We managed to return the favor. Even comments like the ones I had made about chocolate milk and cows were ‘milked’, to show how out of touch I was to the voters in the heartland. They would compare me to Al Gore, who grew up on a farm in Tennessee. The truth was that Al Gore was the son of an extremely wealthy father, Al Gore, Sr., a Tennessee Congressman and Senator. He had been born in Washington, D.C., and grew up in the Fairfax Hotel on Embassy Row. He knew even less about farming than I did!

The convention gave a serious boost to George Bush’s poll numbers. I had made the cover of both Time and Newsweek after I was announced as his running mate, with major bio pieces on the inside. They also ran small pictures of me along with the Springboro devastation, and pictures of both George and I on the cover during the convention. I knew it wouldn’t last, though. As soon as Al Gore made his selection, they would be all over the news.

Meanwhile, I was living proof of the old adage ‘protect me from my friends; I could take care of my enemies.’ Rush Limbaugh was slamming me with complaints that I wasn’t conservative enough. I was much too liberal; I was pro-abortion, pro-gay, anti-gun rights, anti-church. In short, I wasn’t a real Republican. I wondered where he was getting some of this stuff. My pro choice stance was well known, and I had never hidden it. The anti-gun rights was a convoluted take on my passage of the Defending the Second Amendment Act, where I had agreed to restrictions on magazine sizes, even though I had managed to increase concealed carry privileges across the country. I wasn’t sure about the anti-church claim; no, I didn’t go to a Protestant church, but my wife and children were active members of the Catholic church, and I occasionally went with them to Mass. Being Catholic was not a big seller in the heartland, but it was a long time since Kennedy had to address it, and Marilyn wasn’t running for office.

The pro-gay bit wasn’t a real surprise to me. That had been dogging me for a few years now, since I had voted against the Defense of Marriage Act back in 1996. The homophobes had decided we needed to do something about the wave of gay marriages inundating the God fearing Christians of our great nation, so they passed a law stating that only straights could marry. It would ultimately be found unconstitutional. I had been the only straight Republican in the entire Congress to vote against it, which had not endeared me to Newt. My argument was on a purely constitutional basis. States have the power to regulate marriage, not the Feds. Some states would end up allowing it, and some would ban it. I simply reiterated my position that marriage is up to the states, not the Federal government.

This didn’t sit well with the true believers on our side. Worse to come was when I got a call from Marty Adrianopolis in the office in Rayburn. I was in a motel room in Santa Fe when he called. “Hey Marty, what’s up?”

“I’ve got reporters around here sniffing around the place. It would seem that Carter Braxton isn’t as far in the closet as he thinks he is.”

“Tell me something I didn’t already know.” Carter Braxton was my Assistant Legislative Director, and was quite good at it. He was also gay, and hiding it. He hid it pretty well, too, but both Marty and I had been dinged by our gay-dar. I talked it over with Marty and we basically shrugged. It wasn’t our business and Carter was a good staffer. Our biggest question to each other was how come Carter was a Republican, when the party basically wanted to have him tarred and feathered.

“Yeah, well, he’s freaking out. He has reporters following him around. Limbaugh outed him today and the phones have been ringing off the hook. He had never told his parents.”

“Great! This is 2000, not 1950. It’s not illegal,” I replied.

“So, what do you want to do about this?” he asked.

“Nothing. Why?”

“Rove’s office called and they want us to cut him loose. Come up with some bogus reason, but cut him loose and get rid of ‘the little faggot.’ Their words, not mine.”

I rolled my eyes at that. “Screw that. Carter has enough problems now. I do that and I play straight into the hands of Al Gore. Tell Carter he’s safe. I’ll tell him he’s safe.”

“He’s not here. I sent him home.”

“Have him call me tomorrow morning. I’ll tell him.”

I was hit with this in the morning, before I even had a chance to talk to Carter. “Congressman, is it true you are planning on firing one of your key Congressional staff members because he is gay?”

Good question! If I say yes, I look hypocritical and the Democrats rake me over the coals. If I say no, the hard core Evangelicals in the Republican Party have ‘proof’ I’m not really one of them. It was time to play that most trusted of cards — always answer a hostile question with another question. I gave him my most confused look. “Excuse me? Has one of my staff members been accused of a crime?”

“Are you claiming that being gay is a crime?”

“Do you think it’s a crime?”

“So, what about the demands from Rush Limbaugh that you fire Carter Braxton?” asked somebody else.

“Is that who this is about? Carter Braxton? He’s on my legislative staff. What’s he done?” I asked innocently.

“Are you claiming that you weren’t aware Carter Braxton was a homosexual?” asked a third voice.

I shrugged. “Is that something I should be finding out about my staff?”

“So you aren’t going to do something about this?”

“What do you want me to do?”

I just kept up the dumb question routine and let them blather on. Later that morning I talked to Carter and told him he wasn’t being fired. Fox News wasn’t amused, but I just didn’t care. George couldn’t repudiate my actions either, without painting himself into the same corner.

That made me wonder about the whole event. I wouldn’t put it past Rove to throw me under a bus, but in doing so he put Bush at risk. Cheney wasn’t going to make a stink, not when one of his daughters was a lesbian. This was shaping up to be a close election. Screwing me over prior to the election didn’t make any sense whatsoever. Likewise, it was too easy for a campaign stunt like outing a staffer to backfire if it had been done by the Gore campaign. It was more likely that this was the random investigation of the millions of reporters currently investigating me.

I was now being publicly vetted at a level beyond anything I had ever contemplated during my public life up to this point. Huge sums were being spent to find any conceivable snippet of information about the candidates. My classmates at every school I had ever attended were being tracked down and interviewed, to see if they remembered me. Every speech and vote was being examined by partisan reporters from both sides. Everybody I had ever done business with, from coast to coast, was being interviewed, and every deal was being put under a microscope.

Some of the problems we had were self inflicted. One of the Bush campaign’s bullet points was that George Bush was a businessman, and knew how to run the country like a business. Never mind that countries and companies are two different things. Now they had me as another successful businessman. One of my handlers opened his fat yap and said that as a businessman I had invested in companies to increase jobs in America. I remembered how that had bit Mitt Romney in the ass. All it would take was a single company to report that they had laid off a single worker to put some serious hurt on the campaign.

I grabbed Matt Scully and pulled him aside. “Shut that asshole up! He is going to bury us!”

“What is the problem, Congressman? We are pushing your success as a businessman. This plays to that perfectly!”

“This is a disaster. Just follow my lead on this and tell him to knock it off!”

At the next question and answer period, I was asked, “Congressman, is it true that you only invested in companies that were hiring American workers?”

I gave a wry smile, but shook my head negatively. “I think that statement is a bit of a misrepresentation of what actually happened. I invested in companies to make money for my shareholders and investors. While I certainly hoped that I was creating new jobs, that wasn’t my only concern. I had a legal duty to maximize returns on investment, not jobs. I was pretty successful at that.”

I could see the others staring at each other. There were all sorts of wonderful ways to use this to try and sink me. How dare I say that creating jobs wasn’t a politician’s primary purpose! The fact that I wasn’t a politician at the time meant nothing! A worse case, however, would be trying to have it both ways, which had really fucked over Romney. In this case I had to stick to a single and solitary message, that I was in the money business back in the Eighties, not the political business. I left it to Matt to come up with better ways to tell that message.

The Democratic Convention was held two weeks after the Republican Convention, and was held in Los Angeles. Al Gore kept his selection secret until the second night of the convention, when Joe Lieberman nominated John Kerry as Vice Presidential nominee, and put it to a voice vote. I was watching the entire event on television and was simply stunned into silence. The others in the room noticed my staring at the television, and I waved them into silence. I needed to think!

On my first trip through, Gore had selected Senator Joe Lieberman of Connecticut as his VP pick. Lieberman was noticeable for three separate facts. He was considerably more conservative than Gore, he was the first Jewish candidate for national office, and he was quite possibly the only potential choice even less exciting than Gore. Now, everything had changed.

This was a major break with my past history! Why John Kerry and not Joe Lieberman? What had my ascension to national prominence changed? My mind was going a million miles an hour as I tried to process this. John Kerry had first made a national name for himself when in 1971, as a decorated hero of the Viet Nam War, he appeared before Congress to tell them that the war was really fucked up. He rode that into Massachusetts politics, rising through various state positions until he ran for the Senate seat being vacated by Paul Tsongas. He ultimately ran against George Bush in 2004 and lost.

He had been elected to the Senate in ’84, and then been re-elected in ’90 and ’96. This was a win-win for him. If Al won, John became VP; if Al lost, he still had his day job in the Senate. I had known John for years. He had been one of the co-sponsors that Bob Kerrey had lined up for the Gulf War Syndrome Act I had drafted back when I first got into Congress.

This was a selection aimed directly at me. Fight a hero with a hero, or some such nonsense. In Viet Nam John had earned a bunch of medals commanding Swift Boats, high speed river combat boats of the type seen in the movie Apocalypse Now. He was a certified hero. To a certain extent some of my plans, especially related to the upcoming Vice Presidential debate, were predicated on my going up against Joe Lieberman. That was all out the window now.

In the room around me there was a loud buzz as people were discussing the choice. Matt Scully asked, “Carl! What’s going on?”

I shook myself awake, and looked at the others. “Just thinking. I wasn’t figuring on Kerry. I thought for sure it would be Joe Lieberman.” Scully and a few others nodded or shrugged. “Okay, here’s our take on it. We go positive, sort of. John Kerry is a good guy, honest and honorable. How Bill Clinton got his claws into him we don’t know. Sound okay?”

“It’s as good as anything else I’ve heard,” he agreed. This was all part of our ongoing theme in the campaign, that Al Gore was Bill Clinton 2.0. Slick Willie was pulling Al’s strings and running things, whether it was true or not. This played into one of Al Gore’s biggest weaknesses, a phenomenon known as ‘Clinton Fatigue.’ Put simply, the American people were sick and tired of Bill and Hillary and all the drama they brought to everything.

Meanwhile, everybody I had ever met at any time in my life was being hunted down with a ruthlessness reminiscent of the Nazis searching for Jews. The results were mixed. More than a few people answered, ‘Carl Who?’, when asked about me. A few of my old girlfriends were tracked down and either gave glowing reviews or slapped the reporter who asked, one time on camera. I found both responses more than a little amusing. Marilyn came to light in this regard, when some reporters tracked down some of the guys from Kappa Gamma Sigma, a couple of whom commented on the ‘smoking hot’ girl I had been dating all through college! I teased Marilyn about it, and she teased the twins about it.

One interesting bunch of interviews turned out to be the people I had gotten in fights with over the years, if they could be tracked down. Of the three assholes who had tried to get my lunch money back in junior high, one couldn’t be found, one couldn’t remember the fight (he had been in a lot, I gathered) and one was in jail. That proved to be a general trend, in fact. Some of them either didn’t remember (it was over thirty years by that point) or admitted to being a jerk at the time. Some couldn’t be found. And a select few were doing time as career criminals. It didn’t seem to be hurting the campaign.

The Rottingen household was besieged to the point where John called his buddies on the Rochester police force to come out. They showed up with three cruisers and a wagon, and after issuing orders over a loudspeaker to get off the grass, half a dozen reporters and cameramen were arrested and thrown on the bus, all of them charged with trespass and two charged with assault on a police officer when they tried to resist. After that the others started behaving. John and Suzie then invited just a few inside and held an interview in their family room. When I was asked about it the next day I simply commented that there seemed to be some limits to freedom of the press after all, and that maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to hassle the wife of a cop. Karl Rove was not amused.

Tusker, needless to say, ate it up. When cameras appeared in his parking lot, he took off his dress clothes and put on some old jeans and a sleeveless t-shirt and a vest, brushed out his hair some, and then went out the back and rode a Harley around to the front, like he was just coming in. He looked like an over-aged member of the Hells Angel’s with all his tattoos showing. I watched it on television later and damn near died laughing. My ever growing staff was less amused. I couldn’t wait for some biker magazine to try and get a reporter on the tour bus!

Meanwhile, I spent the entire month of August crisscrossing the country, sometimes on a bus and sometimes in the 737. I was also eating way too much food. Everywhere I went I had to dine on the local dish. Po’ boys in New Orleans, cheese steaks in Philly, knishes in New York, chili in Tucson, sour dough bread in San Francisco. In Minnesota I was served lutefisk, which is whitefish that has been soaked in caustic lye until it turns to gelatin, and after all sorts of other awful steps, is served hot. I had about two bites for the camera and smiled, and then managed to spill my plate. Even Stormy wouldn’t have eaten that stuff! When I saw Suzie next I asked her if she ate it, and she shook her head and said she had told John it would be considered grounds for divorce.

I had some fun with Suzie and her family when we hit Minnesota. I stayed the night with them, and John, Suzie, Alex, and Harry appeared with me at a campaign rally in Rochester. Their oldest boy, Jack, was in the Marine Corps like Charlie. Suzie had married a fellow with the same genetic disposition for military service that ran in our family; he had been a Marine, too. The fun came because Alex and Harry had a neighborhood business. They mowed lawns during the summer and shoveled sidewalks and driveways in the winter. Mom and Dad kept them on a short leash money-wise, which Marilyn and I had also done with our kids. Alex had just gotten his own cell phone for ‘business’, and John and Suzie had bought them matching baseball caps with ‘H&A Yard Work’ on them, mostly as a joke.

As we were leaving the house that morning, I noticed the ball caps and said, “Hey, you two want some extra business?”

“Yeah, sure, Uncle Carl!” replied Harry.

“Okay, you make a campaign contribution and I’ll get you some more business,” I told them.

“A what?”

Alex was a little more understanding of what was going on. “How much?”

“Five bucks from each of you.”

“Ten bucks?”

“Trust me on this, it will be worth it,” I told them.

“What are you up to, Carl?” asked my suspicious sister.

“Trust me!”

“The last time a man said that to me I ended up with three kids!”

I grabbed one of the ball caps and stuffed it in my back pocket, and collected a couple of fives from the boys. Then we all went off to the rally. Once there, I had the Rottingens standing on the side of the stage. The two boys were really excited by it all. Then I went up to the podium when I was introduced.

“Thank you! Thank you! It’s good to be back in Rochester, really good! In case some of you weren’t aware of it, my sister and her family live here, and Marilyn and the kids and I have been here several times visiting them.” I turned towards them and said, “Wave to everybody, guys!” Alex and Harry waved madly, their mother a bit more sedately and self-consciously, and John with a forced smile.

“Now, before we get going here, I just wanted to address something. I heard somebody say that politicians should wear NASCAR driving suits, so that people would be able to see who has bought and paid for them. Well, far be it for me to deny that, so here goes.” I stopped and pulled out of my pocket the H&A ball cap and stuck it on my head. “Harry and Alex’s Yard Work, the best yard work in the Rochester area. They do lawns in the summer and shovel snow in the winter, and do cleanup work the rest of the time. For quality work, call H&A Yard Work!” Off to the side the two boys were giving each other high fives and jumping up and down in excitement. As the audience laughed, I tossed them back the ball cap and said, “After we win the election, I’ll take you two over to the White House and you can give us an estimate on a bigger project!”

Harry was nodding frantically in agreement. Alex thrust a fist in the air and yelled, “YES!” Beside them their mother’s jaw dropped, while John clapped a hand to his head in disbelief.

“Best ten bucks you two ever invested!” I told them. I waited a few moments for the laughter to die down, and then went into my standard stump speech.

Afterwards Suzie laughed and said, “You just made their day!”

“Just doing my civic duty!”

“I can’t believe you did that!” laughed their father. “I am never going to hear the end of this!”

Needless to say, my mugging for the camera made the evening news shows, as well as the late night comedies. Gore tried to portray it as my making light of the way George Bush was selling his candidacy to the highest bidder. That simply backfired when practically everybody in the country told him to get a sense of humor. KAAL TV 6 News in nearby Austin even managed to interview the principals in H&A Yard Work, and asked them about their Uncle Carl.

My personal flaws were endlessly categorized and exposed. The fact that Marilyn and I drank wine was elitist. The fact that I preferred Canadian and Irish whiskey over good old fashioned American bourbon was a sign I was ‘weak.’ If I had a beer I was pandering to the cameras. Even my drug use was explored. Despite the fact that the head of the ticket, George Bush, had admitted to an alcohol problem, and refused to answer questions about cocaine use, John Kerry came after me. So figuring the best defense was a good offense, I admitted it.

Sam Donaldson was doing an interview with me on a Sunday morning and said, “Congressman, President Clinton has said that he tried marijuana but never inhaled, and didn’t like it. There have been reports that you smoked marijuana also. Care to comment?”

I put on my most innocent face. “What do you want me to say, Sam?”

“Is it true you smoked pot in college?”

“Yes.”

“Did you inhale?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He looked stunned at the answer. “So you are admitting you smoked marijuana?”

“Sure. I didn’t do it often, but when I did, I inhaled. I daresay the vast majority of my generation did so at some point at that age.” I gave a wry shrug at that.

“When did you stop taking drugs?” he pressed.

“Well, let’s be specific. The only drug I ever used was marijuana. I have never used anything else. The last time I smoked pot was sometime my senior year, shortly after Christmas,” I answered.

“Why did you stop?”

“I was finishing up my doctoral work and getting ready to go into the Army. I just didn’t have the time for the distraction. It wasn’t part of who I was. I quit. Never thought about it again,” I told him.

“Why didn’t you use other drugs? They must have been available,” Sam asked.

“Oh, sure, there was all sorts of stuff available. It just scared the pants off of me. I was never even tempted.”

“Did Mrs. Buckman take drugs?”

At that I just laughed. “You can ask her that yourself. Go ahead! I want to watch!”

What surprised most everyone was that this turned out to be a non-event. Nobody gave a shit. Even the hard right didn’t scream. This was partly because I was a Republican, and they didn’t want to take me down like they wanted to take down Clinton eight years ago. It was mostly, though, that the times they were a’changin’. Marijuana use was no longer considered a big deal, not when various state legislatures were talking about medical marijuana and decriminalization. It was simply not the issue it had been less than a decade ago.

Things were moving along fairly smoothly through August and into the first week of September. We had gotten a much bigger boost from our convention than the Democrats. We were in the hard core muddling through section of the campaign. Both sides were wondering about, and trying to prepare an ‘October Surprise’, a news event designed to negatively influence the election.

October Surprises were mythical, since if you managed to pull one off, you could never admit to it. Previous candidates included announcements that peace was impending in the Viet Nam War (Humphrey vs. Nixon), a supposed secret deal between the Republicans and the Iranians to keep the hostages until after the election (Reagan vs. Carter), and various Iran-Contra allegations (Bush vs. Clinton.) Now what would happen, and to whom? You wanted the surprise to happen in October, when you had enough time to manipulate the resulting furor, but not enough time to allow the opposing team to fight back.

It occurred the weekend after Labor Day, on Sunday, September 10. The New York Times Sunday edition’s headline was ‘VP Candidate War Criminal?’, with a smaller headline on the main article ‘Buckman Accused Of Mass Murder!’

Moments after this was announced on Sunday Morning on CBS the phone rang. Frank Stouffer was staring horrified at the screen as he screened the call. Then he turned to me and said, “We’ve been ordered back to Washington.”

Chapter 132: October Surprise

Sunday, September 10, 2000

The first thing we had to do was get out of the hotel. All of our cell phones were going nuts, and a few minutes later there was a knock on the door. Frank opened it to find the hotel manager. The lobby and front entrance were swamped, and he was having a hard time keeping reporters from slipping past the lobby. I nodded.

Turning to the others I said, “Everybody! Five minute drill! Get to your rooms and get packed, now!” I turned back to the manager. “I need two trucks or vans, to carry us and our luggage out the back. Can you make that happen?”

He stared for a second and said, “I guess so. They might not be very fancy, and I’ll need them back.”

I pulled out my wallet and slapped five one-hundred dollar bills in his hand. “We don’t need fancy. We need quiet. Can you make that happen?”

The hand went into his pocket. “I’ll get right on it.” He headed towards the door.

I grabbed his arm. “Hold it!” I turned to Frank. “Order the limos brought to the front door, right out where everybody is. Tell them we will be leaving in fifteen minutes.” To the manager I said, “Get those vans to the back door in ten minutes. Go!”

Ten minutes later the manager was escorting us out the back door into a pair of courtesy limos, oversized vans of the type you rode into to get to long term parking at the airport. I gave him another wad of cash and we headed out a side entrance and through a parking lot to a side road. Nobody followed.

We took off and headed towards Washington. Along the way we all read and reread the only information we had available, an Associated Press reprint of what was being published by the New York Times. It was a heavily slanted partial version of the U.S. Army’s armed incursion into Nicaragua, led by the crazed Captain Buckman. By the end of the story I was wondering if Martin Sheen was now heading upstream to kill Colonel Kurtz, or in this case, me.

I spent the rest of the trip back wondering about just how much the Times had gotten, and who had given it to them. This story had been buried for almost 19 years. I had rarely pushed the Bronze Star, and never, ever, told how I had earned it. I simply fell back on the Top Secret aspect and told people that I had sworn an oath and simply never budged from that point. From everything I had learned over the years, the Army had sunk this in the deepest vault they could find; it had not been the U.S. Army’s finest hour. Aside from the brass, though, who knew about it?

There were probably about a thousand soldiers and officers from the battalion task force who knew something about the mission, but while they would certainly talk about it to each other, they probably wouldn’t have said anything to a reporter, and wouldn’t have known anything damaging. The ones who knew the really dirty details probably numbered only a few dozen, and they would have been ordered to keep their mouths shut. The MPs and Provost Marshall’s staff had no reason to talk; they had moved on with their lives now and didn’t need their hometown newspapers writing stories about how they had arrested and beaten an injured officer. The various officers who had been cashiered didn’t need it either.

Politically, there had been about a half dozen of us in 1992 who knew about it, when this came up during the days leading up to the confirmation hearings for Hawkins. Nothing had been said at the time, and Hawkins had left Washington and announced that health concerns were keeping him from further public service. I had never heard about this from anybody in the days afterwards, but I figured it had to originate there. It hadn’t been forgotten or kept quiet. Somebody had told Bill Clinton. Now it was payback time!

I couldn’t do anything more until we landed, and we just didn’t have enough information from the one report. We would get into D.C. early afternoon, and be able to get a copy of the Times, and probably be able to watch the news. After that I would be able to meet with Governor Bush and figure out what was going to happen. This was a perfect example of a VP being more trouble than he’s worth. In some countries the job is an appointed position. It certainly made me wonder about our political system.

We landed at National in the late afternoon and managed to grab a copy of the New York Times as we headed on through the terminal. So far they were the only ones on this, but that would change by tomorrow. This was bound to be the big topic on tonight’s evening news, along with the very predictable response. “Governor Bush has full confidence in Congressman Buckman and eagerly anticipates being able to discuss this with him.” He just as eagerly was sharpening a machete, the better to hack me into small pieces with. The standard response in this would be to have me ‘voluntarily’ drop from the ticket, so that I could ‘concentrate my energies on fighting the lies and falsehoods.’ Don’t let the door hit you on the way out, by the way.

I read the article twice on the way to the hotel. The article in the Times gave more information than the AP piece. They were reporting that during an international exercise in Honduras, my unit was dropped incorrectly into neighboring Nicaragua. Despite orders to turn ourselves in to the Nicaraguan authorities, I had disobeyed those orders and captured a Nicaraguan airstrip. Then, as the helicopters were arriving to rescue my men and to arrest me, I summarily executed my prisoners and threatened to do the same to my soldiers if they said anything about what I had just done. Afterwards, back in Honduras, I was arrested and charged with mutiny, disobedience to orders, and murder, but was released rather than have the truth come out at trial, for national security reasons.

There was just enough truth to what was being reported that somebody must have leaked some sort of official documentation to them. They had all sorts of dates and places down accurately. The only other specifics were from the account given by ‘an unnamed source intimately involved in the cover-up.’ That was the damning part. So far it was almost all smoke and almost no fire, but that was going to change rapidly. Now that it was out in the open, other people would talk. Everybody who had been anywhere near Tegucigalpa that fall was going to find a microphone stuck in his face, and somebody was bound to talk.

Once we got to the hotel, a Secret Service agent was waiting for me and escorted me directly to the Governor’s suite. Unsurprisingly, Dick Cheney and Karl Rove were waiting for me as well. Nobody was smiling. “Well, I guess I know why we’re all here,” I told them, waving the newspaper.

“I sure hope that’s not an attempt to be funny, Carl,” replied George. He motioned us to some armchairs and we all sat down.

“Not hardly.”

“Is it true?” he asked, cutting to the chase.

“Not particularly, but there is just enough truth there to make it a problem,” I answered.

“Don’t get cute, Buckman!” snapped Cheney. “We asked you about this during the vetting process and you lied to us!”

“The hell I did, Dick! I told you that it was classified and I couldn’t talk about it. Not talking about it is a long way from lying, and don’t forget it!”

“Screw you, Buckman. I knew you would be a problem.”

George decided to calm things down, and said, “Forget the Top Secret stuff. That’s all behind us now. It’s all going to come out. You need to tell us what happened. All of it.”

I nodded. “Fair enough. Somebody decided to leak classified files, so that pretty much let’s me off the hook anyway.” I spent the next fifteen minutes telling the others what had happened and another ten pointing out the differences between what happened and what the Times was reporting. I did not admit to killing any prisoners, but simply reiterated my old line about releasing them.

“It doesn’t matter. They got their hands on something. By the end of the week they will have people swearing that you butchered these people with your bare hands,” said Rove.

“Karl, you haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about. Out of all of us who made that drop, only one person made a complaint and he made it all up. He never witnessed a damn thing. He lied then, and if he’s behind it now, he’s still lying,” I told him.

“So what? Pack your bags and go home. You’re off the ticket immediately,” he told me.

Dick Cheney looked over at the Governor. “Well, we’ll have to do now what we should have done two months ago. Tomorrow you’ll announce that this asshole is dropping out and you’re naming me to take his place. Let’s hope we can rebuild things after this disaster!”

“You know, Dick, for a guy with six deferments, you’re pretty damn mouthy when talking to somebody who, quote, solves his problems with ruthless violence, unquote.” That last part I read out of the article. “If I am guilty of any of this, then I’ve already killed five men, so what’s one more?”

His eyes opened wide at that, as did Rove’s. I ignored them and said, “Now, you two can go. I need to talk to the Governor about this.”

“Carl, I don’t see the point in protracting this,” commented George Bush.

I turned my gaze on him. “Oh, I disagree. I’d like to discuss commitment with you, George. You know, the difference between commitment and involvement. Man to man.” I turned back to the other two. “You two are excused.”

They stared at me, and then stared at Bush when he said, “Why don’t you two go out for a bit and have a drink? We’ll be done in a few minutes.”

The Governor and I waited until all the doors clicked shut, and then he turned back to me, a hard look on his face. “I don’t care what you are thinking. There is no way you are staying in the campaign after this mess!”

I smiled at him. “George, do you remember when you offered me this position, how we talked about the difference between the chicken and the pig, and how you were looking for somebody committed, like the pig? Remember how we discussed that commitment, man to man? Do you remember that conversation?”

“This totally changes things, Carl! I can’t be held to something said then, when I didn’t know all the facts.”

“So, you do remember the conversation. Good! Well, I’ve committed ten million facts so far. I told you then that my word and my deals are very, very important to me. Didn’t you believe me?” I asked.

He blustered, “That has nothing to do with this!”

“George, do you think for one single second that I am going to let you weasel away with ten million dollars of my money?”

“There is nothing you can do about it!”

I laughed at him. “George, right now you are thinking that if I tell somebody I bribed you, nobody will believe me. It will be the crazed ramblings of a desperate man, right?” I could see in his eyes he had this all figured out. “One small problem, George. I have the account numbers where I wired the money to, and I have slips of paper with your fingerprints and your DNA on them from giving me those account numbers. They are locked in the deepest vault imaginable. If I leave this room as anything other than your continued Vice Presidential nominee, I will head directly to the Justice Department and see if they understand commitment.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” he hissed.

“How long do you think those guys will take to trace that money, especially when I give them the account that I paid it out of?”

“They’ll arrest you for this!”

I wagged my finger at him. “They’ll arrest us, George. They’ll arrest us! You think anybody’s going to care about Nicaragua after you get photographed doing a perp walk in handcuffs? I don’t think your Daddy can write a pardon retroactively.”

“You’ll be in handcuffs, too.”

I shrugged. “Yes, I will. I will be ruined. I’ll have to resign my seat in the House. My name will be mud. I will be charged with all sorts of things. I will have to hire the finest lawyers in the country to get me out of jail, and I will probably have to pay a fine in the millions of dollars, maybe a billion dollars. And most important of all, I will have to turn State’s Evidence against you! The one thing I won’t be doing is spending any time in prison. You, on the other hand, will bankrupt yourself and your father fighting this, and you will spend time in jail. I don’t think you’d do very well in prison, George. As for me, well…” I waved the newspaper loosely. “… I’m a ruthless killer. I can handle it easily in case I end up there.”

George Bush looked like he was about to vomit. After a couple of quiet minutes he said, “You son of a bitch!”

“I told you, George, I was committed. That cuts both ways, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, damn you!” He had surrendered.

“Why don’t you wash your face and let’s invite Dick and Karl back in, and give them the good news?”

“Don’t push it, you bastard!” I kept quiet and he composed himself, and then went to the door. A few minutes later Cheney and Rove came in. They found us sitting on the couch, side by side, and chatting amicably. Bush motioned for them to have a seat, and then said, “Carl has convinced me that this is a situation that can be dealt with, and dealt with positively.”

“You have got to be kidding!” exclaimed Rove. Cheney simply stared like we had both grown second heads.

“No, not at all. Let’s face it; Thomas Eagleton proved the danger of swapping nominees. The Governor will be slammed for pushing me out and abandoning me. No, he’ll be hurt badly doing that. The only thing we can do is fight this,” I answered.

Rove turned to me and said, “And just how do we do that?! This is a fucking disaster!”

“Two parts. One is that the Governor supports me fully and knows my innocence. He is standing by his principles. This is all politics and Bill Clinton releasing classified information for political purposes. Blah, blah, blah. Part two is me. I’ll handle this mess,” I told them, holding up the newspaper.

“How?” asked Rove, incredulously.

“First steps first. Call CBS and get me on 60 Minutes with Mike Wallace doing the interview. Make that call as soon as I leave. I want that interview as soon as possible,” I told them.

Cheney said, “You’ve lost your mind!”

I slammed down the newspaper on the coffee table. “I used to be a soldier, and a damn good one. I think it’s time some people in this town learn just what that means! Get the hell out of my way, gentlemen, and watch! I am going to war!”

I left them in stunned silence and went down to a car waiting for me. I went over to the house on 30^th, where several reporters had set up camp, though none were daring to push past my security people. I went inside, ignoring their yelled questions, and went into my office. I was beat, but needed to get some work done. The first call was to Marilyn, who had been getting hounded by reporters. I told her everything would be fine, and that I was still the VP nod. I told her I was staying in Washington until this was over, and to reassure the girls and not to worry. Then I made myself a stiff drink and started making notes on a pad of paper.

The one thing I didn’t quite understand was the relative crudity of the attack. Slick Willie was a master of manipulation. He could have slit my throat much more easily. Start out with a whisper campaign in the Senate, in the Intelligence and Armed Services committees. Start simple, with an investigation into possible false claims of military medals among Congressmen and Senators, something that would require a very quiet review of classified records. Then, leak the investigation to the Times, but don’t give any names out. Let the media start figuring out which politicians have medals. Then convene some very quiet and discreet hearings, and clear most of the people, but not everyone. At some point leak that Congressman Buckman didn’t pass muster, but that nobody could do something about it. It leaves me swinging at ghosts and rumors.

You’re going to have to throw a Democrat to the wolves. You have to be bipartisan. Who do we sacrifice? It will have to be somebody in a district that will stay Democratic. How about John Kerry of Massachussets? It will be easy to find somebody to damn him, since he turned anti-war afterwards. He won’t be up for re-election until 2002, so he can be ‘rehabilitated’ by then, evidence can be found to prove he earned the medals after all.

A campaign like that can work very well, but it takes time to make it happen. It could easily take a month of whispers to get George Bush to drop me. Didn’t they figure they had enough time? Did Al Gore’s pick of Kerry throw off the idea of killing a hero off? I knew that Al and Bill had differences, but weren’t they even talking, or had Al killed off the idea and Bill was running it anyway? Too many questions…

I ended up having a drink or two too many and woke up sitting in my armchair about four in the morning, my notepad still in my lap. I shook myself awake and headed upstairs. I might as well get some work done. I told the security guys to get the ball rolling on a car, and took a shower and shaved, then dressed. I skipped breakfast other than some juice and Advils, and glanced out the front window. A few reporters were stirring, seeing the lights on in my house. I smirked at that. I told Jerry, “Let’s go.” We left the lights on and headed out the back door, through the back yard, and out a small gate in the fence. Then it was a ten foot hike through some brush to the street and into a car. As we drove down the street I glanced back and saw the reporters still standing there in the early morning chill.

We snuck into the Rayburn building through the garage. The only people in at that time of the morning were some very early staffers and some more reporters assigned to hang around my office. We brushed through them, ignoring their yelling, and closed them out.

“Jerry, you want to make a phone call and hustle up something to eat for us? McDonald’s would do. Just something,” I asked him.

He grabbed his phone and asked, “Anything particular in mind?”

I shrugged. “Something from the four major food groups, you know — salt, cholesterol, caffeine, and sugar.”

He laughed at that. “I’ll order some bagels and cream cheese up, too.”

“Fair enough. Thank you.”

While Jerry did his thing, I pulled the pages I had torn off my notepad and laid them on my desk. I was going to be making a lot of phone calls, and probably waking people up, but if I was going to get anything accomplished, I needed to start right now. At a minimum I needed to find out just what Clinton had leaked to the Times. The Army floats on a sea of paperwork, even if it is a classified sea. There must have been after action reports, JAG inquiries and investigations, documentation ordering us to do what we were doing. Only some of this seemed to be leaked. The only way to fight this was for me to do a full disclosure and technically violate my security oath. I found this mildly distasteful, but only mildly. Somebody else had really blown the doors open on this, so my keeping silent was useless now.

Anybody else keeping silent was also going to be useless. I still had contacts at the Pentagon from when I had been on the Armed Services Committee and Veterans Affairs Committee. What I needed now was names of people who could testify to what had happened. It had been 19 years. By now most would have left the military, even the lifers, with 20+ years in. A few might still be in. Simply because of time, some would have died and some would have moved and been lost track of. Still, the odds were that several of the guys who were in C Company would be available, and I trusted them more than I trusted Bill Clinton. Clinton would know he would need more than a 19 year old report to jam me up, too. He must have somebody on tap as the unnamed source in the cover-up. Who? It would have to be one of the bad guys. Hawkins getting me back for ’92? That shithead Provost Marshall or the numbnuts second john, whatever their names were? I was going to have to get copies of the records myself for review.

When my staff arrived, I greeted them and gave them all a basic rundown. No, I wasn’t a serial killer. Yes, I was being set up by the President. Yes, I needed their help, as much as possible. No, don’t say jack to the press. I was passed copies of the Times and the Washington Post, and found more information was being leaked. The basement of the Pentagon was being turned into a sieve. Sunday’s stuff was just the appetizer. Now there were intimations that I had managed, with collusion from high places, to block the JAG investigation back in 1981. How a fucking captain could do that was left unanswered. There were also two unnamed sources now, with more expected to come forth. Until now they were reportedly too afraid of my retribution to come out. Joy!

I also cut a cartoon out of the Post. It wasn’t the first cartoon of me. Those had started right after I was picked as George Bush’s VP pick. They generally portrayed me as tall and slender, sort of a trimmed down Karl Malden, balding, and with a noticeably busted up nose. Ever since I had rescued Stormy, Stormy had been appearing in some of the cartoons as a St. Bernard with a barrel under her neck labeled ‘Votes’. Today’s had me with a sweatband tied around my forehead, carrying a machine gun with ammo belts criss-crossing my bare chest. The caption? ‘Rambuckman!’

I made my immediate response team out of Marty, Frank, Carter, and Mindy, my long time secretary. Carter Braxton was nervous when he came in, but he thanked me for standing by him and said he would do the same for me. I thanked him and put him to work. I put everybody to work calling the Pentagon and the VA, to track down people. I needed a roster of names from C Company and Bravo Battery. Even if the Pentagon didn’t have current addresses, pension checks still needed to be mailed out.

While everybody was combing the bureaucracy for information, I took a slightly different tack. I called Newt Gingrich at his home in McLean, Virginia, one of the nicer Washington suburbs. I managed to catch him before he left for his think tank office. I wasn’t sure he would take my call, but if need be, I would head over there hat in hand. I had to talk to him.

“Newt, it’s Carl Buckman. Do you have a few minutes?”

He hesitated for a second. “Carl? I’ll be damned. What’s it been, two years?”

Thanks for the reminder, Newt. Yes, two years ago I helped maneuver you out of the Speakership and the House. Now, will you help me or shiv me? Who do you hate more, me or Bill Clinton? “Not quite. Year and a half, maybe. Got a few minutes?”

“Sorry you stopped the impeachment, are you?” he asked.

Yes, gloat, you fat bastard! If Newt Gingrich wanted me to eat some shit, I was going to have to smile and dig in. “I’m starting to wonder, I have to admit that. Yes, I am starting to wonder.”

“Well, I’m sure you didn’t call me so you could hear me tell you I told you so. What’s on your mind, Carl?”

“Newt, I need some help, and if listening to you chew on me is the price, I’ll pay it. Feel free to throw some dirt on my grave, because God knows there are other people ahead of you in line,” I admitted.

“What do you need, Carl?”

“Well, you know my problem. Now, back in ’92, when Clinton tried to run that asshole general into State, you were one of the people who got the Pentagon to verify my story. It was you and Boren. I need to know who you talked to and how you verified it,” I told him.

“You’re trying to figure out what was leaked, aren’t you?”

“It’s a starting point, anyway.”

“You’ll need the whole file. I’m not sure who’s running that section now, but you’ll need to talk to…” He gave me a couple of names and offices; I’d have to find the phone numbers myself. Convincing them to release the file to me was my problem.

“Newt, I appreciate it. When this is all over you’ll have to come out for dinner. Marilyn can hold me down while you kick me in the ass.”

“Count on it! Nice talking to you, Rambuckman.” Great! If it wasn’t such a mess, I’d laugh, too. He hung up and I started tracking down the file on this disaster.

All sorts of stuff gets classified, and not all classifications are the same. At the top of the list is code worded material. You might have a Top Secret security clearance, but a file might be ‘Top Secret — Pembrook’, which meant that even if you had a Top Secret clearance, unless you had Pembrook clearance you weren’t allowed to know about whatever Pembrook was. Likewise, Pembrook people might not be able to see Top Secret — Brookfield stuff without the Brookfield clearance. This was for the really important stuff, like the nuclear launch codes and the names of spies.

Next down the list is the stuff that is secret but is going to be known sooner or later, like where the aircraft carrier was heading or how fast a bomber could fly. You really don’t want the bad guys to know this stuff, but sooner or later they will learn, usually when the carrier shows up or the bomber flies by. There are various gradations of this stuff, and it is pretty serious, but it really isn’t code worded. For instance, while the location of an aircraft carrier might be Top Secret today, 19 years from now nobody will care.

At the lowest level is a vast sea of crap that people basically don’t want to see in the newspaper. The State Department didn’t want front page headlines made of what they were saying to the Iranians through Swiss intermediaries, not until a deal was finalized, that sort of thing. A lot of it is simply embarrassing to somebody, which is where the Nicaraguan jaunt came in. There were international ramifications, plus it was embarrassing to the Army that they had managed to lose one of their platoons for almost a week, and kill a few soldiers while they were doing it. Well, it was time for some embarrassment.

Karl Rove called mid afternoon. I was to be in New York the next morning at the CBS studios at 9 AM sharp. Then he told me that he didn’t know what kind of hold I had on the Governor, but he would see me dead and buried before this was over. I thanked him for the support and hung up.

Somebody over in the Pentagon must have been sympathetic to my cause, because I got a lot of information. If they don’t want you to learn stuff, they can make it next to impossible, at least in the short term. My bet was that what Clinton was trying to do was pissing somebody off. He had never had any sort of decent respect from or for the military, and it was showing this way. His predecessor, Bush 41, had been widely respected by the rank and file as a certified hero from World War II. Clinton’s reputation was as a draft dodging and pot smoking hippie hiding out in England while the Viet Nam War was going on. By late afternoon several large envelopes were messengered over. I looked through them and found a lot of useful information. Not all and not enough, but it was a start at least. I made copies of everything and went home.

I called Marilyn that night and talked to her and the twins. I tried to keep it light but I don’t think it was working. Marilyn pretty much knew the entire story from back then, but to the girls it was new. They knew their old man had a medal, but I never talked about it, and now the newspapers were calling me a bloodthirsty butcher. They were scared, not of me but of what might happen to me. The New York Post was calling for my arrest. I just told them to not worry, and that their old man was going to be just fine. I would be home for the weekend.

Tuesday morning I got up very early, and Frank and I flew to New York. For once I wasn’t taking a huge retinue with me. We took the LongRanger, and landed at the West 30^th Street Heliport in New York, the closest heliport to the CBS studios on West 57^th. A car was waiting to take us to the studio, and the helo would fly to JFK to refuel and wait for us. We made it to the studio by 8:30.

It was interesting, in that I had never been on 60 Minutes before. I had been on the Sunday morning talk shows before, but not 60 Minutes. There was definitely something of entering the lion’s den about it all. I met Mike Wallace and his producer and said hello, and then was ushered off to makeup. After that I was shown into a studio with just a couple of armchairs and several cameras. The cameras were aimed so that there was one pointing at each of us individually, and a third to catch us facing each other. What I didn’t tell anyone was that I had a very expensive tape recorder in my jacket pocket, voice activated and with a long battery life and long tape. Not that I didn’t trust them, but better to make sure the editing wasn’t a hack job.

One way or the other, this was all going to be over in a few weeks anyway. The show would be on this Sunday night, and my counterattack would begin then. I’d know within a week’s time if it worked or not. If not, I would pack up and head home and get out of the politics game. If it worked, I would bury Bill Clinton with a stake through his heart. More and more I realized that this was all Bill Clinton getting back at me for a variety of troubles, the most recent being the censure. Al Gore had been close to the Clintons, but the Lewinsky affair had devastated their relationship. Bill had told Al in a personal meeting, face-to-face, that he hadn’t cheated on his wife, and Al was a straight arrow. He felt betrayed, and didn’t take much campaign advice from the best politician of our age. Not only was Clinton getting back at me, he was proving his worth to Gore and hedging his bets for a future role. On the other hand, if I beat this, not only did I screw over Bill Clinton, Al Gore was going to look like a fucking moron.

By quarter after, Wallace came out and sat down in his chair, and after a few minutes of sound checks and other technical crap, we were able to start the interview.

Wallace: “Congressman Buckman, thank you for coming on our show.”

Me: “Thank you for having me. It’s like the old joke about having good news and bad news. The good news is that 60 Minutes wants to interview you. The bad news is they sent Mike Wallace.”

Wallace: “Congressman, my understanding is that you asked for me, not the other way around. Why is that?”

Me: “That’s true. I did ask for you, so that the American people will know that what I am telling them is the truth.”

Wallace: “How so?”

Me: “At one time Walter Cronkite was known as the most trusted reporter in America. Your reputation is the most feared reporter in America. You are the toughest interviewer around.”

Wallace: “So you think that if you can get something past me, you’ll be safe.”

Me: “No, because I don’t think I can get something past you. When you show this interview, the American people are going to think you did a fair presentation. If I survive, then maybe I’m not a bloodthirsty maniac after all.”

At that point Wallace gave a brief summary of what I had been accused of in the papers. As of this morning, one of my accusers was named, and it was indeed General Hawkins, coming back for his pound of flesh. I kept my mouth shut during the summary.

Wallace: “That is a summarized version of the story that the New York Times is reporting. Is that accurate?”

Me: “It is a summary of what the Times is reporting, but it is not an accurate summary of what actually happened.”

Wallace: “So your memory of events is different.”

Me: “It’s not just my memory that should be checked.”

With that, I pulled my briefcase from beside the chair I was sitting in, and opened it on my lap, and pulled out several large manila envelopes. They had tried to keep it off camera, but I had insisted it be there.

Me: “Up until now I haven’t spoken of this publicly, due to the Top Secret classification that was placed on the events. Inasmuch as the White House has seemingly declassified this, I can now speak. I only had about a day to pull together the information I am handing you now, but I am sure that it will give you a place to start in your own investigation. In those envelopes is at least a partial file on what happened in Honduras and Nicaragua. Also, I was able to find at least some names of personnel who were on that mission, as well as some names of others in attached units.”

Wallace: (Staring briefly at the envelopes) “You say that these are only some of the files and names.”

Me: “Correct. This only came to light on Sunday, and I only had yesterday to begin to piece this together. Some of the files, specifically the Judge Advocate General’s final investigation report, simply were not available to me. They were not stored in the Pentagon, but at the JAG headquarters. As for the names of the personnel, it’s been almost twenty years. Most of them have left the military and are all across the country. I did the best I could, but I am sure that some have died and some never left forwarding addresses, that sort of thing.”

At that point the producer yelled, “CUT!” He and Wallace conferred and the envelopes were examined and then passed off to some assistants, probably to be reviewed and either used to contradict what I was saying, or to be followed up on. What I was hoping for was that one of the guys on the drop might be able to be reached and be able to say the story was rank bullshit. Then again, with my luck, the only guy they would reach would be the asshole lieutenant who had landed me in hot water.

After a few minutes asking me about the files and sending them off the set, we went back to the interview.

Wallace: “So, you are saying that what is being reported is not what really happened. Could you tell us what really happened?”

Me: “Of course.”

At that, I spent about half an hour going over the actual mission to Honduras and what we were supposed to be doing there, that fateful and fucked up drop, and the slog back home. Then I told about the arrest back at base, my treatment by the Provost Marshall’s office, and my waking up in a hospital in confinement. I knew at least 90 percent would be cut, but that would be their job. I had my secret tape recorder going if they tried to hatchet me.

Wallace: “According to you, General Hawkins refused to have you airlifted to rescue until you blackmailed him into it. Why did he do that? It would seem to me that getting you home faster made it less likely that you would be captured.”

Me: “That is something I have given a lot of thought to over the years. The best I can figure is that Hawkins was a very political general. From what I have seen of his record, he has never actually been in combat or even been close to it. His Viet Nam experience was limited to headquarters duty in Saigon. Regardless, I don’t think he cared what happened to us, as long as it didn’t mess up his career. All he cared about was not making his own record look bad. If we were captured by my blundering around, well, that was the fault of my poor training and judgment, and the fault of the 82^nd Airborne for letting me lead troops. If he sent helicopters in to rescue us, however, he would be taking direct responsibility, and if something happened, then it would be on his head.”

Wallace: “That’s an astonishing thing to say! And afterwards, you claim that he ordered your arrest and subsequent torture to extract a confession?”

Me: “I think torture is a bit overblown. I got a good thumping, though, and the guy who gave it got a bit carried away. I really wouldn’t call it torture.”

Wallace: “But you claim that he ordered an American officer to be beaten into unconsciousness.”

Me: “My understanding is that he ordered the Provost Marshall to offer me generous terms if I confessed, and urged that I be convinced of the error of my ways, and the Provost Marshall claims that an overzealous MP was actually responsible. You can believe as much of that as you want to.”

Wallace: “And after you came to in the hospital, what happened?”

Me: “I woke up in a hospital in Guantanamo, at the Navy base where I had been flown while I was unconscious. I was in a confinement ward. While there I was interviewed by a JAG lawyer, who then told me of the final disposition of his investigation. First and foremost, everything about the drop was classified Top Secret. Pretty much every officer involved was being relieved of command and sent packing, including me. I would get the Bronze Star for getting the guys home, but my career was over. If I wanted to ever see my wife and family, I was to keep my mouth shut and go with the flow.”

Wallace: “What happened to General Hawkins?”

Me: “Shortly afterwards, he was promoted to Major General and received a posting at NATO headquarters. He eventually was promoted to Lieutenant General before he retired.”

Wallace: “He was promoted?”

Me: “Yes.”

At that point Wallace began trying to pick apart the details of my story. Why was I there? Why did I take command? Why did we have so many casualties? The biggest thing was, of course, the prisoners we had taken at the airfield.

Wallace: “Why did you capture the prisoners? What purpose did they serve?”

Me: “No purpose whatsoever. However, this was the place we were ordered to be at for the evacuation, and we had to secure the site. These were armed guards and leaving them alone would mean that I would be asking unarmed helicopters to come into a hot LZ. No way was that going to happen! We took control of the airfield and captured the guards, and then tied them up. We would release them prior to our evacuation.”

Wallace: “But you didn’t release them. You killed them. At least that is the claim being made against you.”

Me: “That claim was made by Second Lieutenant Fairfax, who is also the only person who made that claim. Second Lieutenant Fairfax did not witness me release the prisoners. In fact he was at least fifty yards away, on the other side of the airfield, when I released them. If you ask any of the other soldiers who were there, they would report that he could not possibly have seen what he reported. It was pitch black. All anybody could say was that I fired my pistol to hurry them off the airfield.”

Wallace: “Then why did he claim that you had killed them?”

Me: “You’ll have to ask him that, and then ask the others who were there if they witnessed me killing the prisoners. I think he was simply getting back at me for relieving him of command and making him look bad. He also charged me with leading a mutiny, destruction of Army property, failure to obey orders, and pretty much anything else he could come up with, all of which were dismissed.”

Wallace: “And the claim that you were released for political reasons?”

Me: “For one thing, as far as anybody knew at the time, I was just one more captain without any pull. Besides, even if you assume they let me off the hook for national security reasons or some such, why give me the medal? That doesn’t make any sense.”

Wallace: “None of the prisoners ever came forth to complain. Is this another example of dead men telling no tales?”

Me: “The fact that four drug runners never came forth to file a complaint isn’t an argument! When we left, we blew up over half a ton of cocaine that would have come here to America. Millions of dollars worth of cocaine were destroyed by my command. Which is more likely, that I killed four drug runners in cold blood with witnesses, or that their own bosses buried them in a shallow grave in the jungle?”

Wallace: “Why did you destroy the drugs? Were you actually there on a drug raid?”

Me: “We were not there on a drug raid. We were there because we were dumped there by a lost pilot. Would you have preferred those drugs to come to America? No, we dumped kerosene all over them and blew them up.”

He asked about my return to the States after it was all over.

Wallace: “You state that all the officers were separated from the Army afterwards. Including you?”

Me: “Yes. In some cases they were allowed to retire early. In others they were simply told that when their current time was up, not to bother asking to stay in. In my case I was told I was going to get a medical discharge. After I was released from Walter Reed Hospital, I went home and found that somebody had already packed up my personal possessions from my office and brought them over. I was not even offered the chance to pack up my own belongings. The only time I spent on base after that was either physical therapy at the hospital or when I received the medal and left the Army.”

Eventually he ran out of things to question me on. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen in editing, or if he was even going to check with any of the other guys in the drop. If he wanted to, he could edit this thing enough to make me look like a concentration camp commandant. Then we got to the summary.

Wallace: “Have you ever thought back to that day?”

Me: “I think about it every day. Every time I use my cane, I am reminded of the price I paid that day, and the price others paid, so that a General could look good. I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I had just said NO when we were ordered to get on the planes.”

Wallace: “Do you think that would have changed things?”

Me: “I don’t know. Maybe. I would have been arrested and court-martialed, but I could have beaten that. Maybe somebody else would have said no, too. If enough of us had done that, maybe he would have cancelled it. I just don’t know. Instead I went along, and we had a disaster. If you want to charge me with something, then charge me with letting my personal sense of courage and duty override the duty I had to those around me. That’s what I was really guilty of.”

After that I left and flew home. It was out of my hands now.

Chapter 133: ‘The Buckman Crisis’

Sunday, September 17, 2000

We flew home and I felt exhausted and drained. My very future was on the line and it seemed like the Fates were conspiring against me. By the time I got around to watching the news that night, we had gone international. Both Honduras and Nicaragua were demanding my head, although the U.S. could keep the other pieces. Honduras was screaming that I had defamed them somehow, even though I hadn’t made any public pronouncements at all. Nicaragua, now being run by the ‘Contras’ and not the Sandinistas, was still pretty volatile, and they were demanding I return and stand trial for invading their country and killing their citizens.

George Bush was still campaigning. The official message was that he had full faith and confidence in me and that the charges were a baseless political attack by the Clinton White House. I was working to prove these false claims were lies and wouldn’t be available for a few days while I did this. I had talked to George late Monday and told him my plans for today, and called him that Tuesday evening to let him know what had happened with 60 Minutes. We were expecting it to be broadcast on Sunday evening.

We were still trying to piece together who was doing this. It was much harsher and blunter than Clinton’s normal antics. I wondered if it was Carville. James Carville and Dick Morris had always been his go-to guys for dirty tricks, with Carville being the hammer and Morris being the velvet glove. Morris was gone, though, brought down by a prostitution scandal during the last election. This felt more like James Carville playing hard and fast with the truth, and consequences be damned. I was pretty sure it wasn’t Cheney or Rove, though. They didn’t want me around either, but the time to slit my throat was before the convention, not after.

Once I was back home, Marilyn and I had a long talk with the girls about what had happened back in 1981, and what was happening now. I warned them that it was going to get crazier before it got better, and told them not to talk to reporters. If anybody asked them questions they were to simply tell them to find me or their mother. It didn’t matter if it was a reporter, a teacher, or another student, but they weren’t supposed to talk about it. It was more than I could ask of them, but I needed their help. They were suitably impressed and made solemn oaths not to talk. I smiled over at their mother when they said that, and we sent them on their way. Charlie was back at sea now, heading towards Australia and amphibious training with the Aussies, and probably wouldn’t have a chance to call any time soon. We did get a few emails from him after the story broke, telling me he believed me and not the newspapers.

Wednesday proved to be a mixed bag. I stayed at home, but was on the phone all day. On the bad news side, Honduras recalled their ambassador for ‘discussions’ and Nicaragua decided to sever diplomatic relations with the United States. The evening news shows were now referring to this as ‘The Buckman Crisis’ and forecasting gloom and doom over our international relations with everybody south of the Rio Grande. Likewise, I was contacted by somebody from the Justice Department, asking me to come in for ‘discussions’, and I referred them to my lawyer, Tucker Potsdam, who I had instructed to sit on everything and stall them until I had this under control. The moment I showed up at any U.S. Attorney’s office, there would be flashbulbs and cameras, and the very real possibility of a perp walk. I needed to stay away from the Justice Department as long as possible.

On the plus side, however, I began to get some phone calls from retired soldiers all across the country, guys from both Bravo Battery and C Company. Initially they called my office in Congress, but after Marty heard about them, he called me. We had a rule that nobody got my home number, but this was the exception to the rule. They were to be called back and given my personal phone number. By early evening, as guys began drifting home from work and began getting messages to call a newspaper or television station, I began getting phone calls at home. By Wednesday various news organizations were using their own sources to dig up names and addresses of people who might know something.

I have to admit, there was a tremendous feeling of relief as I answered some of these calls. No matter how much of a cloud I had gone out with, almost all of the calls were offering support, even from the guys I had never had contact with. When they asked what they should do, I told them to tell the truth, especially if 60 Minutes came calling. The only way I could survive was if some of the guys who had been there that day said so and said it was all bullshit.

Thursday and Friday simpler got louder and stranger. My prepared statement that Governor Bush had full faith and confidence in me was wearing thin. By Thursday evening CBS was running promotional ads with video of Mike Wallace questioning me in a menacing manner, and promising that Sunday night was going to be a special broadcast. I took that as a good thing. If it had been the standard 15 minute segment, then it meant they weren’t getting any rebuttal witnesses. Meanwhile, the Justice Department announced they were considering charges related to both war crimes and civil rights violations. It seemed that drug dealers in foreign countries had American constitutional rights; whether I still had any was under discussion.

It was becoming clear that 60 Minutes was talking to some of the guys who had made the jump and wanted them to do a taped interview. I got a couple of calls from guys asking what they should do and I told them to do the interview and simply be honest. If they were asked what they saw, and they didn’t see anything, then say it. The most interesting guy who called was Alex Briscoe, the senior sergeant on the plane. He had retired after the Gulf War as an E-8 Master Sergeant. We talked about what was going on, and he told me what he had been hearing as well. He was tied in with some old timer non-coms and they passed around news and such. Several of the non-coms had been contacted by the Justice Department and warned against speaking on camera, as it might be considered interference with an ongoing investigation. I found that quite interesting. I asked him to call some of those guys back and get me some names and phone numbers, and not to worry about the Justice Department. I would handle that.

Sunday night we ate dinner early enough so that at 7:00 we could watch television. Needless to say, 60 Minutes was delayed almost half an hour by a football game. I tried to pay attention, but I just couldn’t care; Minnesota was at New England and I didn’t particularly like either team.

Stormy was in seventh heaven, however. She had four laps to choose from and eight hands to rub her belly and scratch her head. She began jumping from lap to lap testing us to see which of us was better at spoiling her. You had to brace yourself when she jumped into your lap. She seemed to take more after her St. Bernard father than her Golden Retriever mix mother. She looked like an all brown St. Bernard, only a bit shaggier. And she was big! She was now somewhere around four months old, and weighed between forty and fifty pounds, and was growing at about four pounds a week! She was monstrous! This was, without a doubt, the largest dog I had ever owned, and I could easily foresee her to be growing bigger than Marilyn or the girls.

Eventually the show started, and it looked to be a doozie! Mike Wallace was sitting on the stool in front of a picture of me, with the caption ‘The Buckman Crisis’ overwritten on the photo. He announced that tonight’s entire show was going to be on the Buckman Crisis and my response to it, and further, that the regular show was being expanded to 90 minutes instead of the regular 60. That was news to me. I wasn’t sure what he could scrape up for that much time. A typical 60 Minutes show contains three 13 minute segments and about 3 minutes of Andy Rooney at the end. The numbers only add up to about 42 minutes, with the rest being commercials between the segments.

With that he went directly into the first segment, a discussion of the charges against me followed by excerpts from the interview with me. I was pleasantly surprised in that it wasn’t a hack job, although an awful lot of stuff was left on the cutting room floor. Most of the background material, on why we were there and why we were sent, was reduced to ‘a routine training deployment.’ Still, there are different ways to edit a story, and it wasn’t done anti-Buckman.

After the commercial break, the next segment was introduced by Wallace with the statement “So far all that has been heard on the events in Honduras and Nicaragua has been either the allegations of misconduct by General Anthony Hawkins, his accuser, or by Congressman Carl Buckman. Still, others served with Captain Buckman, and they have their own stories.” The segment opened with Wallace and another man seated in armchairs, much like we had been on Tuesday. Wallace did a voiceover at that, and explained he was talking to Maxwell Fletcher, a project manager for a commercial contractor in Boston, and ‘Executive Officer of Bravo Battery under the command of Captain Carl Buckman.’ He had left the Army after fourteen years, as a major.

I blinked and stared at the image. “Holy shit! It’s Max!” I exclaimed. Marilyn and the girls turned to face me. I looked at my wife and pointed at the screen. “It’s Max!” Marilyn just gave me a blank look, so I waved her off and looked back at the screen. Max was older and heavier, and now had a mustache, but I remembered him. He had been a 2^nd Lieutenant when he was first assigned to Bravo Battery, did well, and was promoted to 1^st Lieutenant when I made Captain and was given command of the battery.

Wallace: “Major Fletcher, your first assignment in the Army was to Bravo Battery, Captain Buckman’s outfit, isn’t that correct?”

Max: “Pretty much. I was a Second Lieutenant just out of jump school and artillery school and was assigned to the 1^st of the 319^th. When I got there I was introduced to Carl Buckman, who was a First Lieutenant.”

Wallace: “What was he like?”

Max: “It was actually kind of strange when I first met Carl. I had been told that I was being assigned to the best battery in the battalion, and then was told I was meeting the commanding officer. The next guy I met was this young guy, only about a year older than I was, but he was already the exec of the battery and pretty much its commanding officer.”

Wallace: “Pretty much? What do you mean?”

Max: “We had a captain but he was leaving, and we were on our own for awhile. For the next year or so we would get a new captain every few months, but they wouldn’t work out and leave. Meanwhile Carl Buckman was actually running the best battery in the division. I found out later on that eventually the colonel just left Carl in command and stopped trying to find captains for us.”

Wallace: “Was that unusual?”

Max: “Very unusual. Captains run batteries, not lieutenants, and definitely not lieutenants who have only been out of artillery school for a year or so. Carl Buckman was just one hell of a lieutenant!”

Wallace: “What was he like?”

Max: “He was one of the finest officers I ever served under. After we met, the first thing he told me was that there were no bad troops, only bad officers. He held himself to a very high standard, and he held his officers to that same standard. We were expected to hold our non-coms, the sergeants and corporals, to a high standard and we were expected to make sure they held the rest of the troops to a high standard. He expected us to be the best battery in the unit.”

Wallace: “So he was a martinet?”

Max: “Hardly! Carl had a surprisingly dry sense of humor, and most importantly, the troops respected him. Troops know when an officer knows what he’s doing, and Carl Buckman knew what he was doing. He was tough but fair, kept the [bleeped] to a minimum, and kept battalion and division off their necks.”

Wallace: “Did the men like him?”

Max: “That wasn’t important to him. Doc didn’t care if they liked him or not. What was important was that they respected him and obeyed orders. That was one of the first things he would teach his officers, that they weren’t in the like or dislike business. If they couldn’t hack that, he would give them the address to the dog pound and a transfer out. They could pick up a puppy if they wanted to be liked.”

Wallace: “He was known as Doc?”

Max: “Yeah, well, he was a doctor, right? Everybody knew about the boy genius with the doctorate in math. He hated the nickname, though. You never said it to his face, not unless you outranked him. The majors and colonels all called him Doc.”

Wallace: “You were in Honduras with him, correct?”

At that point Mike Wallace began quizzing Max about the deployment and why we were there. Max verified what I had said, and then Wallace asked why I had made the drop.

Max: “Carl told me that it was going to be his last drop with the battery. We already knew he was transferring out as soon as we got home. He had this plum assignment lined up at Fort Sill, and a stint at command school after that. He figured he’d do one last drop, have a little fun, and go home. Boy, did he get that wrong!”

That pretty much ended Max’s participation in this, and the next scene had Wallace facing three men who were sitting on bar stools and facing him. They were introduced as ‘Alex Briscoe, Raul Gonzalez, and John Thompson.’ As I looked at them, memories came flooding back. I had talked to Briscoe the other day, but not Gonzalez or Thompson. Thompson had been the RTO with us, and Gonzalez had been one of my Spanish speaking scouts on the hike home. Wallace gave a quick bio on each man, specifying that they had all seen action in the Eighties and had all left the Army after twenty or more years of service. He even told what they had done after they left the service. Briscoe worked security for a casino, Gonzalez owned a small used car sales lot, and Thompson was in the telecomm field.

Wallace: “Sergeant Briscoe, what was so special about this mission? What made it different than normal?”

Briscoe: “It was all messed up. That idiot general wanted to make Brownie points with the Hondos, so he had them drop us out of World War II C-47s. None of us had ever even seen a plane that old, let alone trained in one. And he didn’t want to hear it when he was told it wasn’t safe. We were going or he’d have us all up on charges.”

Wallace: “Couldn’t you refuse?”

Gonzalez: “Hey, the guy was a general and I was a private. You obey orders or go to Leavenworth. It’s pretty straight forward. We got on the plane and made the jump.”

Wallace: “What were your ranks and what did you do during the jump?”

Briscoe: “At the time I was a Sergeant First Class, and I was the senior non-com on the plane.”

Gonzalez: “I was a PFC, Private First Class. I spoke Spanish, so after we landed, the Captain assigned me as one of the scouts.”

Thompson: “I was a Spec 4, the radio operator. I just followed the Captain around and ran the radio.”

Wallace: “So you were there when General Hawkins ordered Captain Buckman to turn himself in to the Nicaraguan authorities?”

Thompson: “We never received any such orders. We were ordered to march north to the border, and not get caught doing so.”

Wallace: “General Hawkins says he ordered you to surrender yourselves and Captain Buckman refused those orders and then threatened you if you disobeyed him.”

Thompson: [Snorting and shaking his head] “General Hawkins is lying, then. That radio never left my possession and I was always with the Captain when he was talking to anybody. What he is saying is simply not possible. It didn’t happen.”

Briscoe: “Captain Buckman never threatened anybody, unless maybe he told that worthless lieutenant to get his act together.”

Gonzalez: “The Captain couldn’t threaten us. If we didn’t like what he wanted to do, we could have just walked away!” [Laughing from all three of them]

Wallace: “What do you mean?”

Gonzalez: “He really busted up his leg on the landing. He should have been on a stretcher, too, but he didn’t want to slow us down. He refused any morphine, too, said to give it to the guys who needed it more. He just had us wrap his leg as best we could and we rigged him up a crutch.”

Wallace: “What do you mean about Lieutenant Fairfax? Why do you say he was worthless?”

Briscoe: [Glanced at others and then shrugged] “It’s just… listen… not everybody is cut out for a combat outfit. Lieutenant Fairfax was simply clueless. He was just a lousy officer. Now, I don’t know what he did after he left the Army. Maybe he became an insurance adjuster, and maybe he became the world’s best insurance adjuster, but as a combat officer he was a disaster.”

Gonzalez: “He’d have gotten us all killed or captured, that’s for sure. Captain Buckman, the one thing he kept telling us over and over was that we were all going home, together, no matter what. Then he made it happen.”

Briscoe: “I remember one funny moment when we were going through this one valley and he led us all in the Paratrooper’s Psalm.”

Wallace: “The Paratrooper’s Psalm? What…?”

Gonzalez: [Laughing] “Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil…”

Briscoe and Thompson: [Together with Gonzalez, laughing] “… because I am the meanest son of a bitch in the valley!” [Laughing]

Thompson: “It’s just too bad he wasn’t infantry.” [Laughing and ‘HOO-AH’s from the others]

Wallace: “Meaning?”

Briscoe: “We were all Infantry. Captain Buckman was Artillery. He wasn’t one of our regular officers. He was actually along as an observer.”

Wallace: “So when he took command he actually did mutiny.”

Briscoe: “Not at all. Artillery is a line command, just like Infantry, and captains outrank second lieutenants. No way would we have gone along with a mutiny. He simply outranked Lieutenant Fairfax. It was as simple as that.”

Wallace led the group through some of the details of our getting home. The group session ended when Wallace brought up what happened when the Hueys brought us back to base.

Wallace: “You were present when Captain Buckman was arrested?”

Briscoe: “Thompson and I were. Gonzalez had a broken ankle and some bad cuts at that point and was off to the infirmary. I have to say, I’ve never seen the like of it, either before or after. They handcuffed him right there on the flight line.”

Thompson: “It was just plain wrong. You don’t treat soldiers that way. He got us out of that [bleeped] hole and they arrest him in front of his men? That’s wrong!”

Briscoe: “Captain Buckman, he was a class act, though, I have to tell you. Some of the guys were really pissed at this, and they wanted to cut him loose, you know. Captain Buckman, handcuffs and all, he marches over to us and orders us to stand at attention and then he reads us the riot act, telling us we were soldiers and to act like it. Then they grab him and drag him away.”

Thompson: “That must have been the resisting arrest charge. [Snorted disgust]”

After the break, there was a final segment, on the political ramifications of the Buckman Crisis. At this point, Wallace pulled out some of edited excerpts from my interview.

Wallace: “Congressman, according to you, this is all an orchestrated leak of classified material by the White House. That seems a pretty extraordinary claim. What proof do you have?”

Me: “Proof? None at all. I just find it incredibly suspicious. Bill Clinton has known this about me since 1992, and yet it only comes out when I am the Vice Presidential pick for George Bush? It’s not like he can claim that this is new information just brought to light. He’s personally known about this for almost eight years.”

Wallace: “What do you mean that he’s known about it? Known about it how?”

Me: “In 1992 Bill Clinton nominated General Hawkins as his choice for Deputy Secretary of State under Warren Christopher. Once I learned about this I decided that Hawkins had done enough damage to the country, and wasn’t going to get another shot. At that time, and that would have been in December of ’92, I went to Newt Gingrich and told him I was going to fight the nomination. Rather than go public, Newt brought in a number of Democratic Senators who would be involved in the confirmation process. I laid out what I just told you, and then they checked it out. Afterwards I talked to both Newt and David Boren, who was the Chairman of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence at the time, and they both told me they had confirmed my story. General Hawkins’ name was removed from consideration.”

Wallace: “So why wait until now to leak the information, if that is what really happened? Why not sooner?”

Me: “I’ve thought about that more than a little. The only thing I can think is that until now he didn’t need to. In 1992 I was just one more minor Republican Congressman in a Congress dominated by the Democrats. Since then, however, I have become a sharp thorn in his side. I was part of the Gang of Eight that put the Republicans back in power, I helped write the Contract with America, I have held his feet to the fire about the deficit and spending, and I’m the guy who rammed the censure down his throat. I do not get invited to the White House for milk and cookies. Bill Clinton plays high stakes poker. The timing is perfect to release it now. He sinks me, and destroys George Bush’s run for the Presidency, leaving it to be won by his handpicked successor. He gets to run the government for another four years.”

At that point Wallace cut away, and a voiceover stated that he talked with Newt Gingrich about the events in 1992. There were excerpts from an interview he did with Newt in Washington and Mike Wallace in New York. After that he mentioned that while he was not able to do an interview with Senator Boren, who had left office in 1994 and was now the President of the University of Oklahoma, Boren had verified by telephone the events of 1992.

Then he reviewed the latest information as of earlier that day, that Bill Clinton was claiming innocence in the release of the classified documents, that the only two men who were claiming I had killed the prisoners and otherwise disobeyed orders were Hawkins and the just named Provost Marshall, Richard Reinhart, and that Nicaragua was now demanding my extradition and had issued a warrant on me through Interpol. Second Lieutenant Fairfax had left the Army and moved home to Mendocino, California, where he had gotten a job at a video game company, gotten married, had two children, gotten divorced, and then been killed by a drunk driver four years ago. His widow, now remarried, had no knowledge of any of the events under question. Meanwhile, several of the soldiers had reported that they had been warned by the Justice Department to not talk to 60 Minutes. Then he closed with:

Wallace: “By almost all accounts, the claim that Congressman Buckman, while still an Army captain, murdered captured prisoners and committed other war crimes seems false. CBS News and 60 Minutes have been unable to find a single source to back the claims by the two individuals making them. In fact, it would appear that the Bronze Star Congressman Buckman received in 1982 was well deserved. Still, there are many troubling aspects to this story.

Why, after so many years, has the story come to light? The Congressman has always claimed that his orders and national security prevented him from speaking. The national security issue actually seems true, at least in earlier years, when the Sandinistas still ruled Nicaragua. The timing, in the end run of a close election, seems very suspicious. The Congressman says he will refuse to cooperate with any further investigation, since the incident was fully investigated back in 1981, when it occurred. However, CBS News and 60 Minutes have been unable to obtain a copy of the Judge Advocate General’s report on the incident or its conclusion. Until that becomes available, a new investigation may well be required to finally lay this to rest.”

The phone rang about thirty seconds later, before Marilyn and the girls could even begin to ask me questions. “Carl!”

It was George Bush’s voice. “Governor?”

“Well, that seemed to go well. Better than I thought it would, in fact. I have to ask, Carl, it’s been a week now. You’d better have a good plan now.”

“George, are you in D.C.?”

“For the night. Tomorrow I fly to Chicago.”

“Well, I’ll be at your office at 8:00 AM. We’ll need Karl and Dick and Gerson and Scully and everybody else.”

“What’s on your mind, Carl? You’ve got a plan?”

I smiled as I answered. “In military terms, we just ate the attack. Now we counterattack! Now we destroy them!”

By the time I made it to the campaign office the next morning, the newspapers were out and the morning news shows were on. The big topic was the latest on the Buckman Crisis, and the tone was generally positive. Fox News was heaping praises on my head, but that was kind of expected. What wasn’t quite as expected was a generally positive tone from both the Washington Post and the Chicago Tribune, with them saying that this was undoubtedly a political attack disguised as an international incident. The New York Times was still damning me, but you almost expected that of them; it was their story after all, and they had to stand by it. (Plus, they were also still pissed by my using their newspaper to paper train my dog!)

We had a packed conference room when I got there; all the first and second tier people were there. The critical people were Bush, Rove, Cheney, and me. George was actually smiling for once, and Rove was looking thoughtful. Only Cheney had any overt hostility towards me, and that was muted. The Governor started the discussion saying, “So, Carl, you think the show last night rescued you? You told me we were going to counterattack when we talked last night. What are you thinking?”

I nodded. “This is a two part defense. The first part was last week, when you kept me on, and for that, I truly thank you.” I was really saying this for the others. Bush might hate my guts, but I had no reason to sow dissension in the ranks. “By keeping me on, you show strength and faith in me, etcetera, etcetera. You were letting me respond to the outrageous lies being spread. That’s what you did last week. Now we go into the second part. We push back and go full bore back at them. We do it hard enough, we crush them.”

“What do you have in mind, Carl?” asked Rove. You could almost see the wheels turning in his mind. The right wing conservative who didn’t want me was battling with the devious political operative who liked to play the game, and the operative was winning.

“Two parts to this. The Governor here goes after Al Gore for his part in this, and he goes after him hard,” I said.

“And you go after Kerry?” asked an incredulous Cheney. “That leaves us where we started!”

“Screw Kerry! Ignore Kerry. Nobody cares about the VP, you know that. No, I ignore John Kerry. I’m the attack dog from now on! I am going after Bill Clinton!”

We had some back and forth on this, but nobody had a problem with the general concept. We basically hit on the following areas of attack:

* The election of Al Gore was actually the Clintons trying to stay in power. He was their puppet.

* George Bush had faith and trust in me; I would make a worthy Vice President. I was thankful that the Governor was able to see beyond mere politics and was able to trust that I was innocent of everything. It was a mutual love fest from here on out.

* John Kerry was a nice guy but irrelevant. We would ignore him. We weren’t even agreeing to a debate between the VP candidates at the moment, not until the ‘crisis’ was over. We would demand that he repudiate these charges against me.

* Clinton had intentionally leaked the files on me.

* We would begin demanding release of the JAG investigation report.

* We would not accept any other investigations, including by the Justice Department, while the JAG investigation was not available. In fact, in a case of reverse jujitsu, we actually wanted the Clinton Administration to try and get the Justice Department after me, since then we could keep screaming about how they were ‘suppressing the truth’ and ‘double jeopardy.’

* Likewise, any international repercussions with Honduras or Nicaragua showed how the Clinton White House was playing politics with international relations. Clinton didn’t have a great reputation in the area anyway, so this just played into our hands.

* I would keep finding character witnesses from my old unit and C Company. Some of these guys would know other guys, and sooner or later we would be hearing from them.

* We would publicize the millions of dollars that I had donated to the USO and the 82^nd Airborne’s scholarship funds. It showed how I didn’t hold any grudges against the Army, just against the assholes who had screwed up.

Dick Cheney got the job (from Rove and Bush, not me) of playing Devil’s Advocate and trying to poke holes in the plan. It was a job he took to with relish. To be fair, he tightened up some of the talking points and toned down others. The man knew what he was doing. We just didn’t like each other.

We had enough accomplished by lunchtime that Gerson and Scully were able to issue a few press releases, basically that I was now in a position to respond to the insane allegations that the Clinton-Gore campaign were hurling against me, and that I would be making a speech in front of the Justice Department Tuesday morning. We were practically daring them to come after us. By the end of the day, we had new talking points and speeches written. Increasingly, as the day wore on, the news coverage was turning our way. Several more of the guys who had dropped into Nicaragua had either been found or come forth, and all of them were backing up the story told on 60 Minutes. The MP guard who had strung me up had even been tracked down, along with his prison record and proof of employment in the late 1990s as a mercenary overseas. The story was practically writing itself!

I stayed in town that night, huddling with Scully, Frank, Marty, and Brewster McRiley into the wee hours. We figured the Justice Department was not going to be amused by my giving a speech on their doorstep. Would they shut us down? What would we do then? What if they let us go, but then tried to stop us? What if they decided to serve me with a subpoena or a warrant or take me in for questioning on the spot? I called Tucker and asked him to be there in the background just in case.

We did the speech on the side of the building on Constitution Avenue, across from the National Museum of Natural History. The sidewalk was wide and we had enough room for cameras and reporters. We provided a podium and stand for me to set up a little higher than normal, and for once, I was using my cane at a public event. Most of the time I would leave it behind and try and conceal the limp. Not today — today it was ‘proof’ of my heroism. All the networks and news channels were present, along with a number of print reporters. Off to the side and out of camera range, I could see several glowering people from the Justice Department.

I gave my speech, and then opened up for a few questions. Most were pretty much expected, and were ones that we had hammered out during the prep session the other day with Dick Cheney. I might not like the guy, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t learn from him. We got the obvious ones: Why did I think the Gore campaign was behind this? (The Clinton-Gore campaign is behind it; Bill Clinton hates me.) What proof did I have? (Doesn’t the timing seem suspicious? Who had access to classified information?) How do we know you haven’t paid the soldiers off somehow? (All of them? For almost 20 years? Without getting caught?) Why aren’t you cooperating with the investigation? (What investigation? There is no investigation?! The Judge Advocate General investigated this in 1981. Where are the results of that investigation?) Would I turn myself in to the Nicaraguans for a fair trial? (No!) At that point I shut down the idiot question session and we put an end to things.

I had a lousy taste in my mouth from all of this. I was the only guy who actually knew what I had done back then, who knew that Fairfax, the lying schmuck, had been absolutely correct. I couldn’t lie to myself. I had killed those four drug runners in cold blood. I had known what I was doing, and I had known the consequences if I failed to do it, and I had known the consequences if I got caught. At the time it seemed like I had gotten away with it. I got the men home and we didn’t get into a border incident with the Sandinistas, but now the Sandinistas were screaming for my head and we were in an international incident with them anyway. I had been able to duck it so far, but the consequences were coming back to haunt me.

Worse, what was happening to me? What was worse, that I had killed those men then, or that I was using their deaths now to gain political office? What kind of psychopath had I become?

Chapter 134: Attack Dog

The plan at that point was for me to resume a normal touring and speaking schedule, but for the time being, limit myself to strongly Republican areas where I wouldn’t be challenged on this. Matt Scully was redoing the standard stump speech and would be traveling with me to edit it as new information came in. We would work up a healthy portion of outrage into the speech based on this, with me attacking Bill Clinton at every conceivable moment. Ignore John Kerry; damn Bill Clinton; Al Gore is Clinton Light. Pound on those three items. We were flying out in the morning for stops in Boise and Helena.

I went over to my office in the Capitol and called Marilyn at the end shortly before dinner to fill her in on the latest. I told her I would spend the night in D.C. and then fly out west in the morning. After that, I worked several hours making phone calls to various committee chairmen to let them know I wasn’t dead yet, and was in fact showing surprising levels of life. Then I went home. I ordered in a pizza and decided to have a few beers for dinner. It had been a long day. Then it got a little strange. My cell phone rang and when I answered it, it was an Army colonel. “Congressman Buckman?”

“Yes.”

“I am Colonel Andrew McFaggin from the Chief of Staff’s office.”

I could feel my brow wrinkling at that. “Who?”

“Colonel Andrew…”

“I got that part, Colonel. Which Chief of Staff?”

“General Shinseki, sir. The Army Chief of Staff,” he explained.

“Not Shelton?” Hugh Shelton was a four star general and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the most senior leaders of the Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marines. Eric Shinseki was currently the Army Chief of Staff, one of those senior leaders.

“No, sir, not General Shelton.”

“How can I help you, Colonel?”

“Sir, can I come over to see you?”

What was going on? “You know where I live? Come on over. I’m having some pizza and beer. Hustle and it might still be warm. The pizza, I mean, not the beer.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll be there in a few minutes.” The colonel hung up on me and I was left to ponder what the Chief of Staff could want with me. For the life of me I couldn’t remember much about Shinseki. I must have met him at a cocktail party or something, but if we had ever actually had a conversation, I couldn’t remember it. Shelton I remembered as being a bit more politician than general, but I suppose at that level you have to be. The same was probably true of Shinseki.

About ten minutes later there was a knock on the door and an officer in a dress uniform was shown into the kitchen. “Congressman Buckman?”

I stood and shook his hand. “Colonel. Welcome.” Before he got started, I turned to a cabinet and pulled a plate out, and slid it across to him. Then I pulled another beer from the fridge. “Here, have something to eat. I’ll never finish this, and I’m flying out in the morning. You can help.”

“Uh, thank you, sir.” I don’t think the colonel had been actually expecting pizza and beer, but he put a slice on his plate and opened the beer.

I pointed at a bar stool. “Sit. What can I do for you, Colonel?”

He swallowed the bite he was working on and said, “Congressman, I am here on behalf of General Shinseki. He asked me to give you some information, and he asked me to ask you to come to the Pentagon in the morning.”

“Well, I’m all ears, Colonel, but I’m on an early morning flight to Boise in the morning. I’m scheduled for a campaign tour,” I told him.

“Sir, the General was hoping that you would change your schedule.”

“You’d better explain that, Colonel,” I replied.

He took a deep breath. “Sir, at approximately 2030 today General Shelton told General Shinseki that tomorrow he is to issue orders recalling you to active service. At that time, you are to be taken into custody pending a formal investigation into charges of murder relating to your duty in Honduras and Nicaragua. Pending the outcome of that investigation, you will either face court martial or be extradited to Nicaragua to face charges there. Perhaps both.”

I stared briefly. “You must be joking!” What the hell was going on! We were hoping to force Clinton to overreach, but this was ridiculous!

“No sir. I am not.”

“And you expect me to turn myself in tomorrow morning? Is that what this is about? You can kiss that idea good-bye, buster.” I stood up and pointed towards the hallway. “Get lost.” Time to call my lawyers!

“Congressman, allow me to finish. General Shinseki told me that General Shelton received these orders earlier in the evening directly from President Clinton. General Shinseki would like you to be present tomorrow morning at a press conference he plans to hold. At that time he will announce that he is refusing the order, and then he will resign his position as Chief of Staff.”

I stared and my jaw dropped. After a few seconds I said, “Excuse me? You want to run that by me again.”

“Sir, tomorrow morning, at a live press conference at the Pentagon, when General Shelton and President Clinton expect that your imminent recall and arrest will be announced, General Shinseki will instead state that the orders given to him are illegal and he will refuse them. He would like to invite you to be present. The General is disgusted by the treatment you are receiving,” said McFaggin.

I sat down again, and sat there pondering what the colonel was telling me. I reached out and sipped my beer, but I could barely taste it. “Colonel, while I really appreciate what General Shinseki is offering, what would really help is the release of the investigation report from 1981. Is there any word on that?”

McFaggin sat back down and drank some more beer. He reached inside his uniform jacket and pulled out a folded up sheaf of papers. He tossed it on the bar top. “You might find this interesting reading.” I reached for it and he continued, “The General plans on handing out copies of this at the press conference tomorrow.”

I looked at the pages and flipped them right side up. It was the Article 32 Investigation Report prepared by Colonel Bruce Featherstone. So there had been an official Article 32 investigation after all. “I’ll be damned,” I muttered.

“This might not be my place to say it, but after General Shinseki got his hands on this last week, he lost any remaining respect for the President.”

I gave the colonel a hard look. “Mister, he might not respect him, but he damn well better obey him.”

“Congressman, I think we settled conclusively at Nuremburg that not all orders are created equal.”

I grunted noncommittally at that. Then I looked at the man. “What’s your deal? Why are you flushing your career down the toilet? Shelton is going to find out about you telling me, and even if you say that Shinseki told you to, you’re finished.”

McFaggin sighed. “I don’t know if you know this, Congressman. The General stepped on a land mine in Viet Nam, blew off a chunk of his foot. My old man was a corporal in the same unit. He told me that if Shinseki hadn’t stepped on the mine, he would have. He always felt like he owed the General. When he learned I was assigned to General Shinseki’s staff, he told me to watch over the man.”

I shrugged and nodded. “Good a reason as any.” I looked briefly through the report. Looking back at the colonel, I said, “It’s best that I don’t go to the press conference. I show up, there are going to be questions about my setting something up with Shinseki. It will be better if I go about my regular business.” I waved the report in the air, though, and added, “Still, tell him this is useful and appreciated, and that a beat up old battery commander still knows the value of good intelligence. I plan to read this and put it to good use.”

“Understood, sir.” He stood up and headed towards the door. I walked him out. “Congressman, good luck.”

“Same to you, Colonel. Same to you.”

I went back to the kitchen and grabbed another beer, and took it and the report into my office. I sat down and read the report. It was strange reading the military legalese, but it was all there, a complete investigative report — names, ranks, timelines, accusations (many), evidence (nothing), conclusions, and recommendations. I went through it a second time, and then a third, remembering back to that clusterfuck, and never going to bed. Eventually I got up and made several copies and stashed one, and then went upstairs and showered and shaved and dressed. Maybe I could sleep on the plane, but I doubted it.

The flight out of Reagan National was to lift off at 5:50 AM and landing in Boise seven hours later, around 10:50 AM Boise time. It was a charter flight in a 737, so maybe they could shave some time off it. The plane looked to be packed. Up in the front end, the first class section was reserved for me and my staff, with a curtain giving us some privacy, and a bouncer type to smile and keep the reporters in the back. The back was jammed with reporters, all waiting on me to A) go after Bill Clinton, and B) step on my crank doing so. I planned to do the first and to try and avoid the second.

I waved to everybody as we boarded the plane, but I simply smiled and waved while they yelled questions at me. I waited until everybody was on board and the plane was lifting off to speak to my staff. I swapped to an aisle seat with Frank and motioned Matt and Brewster into seats across the aisle, and then handed them copies of the investigative report. “This thing is going to break wide open today. I got this out of the Pentagon last night. It’s the missing investigation report that we’ve been screaming for.” I outlined what Shinseki’s messenger boy had told me was going to happen. They were stunned, but then everybody tried to speak at once, whispering at each other.

Brewster managed to out-whisper the others. “Okay, Carl, what do you plan to do?”

“Brewster, I plan to bend Bill Clinton over a barrel and ram this report straight up his ass! You got any better ideas?”

He grinned at me. “This ought to be fun!”

We spent the rest of the flight figuring out talking points and rewriting (by hand — no electricity for a laptop) the stump speech. We had to modify it to take into account the latest attacks from the White House. Meanwhile in the back of the plane a certain level of buzz was building. We had left too early for anybody to have heard anything about a press conference, but somebody back there must have heard something. After it got loud enough, I went back and schmoozed them some, simply walking up and down the aisle, smiling, shaking hands with the new people, joking, and saying absolutely nothing. Nobody knew anything, but the team from ABC must have heard late last night that there was a Pentagon press conference that would be about me. I just looked blank and asked what they had heard.

It was my dumb and stupid act. Whenever Marilyn gets pissed at me, she tells me it comes naturally. (The rest of the time she tells me I’m too smart for my own good. I wish she would make up her mind!)

As we approached Boise, however, the buzz in the back got louder! We were getting in range of cell towers, and even though the stewardesses were yelling at everybody to turn off their electronic devices, nobody obeyed. By the time we landed most everybody on the plane knew something was going on. After the landing we hustled our asses off the plane before anybody could ask and headed over to the campaign rally. On the way, I called Marty for the latest.

“Carl, you won’t believe, it, but we have a full blown constitutional crisis going on back here!”

I smiled to myself. “Tell me more!”

“The Army Chief of Staff announced at the morning briefing in the press room at the Pentagon that he had received orders to arrest you, and then declared those orders to be illegal and resigned as Chief of Staff.”

“I knew that was going to happen,” I told him.

“What?! Yeah, well what you don’t know is that immediately after that, the Vice Chief of Staff marched up to the podium and announced that he also believed those orders to be illegal, but he wasn’t resigning. If the President, Secretary of Defense, and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs didn’t like it, they could fire him, but he would not approve any orders to recall you and arrest you. Then they issued copies of the investigation from back in 1981 we’ve been screaming about,” he told me.

“Oh, shit! I almost wish I had been there.”

Marty continued. “You knew about this, didn’t you?! What the hell, Carl! Do you have a copy of the report, too!?”

“This all broke late last night, Marty. No need to get you involved. Anything else happen?”

“There were a shitload of questions, but the best one was when somebody asked Shinseki, he’s the Chief of Staff, why he did this, and he told them that the White House could clean up its own mess and leave the Army out of it.”

“He said that?! Oh, holy shit!” Shinseki was going to be lucky to avoid a court martial of his own at this rate! “Anything happen since then?”

“That was just an hour ago. Nothing out of the White House since then. What’s happening there?”

“The reporters just twigged to the fact that something happened and they weren’t there. Scully and I have been rewriting the stump speech. Watch the evening news. The game just went into overtime!”

“Screw that. You’re winning!”

I hung up my phone and noticed everybody else in the party was on theirs, undoubtedly getting the same message I just got. When they hung up, we chatted, but didn’t really bother to rewrite anything else. We simply went to the campaign rally and proceeded to bend Bill Clinton over a barrel.

We started by giving a fairly standard stump speech, praising George Bush for his leadership and insight, and of course, the courage and integrity he was showing by standing by me. Then we added a number of comments based on the latest we had of the situation as of yesterday afternoon, before I got the copy of the report and before I was informed of what Shinseki had planned. Then I grabbed the microphone and came around the podium, and sat down on a bar stool in an ‘impromptu’ informal move. I commented that it seemed that something was going on back in Washington, but that my cell phone wasn’t working, and I hadn’t been able to get any details. Would somebody care to fill me in?

There was an immediate hubbub, and a voice yelled out, “Congressman! Do you mean to say that you aren’t aware that the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff refused to have you arrested this morning and resigned?”

Trust a reporter to get it wrong. It was easy to look confused and say, “General Shelton resigned?”

“No, General Shinkowski!”

Now I could really look confused. “Do you mean General Shinseki? He’s the Army Chief of Staff, not the Chairman. I don’t know a General Shinkowski. Do you mean General Shinseki resigned? Why?”

“The President ordered him to have you arrested!”

I put a look of surprise on my face. “The President wants the Army to arrest me? He’s got an entire Justice Department to do that! Arrest me for what? Getting my men home?”

“Congressman! The President ordered the Chairman to order the Army Chief of Staff to arrest you!” yelled another voice. “And the Army Chief of Staff said the President could clean up his own mess and resigned.” Finally somebody got it right!

“Huh! Well, it’s true, the President surely has made a mess of this! Now he’s forcing out other good officers? This is what you get when you make a draft dodger the President!”

There was a huge uproar over that, but then a third reporter yelled out, while holding up a phone, “Congressman, I just heard that General Shelton relieved the Vice Chief of Staff for also refusing to order your arrest.”

Holy Christ! This was spinning out of control back home! “Well, I’m sure that the President will fire enough people so that sooner or later he’ll find an ambitious second lieutenant he can bully around. I guess that means he hasn’t released the investigation from 1981.”

From the far side yelled out several voices. The clearest and loudest yelled, “General Shinseki released copies of it this morning!”

“You’re kidding me, right!? The report must have exonerated me! Are you telling me that the President of the United States is ordering me to face double jeopardy on a closed case, simply to force me out of politics!? What happens next? If a new Army investigation clears me, does the Justice Department get a shot at me?! This is outrageous, even for a man as low as Bill Clinton,” I cried out. It was time to go on the offensive. I climbed up off the stool and faced them all.

“Let me tell you something! The President of the United States knows exactly where I am! If he wants me arrested, he can send the Justice Department after me! He can send the Army! He can send the Marines if he doesn’t trust the Army anymore! He can send the Boy Scouts if he wants! I’m a peaceful man just trying to do my job! It’s just too bad for Bill Clinton that my job is to run his ass out of Washington in disgrace! Now, I am going to continue this campaign swing. If he doesn’t like it, he can issue the arrest warrant himself. His personal conduct in this is despicable!”

Part of our strategy was to get Clinton pissed off enough to do something stupid. Make him overreact; be the voice of reason but then goad him into doing something. Make him react to us, and not the other way around. Meanwhile George Bush could take the high road and concentrate on Al Gore, and push the idea that Al was Bill 2.0. At some point maybe Al would manage to do something stupid, like repudiate Clinton. If we could get them fighting, the job was half done.

I was somewhat surprised by Clinton’s orders to have me recalled to active duty, but not flabbergasted. He was simply counting on the military to obey him automatically. He wasn’t the one ordering my arrest! No, it was the conclusion of the Army that I had betrayed them. They were the ones working to fix the Buckman problem. He simply was clueless about the military and had no respect for them, and it generally showed in his actions and in those of his cabinet. The military didn’t respect him either. One of the first things you learn as an officer is to never give an order that won’t be obeyed. Where Bill screwed up was by not making sure the Army would obey his orders. Now he had gone to war with his own Army.

To be fair, the American military firmly believed in the idea of civilian control. We weren’t some third world shithole with the Army routinely leading a coup d’état. A general might refuse the order and resign, but he would never do anything more than that, and sooner or later a general would be found who wanted an early promotion and would stomach what it would require, and orders would be given. In due time somebody would be coming around for me. In the meantime, however, Bill Clinton was going to be fighting this battle in the news and not looking good in the process. It would be a Pyrrhic victory, destroying his Presidency and sinking Al Gore in the process.

Slick Willie didn’t find a general by lunchtime, so after lunch we flew to Helena and repeated the process. In Helena we were scheduled to stay overnight. In the meantime, after dinner, I agreed to a little bargain — the local television station played that morning’s Pentagon press briefing for me and I gave them an exclusive interview. There was more on the national news. They had managed to track down Colonel Featherstone, but he was a dead end, literally. He had died of lung cancer in 1993 (well, he did smoke like a chimney, as I recalled.) In addition, some of the high points of the report and the conclusions were read out and displayed as graphics on the screen, including:

“No evidence has been found to back the accusations made against CPT Buckman. However, there is considerable evidence to prove the claims are false.”

“2LT Fairfax acted with gross negligence and incompetence and conduct unbecoming an officer.”

“CPT Buckman’s conduct and leadership abilities were exemplary, and it is recommended that he be retained in the service of the U.S. Army.”

Afterwards I met with the Governor and the various Republican powers in Montana. During that meeting I was called away, when George Bush called me. “Carl, that was a fantastic speech you gave earlier today!” he told me.

I was a bit surprised at that. “You caught that? I’m surprised!”

“The entire country caught it! You basically called the President of the United States out into the street for a gunfight!” Trust George Bush to turn this into a movie.

“Huh! I figured I was just dealing with the locals and the people following me around. You got a problem with me hogging the spotlight?” I asked.

“Not as long as you focus on Clinton. I’m holding my own with Al. You are pushing a wedge between him and Clinton, and that weakens the both of them,” he replied.

“Okay, fair enough. I’ve got an idea or two. Can you get Karl to call me? I want to bounce an idea or two off of him.”

“Give me a few minutes, and he’ll call you,” he told me. “I’ll talk to you sometime tomorrow. I’m going to Florida again, Tampa this time.”

“Good luck.”

Ten minutes later Karl Rove called me. “Carl, what’s up?” Rove might not like me, but he loved the game.

I gave him the latest. “Karl, I want you to do two things, please. First, get me on one of the Sunday talk shows.”

“Okay, that’s probably doable.”

“Second, get in touch with Newt Gingrich. Ask him — politely — to…” I laid out my plans to him, and he told me he would talk to Gingrich first, and then get back to me. He didn’t, but Newt did, and we talked it over for a bit. He agreed to go along with me, and laughed at what was about to happen.

Rove sent me a message through Scully that I was booked onto This Week on ABC Sunday morning. Ostensibly we were going to discuss the ‘Buckman Crisis’ and how it had spilled over into a fight between the President and the Pentagon. By Thursday that was growing deeper. With both the Army Chief of Staff and the Vice Chief of Staff forced out, the Pentagon was scrambling to find names to recommend to the President as replacements. Clinton decided to cut his losses. Denying that he had ordered Shelton to have me recalled and arrested, he cut Shelton loose and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff resigned. That made the third four star general to lose his job over this, and it was being called ‘The Revolt of the Generals!’

At that point Newt Gingrich stepped up to the plate. I was hoping for a solid base hit, but he managed a standup double. He went to Capitol Hill, ‘simply to meet with some old friends for lunch’, and managed to get himself interviewed on camera by some of the reporters hanging around the place. When he was asked his opinion about what was happening he made a laughing comment that, “I bet Carl Buckman is sorry now that he didn’t let Bill Clinton be impeached. If what President Clinton is doing now isn’t a high crime and misdemeanor, I can’t imagine what is!”

There it was, on national television on the evening news, the ‘I’ word, impeachment! Overnight the entire country was transported back in time two years to all the drama and nonsense of Clinton’s affair with Monica Lewinsky and the resulting nonsense. The timing was impeccable, too. The first chance the White House had to respond to this was Friday, which is considered a slow news day in Washington, and the day the Administration dumps unpleasant news into the hopper, in the hope it will be go away. This usually works, to the point that a lot of the crap at the Friday White House press briefing gets tossed out, and in this case, the White House pronouncement that impeachment was ridiculous was simply ignored.

I should say that the White House denial was basically ignored. I was interviewed at a campaign rally and fundraiser in Ohio, and when asked about Gingrich’s comments I answered, “Well, I have to admit, it kind of makes me wonder, you know!” and, “The next time I see Newt Gingrich, I am going to bend over and let him kick my butt!”

Sunday morning I went on This Week and was interviewed by Sam Donaldson. I had met Donaldson any number of times before, and been interviewed by him once or twice. He was a smart man, but unapologetically liberal. Still, I could live with that. This was simply too juicy a story for him not to focus on Bill Clinton.

After the initial greetings and introductions, he got right into it. “Congressman, so far three generals have lost their jobs and the Pentagon is in a state of open war with the President of the United States. Whatever happened to the principle of civilian control of the military in this country?”

“Sam, that principle is obviously alive and well! It’s been the generals who have left, not the President,” I replied.

“But they refused to obey the orders given to them,” he responded.

I nodded. “I asked an officer about that recently. He told me that Nuremberg proved that there are some orders you simply don’t obey. ‘I was just following orders’ doesn’t mean much when you shouldn’t have been following those orders in the first place.”

“Are you comparing the order to arrest you to the war crimes of the Nazis?” he asked incredulously.

“Hardly. Bill Clinton isn’t a mass murderer and war criminal. He is simply a petty and venal man with too much power, and is trying desperately to cling to that power.” That was a nice phrase and ought to be good for a repeat on the evening news. Nothing like bitch-slapping the President of the United States to get headlines.

Sam moved on to the next topic. “Congressman, several days ago your old adversary Newt Gingrich commented that you shouldn’t have interfered with his impeachment efforts in 1998, and that you wouldn’t be in this mess if you had allowed the impeachment proceedings to go forward. Care to comment?”

I smiled. “Actually I do, on several levels. First and foremost, Newt Gingrich and I were never adversaries. Newt is a friend and has been for years. Back when I was first getting into politics, in 1989 and 1990, I met with Newt Gingrich and was impressed with his smarts and his desire to help the country. For years we worked together to do that. On occasion we had our differences, but only about tactics, never about our desire to do the right thing by this country, a country that we both love.”

“As for the impeachment effort two years ago, I have to think that we both turned out to be correct. Newt thought that the nation would be better off without Bill Clinton as President, and I think that has been proven time after time. However, I still think that impeachment is not something to be done for political reasons. You get impeached for treason, bribery, and high crimes and misdemeanors, and a tacky affair with an intern doesn’t rise to that standard. On the other hand, what President Clinton is doing now certainly does! In an effort to ruin my reputation and that of Governor Bush, and extend his de facto rule over the country for another four years, he has committed many high crimes and misdemeanors. He has divulged classified information, suppressed evidence of my innocence, ordered a sitting Congressman to be sent to prison without a trial, and plans to strip me of my American citizenship and deport me to a banana republic to stand trial in a kangaroo court! If those aren’t high crimes and misdemeanors, what are?!”

Maybe some of that was a bit overblown, but it didn’t matter. I knew Nicaragua would be up in arms about being called a ‘banana republic’ but nobody would care. They had broken off diplomatic relations with us, and they couldn’t vote in the election anyway. The critical thing was to get the magic word impeachment back out there. This allowed me to make nice with the right wing of the party, show that I had learned the error of my ways, and still look dignified and principled to the moderates. Kiss Newt’s ass, tie my name to that of George Bush, and ratchet up the ‘Clinton Fatigue.’

After I left, Cokie Roberts chewed on a Gore campaign staffer who didn’t quite distance his boss from Bill Clinton. He tried the ‘where there is smoke there must be fire’ defense, which really didn’t sit all that well, since most of the smoke was circling the President and not me. Afterwards, in their Roundtable segment, which I watched on the monitor from the green room, the general consensus was that Bill Clinton had badly mishandled the entire situation.

Of special interest to me was a remark by George Will, given in his trademark lecturing cadence. “What I find curious is why anybody who knows Carl Buckman would ever think he would back down from this fight. Everybody knows about the Marines. There is an entire mythos about how they consider themselves elite assault troops able to take on any odds and triumph. What most people don’t understand is that in the United States Army, paratroopers are their Marines. They consider themselves elite infantry. In combat they expect to be surrounded, outnumbered, outgunned, and to take heavy casualties — and they expect to win! Carl Buckman, by all accounts, was an excellent officer and emblematic of this belief. He doesn’t know the meaning of quit and he doesn’t know the meaning of surrender.”

Mythos? Trust George to use a five dollar word!

Anyway, there it was, out in the open again, impeachment. I wouldn’t have to say it again, unless asked. Bill Clinton began circling the wagons again, and the House Judiciary Committee began spouting off about hearings and the mechanism for a fresh trial. Realistically, there would be no impeachment. Slick Willie was the lamest of lame ducks. He had maybe six weeks until the election, after which he would be out of office ten weeks later. Nobody was going to the trouble of impeaching him. It would be like sentencing a man with terminal cancer to the electric chair. It would never happen.

What would happen, however, was that the Democratic Party would begin devouring itself from the inside out. Al Gore was going to have to distance himself from his boss, a tricky thing to manage under the best of circumstances. John Kerry kept trying to salvage a sinking ship. He began demanding dates and times for a debate with me, and George Bush’s staff responded with a categorical refusal unless he publicly repudiated the Clinton-Gore strategy of sending me to prison on false charges. (George did have a debate with Al, in which he demolished Gore.) We were showing solidarity and teamwork while the Democrats were falling apart.

By the middle of October the polls were well ahead for the Governor. Even the mess with the USS Cole in Aden helped. In an awful way it pointed out Clinton’s, and by extension Gore’s, poor performance in foreign policy and defense. It was disgusting to watch Rove use the deaths to put Bush into office.

I was informed by my children that Stormy was housebroken, and I verified that with their mother. The last few weeks of the campaign became a family affair. The girls were old enough to take care of themselves, so Marilyn and Stormy joined me on the campaign trail, with the twins flying in on weekends. Marilyn was now comfortable enough to be able to do a quick introduction for me. She would go out on stage to applause and cheers, and introduce me as, “A man who has proven he is a hero to the nation, and a man who is my hero, Carl Buckman!” I would then come out, leading Stormy on a leash, and give my wife a hug and a kiss. She would step back and I would lift Stormy up onto a table or bench, if she couldn’t make it herself. She was getting huge, and was a real publicity hound (no pun intended!) It was easy to break the ice with comments along the line of, ‘It’s a good thing I’m rich, because you wouldn’t believe how much kibble we go through!’ and ‘If this politics thing doesn’t work out, I’m going to buy a saddle and start working the carnie circuit!’, while if she was acting up a little, I could simply say, ‘I should have left you in the basement!’ She was an extremely well behaved and calm dog, and could go through several minutes of intro remarks, at which point Marilyn or the girls would take her backstage. (One favorite remark: “If you’re a Republican, she’s just licking you, but if you’re a Democrat, she’s tasting you!”)

By Tuesday, November 7, it seemed a foregone conclusion. The Governor was up by at least five points across the country. John Kerry would be heading back to his day job in the Senate, and Al Gore and Bill Clinton were about to get permanent vacations. It even looked like I was going to be re-elected in the Maryland Ninth. Fletcher Donaldson and a few other reporters had begun asking what I planned to do after being elected to the Vice-Presidency, as if it was already decided. I simply told them that nothing was assured until the election, but that if the Governor was elected, we would both make sure that the best possible candidate ran in the special election. I declined to name any names, but promised them that whoever was nominated would be an excellent candidate to carry on the work I had done for the citizens of the district.

That Tuesday night we had our usual bash at the Best Western. We stayed in an impromptu lounge we had created out of a conference room, with a bank of televisions and some tote boards to count electoral votes. Tonight was definitely a family affair, with the girls and the mutt in attendance, and Cheryl Dedrick and her husband were with us. If I was elected to both offices, we planned to announce her candidacy on Wednesday, but we wanted them there tonight.

By nine the Maryland Ninth was called, with a certain Carl Buckman winning by 15 points. You could hear the screaming from down the hall. I took the call from my opponent, who tried to get me to let him know who would replace me if George Bush won. He had already announced that he would run again in the special election in January. I thanked him but didn’t tell him.

It was shortly after eleven when the networks began announcing that George had won. I didn’t even catch it at first, since I was outside walking Stormy, while she sniffed everywhere trying to find the perfect spot to squat in the grass. I could hear some screaming from inside, but we had been getting that all night. Then some kid came racing out of the building and ran up to us, breathless. “Congressman! Congressman! You won, you won!”

I smiled at him and said, “I know I won, son. Calm down.”

“No, you don’t understand! Governor Bush won! Both NBC and CBS just called it! You won!”

“Huh!” I just stood there for a moment, as Stormy pooped in the shrubs. “I’ll be damned. We won?”

“You won!” Another staffer ran up at that point and told us both the same thing.

“I’ll be damned!” I looked down at the dog, now back by my side. “Well, Stormy, let’s go see what kind of trouble I’ve gotten into now!”