This week’s post is the last of five parts of a fictional
narrative tracing out a scenario of American imperial defeat and collapse. As a
bankrupt and divided nation stumbles toward its destiny, the question that
remains is whether anything can be salvaged from the American experiment.
*********
Within hours, thanks to news media reporting
minute-by-minute from St. Louis, word of the proposal to dissolve the Union
circled the globe. The most common
reaction was to dismiss it as an edgy joke.
One pundit wrote hopefully that the prank might finally bring the
convention to its senses. A few articles profiled the two delegates who had
written the measure, giving them their first fifteen minutes of fame—they were back
in the news two years later, on the occasion of their wedding—and then the
media tried to move on to what it considered important news.
Over the days that followed, however, the proposal took on a
life of its own. Across the country, in
bars and living rooms and grange halls, people talked about little else; public
meetings and rallies drew huge crowds, and with each passing day more of them
backed the proposal. Meanwhile the
online forum set up for comment on the convention’s debates crashed three times
in as many hours, flooded by posts about dissolving the Union. By October 4th, the day that the proposal was
scheduled for a vote on the convention floor, comments on the forum were
running ten to one in favor of dissolution.
Politicians and pundits were discovering to their horror
what more perceptive observers had noticed long before—that the United States
had long since broken apart culturally, and stayed together only because the
power of the federal government put disunion out of reach. Now, though, the unthinkable was an option.
Every region saw a chance to get what it wanted without wrestling with the
country’s yawning cultural chasms; western states in which up to 90% of the
land was owned by the federal government, and thus exempt from state taxes and
fees, ran the numbers and saw how easily they could balance their budgets once
all that real estate fell into their hands;
ambitious politicians on the state level began to dream of leading new
nations; and the thought of getting out from under the massive Federal debt, by
the simple expedient of dissolving the government that owed it, was on many
minds. For them and many other
Americans, dissolution seemed to offer dazzling possibilities, and few considered
the massive downsides.
On the night of October 3rd, opponents of the measure
counted heads and found that they lacked the votes to stop it. Parliamentary maneuvers kept it off the floor
the next day, but that unleashed a popular reaction that convinced even the
most sanguine observers that something drastic was afoot. Rallies had already
been called for the 4th, and they exploded in size as word got out that the
vote was delayed. Across the country
that night, crowds gathered and slogans sounded in the firelit dark. St. Louis saw one of the biggest
demonstrations, with shouting crowds marching past the convention center for
more than three hours. Delegates looked down at the sea of faces, and wondered
where it would end.
The proposal to dissolve the Union finally came to a floor
vote on the 6th. Despite impassioned pleas from opponents, it passed by a large
majority. Another vote abandoned the
amendment that would have stopped unfunded mandates—in the absence of a federal
government, the point was moot—and a third brought the convention to a close.
The moment the final gavel came down, the floor erupted in angry words and more
than one shoving match, but the thing was done: what would be, if it passed,
the 28th and last amendment to the constitution was on its way to the final
test of ratification.
Now Congress’ decision to require amendments to be ratified
by state conventions rather than state legislatures came back to haunt the
Washington establishment. The power
struggle between the states and the federal government had suddenly been
overtaken by the people, and if the delegates they elected to the ratifying
conventions supported dissolution, there was no way under the constitution to
stop them; by law, a US constitutional amendment took effect the moment it was
ratified, with no need for enabling legislation or anything else As the crowds marched, though, at least one
person was thinking about ignoring the constitution—and he had, in theory, the
power to make that happen.
* * *
Admiral Roland Waite, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff,
paced down a Pentagon hallway to “the tank,” the soundproof conference room
where the Joint Chiefs met. The Vice
Chairman and the heads of the service branches were there, but so were the DCI
and DNS, directors of the CIA and NSA respectively, along with key officials
from elsewhere in the executive branch.
Most of the federal government’s remaining power to make things happen
was concentrated in that one room.
“You’ve seen the president.”
This from General Mendoza, the Marine Corps commandant.
“Yes.” Waite settled into a chair at the long table in the
room’s center. “Every time I go there
these days, I wonder if I’m the only adult in the building.” That got an uneasy
laugh. “He’s still dead set on a
military response,” Waite went on, and the laughter stopped. “Today he ordered
me—his word—to get things rolling: troop movements, logistics, everything. He’s
got Justice working on the legal excuses.”
“They’ll need ‘em for martial law,” said General Wittkower,
the Vice Chairman.
“It’s not just martial law.”
Waite leaned forward. “He wants the whole country under military
rule. Homeland Security’s working on a
list of people to round up, internment camps, that sort of thing.”
“Jesus,” said Wittkower. “He’s talking coup d’etat.”
“Do you think we can make that stick?” Mendoza asked.
The DCI answered.
“Best case scenario, yes, but we get a major insurgency out West backed
with arms and money from China—no way will Beijing be dumb enough to miss an
opportunity like that. Worst case? The
National Guard and some Army units side with the states, and we get civil war,
again with China backing the other side. Could we win? Heck of a good question.”
“That got asked a lot in 1861,” said Mendoza.
“In 1861,” said Wittkower, “one region wanted out and the
rest of the country said no you don’t. Now?
The North wants to get rid of the South just as much as the South wants
to get rid of the North, and let’s not even talk about the western states. I wish I could say we could count on the
Army, but what I’m hearing from our security people isn’t good—and the National
Guard is worse.”
“There seems to be a lot of money backing dissolution,” said
Waite. “Chinese money?”
“Heck of a good question,” the DCI said again. “America’s
made a lot of enemies, and China’s only one of them. We’ve tried to trace the
funds, but whoever it is knows how to hide their tracks.”
“What does Wall Street think?” This was from Wittkower.
“Depends on who you ask,” said one of the civilians, a
career bureaucrat from Treasury. “Some
firms are scared to death of dissolution and some are eager to cash in on it.
Military government? That’s no problem,
they know they can work with us.
Insurgency or civil war is another matter. Even if we win, they’re saying, that’ll trash
what’s left of the economy and hand the rest of the world to Beijing. If we
don’t win, they’re going to be hanging from lampposts and they know it.”
“Right next to you and me,” Mendoza said. No one laughed; they all knew the commandant
was right.
“Here’s the question that matters.” Waite looked from face to face around the
table. “Do any of you think we can make
it work?” Nobody answered. After a long
moment, Waite said, “Well.” He got to his feet.
“I think we all know what comes next.”
* * *
P.T. “Pete” Bridgeport showed up at eight the next morning
for his weekly talk with the president.
A genial fixture in the Senate for three terms, he had been an obvious
choice to take the vice presidency after Weed resigned. He neither liked nor trusted Gurney, but
politics was politics and a job was a job; he put on his friendly smile and
went through the door. He found the
president staring at a flat screen with a face the color of putty and the
expression of a man who had just been strangled.
“Good God, Lon,” Bridgeport said. “What is it?”
The president kept staring at the screen and said
nothing. Bridgeport came around to see
for himself. A TV newscast showed
Admiral Waite in uniform in one of the Capitol briefing rooms. ADMIRAL:
GURNEY PLANS MILITARY COUP was splashed across the bottom of the
picture. “—a terrible idea,” Waite was
saying, his face bland. The words at the bottom of the picture shifted: RESIGNS AS CHAIRMAN OF JOINT CHIEFS. “But if this is how the American people
decide they’re going to exercise their constitutional rights, the military’s
job is to salute and say, ‘Yes, sir; yes, ma’am.’”
“Lon,” Bridgeport said quietly, “did you?” He had been told
nothing of the military planning, but the president looked at him, and Bridgeport
could read the answer in his face.
“You’d better pack your bags,” he told Gurney then; his smile was gone,
and his voice was suddenly that of the experienced politician explaining
realities to a clueless junior. “They’re
going to have your guts on toast.”
A president with strong public or Congressional backing
could have survived the news, but Gurney had neither. At ten o’clock that
morning, the Speaker of the House, ashen-faced, announced that other business
would be set aside to consider a bill of impeachment. By the end of the day, nobody doubted that
the bill would pass, and a head count of the Senate showed that conviction
would follow. That night, Gurney had his
press secretary read his resignation and fled the country on a private
jet.
President Bridgeport took the oath of office a few minutes
before midnight on November 12th, and his inaugural address called on Americans
to join together and make the nation work again. Though his personal popularity was high, his
message fell on deaf ears. For a great many Americans, Gurney’s failed coup had
been the final straw, and Bridgeport’s efforts to rekindle a sense of
patriotism were openly compared in the news media to Gorbachev’s attempts to
relaunch Communism in the Soviet Union’s last days. Even his executive orders
bringing the last US troops home from overseas and scrapping the nation’s
obsolete carrier fleet did nothing to shift the terms of the debate.
There was little else Bridgeport could do, because the
federal government was dissolving around him.
The collapse in the dollar made federal salaries worth next to nothing,
when plunging tax revenues allowed the government to pay them at all, and most
federal employees simply walked off their jobs.
Meanwhile, as the US dollar moved closer by the day to its ultimate
value of zero, a pragmatic mix of barter, state scrip and Canadian dollars
became the medium of exchange across much of the country.
The first state to ratify the 28th amendment, in a fine
piece of irony, was South Carolina, the first state to secede in 1861. The
ratifying convention met in Charleston on December 6th, and it took them less
than three hours to pass through the formalities and vote for ratification;
crowds sang “The Bonny Blue Flag” late into the night. Two days later Colorado met, and though it
took longer—a loyalist faction fought hard—the results were the same. Before Colorado voted, Michigan met, and
startled observers by voting against ratification. The next day, Iowa and New Mexico met, and
voted to ratify.
That was the way it went, day after day, week after week. A
handful of states bucked the trend, but only a handful, and the count rose
steadily toward the crucial number of 38 states, three-quarters of the total.
On January 29, when the Nebraska convention assembled in Lincoln, the count
stood at 37 for and 9 against. It was a
quiet, businesslike meeting. Once the
delegates had been seated and the preliminary business taken care of, by
unanimous vote, the convention closed debate and went straight to a roll call
vote. By 118 to 32, the 28th amendment
was ratified and the United States of America ceased to exist.
* * *
Three weeks later, Pete Bridgeport walked to the Capitol for
lunch, greeting passersby on Pennsylvania Avenue as he went. The Capitol doors were unguarded these days;
he went to the elevator and punched the floor for the Senate lunchroom. That was a restaurant now, serving the famous
Congressional bean soup and sandwiches named after dead presidents to help keep
the lights on in the old building. He knew the regulars at lunch, but this time
Bridgeport spotted a crowd of unexpected faces.
“Pete!” A senator
from Pennsylvania—former senator, Bridgeport reminded himself—waved him
over. “Your timing’s good,” she said.
“We’re inventing a country.”
“No kidding.” He ordered a bowl of soup and half a Harry
Truman, paid in Canadian dollars, and went over to a long table where a dozen
former senators and representatives sat over half-eaten lunches. The senator’s
words were no surprise. New England had just declared itself a republic, nine
southern states had delegates in Montgomery hammering out what wags were
calling Confederacy 2.0, the republics of Texas and California had been
proclaimed, and word was that Florida would follow shortly
The senator filled him in.
“We’ve been at the Senate Office Building on the phones with the states
all morning. The seven eastern states that voted against ratification are in.
So are Ohio and Delaware—they called off their conventions once Nebraska made
it moot. New Jersey only ratified because of Trenton; they want in, and
Kentucky talked it over and decided they’d rather be with us than with the
South. So what we’re saying is, okay, the rest of you don’t want the Union,
that’s fine; we still do.”
“Thinking of using the old name?” Bridgeport asked.
“It’s got a nice sound to it, doesn’t it? Here, take a look at the map.” She handed him a printout: the old United
States with a new border, marking off twelve states across the eastern core of
the continent: from New York and the
mid-Atlantic westward through Ohio, West Virginia, and Kentucky to Illinois,
Michigan and Wisconsin, linking the Atlantic, the Great Lakes, and the upper
Mississippi. It was, Bridgeport
realized, a viable nation.
The senator looked past Bridgeport, waved. “Hi, Leona. Care to pull up a chair?”
Leona Price had been the District of Columbia’s nonvoting
delegate to Congress, and was a lunchtime regular at the Capitol. The senator filled her in, and asked, “How
about the District of Columbia?”
“How about the state of Columbia?” Price replied.
That stopped conversations at the table for a moment, but
only a moment; the district’s aspirations to statehood had been common
knowledge in the old Congress. “Rhode
Island’s gone,” said an Ohio congressman down the table, “so, yeah, we’ve got
an opening for a little state. You want
the position?”
Price grinned. “Have
to put it to the citizens, but I’m guessing yes.”
“Just a moment,” said Bridgeport. He left the table, found another lunchtime
regular, a former Senate staffer, and talked to him in a low voice. The staffer
left the lunchroom and was back five minutes later with a bundle of cloth.
Bridgeport stood up, and said, “Can we clear some space in the middle here?
This might be useful.” He and the staffer unrolled the bundle. Thirteen stars
in a circle, thirteen red and white stripes: a tourist-shop copy of the
original US flag lay spread in front of them.
“It was a pretty good country,” said Bridgeport, “back when
there were just thirteen states, and we weren’t trying to run the rest of the
world. It could be a good country
again.”
“It’ll take a lot of hard work, Mr. President,” said the
senator from Pennsylvania. She emphasized the last two words. “A lot of hard work.”
They were all looking at him, Bridgeport realized: not just the senators and representatives,
but people all over the lunchroom. “I
know,” he said. “What do we need to do
first?”
****************
End of the World of the Week #46
If you’re going to be wrong, there’s something to be said
for being wrong on the grand scale, and the redoubtable Edgar Cayce certainly
managed this when it came to his predictions of apocalypse. A devout if
eccentric Christian with a talent for self-hypnosis, Cayce would put himself
into trance and provide intuitive readings for clients. The practical advice that came through these
sessions was often remarkably sensible—clients who asked about investments all
through the 1930s and 1940s were urged to buy and hold stock in electronics and
technology companies, a tip that made millions for those who took it—but his
scorecard when it came to the end of time was not quite so impressive.
Not that Cayce’s narratives were dull—far from it. According to him, a cataclysmic sequence of
earth changes would ravage the planet between 1958 and 1998. The earth’s poles
would shift, bringing tropical temperatures to areas that are now frozen; vast
tracts of the western United States, Europe, Japan, and other places would sink
beneath the seas, and new land would rise out of the Atlantic and Pacific
Oceans; Atlantis would return to the surface in 1968 or 1969; finally, the
Second Coming of Christ would take place in 1998, the battle of Armageddon in
1999, and a Utopian future of perfect peace and enlightenment would dawn with
the new millennium. It was a grand image, and formed the usually unmentioned
backdrop for a great deal of the New Age movement’s more lurid fantasies of the
future; it seems almost cruel to point out that none of it happened.
