CHAPTER 2
Brigadier General Fox Connor, recently returned from commanding the United States forces in Panama, was delighted to be back in California. The military complex was called the Presidio and was in San Francisco. It had a fine view of the Golden Gate and was a far better place to be than the steamy, corrupt, and sometimes violent squalor of Central America.
Fourteen years after the devastating earthquake of 1906, San Francisco was well on its way to once again becoming a place of sophistication and prominence. In fact, one had to know where to look to find evidence of the earthquake’s damage; the city’s half million people were willing to forget it ever happened. Some of the chamber of commerce types insisted that it never had, that the damage was the result of the fire and that there had been no earthquake. After all, acknowledging that an earthquake had occurred might lower property values.
Some thought the short, stocky general looked like an angry bulldog and not someone a junior officer could confide in. Not true. Connor liked nothing more than having intelligent young officers gathered around him so they could all freely exchange ideas. Connor considered it his duty and pleasure to develop the minds of those he considered to have great potential, or those he simply just liked.
This afternoon in early October, 1920, three young men sat with him. Two had potential—George Patton and Dwight Eisenhower while the third, Luke Martel, was respected and, in some ways, admired even though it was highly unlikely he would ever rise more than a couple of notches higher than his current rank, second lieutenant.
Patton, in particular, liked to tease Martel. “If the general uses words you don’t understand, Luke, I’ll explain them all to you later. If you’re nice, maybe I’ll even spell them for you.”
Martel rolled his eyes and grinned while Connor pretended not to hear the banter. Martel was used to the gibes and, besides, he and Patton were friends of a sort. Martel was an anomaly. He had gotten his commission the hard way, on the battlefield. Several years earlier, he’d been a sergeant in Pershing’s punitive force that had been sent into Mexico to fight the bandits who’d ravaged Texas. While on patrol, his platoon had been ambushed. His lieutenant was killed and he’d found himself in command of thirty desperate men surrounded by more than a hundred Mexicans who smelled blood and an easy victory.
Martel had rallied his men, defended their position, and then led a savage counterattack that chased the Mexicans away, leaving more than fifty of them dead or wounded after brutal hand-to-hand fighting. Martel had killed five Mexicans himself and been badly wounded. A scar running from his forehead down his cheek was a visible reminder of that encounter with death. For that he’d been awarded the Medal of Honor and the rank of second lieutenant by a grateful Pershing, who’d seen both a bloody defeat and a public-relations disaster averted.
Pershing had also understood that Martel was a fighter, a commodity sometimes missing in many regular Army officers, especially in times of extended peace. The Army hadn’t fought a war in almost two decades, a small but nasty one in the Philippines and a shorter one in Cuba. In a regular army that prided itself on the quality of its West Point graduates, Martel hadn’t even completed high school. Even though intelligent, well read and self-taught, he was not one of the elite West Point Club and knew it. His latest enlistment would run out the coming spring and he had a decision to make. Hanging on as a supply officer somewhere until retirement was not something he wanted to do. Not for the first time did he wonder whether the promotion to lieutenant was more of a burden than a blessing.
* * *
General Connor thought it was a shame that no one had nominated Martel for the Academy. Since the government would have paid for it, money was not a prerequisite, and he thought Martel would have done well. Patton came from wealth, but Eisenhower’s family had been poor farmers. On the other hand, maybe it was better that Martel had come up through the ranks, where he’d gained invaluable real-world experience.
There was some jealousy on the part of other officers, Patton included, of Martel’s combat experience and his more recent intelligence-gathering forays into German-occupied Mexico. The latest one, where he’d nearly been killed by a number of Uhlans that grew with each telling, was quickly becoming the stuff of legend.
Even though Martel’s promotion to lieutenant had first been considered temporary, the army had let him keep his rank and it was quietly understood that someday he might be promoted to captain and later retired to live off a pittance of a pension. Nobody gave him too much grief, especially since he was physically strong at nearly six feet tall and one hundred and eighty pounds. He was potentially lethal, sinister-looking thanks to the scar, and, more important, was a favorite of Pershing. That generals Hunter Liggett and Fox Connor liked him didn’t hurt either.
Connor shook his head. “George, if you are through harassing our resident hero, why don’t we start talking things through.”
The three officers laughed. “Excellent,” said Connor. “Now let’s review. Patton, how would you describe the situation the United States is in?”
“Totally fucked up,” said the irrepressible Patton.
Connor sighed. “Thank you, George. That’s correct and concise, but I was looking for something more analytical. Now, in just about three weeks the United States will hold a presidential election. Who will win? Ike?”
Eisenhower answered quickly. “Wilson will be re-elected for an unprecedented third term. It’ll be close, but he’s the man who ended the war in Europe and gave us eternal peace as a result of the Treaty of Princeton. Or at least that’s what a lot of people believe. Like him or not, and I don’t know many military men who do, he’s the people’s choice and will be re-elected. Warren Harding doesn’t stand a chance after all the news about his private life came out.”
“Hell,” Patton said, “Wilson might even be dead by the time of the election or before the inauguration. We know he’s exhausted and they say he has a cold, maybe even the flu, but nobody’s seen him in a couple of weeks. I’ve heard rumors he’s had a stroke. Some president we’re gonna have.”
Connor stood up and walked to where a map of the Southwestern Division of the United States and another one of Mexico were pinned.
“Gentlemen, militarily, who is responsible for the mess we are in? Is it Germany for starting the war of 1914–1915?”
Martel sometimes felt inadequate in these discussions, but, hell, he was among friends. “No sir, I blame the French.”
Connor grinned. “Go on.”
“Sir, the French had every opportunity to stop the Germans at the Marne. We now know that they’d been informed that the German armies had lost touch with each other. Reports from pilots proved that. The French commander in Paris, Gallieni, knew that the German flank was hanging and begged permission to attack it, and that might have stopped the Germans in their tracks. But the French commander, Joffre, didn’t believe the intelligence. He was too traditional and fossilized to believe he’d been handed such an opportunity.”
The rest, they all knew, was history. The French had been crushed at the Marne, and then retreated south in what quickly became a rout. Paris fell and the French soon capitulated. The British Army, some three hundred thousand strong, was caught by an overwhelming German force while trying to reach a Mediterranean port where the Royal Navy could evacuate them. Almost to a man, the British Army had surrendered.
The war of 1914 had ended just before Christmas in an overwhelming German victory and a catastrophic defeat for France, England, and, to a lesser extent, Imperial Russia. Some fighting in peripheral areas lingered into 1915, but the war was effectively over. Woodrow Wilson had gained further fame as a peacemaker by brokering the Treaty of Princeton which was signed a year later in Princeton, New Jersey.
“And if the French had won at the Marne, what would have happened?” Ike posed to the group. “It probably would have resulted in a bloody and drawn-out stalemate.”
Martel agreed. “Still better for the French and British than a catastrophic defeat.”
“Hell, they would have dug in and the two sides might still be fighting,” Patton said.
Connor smiled. “Would we have been dragged in?”
Ike answered. “Not with Wilson in the White House. He’s the same person who said it wasn’t important when the Germans, following the peace, basically took over Mexico. He said it wasn’t important enough for us to fight over.” He turned to Martel and grinned. “And that is why Luke keeps visiting Mexico. Remind me, what did you find the last time?”
Martel flushed slightly. It had been six months since the last time and the wild escape that finished it. “I located six German divisions within fifty miles of the border, and evidence of another eight more in the area by reading unit insignias on officers in Mexico City.”
Martel had spent several weeks posing as a fertilizer salesman from Canada before the Germans became suspicious and chased him across the Rio Grande. Patton and Ike had both joked that selling bullshit was something Luke handled very well.
They glanced at the map of Mexico which sported a number of colored pins. The green ones showed the last known locations of German units, and the red ones, the Mexican Army. The information had changed little in the last few months. Word had come from Washington that no more forays like Martel’s would be tolerated. Too provocative to the Mexicans, Liggett and Connor were told. Thus, the only information they got was from Mexican refugees fleeing from their latest civil war. When interrogated, they generally knew little.
The clock on the wall chimed three. “Damn,” said Connor. “We’ll have to break this up and go back to duty. I have a meeting with Liggett. Just a reminder, Lieutenant Martel is carrying dispatches to Washington and will be gone for several weeks. If you have anything you want him to take, see him now.”
Both Ike and Patton grinned at Martel. Connor had thrown Luke a bone. He was actually going to Washington to attend a cousin’s wedding, but, since he was being used as a courier, didn’t have to use any of his accumulated leave time, and the government would pay for the trip. It was characteristically thoughtful of Connor.
Patton jabbed Martel on the shoulder and grinned wickedly. “Just try and stay out of trouble. Don’t want to hear anything about Germans chasing your ass across the Potomac.”
* * *
Kirsten Biel liked to ride in the early mornings. It was relatively clear and cool and southern California could get very warm; especially that part located close to the Mexico, and her home was only twenty miles north of the border.
Mornings also let her think without interference from her cousins who still didn’t believe she was capable of running the ranch she’d inherited from her late husband. Ridiculous. She’d been raised on a ranch in Texas and under far harsher circumstances before being swept off her feet by Richard Biel. She admitted that the rough and hilly ground was marginal at best, but so far she’d been able to make a go of it. The land had been cheap for a good reason, yet was able to support a number of cattle that were sold for a decent profit. So far. She just hoped the troubles in nearby Mexico stayed in Mexico.
She shook her head sadly as she let the horse lead the way. Poor Richard, she thought, so suddenly dead of an infection that developed from a bruise on his leg. That was two years ago and now, at twenty-five, Kirsten found herself running an operation that included hundreds of head of cattle, hundreds of acres of land, and a half dozen full-time employees.
She wondered what she and her cousins would argue about today. Fred and Ella Biel were decent people, but it was clear that they resented the fact that she, an outsider, was in charge of the ranch and their collective futures. They thought it would be nice if Kirsten remarried, moved out, and sold the ranch to them, at an extremely reasonable price of course.
Remarriage was not on her agenda. Although Kirsten considered herself attractive enough, she knew she did not conform to classic definitions of feminine beauty. Despite long blonde hair and green eyes, at five-eight she was a little too tall for many men’s tastes, and at one hundred and forty pounds, just a little too sturdy and athletic for the average male. She’d long decided that the average male was very insecure, and her intelligence, education, and outspokenness had turned away a number of potential suitors.
She was especially outspoken when it came to political matters.
Attitudes regarding women were changing nationally. Women could now vote throughout the country even though women in California had been able to vote since 1911. Not too many people looked askance at her when she went riding while wearing a pair of Levi’s denim jeans instead of something more demure. Of course, very few people, other than family and hired hands, actually saw her on horseback. She also liked it that hemlines were rising and that women going swimming could actually wear bathing suits that didn’t endanger them by being so bulky they dragged the swimmer under water.
With all that was happening south of the border, she’d been told it was dangerous to ride alone. She agreed to a point and carried a model 1899 Krag carbine that had belonged to her father, and a Colt revolver she’d bought for herself in San Diego a few months ago. She was an excellent shot. She was not so familiar with the Bowie knife strapped to the outside of her boot. She jokingly said she mainly used it to clean her nails, while her cousin Ella once quietly accused her of using it to castrate suitors. Kirsten had the feeling that Ella was a fragile creature who was having a difficult time dealing with the harshness of ranch life.
Motion in the sky caught her eye. For an instant, she thought it might have been an airplane. She’d only seen a couple of them and they fascinated her as they did just about everyone. Even though they’d been invented more than fifteen years ago, they were still so rare that the very sight of one resulted in gasps of wonderment. Someday she would like to go up in one. Maybe she could use some of her precious savings to buy a ride from one of those pilots people were calling barnstormers.
But no, it was just a vulture. Then she saw a couple of more. Something had disturbed them and caused them to take off from the ground. They were a mile or so away and she wondered what they were feeding on. Was it one of her cattle, perhaps a calf that had wandered off? Or was it something else?
Kirsten pulled the rifle from its sheath and checked to see that it was loaded. It always was but she always checked. She urged the horse into a trot and hoped it was only a calf.
It wasn’t. Kirsten fought down the bile in her throat at the sight of the two dead men lying face down on the ground. They were Mexicans and had been shot in the back, executed, hands tied behind them. She did not dismount and examine them more closely. No point, she decided. Their wounds were just too massive.
That was about as much as she could tell after the vultures had been working on them. Their clothes were in rags and they were barefoot. More casualties from the long and bloody civil war being fought in Mexico, she thought, but these two had been chased or followed into California. They were likely soldiers of defeated General Alvaro Obregon, murdered by the victorious forces of Mexico’s current president, Venustiano Carranza. If the newspapers were to be believed, Carranza had essentially proclaimed himself a dictator, thanks to the backing of Imperial Germany.
That Mexicans were killing Mexicans was nothing unusual. They’d been doing it for decades. But now they’d begun taking their fighting and their vengeance killings into the United States. The presence of the two dead men meant that they’d passed close by her ranch in order to get where she had found them, and that was very unsettling. She didn’t want her ranch to become the front lines in a Mexican civil war.
What to do now, she wondered? First, she decided, she would send a detail out to bury the two men and, second, notify the sheriff. The sheriff would be powerless to do anything but take down a report and forward it to the state capital at Sacramento where they would also do nothing.
Kirsten wiped her brow with a neck kerchief. Her cousins, however well meaning, would use this as further ammunition in their argument that she should sell and move on. Maybe they were right.
She rode home and gave the instructions for the burial detail, ignoring Ella’s look of concern. She went to her room, poured several buckets of water into the cast iron tub, stripped, and settled in. The water was comfortably lukewarm. She wondered what her late husband would have done about the situation she’d discovered.
Kirsten laughed quietly. She knew what Richard would have done. He would have climbed into the tub with her, washed the riding dirt from her body, and then thrown her down on the bed where they would have romped like naked bunnies. Damn, she missed him. It wasn’t fair, she thought as she closed her eyes and envisioned him. It just wasn’t fair.
* * *
“Good morning, Mister Vice President.”
Secretary of State Robert Lansing was startled. Then he grinned at his secretary, the gray-haired and middle-aged spinster, Hedda Tuttle.
“Not yet, Mrs. Tuttle, and maybe never. There’s still an election to be won and votes to be counted.”
Robert Lansing was fifty-six years old, a distinguished-looking lawyer from New York, and had been secretary of state since June, 1915, following resignation of William Jennings Bryan. He liked to brag that he was the only secretary of state to have a state capital named after him—Lansing, Michigan. It was a joke. The capital of Michigan had not been named after him or his family.
He had opposed Woodrow Wilson on a number of issues, which made him wonder why Wilson had chosen him to be his running mate instead of the very pliable and not overly bright Thomas Marshall who had already served two terms as Wilson’s vice president. Lansing had a nagging feeling he knew why, but was unwilling to face it just yet.
Hedda Tuttle waved her hand dismissively. The election had been the day before, and the returns were already coming in showing a substantial plurality for the ticket of Woodrow Wilson and Robert Lansing, as well as a decisive lead in the even more important Electoral College. Warren Harding had been a viable alternative until his many sexual romps with women other than his wife became public knowledge.
“Mr. Wilson will win and so will you,” Mrs. Tuttle said with serene confidence. “There’s no doubt about it, sir.”
“Thank you for your support,” Lansing said sincerely. He just hoped he would be up to the task. He wondered just what the devil was going on in the White House where a nearly invisible Woodrow Wilson allegedly resided. Nobody had seen the man for weeks.
But for now he was still the secretary of state and third in the succession to the Presidency of the United States. There’d been talk of changing the Constitution so that the Speaker of the House, an elected office, would be number three, but nothing had come of it.
Of more immediate concern was the bombshell that had been handed to him by the ambassador from Great Britain. It said that the Germans were up to their old tricks, were coveting more territory, and that covetousness directly involved the United States of America. He had to get to see President Wilson, no matter what Wilson’s harpy of a wife said. Edith Bolling Galt, now Edith Wilson, was Woodrow Wilson’s second wife. His first wife had died in 1914.
Edith Wilson was extremely protective of Woodrow Wilson, and, as his health deteriorated, had blocked almost all access to him, allowing only written notes and questions that were responded to in her hand. Edith Wilson, some suspected, had promoted herself to the position of acting President of the United States. Lansing shook his head. Even if they could prove it, what would happen? The constitution was vague on the matter of a president being incapacitated.
Regardless, Robert Lansing had to see the president, no matter how difficult it might prove. The information provided by the British was so devastatingly important. The country had to be prepared for what might come.
“Mrs. Tuttle, is that nice young cousin still visiting you?”
She beamed. “Lieutenant Martel will be here for a couple more days. Did you know I raised him when his parents died?”
Lansing did, of course. She’d mentioned it at least a dozen times. Mrs. Tuttle was a spinster and raising the boy was the high point of her life. After he had grown, she’d moved to Washington and gotten the job as his secretary through the simple expedient of answering an ad.
“Tell you what, Mrs. Tuttle. I would like to come over and meet him. Why don’t I drop by about eight?”
Hedda Tuttle was quite surprised and flustered. “That would be such an honor.”
“And I might just bring another friend with me. Please tell the lieutenant to be in civilian clothes, and I know I can trust your discretion not to tell anyone of this, ah, little tryst.”
* * *
A thoroughly puzzled Luke Martel sat in Hedda Tuttle’s pleasantly cluttered living room. Until his arrival from out west, he’d never seen the place. She lived in a little cottage about a mile from the State Department office where she worked. She walked to work every day, regardless of the weather.
Hedda hadn’t begun her government work until after Luke had run off and enlisted. Her early letters had deplored his actions, but then, after he’d been promoted to sergeant and later awarded the Medal of Honor as well as promotion to lieutenant, her tone had changed. She was proud of him.
Luke knew he’d disappointed her by enlisting, but it seemed like the only thing to do at that time. She and he were dirt poor and he was a financial burden to her. He was deeply fond of her and wondered just what the hell was going on this evening. Sit still and wait, were her instructions.
Like most people, Cousin Hedda had no phone. Instructions had come by courier and caught him just as he’d returned from a pleasant day of sightseeing at the Smithsonian. Two important but unnamed people were going to visit him. He was to wear civilian clothes. He was to greet them warmly and neither stand at attention nor salute where anyone could see him. He was to do nothing that would draw the attention of nosy neighbors to their guests. If anybody was watching, their arrival just after nightfall was to look like the reunion of old friends.
Okay, he laughed. Washington was a city of plots and secrets, so why should he be surprised at anything?
At eight in the evening, a car pulled up and two men got out with the driver remaining behind the wheel. Martel went to the door and, despite instructions, had to fight the urge to snap to attention. Instead, he calmly gestured them to come in and closed the door behind them.
“Mr. Vice President or do you prefer Mr. Secretary?” he looked to Lansing and then, “Sir,” to Lieutenant General Peyton March, the commanding general of the United States Army.
Lansing took the lead. “Even though the election is formally over and I am now the vice president elect, I will continue to be the Secretary of State until my inauguration in March. Just call me sir, it’s easier.” He handed Martel a sheet of paper. “Read this, Lieutenant.”
It was only a few paragraphs, and Luke read it quickly. His eyes widened and he swallowed. The contents were dynamite, but were they true? “With respect, General, do you have the message in the original German?”
March smiled slightly and handed over another sheet of paper while Lansing raised his eyebrows in mild surprise. Luke handed it back a moment later. “Thank you, sir.”
“And what do both documents say, Lieutenant?” Lansing asked.
“Sir, they are a message from the German Foreign Minister, Arthur Zimmerman, to their ambassador to Mexico, Heinrich von Eckhardt. It says that the German Army in Mexico is directed to attack and invade California on November 18 of this year.”
“Very good,” said Lansing with only a hint of sarcasm. “And, just out of curiosity, where did you learn to read German?”
“Sir, a long time ago I thought things would go bad with the Kaiser, so I taught myself. And I was helped along by a couple of guys I served with who were German immigrants themselves. I don’t think I speak the cultured High German, but I can make myself understood and I can read it quite well.”
Lansing actually smiled. “And what other languages do you have?”
“Well, Spanish of course, sir. I learned that on the border and with Pershing in Mexico.”
March interjected. “Which is where the lieutenant was wounded, won the Medal, and where he got a battlefield commission.”
“Excellent,” said Lansing, visibly impressed. “Any other languages?”
“I can get by in French, sir.”
“And where, pray tell, did you find time to learn that?” asked Lansing.
Now it was Luke’s turn to grin. “I learned it from a girl in San Francisco, sir.”
Lansing laughed like it felt good to laugh, and even the normally formal General March chuckled. “Mr. Secretary,” Luke said, “the Zimmerman message is damning, but is it true?”
“A good question indeed,” said Lansing with an audible sigh. “And, yes, we believe the message is true. We have been able to verify it through a number of sources, including British intelligence and a drunken German diplomat who apparently didn’t give a care what we thought. Tomorrow, you will carry this news as quickly as possible to General Liggett in California so he can do whatever can be done to stop the Germans.”
Luke turned to General March who shook his head and added. “Yes, Lieutenant, telephone or telegram would be much, much faster, but we have no way of sending it in code and any message sent in the clear would cause a panic if it was overheard or seen by an operator. You are to deliver the information by hand to General Liggett and he will also be informed that it is to be kept extremely confidential while we try to make plans to either forestall the attack or, in General Liggett’s case, try to defend against it.”
“Sir, it’ll still take me a week to get to San Francisco, even by the fastest train.”
Lansing chuckled, “Hardly. In the guise of a test of the reliability of airplane travel, General March has been setting up a series of airplanes for you. If all goes well, you’ll leave at dawn and be at the Presidio with General Liggett in a couple of days at the most.”
Martel gulped. If all didn’t go well, he might be part of a failed experiment. He had never been in an airplane and hadn’t counted on taking a crash course on their capabilities, no pun intended.
March smiled slightly. “You are packed, aren’t you?”
“Yes sir, I am, and I was traveling light anyhow. May I ask why you’ve chosen me for this assignment?”
Lansing smiled. “Because you’re here and because Mrs. Tuttle vouches for you.”
March continued, “That and the fact that General Liggett also knows you and trusts you. You understand the situation, and you’ve seen the German Army rather up close if I recall correctly.”
Martel relaxed. “I think I’m honored, General, Mr. Vice President. However, may I suggest we forewarn General Liggett by an innocuous telephone call or an equally innocuous telegram from, say, me, to a third party, like Captain Eisenhower or Patton? It could for instance, say something suggesting an ‘imminent storm coming from the south?’”
Even though long-distance phone calls from Washington to California had been established in 1915, the quality was inconsistent and there were always wires going down. And there was always the possibility of operators listening in on a conversation from the White House. The use of a pair of third parties to give at least a broad warning to Liggett was intriguing and Lansing concurred with Martel’s suggestion. That way, General Liggett wouldn’t be totally ambushed.
Lansing patted him on the shoulder. “Get your bags. Mrs. Tuttle knows you’re leaving with us. We have one other thing for you to see so General Liggett will understand what we’re up against.” Lansing smiled grimly. “Lieutenant, we’re going to the White House to see the president.”
* * *
It was almost ten by the time they arrived at the darkened White House and it took a few more minutes to get through the uniformed Secret Service guards, even though their boss, the Secretary of the Treasury, had briefed them on their pending arrival. The Secret Service had only begun protecting the president after the assassination of President McKinley in 1901, and were very serious about the job. The White House’s Chief Usher, Ike Hoover, was not present.
Two other men met them. One was Supreme Court Chief Justice Edward Douglas White, an old and frail Louisianian who’d been appointed by President Taft in 1910, two years before Wilson’s first term.
The second was the president’s personal physician, Dr. Cary Grayson. He was also a navy admiral. To Martel’s astonishment, Grayson quietly and reluctantly admitted that he hadn’t seen Wilson in a couple of weeks either.
They went upstairs to the second level, the private quarters of the president. They informed a Negro servant that they’d arrived, and that it was imperative that they see President Wilson immediately.
A few moments later, an unkempt woman in a long robe emerged and glared at them. “You may not see my husband. How dare you come here unannounced at this time of night? The president is ill and needs all the rest he can get.”
Lansing handed Edith Wilson a copy of the German message. “Please read it.”
She scanned it quickly and returned it. “Rubbish. All lies and filth designed to upset my husband and to disparage his achievements. The Germans have signed a peace treaty and they will live up to it.”
“Madame,” said General March firmly, “the Germans have a history of aggression and we must prepare for it. We may be at war with Kaiser Wilhelm in a very short while. The president must know of this so we can begin to plan.”
Edith Wilson would have none of it. “My husband kept us out of the war of 1914 and he negotiated the peace treaty that guarantees peace, perhaps forever. He won the Nobel Prize for his efforts, and you have the audacity to bring these lies to disturb him?” She turned and backed away. “No, you will leave.”
Lansing winced. Woodrow Wilson had been co-winner of the Nobel along with the humanitarian Herbert Hoover. Hoover had won because of his efforts to feed the starving in Europe during and following the war. Rumor had it that Wilson had been furious at having to share the honor with a man he considered a rude engineer.
“No we will not leave,” said Justice White as he pulled a document out of his jacket. “This order requires you to admit us to his presence or you will be found in contempt of court. It also authorizes us to use whatever force is necessary to see the president and that the Secret Service is to assist us. There is considerable doubt that the president is up to fulfilling his Constitutional duties, in which case, something must be done to protect the nation.”
Martel stood behind the group. It was difficult for him to breathe. What the hell had he gotten himself into? Was this a coup? Now the idea of couple of days in a small plane seemed rather pleasant.
Mrs. Wilson seemed shaken. She began to wring her hands. “I don’t know what to do.”
She began to sob as Lansing gently pushed her aside. He opened the door and stepped into the president’s bedroom. Stale air and the stink of medicine wafted out, along with the unmistakable stench of body waste. The men went in. Luke took a deep breath and followed.
Woodrow Wilson, age sixty-four and the twenty-eighth President of the United States, lay on his back on a large bed. A cot was beside it and that was where Mrs. Wilson apparently slept. Jars of medicines were arrayed on a table. Luke felt embarrassed at invading the Wilsons’ privacy. Blankets covered Woodrow Wilson’s body up to his chin. His eyes were closed, his jaw was slack, and his face was drawn and gray. There was dried spittle on his chin. Martel thought the man in the bed looked worse than awful, but said nothing. Nobody spoke. Everyone was shocked by the president’s condition. Luke stared at the blankets. Were they even moving? Was he breathing?
Mrs. Wilson gathered her strength. “All right, you’ve seen him. You can also see that he isn’t up to visitors. He must rest and you must leave. Perhaps you can talk to him another day.”
Doctor Grayson reached a hand out to his Commander in Chief. “Don’t touch him!” Mrs. Wilson shrieked and grabbed for his arm.
Grayson ignored her and pulled the blanket down to the middle of the president’s chest. He gently placed his hand on the president’s wrist and then his neck. He stood up slowly. His face was pale as he turned to the others.
“Gentlemen, this man is dead.”
* * *
Robert Lansing thought that the only thing worse than finding that Woodrow Wilson was a corpse was the fact that Thomas R. Marshall was next in line to be the President of the United States, and would be so for the next five critical months. Marshall was perhaps the most incompetent vice president in the history of the United States, which, he thought ruefully, was saying a lot. He’d been despised by Wilson, who totally ignored him for two terms. Marshall was shy and insecure, and the only quote ever attributed to him was his deathless comment that “what this country needs is a good five-cent cigar.”
What the country really needed, Lansing thought bitterly, was a vice president qualified to fill the shoes of the president in the case of disaster. And now disaster was looming. No, he thought sadly, it was present.
General March and Lieutenant Martel departed, leaving Lansing alone. General March had been dropped off at the War Department and Martel was on his way to a local airstrip. Lansing had his driver take him to the residence of the vice president.
A moment later, the chief justice arrived and they exchanged grim nods. Lord, thought Lansing as he went up the walk to Marshall’s house, what a strange world we live in.
To Lansing’s surprise, Vice President Marshall answered it himself and invited them in. Except for the driver who waited patiently in the car, Lansing and Justice White were alone.
Vice President Marshall looked at the two men in puzzlement as they entered his office. “To what do I owe the honor?”
“Wilson is dead,” Lansing snapped. “You are now the President of the United States.”
Marshall staggered back as if struck. “No, no. It can’t be.”
Let’s get this over with quickly, Lansing thought. The delivery of the message had been intentionally cruel and blunt. Marshall might be a political clown and buffoon but he had a role to play and what was now a farce could not degenerate into tragedy.
“Which can’t be, Wilson’s death or your being president?” Lansing asked. “The chief justice is here to administer the oath so you can begin immediately administering the affairs of state and leading the nation through the coming war with Germany.”
Marshall looked wild-eyed with shock and looked like he was about to cry. “War? What in God’s name are you talking about? I know absolutely nothing about war or any crisis and don’t want to. And I most certainly don’t want to be president.”
“You’re the next in line,” Justice White said sternly, as if talking to a schoolchild. “If you don’t want to be president, you must formally step aside.”
Marshall took a deep breath, gathered himself, and sat down. “Gentlemen, you have surprised me. No, you have stunned me. I may not be the smartest man in the world, but I do consider myself a fairly honest one and a keen judge of my own character. I know myself and I know that I am utterly unqualified to become president of this wonderful country. If the crisis you speak of is so dire, then I should not even be an interim president until the inauguration next March. At that point you will become president, won’t you, Mr. Lansing?”
Douglas answered. “He will. With the elected president dead, the vice president elect will become the president and will be sworn in for a four-year term, but not until March. Whoever he appoints as secretary of state will be the next in succession as there is no constitutional provision to appoint or elect a new vice president. Marshall, your term of office will be extremely brief, only five months. Then you can retire with honor back to Indiana.”
Marshall shook his head. “If the country still exists, that is. Why are the Germans going to go to war with us?”
Lansing sighed. As secretary of state he had researched the contradictory and sometimes bizarre behavior of the Kaiser. Experts said that the Kaiser had been born with an arm that was withered because it had become entangled in his umbilical cord. This gave him feelings of inferiority. How could he be a warrior king with a withered arm? The arm even made it difficult for him to ride a horse, a task he had ultimately mastered through force of will. Other experts said that the Kaiser had also been born with the umbilical tube around his neck, and this had caused a lack of oxygen to his brain, damaging him.
The result was that the Kaiser, now sixty-one, saw that he only had a few more years to ensure his legacy as a conqueror. He’d defeated France, England, and Russia, and only the United States remained.
Lansing was exhausted and exasperated. “They are going to war with us because they are Germans and that’s what they do. Also because they are the strongest nation on the planet and they wish to expand their strength and their empire, and because they despise us for thwarting their ambitions in Europe and in the Pacific. The Kaiser and his government feel Wilson’s intervention ended the war in Europe too soon. And also because the Kaiser is a megalomaniac with delusions of grandeur. I might also add that the world’s growing need for oil is frightening the Kaiser. His warships require it and Germany has none. However, there is sufficient oil in California to fuel the German fleet’s needs for quite some time.”
Lansing felt sorry for the vice president.
“And if I decline to take the oath?”
“Simply declining would precipitate a constitutional crisis,” Chief Justice White said. “You would have to formally step aside, at which time the current secretary of state, Mr. Lansing, will become president until he is sworn in for a four-year term in March by virtue of the fact that he is also the vice president elect.”
“And Congress will not object?” Marshall inquired.
“I do not believe they will,” Lansing said. “The Constitution says that Congress has to appoint a president in the event that neither the president nor the vice president are able to serve. The most recent legislation has identified the secretary of state as the third in line.”
Marshall was not a stupid man and now understood the true meaning of their visit. He smiled at Lansing. “And you believe you are a better and more qualified man than I am?”
“In all honesty, Mr. Marshall, I do,” said Lansing.
Marshall shook his head sadly. “And in all honesty, so do I.” He took a piece of paper from a credenza and began to write. “I assume, Mr. Chief Justice, that you are here to ensure that all is honest and aboveboard?”
“Indeed.”
Marshall finished and handed the paper to Justice White. “I presume this is satisfactory.”
White glanced at it. “It is.” He signed his name as witness.
Marshall nodded sadly, “So much for my ambitions. Every little boy says he wants to grow up and be president of the United States, and if I do what you want, I will go down as the first and doubtless only man in our history who passed on the honor.”
Marshall laughed harshly. “And the dove was quite cunning, wasn’t he? Wilson probably knew he wouldn’t live out his next term, so he selected someone far more qualified than me to be the next in line. The only thing he didn’t count on was dying before the inauguration in March. Wilson was a stubborn, willful, hateful man who despised me and now he has given me this last insult to endure. Well, damn him, I will not play his game, dead or not.”
Lansing put his hand on Marshall’s shoulder. “By resigning you will be honored in history as an example of an honest and virtuous man.”
Marshall smiled appreciatively. “And you will go down as the man who finagled himself into the most miserable job in the world while I go and smoke a good five-cent cigar.”