The Ghosts of Bayou Potomac

By Louis Tridico

President Beau Bergeron’s rookie year in office is turning out to be more than he bargained for. An aggressive Chinese admiral is pushing for a big naval showdown with the U.S. fleet in the South China Sea. And if that’s not enough to occupy Beau’s time, the sudden appearance of the ghosts of past presidents is about to push him over the edge. While they dole out advice, drink his beer, play practical jokes and ogle the first lady, Beau tries to figure out if his predecessors are helping him or pushing the country closer to war. His crazy college buddies aren’t helping, either, as they hatch a plan for a little bayou-style ghost busting – if they can get a voodoo priestess and a lucky rooster past the Secret Service. Can America survive the weekend and the Ghosts of Bayou Potomac?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Louis Tridico
• Release date: Aug 31, 2013
• ISBN: 9780988394278

Louis Tridico

Louis Tridico grew up in Louisiana’s bayou and plantation country, listening to the swamp stories his father and uncles told. Some were even true. After graduating from LSU, he began his career in advertising, PR and political consulting. He also served a while as media spokesman for the East Baton Rouge Parish Sheriff’s Department. He currently lives in Texas as a Louisiana expatriate with his wife, two kids, two dogs and one box turtle. They make regular pilgrimages back to the swamps.

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Chapter 1

The White House press conference looked like any other press conference in the James S. Brady Press Briefing Room: the seated press corps, the cameras, the lights, the presidential podium, with assorted presidential advisors off to one side. But there was one big difference that day. There were two presidents in the room. One very much engaged. And one who was very, very dead.

President Beau Bergeron was the president who was very much engaged. One year into his first term and the shit had finally hit the fan. He, of course, was the fan.

"Mr. President, some would say sending the George Washington’s carrier task force toward the South China Sea is too provocative at this time."

Beau looked at the NBC correspondent and gave him his most thoughtful look. What an asshole, he thought. What the guy really meant was, he thought sending the task force was too provocative. Good question, Steve, if there had been a question mark at the end of that statement, Beau said. There were some mild chuckles from the room. The Seventh Fleet has operated in the those waters long before I got here. Its deployment is routine, as is how we position our forces in the area. There is no provocation.

The room erupted into questions.

Cathy, Beau said, and pointed at a thirty-something blonde from some Christian magazine whose name he couldn’t remember. But he could remember Cathy. She looked like some hot country singer from Nashville. Big hair. Big boobs. Big blue eyes.

She stood up, wiped her bangs from her eyes and smiled at Beau. Mr. President, since the National People’s Congress has yet to elect a new president, do you feel this is a power play by the chairman of the Central Military Commission to make a move on that position and bring the military hardliners into power?

Beau nodded and thought to himself, Definitely a C-cup. Maybe a 37. The First Lady sported an impressive rack, so he had something to compare it to. "Ah. There’s a question, he said. Again, a few chuckles. Mike from NBC didn’t look happy. The National People’s Congress is taking a prudent approach to selecting their next leader. I applaud that. President Lu’s untimely death caught everyone by surprise. They’re just trying to get a handle on the thing and do what’s best for China."

Lu’s untimely death had been a big surprise, most certainly for Lu, who was only 58 years old and in perfect health. Beau and the rest of the world had been told it was an aneurysm in the brain. The CIA wasn’t so sure. Intel coming out of Beijing pointed to some other possibilities. They were still looking into that. Beau had never met the man, but there had been plans in the works for Lu to visit Washington. Scratch that party.

Beau, of course, couldn’t reveal what he really knew was going on over there. China’s new aircraft carrier and its support ships had quietly moved into the South China Sea, international waters that the Communist regime had always claimed as their own. Most of the tension over the years had been between Chinese fishing fleets and the local Coast Guards of South Korea, Taiwan, Vietnam, Malaysia and the Philippines. Nothing for anyone to get overly excited about. But these were rich fishing areas, and the economics were tremendous. Beau knew it wasn’t so much the fish, though, as the oil. Some estimates had over 200 billion barrels of oil under the South China Sea. Basically 80% of Saudi Arabia’s reserves. It looked liked the Chinese were finally going to put a stake in the ground, or a buoy in the water, or a drilling rig, or whatever, and make it official. They wanted the oil all to themselves.

Before becoming president, and before serving two terms as Louisiana’s governor, Beau had been a successful attorney specializing in the oil business. There was a lot of shit he didn’t know anything about, but oil wasn’t one of them. There was a ton of money to be made by somebody out there.

The Chinese navy’s movements were known to everyone in this room. What they didn’t know, and Beau did, was that the hardliners really were running the place over there, and they were going for the oil grab. Or so the CIA said.

This constituted the shit part of hitting the fan. And while Beau Bergeron had plenty of shit thrown his way during his political career, this kind of shit he could do without. The Chinese had been flexing their economic muscle for years, even though some of their domestic policies and human rights records were abysmal. Still, their military buildup had been relatively passive, although steady. It had been watched with concern by America and her Pacific allies, but until now, nothing appeared overly aggressive. Until now, he thought.

Beau’s first year in office had been relatively tame. No big initiatives were launched. This was all by design, part of his Small, Medium and Large strategy that had made his two terms as Louisiana’s governor so successful. It went something like this: introduce small, winnable programs at first. A couple of quick wins to get some positive vibe and attract the bandwagon crowd. Then move on to one or two slightly more ambitious things and knock them down. Now the bandwagon was getting full. Everybody wanted to be on board, and even his detractors wanted to join the success. Finally, with allies on both sides of the aisles, he’d go for the big win. The defining program. In the case of Louisiana, it had been dramatic education reform that had vaulted the state from near last in the country to somewhere in the middle in teacher pay, student scores and assistance for the poor.

Small, Medium, Large. His statewide success had gotten the attention of the national media and the party machine. If he could fix Louisiana, they thought, hell, he could fix anything. His inner circle had pushed him to consider a run for president. Or V.P. if it was offered. Make a strong run in the primaries and see what happens, they said. He had been reluctant, but the polls bolstered their point and soon he was a legitimate contender. He was in his mid forties, six-one, handsome, lean, with a full head of black hair and a little gray around the temples. His dark features, warm demeanor and Cajun accent made him stand out, especially among women. He was very comfortable in his skin, affable, and a great storyteller. The camera loved him. And men labeled him a guy’s guy. Somebody they could hunt or fish with, or sit at a poker table with and knock back a few beers.

Before he knew it, he was standing in front of the Capitol building on a clear, cold January morning with one hand raised as he took the oath of office. The first Cajun President. Crawfish boils in the Rose Garden, late-night comics proclaimed. The pundits now called D.C. and the White House Bayou Potomac.

The rest had been a blur. Moving his wife and three teenage kids into the White House. Getting his team in place. Trying not to make an idiot out of himself, because he knew the media who had loved him before, who had put him in office, would now turn on him at the drop of a hat.

One year in, and he was still in the Small phase of the plan. A couple of easy wins. By this time, he wanted to be into the Medium stuff, but Washington was proving to be a little savvier about President Beau Bergeron’s strategy. The game was on.

Now this shit, he thought.

Carl, Beau said with a nod to an older gentleman in the front row. This would be Carl Keegan with The New York Times. He was an ancient warrior who’d parried with at least five presidents. Beau always thought he looked a little like a nice grandfather type, but he knew Keegan was far from it. He was a boozy Darth Vader with a pen instead of a light saber.

What if the hardliners are already in place in the Chinese government? Is your administration, just one year on the job, prepared to assert America’s position in the Asian-Pacific region?

Beau again nodded. The old bastard knew what was up and was baiting him. Keegan had sources all over town, including Langley. He’d have to be careful here, because he knew the truth would be out in a few days, if not tomorrow.

Well, Carl, we’ll know soon enough who’s in charge over there. When that happens, we’ll continue our ongoing dialogue with Beijing on issues relevant to both our countries: fair trade, a strong global economy and stability in the region, to name a few. I’ll have him or her over for some good jambalaya and a few cold beers. Friendship starts with a full stomach, my grandmother always said. He gave Keegan, and the cameras, a slight smile. He could have sworn the old journalist rolled his eyes, but Beau was already looking toward the back to answer another question.

And that’s when he saw him. Off to the right, standing next to a CNN cameraman. A distinguished looking gentleman with a full head of gray hair, parted on the left in a bit of an early comb-over. He wore what Beau could only describe as a period costume: a dark coat with vest, a high-collared shirt with a black silk neck cloth tied in a bow. He looked to be about six feet tall. He was paying rapt attention to the press conference, and in particular, the cameras and lights. Stranger still, he was eating from a bag of potato chips. Beau was never much on decorum, but attending a presidential press conference while eating a bag of chips was kind of pushing it. No one seemed to be paying the guy much mind, either, despite the archaic clothes and crunchy potato chips. Beau’s initial thought was that the guy was part of some kind of historical re-enactment, or tour of the White House. An actor playing a part.

Beau caught himself staring, and then turned back to the shouting reporters, finally choosing the reporter from the Associated Press, a rumpled middle-aged man with horn-rimmed glasses. Mr. President, is it true the Chinese ambassador has been summoned to the White House, and you’ll be speaking to him later today?

Crap, Beau thought. Who the hell let that out of the bag? He continued to be amazed at how much access these White House correspondents had to inside information. He went for it. Yes, the ambassador is scheduled for a meeting later today. Part of our ongoing discussion of the Chinese government’s transition. I find these meetings to be very informative, and we get real-time answers to our questions.

Thank you, Mr. President, Carl Keegan said loudly. As senior reporter in the room, it was his job to end the press conference.

Thank you, everyone, Beau said and nodded to the still-shouting press corps. He took one last look at the costumed gentleman on the right, whose head swiveled around the room, watching the press conference end. Beau stepped off the stage and was greeted by his Chief of Staff, Terry Melancon.

Good job, Terry said.

Who the hell is that guy with the costume on? Beau said, pointing toward the odd gentleman.

Terry looked that way and back at Beau. What guy?

Chapter 2

Beau, Terry and press secretary Cindy Walker stepped out of the press briefing room, down the hall past the Cabinet Room and into the Oval Office. Walker was a plain but attractive woman of 40, with auburn hair and stylish glasses. Terry, a lifelong friend of Beau’s, was just under six feet, stocky, with short, thinning blonde hair and pale blue eyes.

Keegan will probably lead with the hardliner angle, Walker said. She shut the door behind her and stood with her arms folded. Beau plopped down on the sofa. Terry paced near the president’s desk.

Broke-dick asshole is in tight at the CIA, Terry said. Pisses me off.

I don’t want it to look like we’re clueless about what’s going on over there, Beau said. We still know more than the press. I think. He stared at Walker. Please don’t quote Terry’s ‘broke-dick’ comment.

Not a chance, Walker said. Since they know the ambassador is headed over today, let’s use that.

How so? Terry stopped pacing a moment.

After the meeting, we’ll leak that we’ve gained some new information that points to a power grab by the military boys, she replied. Steal some of Keegan’s thunder, looks like we’re ahead of this thing.

Beau closed his eyes and ran his hand through his thick hair. Let me think about it. Anything new from David? he asked.

Terry looked at his watch. Briefing in 15 minutes, he said. David Cassidy was Beau’s National Security Advisor, a former Special Forces soldier with a mind like a computer with a steel trap inside.

Beau stood up and looked at Walker. Thanks, Cindy. Can you give Terry and I a minute? And tell Mrs. Foster, too?

Sure thing, Mr. President, she said and left the Oval Office.

Beau sighed. Got a really bad feeling about this, Terry. I think the Chinese, or at least some of them, have been waiting for a stare-down with us for a long time. This might be their coming-out party after all.

Dangerous, Terry said. They’re betting we don’t have the stomach for a knife fight.

You think that’s all they want? A couple of quick, bloody blows directed our way, then step back?

Terry rubbed his eyes and sat down. "I think so. They know this won’t be war. And they don’t technically have to win anything. They’ll take out one of our ships, or a few planes, we’ll reciprocate and everybody will call time out. A draw is a victory for them on the world stage. It shows they mean business, that they stood up to the world’s largest navy and took their shots."

All they want is parity, then? Beau said.

Pretty much.

I worry it won’t end in just one round, though, Beau said. Being in their backyard, they might want to play up the home-field advantage.

Could be, Terry said. He pulled out his phone and tapped in a couple of lines of text to his assistant. Then said without looking up, What guy?

Huh?’ Beau replied. Oh. That old dude dressed like he stepped out of the 19th century, with the costume on. He was standing in the back on the right. Eating a bag of chips."

Terry looked up. I didn’t see him. You sure?

Yeah. Weird. Nobody even looked at him. You’d think those reporters would have been all over him.

There wasn’t any guy there.

Yeah, there was.

Okay, you’re the President. You win.

Beau walked back to his desk. You know what else was weird? He looked familiar. I’ve seen that guy before.

Terry put his phone away. Yeah, whatever. You got a few minutes before David and his team briefs you on the latest. Anything else on your mind?

Beau sat down behind his desk. Like many presidents before him, he used the famous Resolute desk. It was made from the wood of the HMS Resolute, an abandoned British ship discovered by an American vessel and returned to England. After the ship was retired, Queen Victoria had the desk made from the timber and it was given to President Rutherford Hayes in 1880. Most Americans knew it as the desk President Kennedy had in that famous picture of his son, John Jr., peeking out of the kneehole panel.

When’s Marissa getting back again? Beau said. Marissa Bergeron, the First Lady, had been on a weeklong multi-city tour of urban schools.

Terry scrunched his face. Uh, tomorrow, mid afternoon maybe? I’ll double check.

Good.

You worried about the Chinese?

What, me? Worried? Beau said.

Terry left and started to walk to his office in the other corner of the West Wing from the Oval Office, but turned instead and walked to the press secretary’s office. He stuck his head in the door. Cindy Walker was on the phone. She saw him, held up a finger and wrapped it up.

Everything okay? she said after hanging up.

Yeah. Got a question. You still tape the press conferences?

Yep. I wish he’d watch some film like he used to. Help his game some. At the beginning of Beau’s term in office, his press conferences were taped, and he, Walker, Melancon and others would grade his performance and hone his skills dealing with the predatory White House press corps.

Multi cameras? Terry said.

Walker nodded. Yeah. Remember how we used to look at the press’s eyes while he was answering a question. Body language, stuff like that. Helped me put a playbook together, which I wish he’d still read now and then.

Good. Can you get one of your people to send me the whole thing? Every camera angle?

Sure. Why?

Terry shrugged. He’s gonna be up there a lot in the next week or so. People are going to be getting nervous. And our adversaries will be watching. Just want to make sure he’s sharp.

Okay. QuickTime all right? Watch it on your computer?

Perfect. And ASAP if you could.

We’re on it.

Terry walked out and headed to his office. Truth be told, Beau had been excellent at the podium. It was his sighting of the mysterious guy in costume that had bothered Terry. He was 100% sure no one like that had been in the room. He had been watching the press with an eagle eye throughout the whole thing. If somebody like that had been in the room, he would have seen him. But the President had. Or thought he had. Or imagined it.

And that’s what really bothered Terry.

Beau stood over the toilet and took a leak. A presidential leak. He smiled at that thought. He always half expected some aide would hold his johnson for him, lest the presidential hand touch the presidential privates during this most basic of human duties. Did presidents Andrew Johnson and Lyndon Johnson call their johnsons johnsons? Hmmm. He snapped out of this train of useless thought. No, he had the small lavatory to himself. He enjoyed these moments, the rare time he was actually alone. He’d close his eyes and imagine himself somewhere else. Maybe back in Houma, Louisiana, his hometown. At his family’s camp on Bayou Dularge, getting ready to head out and catch some specks or reds. Man, he’d love to be there right now. This job was ridiculous, and half the time he regretted winning the election. And he was only one year in to his first term. Crap, he thought. That was sobering.

The fucking Chinese weren’t just testing America. They were testing him. A young president with no foreign policy experience, one year in, with his mind on all kinds of domestic issues. He smiled at that thought. Domestic issues. His real domestic issues were three teenagers, living in this nuthouse. Raising wild animals like that is hard under any circumstances. But here? With the whole world watching? There was Beau, Jr. 18 years old, enjoying his senior year of high school. Nina, 15, who looked just like her mother and was the definition of jailbait. And Marie, a bookish 13-year-old who asked way too many questions. Not bad kids. Not great kids. But each one a handful. A frightening, fantastic, train-wreck of a media story waiting to happen, each and every one of them.

Beau finished up and washed his hands. He took a hard look at himself in the mirror. The hair was still mostly black. A little gray here and there and some by the ears, but he had that coming in. He’d seen pictures of how quickly presidents aged in this job. If he stayed for two terms, he knew he’d probably walk out of here completely gray. Might be the job. More likely the teenagers. Especially the girls. They’d probably kill him before all was said and done. Could he get the Secret Service guys to protect him from his crazy daughters? Hmmm. There’s a nice thought.

He walked back into the Oval Office and saw his secretary standing by the outside door, blocking it. Mrs. Foster had been with him since his days in Baton Rouge. Late sixties, steel gray hair, tall and imposing. An elegant woman who had grown up with his mother down in Terrebonne Parish. She had taught him English I and II in high school early in her career, retired and did some local clerical work for a Houma attorney and supporter. It was her ninth year with him. Not counting the couple of years of English I and II.

She heard Beau come in and turned toward him. Mr. Cassidy and his people are waiting, Mr. President.

Thanks, Mrs. Foster. Send them on in, he said. He dropped into his desk chair, leaned back and crossed his legs.

Before she let them in, she took a step toward Beau. And, uh, T-Ron, Jimmy and Big Mike are in the building.

Beau sat up. Oh boy.

Yeah, and they parked their bass boats out back.

Well, that should give the news media something else to talk about tonight, he said. Are they on my calendar?

After the Chinese ambassador, sir.

Beau rubbed the bridge of his nose. Okay. He smiled. Send in Mr. Cassidy, please.

David Cassidy looked nothing like his Sixties heartthrob namesake. He was about forty, lean and wiry, just barely five-foot ten, with short brown hair and dark eyes. He moved easily into the room and stood before the president’s desk. Beau had read the man’s top-secret background. Ex-Delta Force. One of the first Special Ops guys dropped into Afghanistan back in the fall of 2001. Organized the Northern Alliance fighters. Blew shit up. Guided in the bombers. In one instance, he slipped into a Taliban camp in the middle of the night and killed six of them with just a knife. Scary little bastard. Looking at him, you’d never know it. Kind of small, thoughtful. No swagger or bullshit. A real, honest-to-God snake eater, though. And smart. He later got moved back to the Pentagon, served as an assistant to the Army’s Chief of Staff. Impressed a lot of people. Got a White House post in the last administration. Impressed Beau’s predecessor a lot. Now he was his National Security Advisor. Two young men in their thirties followed Cassidy in. One a little chubby with thinning red hair and glasses, the other a tall, muscular type with blonde hair and a strong jaw. Military bearing, Beau thought. Trailing them was Terry Melancon.

Morning, Mr. President, Cassidy said. You remember Todd and Kurt.

Absolutely, Beau said. He didn’t. He got up and led the men to the sofas and everyone sat down. Okay, what do you have? he said.

Looks like they’re setting up a blockade, sir, Cassidy said. They’re deploying their carrier battle group along the northern entrance to the South China Sea. It’s the proverbial line in the sand."

They haven’t said that, Terry said.

Not yet, Cassidy said. We think they’re waiting until they’re in position.

Which will be when? Beau said.

Todd, the redhead with glasses, said, In the next six hours, sir. Max.

Beau looked to Cassidy, who nodded in the affirmative.

Kurt, the tall military type, added, They’ve begun to launch sorties from the carrier, out at least 200 miles.

They know we’re coming? Beau said.

Cassidy gave a quick nod. No doubt.

This line? How soon till we cross it?

48 hours, Mr. President, Cassidy said. Our planes a lot sooner.

Shit, Beau said. Our planes will be mixing it up with them by tomorrow, at least flying close to theirs.

Admiral Lear has specific rules of engagement, Cassidy continued. Just normal flight ops, out and back. No low-level stuff. Nothing aggressive.

"And what happens when some Chinese jet jockey starts playing chicken with one of our guys, or gets too close to the Washington?" Terry said.

Assertive, just not aggressive, is what I think Admiral Lear said, Cassidy replied.

I’m gonna need to talk to Lear personally, David, Beau said. Set that up.

Sure, but Admiral Winston will want to be present. Winston was the Navy’s top guy on the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

Fine, Bergeron said. He looked at Cassidy for a second. What’s their mood, though, David? You think they want to go a round or two?

Cassidy sighed. Afraid so, sir. This might go hot.

Fuck, Terry said.

Beau rubbed the back of his head and frowned. Anybody at the Pentagon got a plan ready in case it does?

Kurt chimed in. Yes sir, one exists. They’re making some adjustments to it now. We want to make it so costly to the Chinese they won’t want to take the risk.

Uh huh, Beau said. "But how much will it cost me?"

Chapter 3

The Chinese aircraft carrier Liaoning, a remodeled Soviet-era vessel they picked up at a garage sale in the Ukraine back in 1998, cruised at a steady 15 knots in the South China Sea. Originally purchased for research and training, the Chinese moved on from that phase and made the conventional-powered ship fully armed and operational. Its distinctive upwardly sloping bow cut a sleek profile on this bright, clear night.

Admiral Yang Jinping stared out into the darkness. His thumb and forefinger squeezed his bottom lip together. Short, slight, with a hint of a pudge, the 52-year-old officer was China’s top carrier strategist. He had no combat experience, but he had read a lot of books. His bridge crew sat at their stations, monitoring radar and ship communications, maintaining their course now that the last of the fighters had returned. He could feel their tension. This was no routine training exercise, they knew. Word had spread they were going to poke a stick at the American navy and see what happened. Yang knew that wasn’t quite the truth. In fact, they were going to seal off the South China Sea for good. It was their backyard. How would the Americans feel if the Chinese fleet regularly parked their ships in the Gulf of Mexico?

He paced the bridge, peppering the crew with questions and requests for reports. He needed these young men fully alert. Things would get really interesting in a few days. He was pretty certain he’d be getting that combat experience he always wished for. Maybe he’d write a book after it was over. How the hero of the new Chinese navy had taken on the powerful American navy and defeated them with superior tactics. A movie might even be made. That would be pretty cool.

Yang knew the American carrier U.S.S. George Washington and her battle group were headed this way. Not that he had any great intelligence operation going. He just had the TV tuned to CNN. Pretty comprehensive report. The cute blonde reporter made it even better. Its planes would be flying nearby probably tomorrow. That’s when the fun would begin. The Liaoning, along with her cruisers and destroyers, had created a long, gray steel wall that the Americans wouldn’t dare try to penetrate. He liked that it would be just his carrier group against the American group. One on one.

He smiled slightly. The military boys back in Beijing were finally going to be running things. That would be a plus for his career. Do good out here, and he was fast-tracked for leadership in the capital. He was still a relatively young man, so a stint in politics was easily in his future. Screw up, though, and he was done. Better to die out here than go back home and face the wrath of those old bastards. But he had no intention of dying, and if things played out right, there wouldn’t be any shooting at all. The Americans would just quietly turn around and sail back out to the Pacific.

Well, that was what the old guys were planning on, anyway. He had other plans.

Beau had a 10-minute photo op with business leaders in the Red Room over in the Residence. It was a bi-partisan thing about creating jobs by helping small businesses, so no big whoop. A couple of words of encouragement, some handshakes and pictures. Press would be there, but there’d be no questions. He made the walk over from the Oval Office with his security detail and his