Mackinac Island Nation

By Erik Deckers

His wife wants to be Queen of Mackinac Island, Canada is conspiring against him, Russia is invading, and North Korea is looking to buy real estate for all the wrong reasons: where does Pete even begin?

 

After finding a 200-year old treaty, the residents of Mackinac Island discover that they're going to be ejected from the union unless they reverse the process in two weeks. Except Congress has other priorities—hearings to hold, speeches to spew, Presidents to elect—and the process to repatriate the island will take at least two years.

 

Enter Pete Bidwell, the reluctant President of Mackinac Island, who only wants to keep everyone happy and return them to America's warm embrace, even if America is treating them like something on the bottom of their shoe. If that wasn't enough of a hot mess, the Russians are colluding against them and Canada is secretly conspiring—and canoodling—with Pete's wife Lucy, who wants the island to remain independent. Not to mention North Korea wants to hide a couple of nuclear weapons on the island.

 

Two years is going to be an eternity when the whole world wants to screw you over.

• Language: English
• Publisher: 4 Horsemen Publications
• Release date: Mar 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9781644507773

Erik Deckers

Erik Deckers is a humor writer who comes to Florida by way of Indiana, "where the real people live." He grew up wanting to write humor and satire after reading Catch-22, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, and Breakfast of Champions. After reading those, his biggest goal was to "speak truth to power and swear in books." He figured he was a natural because he was already a smart ass and knew how to spell.Erik loves writing humor because he feels dramatic and literary writing is sad as hell, and he refuses to entertain himself with sadness because there's already enough sadness in life. He has won several editorial awards from the Hoosier State Press Association for his newspaper humor columns. Erik is also a professional ghostwriter, and has co-authored several books on social media marketing, including Branding Yourself, No Bullshit Social Media, and The Owned Media Doctrine. And he is the president of the Kerouac Project of Orlando, and helps run the Writers Of Central Florida Or Thereabouts. When he's not writing, he enjoys woodworking and visiting used bookstores and independent coffee shops.You can find Erik at ErikDeckers.com, on Twitter at @edeckers, and on Instagram at @erikdeckers.

Book preview

Introduction

December 1814, Ghent,
the Kingdom of The Netherlands

G entlemen, please. The war has dragged on too long. Henry Goulburn, the British Undersecretary for War and the Colonies gripped his lapels. My government wants an end to it and to bring peace back to our two c ountries.

You mean your merchants want to begin trading with our country again, said John Quincy Adams.

Well, that is, we, uh—

Hey, we get it. Our wives have been complaining that they haven’t had a proper cup of tea in three years, and the First Lady keeps whingeing about missing out on the latest Paris fashions.

Women and their fashion! The men around the table chortled and guffawed, their sideburns quivering, and gave each other knowing looks, not knowing what awaited them in 202 years.

Before we start, we should probably tell the kitchen to begin preparing supper, said Adams. We brought five French chefs with us, and I hear these Belgians make some decent chocolate.

I could eat, said Henry Clay.

Yes, yes, fine, fine, said Goulburn. But if we could return to the matter at hand.

We’re in no rush, said Adams. We just need to set the chefs to work if we want to eat before midnight, Mr. Undersecretary. What these men can do with beef would make you weep.

But didn’t your own Mr. Franklin say ‘Eat to live, do not live to eat?’ asked Goulburn.

Yes, but he also said ‘Eat to please thyself, and dress to please others,’ said Clay. Plus, the man was a known glutton and struggled with gout for the last 15 years of his life.

Adams folded his hands on the table and leaned forward. So what do you want from us?

Well, we’d like you to stop attacking our outposts, said Goulburn.

And stop attacking our supply base in Canada, said Lord Gambier, Admiral in HRH’s Royal Navy.

And reduce the tariffs on our imported goods, said Goulburn.

If you stop blockading our harbors and allow shipments to get through, said Adams.

Yes, the First Lady’s corsets are weakening, said Henry Clay. The men chortled and guffawed again, as old white men from history often did.

Plus, all soldiers must remove themselves from American soil, and reduce your contingent in Canada by half, said Adams.

What about the various territories? asked William Adams, the British admiralty’s lawyer, no relation to John Quincy. His uncle was well-connected in the British government, so William was sent along as a favor. The men started calling him Wadams so as not to confuse him with John Quincy.

Such as? asked Clay.

Well, uh, the government of Canada has asked for their territory in Ontario to be returned to them, said Wadams.

And what do we get in return? asked Adams, hands still folded.

We’ll return Mackinaw City to you, as well as, uh— Wadams consulted a document in front of him. I believe it’s called… Michilimackinac Island?

Oh sure, Fort Mackinac, said Adams. I suppose we could take those off your hands.

Take them off our hands? But don’t you want them?

Meh. It’s too hard to get to, and the place is overrun with mosquitoes half the year and buried in snow the other half.

Wadams pressed further. "I have one additional, ah, request, on behalf of Governor General Prévost. He has asked that as a way to thank our Indian allies, the Chippewa and Ottawa tribes, he would like to, ah, give Michilimackinac to them. As a measure of our gratitude."

Adams looked at Clay. Give us a few minutes, would you please, gentlemen? They rose from the table and stepped outside. The rest of their contingency joined them. After a few minutes of low-voiced discussion, Adams and Clay returned to the table.

We’ll let you have it, but we don’t want to give it to them right away.

How much time did you have in mind? asked Gambier.

Three hundred years? said Adams.

That’s a long, long time, said Wadams.

We would even be willing to go to 200 years, but you have to promise not to send any more Marmite, said Adams. I tasted that in 1794, and I nearly drank whiskey to get the taste out.

But that’s still awfully far off— stammered Wadams.

What the hell do we care? said Goulburn. These Indians don’t have any concept of time. They just keep talking about ‘moons’ or some such thing.

Who should we give it to then? asked Clay

That’s the problem, said Wadams. Both the Ottawa and Chippewa have claims on the island, but their population continues to change.

How about this? said Adams. Let’s just put down ‘On July 1, 2015, Mackinac Island shall be separated from the United States, granted its independence, and given to the residents of that island for their total and free control.’

Why 2015? asked Wadams.

Complete stab in the dark, really. It’ll take us a few weeks just to sail back home, and then Congress has to ratify the treaty, said Adams. You know how those things go. I remember all the shit Dad went through when he was President, so I figure they’ll take three months just to read the damn thing, and another three to bitch about it, and then we’ll be looking at June or July. So, you know, 200 years after that. How many ‘moons’ is that, I wonder. John Quincy laughed at his own joke.

Sounds good to me. Goulburn slugged back the rest of his wine. "And hey, by the time they figure out what’s going on, we’ll all be dead anyway, am I right?

Chapter 1

1 0 … 9 …

The parade grounds at Fort Mackinac were packed as thousands of people—tourists, residents, and journalists from around the world—gathered in front of the wall, all counting down to midnight. Pete Bidwell stood on the battlements, watching the crowd staring up at the giant electronic clock that had been installed for this moment.

Around the island, along Market Street, in the yards of the hotels, on boats in the harbor, there were tens of thousands more people, celebrating, drinking, and counting. Excited for what was to come, excited to be on the cusp of history. Pete felt the vibrations of their counting rumble in his chest. Or maybe that was his heart.

The clock ticked the last seconds of the day toward midnight. It sounded like a New Year’s Eve celebration, except it was the last day of June. At least for a few more seconds.

"8…7…"

Pete rubbed the bridge of his nose and wished he could be anywhere else. In six seconds, he was about to make history, or rather, have history thrust upon him. Once the clock struck midnight, his whole world was going to change, putting him at the center of one of the biggest events in the country’s history.

"6…5…"

It was a simple enough problem. Just a bureaucratic snafu, really, said the fussy little man from the U.S. State Department. A simple oversight that should have been corrected 200 years ago, but everyone had forgotten about it. All it was going to take was a simple vote from Congress, and everything would be fine again.

"4…3…"

But until the most inefficient governing body in the free world got its shit together, Pete was going to be the first President of the Nation of Mackinac Island, a former territory of the United States, in exactly—

"2…1…"

Two weeks earlier…

Pete stared at the fussy man in the gray wool suit sitting across from him. The man constantly adjusted and touched his glasses, and Pete wanted to rip them off his face and stomp on them.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about this, said Pete. It sounds like your problem, not ours.

Well, this affects us both, Mr. Bidwell, said the man, touching his glasses again. And it affects everyone who lives on this island, visits it, or has business interests on it.

I don’t see how. It’s a 200-year-old treaty that’s been sitting in a dusty old office somewhere.

Actually, it’s been sitting in the historical archives of my office, said the man. His name was Walter Walker, and he was a mid-level bureaucrat with the U.S. State Department, in charge of treaties and contracts. He had long dreamed of being a diplomat to far-off exotic lands, but a myriad of food allergies, poor social skills, and a complete failure to master the machinations of basic office politics kept him tethered to a cubicle for the last 28 years. And his constant glasses touching made everyone nervous.

And now it was a bright June morning, and he was sitting in the back office of Mackinac Gifts, giving Pete Bidwell a headache.

So how does the Treaty of Ghent affect our little island? And why are you telling me all this?

Walter pulled two manila folders out of his briefcase and handed one to Pete. He opened the other.

I’m bringing this to you, Mr. Bidwell, because you are on the Board of Trustees for the Town of Mackinaw, which controls Mackinac Island, said Walter, pronouncing it Mackinack.

It’s Mackinaw.

What’s that?

Our island. The C is silent. It’s pronounced Mackinaw, like the city, but it’s spelled Mackinac. It’s French.

Ah. We’ve been pronouncing it wrong at the office all week, said Walter. "As I was saying, you’re on the Board of Trustees as the representative for Mackinaw Island. As the sole elected official for the island, that puts you in charge, and my responsibility is to make you aware of this situation."

Lovely, said Pete.

Walter continued: As you no doubt know, after the Revolutionary War, the Americans and the British signed the Treaty of Paris ending the war. We ended up with Mackinac Island under our control. After the War of 1812, where the Americans defeated the British, the Canadians, and the Chippewa and Ottawa Indians, they signed the Treaty of Ghent. Pete started counting the number of times Walter touched his glasses.

Still not seeing it.

Please, bear with me a moment longer, said Walter, touching his glasses. (Six, thought Pete, counting all the other times since this conversation started.) During the War of 1812, British forces took over Fort Mackinac. But after we won and the treaty was negotiated, the Americans demanded the return of any and all captured lands, ships, soldiers, and other property. Similarly, any American-held areas of Canada, in what is now modern-day Ontario, were returned to the British.

Pete opened his mouth to interrupt, but Walter held up a hand. He adjusted his glasses before he continued.

Lieutenant General George Prevost, the Governor General of Canada, was sympathetic to the efforts of their Chippewa and Ottawa allies. As a gesture of gratitude for their help, he managed to squeeze in a little clause about Mackinac Island. He asked that ownership of the island be returned to the natives after 200 years.

Seriously, 200 years? That seems to be an awfully far-off future to be thinking about.

Yes, well, the general wasn’t as concerned for their welfare as he wanted everyone to think. This was a way he could thank his allies but still make it palatable to the British high command.

So what? We have control of the island now.

We who, Mr. Bidwell?

America. We won the war, we own the island, right?

Ah, there’s the problem, you see. Part of the treaty stated that the island would be removed from American control and returned to the occupants of the island.

But there aren’t any Chippewa or Ottawa on the island, said Pete slowly, as the pieces began falling into place.

Precisely, said Walter, glancing down at his paper. He took off his glasses and cleaned them on his tie. Pete debated whether to count that as one long touch or several small touches.

Walter continued: Governor Prevost had specifically requested ‘control and predetermination of the island be given over to the native occupants of the island of Mackinac.’ And as you say, since there are no Native Americans on the island, control must be given to the remaining residents.

Oh shit, said Pete, as the last piece fell into place, making him lose count.

Precisely, said Walter. And that is why I’m here.

But the Americans control it now. We’re the native occupants. Don’t we just keep control?

"We could, except Governor Prevost specifically asked that control be taken away from America, which means the government can’t control it even if we are the natives. The signatories at the time agreed to it, figuring they would find a solution to the clause. And since many conditions of the Treaty of Ghent still dictate how our relationship with the British government functions, we can’t just violate the terms of the treaty and pretend it never happened. Which means, as far as our lawyers have determined, Mackinac Island will become a self-governing society until—"

Until what? demanded Pete. He unconsciously reached up to touch his own glasses until he remembered he didn’t wear any.

Don’t worry, we’re working on a solution at State and hope to implement it soon.

What’s that?

We re-annex Mackinac Island back into the country and restore it to its proper place, as a part of the state of Michigan. We assume the people of Mackinac will also want this, and the annexation can take place with a minimum of fuss.

Pete leaned back. That’s great, Mr. Walker. You really had me worried there for a minute. How long is that going to take?

Walter thought for a moment, really working at his glasses now. Hmm, let’s see. The last territory we truly annexed was the Virgin Islands in 1917. So we’ll have to dig out the paperwork on that… Walter stared upward, doing some mental calculations with his fingers. Then we’ll need approval from Congress—

Congress!

Oh yes, we need to get approval from Congress for this sort of thing. You just can’t fill out a form and be done with it in a week.

"So how long will all this take?

At least eighteen months. Possibly two years.

Two years!

Well, there are legal documents to file, and Congress will hold hearings so they can posture and make grand speeches about this terrible loss of American soil. Plus, next year is an election year, which means they’ll focus on getting re-elected, not actually doing the business of the country.

Pete’s eyes bugged out, and he ran both hands through his hair.

Oh shit oh shit oh shit, he mumbled, staring off into space, his mind blank. What do we do now?

Walter glanced at a paper calendar, and then at his watch. The deadline set forth in the treaty is in precisely two weeks, at the stroke of midnight on July 1, 2015. But until we get this matter sorted out, there’s not much to do.

You mean we just have to sit and wait and not be a part of the United States for the next 18 to 24 months?

I’m afraid so, said Walter, putting his folder back into his briefcase and locking it shut.

Can’t we just ignore it? Pretend you never found it? asked Pete.

Sadly no. I’ve already brought it to the attention of the Secretary of State, and he has informed the President. Secretary Carpenter asked me to oversee the process and to serve as your acting ambassador.

This was actually perfect for Walter, and something he hoped to take advantage of when he first made the discovery. To work in a new country, no matter how small, would be historic and he could use it as a stepping stone to be the ambassador of another America-like country, like Canada.

It was the proudest moment of his professional career when Secretary Carpenter blurted out "Sure, sure, whatever you want! Oh, sweet Jesus!" when Walter had broached the subject of serving as the Deputy Chief of Mission.

Walter didn’t know that Secretary Carpenter’s mistress, Ashley, who was also the Public Information Officer for the Global Climate Change division, had been hiding under his desk while Walter delivered his report. As she grazed the insides of the Secretary’s thighs with her fingernails, Carpenter’s second-most fervent desire was to get rid of Walter at that moment, so he would have agreed to just about anything.

So we’ll have an ambassador? asked Pete, ending the flashback.

Well, a deputy ambassador. The position of senior ambassador is a presidential appointment, so I’m going to officially be the Deputy Chief of Mission, which is like the assistant ambassador, but I will serve as the interim ambassador until the senior role is filled. And since a Senate confirmation will take a couple years anyway, Secretary Carpenter isn’t going to bother.

That all seems overly formal, don’t you think?

True, but rules are rules, the law is the law, and protocol must be followed every step of the way. We have ambassadors to almost every country of the world, and we cannot treat the country of Mackinac any differently just because it’s a temporary situation.

What, so you get an embassy and a residence here on the island?

Yes, but don’t worry, the U.S. government will pay for it. Rules and protocol.

Pete clutched at a handful of his hair. Jesus, two years. That’s a long time to be an island without a country.

Don’t worry, said Walter, rising to his feet, holding firmly to his glasses. I don’t believe Congress will stand for this. This will be a blow to their egos. They don’t like to lose anything to anyone, and the loss of an island right under their very noses will embarrass them into action immediately. Especially an island filled with rich tourists and homeowners. So they’ll act fairly quickly. Twelve months is my guess.

Walter walked to the door and shook Pete’s hand.

But as I said, they’ll all want to have hearings, they’ll question Secretary Carpenter and myself, politicize the problem, and demand that it be fixed. And since it’s an election year, they’ll all want to campaign on it. We’ll remind them over and over that they’re the ones who need to vote for repatriation, but we’ve dealt with them enough to know they won’t move quickly, even if it’s in their own best interests.

So how do we get through this?

I don’t know the answer to that, Mr. Bidwell. But since you’re the senior official on the island, you’re in charge until we get everything sorted out. Walter cocked his head and smiled. I guess that makes you the President. Congratulations, Mr. President. I’ll see you tomorrow.

President? But I don’t want to be Presid—wait, where are you going?

I’m going to Lansing. I have to inform the Governor that he’s going to lose his island for a while.

With that, Walter adjusted his glasses and walked out, closing the door carefully behind him, leaving Pete with a tangle of questions and fears racing through his head.

Pete raced back to his desk, picked up his phone, hung up. Grabbed a notepad and pen and scribbled a note. Grabbed some t-shirts he was supposed to take out to the floor earlier, and then dropped them on the credenza. He repeated the steps three more times as his brain swirled into a screaming vortex of ideas and priorities until something snapped and he stopped, staring off into space.

He stood for several minutes in a perfect Zen state of non-thought that would have made a Buddhist monk weep with envy when Ruthann Swenson, his head cashier, knocked and walked in.

What was all that about, Pete? she asked. I heard you shouting at that little guy with the glasses, then I didn’t hear anything. I thought I’d better check on you. Did he leave? What did he want? Ruthann was the island’s busybody, constantly looking for the latest gossip and then spreading it as far and wide as she could. Pete secretly called her Switchboard Swenson, because all lines of island communication ran through her.

Ruthann, call Gordon on the mainland and tell him to come over here on the next ferry.

But he’s giving the State of the Town address at the City’s Chamber of Commerce luncheon. Besides, he’s the President of the Board of Trustees. Aren’t you supposed to go to him?

Pete turned, and his eyes focused as if he was seeing her for the first time. His voice sounded strangely foreign to him, as if someone else was speaking.

Please tell Gordon that he is being summoned to a meeting with the President of the new Nation of Mackinac Island and that his presence is required at his earliest convenience.

Ruthann had known Pete for a long time, and the look in his eyes made her swallow her response. She backed out of the room, closed the door, and relayed the message to Gordon Holt. Pete picked up his phone, and called his best friend, Dan Godwin.

Hey, he said when Dan answered. "So-o-o-o, we’re fucked.

Three hours later, Gordon burst into Pete’s office and found Pete leaning back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. Dan was seated in a visitor’s chair and had been scribbling furiously on a notepad. Dan was tall, black, and had the build of a former football player gone slightly to seed, which is what he was, having played middle linebacker for Central Michigan University in the 1990s. He had been drafted by the Seattle Seahawks, got cut halfway through training camp when there were whispers that he might be gay. So he left football and came home to the island to run the family fudge store, Mackinac’s Favorite Fudge.

Unlike everyone else in his family, Dan couldn’t stand the stuff. He hated how rich it was and how it made his teeth feel. He could tolerate a bite of the peanut butter fudge once in a while, but that was it. So, unlike the rest of his family, he was within a few pounds of his college playing weight and wasn’t suffering from Type 2 Diabetes.

Wads of paper were strewn across Pete’s desktop, sticky notes stuck everywhere with more notes and a couple of flag sketches. What the fuck do you mean, President of Mackinac Island? demanded Gordon. And since when do I come to you?!

Gordon Holt was shorter than Dan and had been a high school football player, one of those strong-fat offensive linemen who liked picking on freshmen, but continually got his ass flattened by the more muscular defensive lineman. So he never made it past second string, although he never told anyone that part.

Pete didn’t even look up. Didn’t you hear? We’re seceding from the Union. We’re joining forces with the Upper Peninsula and Beaver Island and invading Wisconsin in the morning.

Hey, Gordon, good to see you, said Dan. Gordon ignored him. Gordon ignored people he couldn’t intimidate or impress.

Oh, fine, fine, said Dan, continuing the conversation by himself. Quite a kerfuffle we find ourselves in.

What the hell are you talking about? said Gordon, still ignoring Dan. And why weren’t you at my State of the Town this morning? As a member of my council, you needed to be there.

Pete sighed and sat up. I just had a visit from Walter Walker of the U.S. State Department. It seems that, thanks to the signers of the Treaty of Ghent, control of Mackinac Island is to be wrested from the United States and given to its occupants, thus making it its own country. He handed Walter’s business card to Gordon to prove that the man had actually been sitting there just a few hours ago.

Gordon stared open-mouthed at Pete for several seconds. Pete relayed what Walter had told him, including the eighteen to twenty-four months part, and Gordon continued to gape. Dan snapped a photo on his mobile phone.

Are you fucking kidding me? Gordon demanded. Is this some kind of joke?

Pete’s laugh took on a menacingly hysterical note. He stood up and started to pace. Oh man, I truly wish this was some sort of joke. I would give any amount of money to have Ruthann bust in here and shout ‘April Fools!’ right now. So unless you sent Walter Walker in here as some sort of deranged prank, no, this is not a goddamn joke!

Gordon gaped his mouth again. He had always been a bully. He didn’t like it when the people beneath him started to feel, well, equal to him. To be summoned to the island and to have Pete shout at him was a bit unexpected. He didn’t like it. For a second, he was flummoxed about what to do. He looked at Dan, but Dan only smirked. Gordon decided the best course of action was to continue on as if nothing had happened and see if the proper fear-respect balance could be restored. He thought a reminder of his position would help.

So you made me come all the way over here to tell me this? I think I should have been told about this three hours ago. On the phone.

Well, texting it hardly seemed appropriate, and I could barely form words three hours ago, so a phone call was out of the question.

Still, this is something the President of the Board of Trustees should know immediately, don’t you think?

No, because it has nothing to do with you.

Uh, I think it does, said Gordon. I’m the President of the Board of Trustees, and you are merely a trustee.

"Wrong, Gordon. You’re the President of the Board of Trustees of Mackinaw City. I serve on that board as the representative of Mackinac Island. Do you understand the difference? You have made it clear on many occasions that the two are separate. That we are islanders and you are mainlanders, and you’re happy to let us join your festivities when it suits you. But you’ve always been about separation between the island and the city. And since you live on the mainland, and don’t have any connection to the island, this doesn’t involve you."

Gordon sputtered and pointed his finger. Now you listen to me—

No, you listen to me! Not now, Ruthann! Ruthann had poked her head into the room to ask Pete about a new order of t-shirts. She slammed the door. This isn’t one of your Chamber of Commerce ribbon cuttings, Gordon. This is serious business. We are no longer a part of this country because some 19th-century Canadian politician suffered from liberal guilt. And as the only elected official on this island, it’s somehow my responsibility to lead this new country for the next 18 to 24 months, until Congress can get off its ass and let us back in. So you can either help us, or get out of the way, and I would prefer the latter.

Gordon stood, face purple with rage, blood roaring in his ears, as he contemplated his next move. His instincts screamed that Pete was still a 10th-grade Mathlete who needed to be squashed like a bug. But like most bullies, he was afraid when someone bigger and stronger was around, so he took a deep breath and then another.

Fine, Pete. Mackinaw City will be glad to help in any way it can. And as a member of the board, you will have our full support. Gordon stuck out his hand. Congratulations, Mister President.

Pete sighed again, not registering Gordon’s uncharacteristic change of heart. He stood and returned the handshake. He didn’t notice Gordon trembling as he fought his baser instincts to squeeze the hell out of Pete’s hand.

Thank you. I’ll let you know what I find out when the State Department guy gets back. He’s in Lansing telling the Governor right now.

Oh shit, Felix is not going to be happy, is he? asked Gordon. He and Governor Felix Hernandez went back many years, to their days of the Michigan Young Republicans, which Gordon constantly reminded everyone of by referring to their Governor by his first name.

No, I can’t imagine he will be, repeated Gordon. Shit, he’s going to call me, isn’t he?

Probably after he calls me, said Pete.

Oh, I’m pretty sure he’ll call me first. Me and Felix go way back.

It’s not a competition, Gordon, said Dan.

So what are you going to do next? asked Gordon. He was very good at ignoring people until he needed something from them, and he was ignoring Dan like a champ.

It’s too late now, so we’ll probably have to have a town hall meeting tonight so I can tell everyone what’s going on. Pete called out, Ruthann, spread the word. Town Hall meeting tonight at the theater.

Okay, can do, said Ruthann from the other side of the door where she had been perched. Eight o’clock?

Yes, please. Thanks.

Well, I’d better head back to the mainland. I’ll probably have to field a bunch of media calls. Plus, Felix’ll want to apprise me of the situation.

Make sure your battery’s charged. I’m sure the media’s going to be all over you, said Dan. Gordon failed to recognize the sarcasm, and the prospect cheered him immensely. He grunted his goodbyes and left, forgetting to shut the door behind him.

I don’t trust him, said Dan.

You never trust him, said Pete.

With good reason. Remember that time he got all the island stores to help sponsor the Mackinaw City Classic Car Show?

Yeah, I gave him a huge discount on all the t-shirts.

Well, one of the things he promised me was to start buying more fudge and candy from the store for official events, city gifts, stuff like that. It’s been nine months, and I haven’t seen a single order from him.

If it makes you feel better, I ended up charging him enough to make five bucks per shirt.

Dan laughed. And since you’re one of my best customers, I got that money back anyway. He paused for a minute, and his smile faded. So what are we going to do about all this? And how do we keep him out of it?

It looks like, at least for the time being, that I’m going to have to run this new country of ours until we can find someone better to do it. I don’t suppose you want to be the President, do you?

Hell, no, Dan laughed. If I wanted to go into politics, I would have moved to the mainland and run for Gordon’s office.

Yeah, but then you’d be the asshole busting into my office.

Well, I know I’m not an elected official, but I’ll help you out any way I can.

You may regret saying that.

At the same time Pete was informing Gordon of Michigan’s newest island nation, Walter was racing to the office of Michigan Governor Felix Hernandez. He had flown in a Marine helicopter to Lansing with his new driver, retired Marine Sergeant Maurice Jones.

Secretary of State Carpenter had assigned Maurice to accompany Walter for the duration of this messy business, before holding another secret meeting with Ashley, she of the grazing fingernails.

The two men climbed into their black Chevy Suburban, standard issue vehicle for federal law enforcement types because they thought it made them look badass, and raced to the Governor’s office.

Walter decided he had better relay his news quickly and try to get back in time to Mackinac for the town hall meeting. Pete had texted him after his meeting with Gordon, which sent Walter into high gear. He had to stay ahead of the story and make sure the Governor knew before the media picked it up.

It’s like yanking off a Band-Aid, Maurice, said Walter, sitting in the front seat next to his driver.

What’s that, sir? asked Maurice.

I have to tell the Governor about Mackinac. It’s just better if I get it out immediately, get the pain over with. Like yanking off a Band-Aid.

I see, sir, said Maurice, who didn’t like Walter sitting in the front seat with him. Maurice had been a driver for many high-ranking state department employees. He liked the ones who respected the driver-passenger relationship and knew their place. They rode in the back seat and didn’t engage in idle chitchat. Sergeant Maurice Jones hated idle chitchat.

I don’t think he’ll be too happy about it, said Walter. Nosiree, not happy about it at all.

Maurice recognized that despite Walter’s man of the people attitude, like most people, he didn’t know what to say to a Marine sergeant from Biloxi, Mississippi, and he was entering the inane noise-making most people started after 10 minutes of idle chitchat.

We should be there in about five minutes, sir, said Maurice, pointing at the dashboard GPS unit. Do you need to prepare anything?

Nope. No, I’m just going to tell him. Just like a Band-Aid, and Walter thankfully lapsed into silence, mentally preparing for the hundredth time that day what he was going to tell Governor Hernandez. He was trying to decide between the serious cops-in-sunglasses play, and the let’s-make-history appeal.

Exactly five minutes later, Walter found himself standing in the Governor’s outer-outer office. He handed his card to the young woman sitting at the desk. He looked more confident than he felt. A bead of nerve sweat trickled down his lower back. He felt clammy.

Walter Walker from the U.S. State Department. I’m here to see Governor Hernandez… Heather, said Walter, reading the nameplate on her tidy desk.

Do you have an appointment? said Heather, pushing up her glasses. Walter’s heart fluttered.

No, ma’am, I do not. But this is rather urgent. The Secretary of State has—

I’m afraid you can’t see the Governor without an appointment, she said.

Is he in right now?

Yes, he is. He’s in a meeting.

That’s fine. I’m from the U.S. State Department, and I have an urgent matter to discuss.

Are you from Washington? Heather asked.

Yes, I am.

We have an office in Washington, said Heather.

That’s fine, but I’m here, Walter said.

You should have gone to our Washington office.

Why would I do that?

Because you’re from Washington.

But I’m—

And we have an office in Washington. Do you see?

No, said Walter, not seeing. "Is the Governor in the Washington office?"

Um, no. Why would he do that? said Heather, unsure whether this was a trick question.

Then why would I want to go to the Washington office?

Because you’re from—

I swear, Heather, if you say because I’m from Washington, I’m going to scream.

She opened her mouth and closed it again. This wasn’t normal. People from Washington didn’t come to Lansing. People from Washington went to the Washington office, and she never had to deal with them.

This is most unusual. I guess I can let you speak to Mrs. Hunakker, Governor Hernandez’s personal assistant. But I don’t think she’s going to let you see him.

Bet she will, said Walter, feeling a little more confident. He realized that having a large black U.S. Marine stand passively behind him was going to get him past more gatekeepers than a truckload of cards saying he was from the State Department.

Okay, come with me, said Heather, leading Maurice and Walter through the set of double doors that opened to the Governor’s inner-outer office.

Mrs. Hunakker, these men are from Washington, and they’re here to see the Governor, said Heather.

Don’t they know we have an office in Washington? said Mrs. Hunakker.

Yes, they do, said Heather.

Then why didn’t they go to our Washington office? asked Mrs. Hunakker.

Because the Governor isn’t there? asked Heather, looking back at Walter for confirmation. Walter nodded.

Well that just doesn’t make sense, said Mrs. Hunakker. Why would someone from Washington not go to the Washington office?

Because they want to see the Governor, said Walter. Heather turned and looked at Walter again, and then back at Mrs. Hunakker, mouth open.

Why didn’t they visit our office in Washington? Mrs. Hunakker asked Heather, not looking at Walter. To most bureaucrats, if someone didn’t follow proper procedures, they did not exist.

Because the Governor is here? asked Heather. She looked back at Walter again, who nodded and smiled proudly. Mrs. Hunakker pursed her lips slightly to signal her displeasure at dealing with interlopers who did not understand proper bureaucratic procedure. Walter, being fluent in Bureaucratic, chose to ignore her pursed lips.

Do they have an appointment? asked Mrs. Hunakker, still looking at Heather. Walter paused and waited for Heather, who didn’t say anything. Walter leaned forward and whispered, No, they do not—

No, they do not, but they’re from the State Department, said Heather.

Governor is in a meeting right now, and he cannot be disturbed, said Mrs. Hunakker. Not the Governor, just Governor.

Walter stepped in front of Mrs. Hunakker, blocking Heather from her view. I think he’ll want to see me. He pulled a business card out of his pocket, wrote a brief note on the back, and handed it to Mrs. Hunakker. Please hand this to the Governor and see if he’ll be willing to interrupt his meeting.

Mrs. Hunakker glanced at the note and her eyes grew wide. Her instincts to help the Governor fought with her bureaucratic nature of denying anyone entrance to see him. In the end, the realization that this was a Very Big Problem, and the need to throw up, won out.

Oh my, she murmured. She heaved out of her seat and rushed into the Governor’s office. She closed the doors behind her, and Heather asked, What did that say?

Top secret, said Walter, tapping