A Special Message

[Odinson]

Continued From

​

Special Agents Samuel Mason and Leonard Franklin stumbled down one of the corridors of the USCGC Munro as they made their way to the bridge. Franklin was doing just fine, but Mason wasn't looking his best. He was carrying his grey suit jacket and had loosened his tie. The ship lunged forward, and both of them just managed to hold on instead of falling forward into the steel wall before them. Mason dry-heaved as he clutched the wall.

"Don't close your eyes, lad," said the considerably older Franklin.
"If you're not use to the seas, it'll only make it worse," he said. Mason, who was a young man, grunted and did his best to keep his eyes open. While Franklin was walking behind him to make sure that his partner didn't keel over, in front of Mason was a Lieutenant who himself was doing somewhat better at keeping his balance.

"It's just ahead," said the Lieutenant who grabbed ahold of one of the massive steel doors and just barely managed to open it on his own. As he did so, the lights in the hallway shut off for a few moments, before being replaced by the dull illumination of red emergency lights. The bridge appeared to be the only part of the ship that still had normal lighting.

"Keep trying!" ordered the first officer to the communications officer.
"Aye aye, sir!" the communications officer responded. The coms officer put his hand onto the right ear of his headset, "Mayday mayday mayday, this is Coast Guard Cutter Munro, our radar and communications equipment is damaged. We are taking green water over the bow and have a fire in the engine room. Mayday mayday mayday, does anyone read? Over," he concluded. The sailor listened intently, waited a few moments and then repeated the message.

The Captain was looking through his binoculars when the Lieutenant that had been escorting the two men spoke up. "Captain, I have the Wickies!"

The Captain, who was in his 50s but was still junior to Agent Franklin and his trimmed white beard, set down his binoculars and looked at them. He braced himself on the blank console before him as they crashed into another wave.

"Engine two is down, our long-range communications seem as well as our primary radar. Martinez was taken to the infirmary, he hit his head," the Captain calmly said as he gestured over to a small table with a map on it, and some minor equipment around it. It appeared that Martinez was the navigation officer.

"Agent Franklin, you told me last night that you know navigation?" he asked.
"Yes, Captain," Franklin said, stabilizing himself on the console next to the Captain while Mason stumbled over to the signals officer. "Show me the code book," was all he could manage to say.

"Good," the Captain said. "Take Martinez's position. We're sailing blind right now, I need to know our current position... XO, sound general quarters," he said.

Franklin did so as ordered. He noted the last reported position by Martinez, and ignored the blood that was soaked into the upper right-hand corner of the map. He took into account their speed and direction, and then used the compass and protractor available to approximate where they were. Franklin did a few calculations, drew on the map, put his finger on the map, and then looked at Mason.

"Owls Head Light, what's the characteristic?" Franklin asked.
Mason flipped through the back of the codebook that the signals officer had produced. He took a few moments and then responded, "Fixed white, max distance is 16 nautical miles - there's no way we can miss it."
Franklin grabbed the binoculars that were strapped to the table used by the navigation officer and looked off the port side of the ship.
"Spotted!" he responded.

Franklin reported their position as 44°05'47.9"N 68°58'37.2"W. "Robinson Rock if four miles, dead ahead, Captain," Franklin said.

The Captain spotted the lighthouse himself with his binoculars as they rounded the top of a large wave, before crashing back down. That's when he noticed a goliath sized wave off of the left side of the ship.

"HARD TO PORT!" shouted the captain.
The helmsmen was already turning hard when the first officer repeated the order. The captain was handed the coms as everyone on the ship felt a hard jerk to the right, "This is the captain, brace for impact. Brace," he repeated, before himself bracing. The communications officer repeated the distress call over long-wave frequencies.

Over the course of the next minute, the cutter managed to turn to port just hard enough to make it almost directly into the massive rogue wave. Everyone on the bridge could hear the creaking of steal as the ship arched up at a 45 degree angle before bursting into the wave, water gushing over the windows of the bridge. The ship then tilted back flat momentarily, before jolting forward and heading back down the colossal wave. Several of the officers fell over or onto their consoles as everyone on board did their best to brace. The Munro eventually evened out on the other side of the wave, though she'd seen better days.

Before the captain could order a damage report the XO told him that there was a fire in the engine room. The fire response team was deployed as the communications officer continued to issue their distress call.
"Coms, try short-wave," the captain ordered as he stumbled over to Franklin, who was still manning his post. The captain asked for a repeat of the last weather report they received, observed the map, and decided to change their course to a North-West direction. This would bring them into West Penobscot Bay instead of the eastern route they had planned to get as close to the lighthouse as possible.

"Captain, that's not the course that'll get us to Dyce Head," Franklin said as the helmsmen made the correction.
"I'm well aware of that, Agent Franklin. If we steam ahead we'll make it to the eye of the storm. If the last weather report was right, it's going due East. Our best bet to get out of this and into calmer waters is to take that course, I'm not risking my ship anymore than I have to," he grumbled. It wasn't every day that he received his orders from the Commandant of the Coast Guard, but he knew that when those days came, they were nothing to be happy about.

"if we get to calmer waters, we can get you there by helicopter. If not, then we'll have to drop you off on land," he said as he kept an eye out for more rogue waves. After twenty-five minutes of sailing, the waters were just calm enough for them to launch the MH-65 Dolphin that was contained within the hanger of the ship. The weather outside was still abysmal, but apparently just well enough to launch the helicopter. Mason wondered if the captain just wanted them off of his ship, but Franklin countered that he wouldn't sacrifice the crew of his helicopter to get rid of a few "Wickies".

As the helicopter launched, Franklin and Mason could see two red lights on the mast were lit to indicate that other ships should stay clear. The windshield wipers on the helicopter went back and forth rapidly as they attempted to keep the snow and ice clear from the pilots field of view. Within twenty minutes, they could see the signature characteristic of Dyce Head, which was three beams of light followed by a brief darkness. "Thrice is Dyce" is how Mason had memorized it.

​

"We'll set you down, but we can't wait for you. Weather conditions are going to get worse," said the co-pilot to the two agents. Franklin and Mason acknowledged this as the helicopter set down just in front of the lighthouse. Outside were blizzard-like conditions with almost no visibility. The only thing that guided them to their destination were the powerful beams of light emanating from the beacon itself. The helicopter blasted off back into the sky and away from them, leaving the two men only with the howling sounds of the frigid winds. Mason made it to the door before Franklin and banged on the front door several times. After the ninth slam of his fist, the door opened, illuminating them with a blinding light. A long arm reached out and first yanked Mason inside, followed by Franklin. Mason fell onto the ground of the interior of the home, while Franklin stumbled inside. The door was slammed behind them. Mason, who was disoriented, first looked up at Franklin who had his hands in the air. He looked to his right and saw a tall man with white hair and fierce blue eyes pointing a flint-lock pistol at his partner.

"Who in the hell are you?" the man growled. Franklin didn't move a muscle, he'd been shot enough times in his life to know not to tempt fate. Mason, who was younger, gently gestured to his waste which was revealed. Pinned to his belt was a bronze badge that had an easily-visible lighthouse on it, and in engraving, "United State Lighthouse Service" on it.

"Federal Agents, U.S. Lighthouse Service. Are you Senator Sinclair?" Mason asked.

Sinclair relaxed his posture a bit, but kept his gun pointed in the general direction of the two men, "If you're here to seize my lighthouse, this isn't going to end well," he said.

"Sir," Franklin said in his gravely, old voice. He reached into his coat pocket, which made Sinclair aggressively pull back the hammer on the gun in anticipation of shooting. Instead of a weapon, Franklin pulled out a beige-colored envelope that had a wax seal on it. "This is from the White House."

​

 

[Odinson]

​

The two agents had taken off their overcoats and suit jackets. They each had a warm blanket around them, and were huddled next to the fire place as Senator Sinclair brought each of them a fresh cup of coffee. The agents had been able to make themselves acquainted with Sinclair's security detail, who were stationed in nearby residence. Mason, who was feeling much better now that he was on land, made a call to the Coast Guard to inform them of the condition of the Munro as well as its last reported position. The ship wasn't in danger of sinking, but it did need aide.

"Did you two ask the President why he couldn't just call?" Sinclair asked, somewhat sarcastically.
"He tried. Your landline isn't working," Mason said as he carefully took hold of one of the cups of coffee.
"I cut the line weeks ago," Sinclair said. "I didn't buy a lighthouse to get phone calls," he said, making a small smile.

Franklin and Mason watched as the Senator took a seat in a comfortable recliner near them. He was wearing dark grey pants and a dress shirt with a dark blue sweater over it. He picked up the unopened envelope, which had been sitting on the coffee table next to his recliner for the last two minutes and opened it.
"Story-time," Sinclair said as he began to orate the message:

[TR][TD]

---

THE WHITE HOUSE​

---

TO: Benjamin V. Sinclair, President Pro Tempore of the United States Senate​ FROM: Al Gore, President of the United States of America Mister President Pro Tempore, I am writing to inform you that, with the powers vested in me by the Constitution as President of the United States, I am calling the Senate back into session for the purpose of fixing the dire situation in Detroit and other urban cities throughout the United States. As the highest ranking officer of the Senate, the duty now falls to you to bring the Senate to order. I trust that you will carry this out swiftly, and as soon as possible. Furthermore, on an unrelated note, your country is in need of someone to serve a higher office. I wish to speak with you on this matter as soon as possible. Consider this a summons to the White House. Best Regards, Al Gore President of the United States ​

[/TD]

[/TR]

​

"What does he mean at the end there?" asked Mason.
"He's considering appointing me as the next Vice President," Sinclair said in utter shock as he sat back in his chair.

 

[Odinson]

Senator Sinclair fulfilled his Constitutional duty and began the process of calling the Senate back into session. Convincing him to leave Maine for the White House in a timely manner, however, was another argument all together. Agents Mason and Franklin offered to have temporary keepers from the Lighthouse Service come to keep the Dyce Head beacon burning. Senator Sinclair, who was paranoid about the newly-established lighthouse service seizing his lighthouse, immediately rejected the idea. He was eventually able to get in touch with a friend a couple of towns over who agreed to lighthouse-sit for him until a more permanent replacement could be found. Once the Senator's friend arrived, Sinclair, Franklin, and Mason left Dyce Head during a break in the storm. Forty-eight hours later they were in Washington.

Sinclair, who was a tall, slender man with white hair and eyebrows, patiently waited outside of the Oval Office, cane-in-hand.
"Senator, the President will see you now," said Gore's personal aid who had cracked open the door to the Oval Office. Sinclair stood up and walked in his direction. At the time, Sinclair was wearing a black three-piece suit, white dress shirt, and a dark-blue tie. His white hair was combed over and a gold pocket-watch chain dangled from the designated pocket of his black vest. The President's aid opened the door and then gently closed it behind Sinclair. The Senator walked into the office of America's Presidents. As always, he was first struck by the 191 year-old Seymour tall case grandfather clock that was quietly ticking away time. Then, he noted the blue carpet used by President Clinton, which the current administration had decided to keep.

​

"Senator please come in, I'm just finishing something up really quick," the President said before looking down at some documents on his desk. He took a few moments, and then signed two of them, before standing up and walking around his desk to greet Sinclair who was a solid six inches taller than him.

"Mister President," Sinclair said. "It's very nice to see you again. Your letter was quite clear, but a lot of people have reminded me in the last two days that you needed to see me urgently, so here I am," he said in a New England-manner of speaking. While Gore had spent much time in D.C. he still had strong family roots in Tennessee, where such matter-of-fact speaking could be considered rude. Southerners always had such an esoteric way of making conversation that it could confuse others from the rest of the country. On the other hand, while southerners would consider such discussions a matter of etiquette, perhaps a New Englander would call it being over-sensitive, or wasting time.

"Good," Gore said with a smirk as he walked over to one of the sofas and took a seat. On the coffee table between the two sofas was a pitcher of water and two empty glasses. Gore poured each of them some water and took a sip before sitting back, crossing legs, and letting out a slight sigh.

"After careful consideration, I have decided that I would like to nominate you to be the Vice President of the United States. If I did, would you accept this nomination?" the President asked. Sinclair was quiet for a few moments as he allowed a number of thoughts to rush through his head, some of which he had prepared, and others that were organically zipping through.

"While I am honored, Mister President, I'm not sure how wise it would be to choose me. For starters, I'm not a Democrat," Sinclair said as he sat back on the other sofa and crossed his legs as well.
"What's more important is that you're not a Republican," Gore said and started to laugh, but stopped when he found that Sinclair didn't find it entirely amusing.
"Mister President," Sinclair continued, "choosing me to be Vice President because I'm one of a hundred people who didn't die is not a good reason."
"That's not why I chose you," Gore countered. "You're aren't a Democrat, that's true. But I've spent the past two weeks going over your voting record, your political history, and speeches that you've given. You may be the most genuine person in Congress. You support reforms where necessary, you support conservation where necessary, and you support a more liberal approach where necessary-"
"No one likes a centrist," Sinclair retorted.
"You're not a centrist," Gore said, "you're reasonable. A centrist floats around the middle of the political spectrum to avoid pissing anyone off - you're not Jay Leno. Senator, I've only seen our politics become more and more polarized since Reagan. We need more of you in Washington. I think you'd make a good Vice President - I could use someone like you in the White House, and on the hill."

Sinclair tapped his fingers on his knee and stared back at the President. From the previous times they had met, most of which were brief encounters, the President noticed that Sinclair took no shame in almost-dramatic pauses as he carefully thought of what to say and how to say it. Their meeting today was no exception.

"There's a number of things that we disagree on. What happens if I'm in the Senate to cast a tie-breaking-vote, and I take a different side, or even with the Republicans?" he asked.
"As President, I cannot order the Vice President to make a tie-casting vote. But, if such a situation were to occur, I ask that you would sit down and hear me out when it came down to it," Al said.

Sinclair thought some more. Gore could see that he looked much more relaxed. "Mister President, it would be the greatest honor of my life to serve the republic in its time of need. If you nominate me, I would accept, but I do have three conditions," he said.
Al chuckled, "Only three?"
"First," Sinclair said as he sipped his water. "I am happy to be a confidant, an advisor, and a friend, but I cherish the intuition of the Senate. As President of the Senate, I would like to spend much of my time there," he stated. According to the United States Constitution the Vice President's primary function was to be the President, or presiding officer, of the Senate, much like the Speaker of the House or the Speaker of the House of Commons in Britain. In modern times, Vice Presidents rarely presided over the Senate, and would normally only do so if there was a chance of a 50-50 tie in the vote, in which case was the only time that the Vice President could case a vote. It had been some time since a Vice President had spent a large portion of his time in the Senate, but Sinclair knew he could have a strong impact there.

"Secondly," he continued, "there's someone I have in mind to replace my Senate seat. While I know you may not want to endorse an independent over a Democrat, I would ask that you instead give no endorsement and leave that to me. And finally...." he said, pausing again, "I want assurance that the Lighthouse Service or the Coast Guard or whomever wont cease my lighthouse..."

Sinclair stuck out his hand, and looked Gore, whose face was stoic and still for a few moments. "Deal," Gore said, reaching out his hand and shaking Sinclair's.

 

[Odinson]

Lightning cracked through the sky over Washington as President Gore stepped out of the southern entrance of the White House. He was wearing his suit, a top coat, and a hat that could cover his face in a worse case scenario. Outside was a black SUV with government-issued license-plates. The windows were tented and the engine was running. Al opened the passenger door and took off his hat. He got in, closed the door, and set his hat on the dash. He buckled himself and looked around to make sure no one was watching. In the driver's seat was the head of the President's personal security detail, a large black man with very short hair, a fit physique, who was also wearing a suit.

"No more than one hour, Mister President. After that, there's going to be a national manhunt underway for you," the agent said.
"That's all I need Patrick - I don't know how you pulled this off, but you did," the President said. He patted Patrick West's shoulder and sat back, "I owe you one," Gore said.

The unmarked government vehicle zoomed out from the access roads on the South Lawn, past security, and onto Pennsylvania Avenue. The roads were almost entirely deserted, seeing as it was a little after midnight.
"Did you find out where it is?" Gore asked as they passed several government buildings at a steady pace.
The care came to a halt much sooner than Gore thought. He looked out of his passenger window and looked up at the monumentally massive columns of the National Archives Building.

"Yes sir," Agent West said as he put the SUV in park on the side of the road and stepped out. He went around to Gore's door and opened it. The President stepped out, with his hat back on, and the two men walked up to the front door of the archives building. Patrick knocked on the door three distinct times. A few seconds later it cracked open to reveal an old man, nearly in his dotage. The man extended his hand to Patrick who took hold of it and gripped it in a certain way before shaking it. The man then looked at Gore, who was looking down at the ground, allowing the small brim of his hat to hide most of his face.

"You can trust him," Patrick said to the President as he gestured for Gore to step inside first. Al stepped in, followed by Patrick. The man closed the door. Al removed his hat with his left hand and looked at the old man, who he could now see in better light. He was a janitor. The old man could feel the hair stand up on the back of his neck as he looked up at the President. He took off his custodial hat and held it against his chest as he stared back in some kind of awe.

"Mis- Mister President," was all he could say in half a breath. "You brought the President?" he said, now looking at Patrick.
"I didn't bring anyone," Patrick said, suggestively. The old man nodded and started walking.
"This way," the janitor said. He guided the two men through the building and then to the outer wall of a room that had two very large doors.
"This is it... I'll wait out here for you, sir," Agent West said.

​

Al handed Agent West his hat and opened one of the huge, tomb-like doors, and then closed it behind him. The massive room they were now in was mostly dark, except for twenty or so large display panels that were dimly lit. Standing in front of one that was left of center was a tall man with a cane. Al walked over to the man and stood beside him.

"I think that I wasn't grateful enough to you at the White House... and I didn't tell you enough, Mister President. I thought it might be best to explain with a visual aid," said Senator Benjamin Sinclair.

"I'm lucky..." Sinclair stated truthfully. "I won my reelection in Maine with over seventy-percent of the vote. That's almost unheard of on a national level. Some of my colleagues are fighting to get just enough, by maybe a few thousand votes, to be reelected. Once they retain their seat in office, or someone replaces them, that individual then must start - from day one of their term - finding donors for their next election that will be years and years down the line. Then, half way through their term, they have to start campaigning and governing on the side. And the money they have to get mostly comes from the most exclusive members at the top one-percent of America's wealthy, and also from corporations. With this money comes promises, promises not to vote on health care reform, or promises to support the pharmaceutical industry, or promises to maintain the status quo for the profit of the few and to the despair of the many. Because of these commitments, in the end, many of my colleagues truly can't vote based on their beliefs as statesmen, or on what is best for their district or their state, or what is best for the Union... But you know this, you've run for office plenty of times as well," the Senator said.

Sinclair put on his reading spectacles and took a step forward. He looked down at the old parchment below him. He began to read aloud, and Gore silently followed along with him:


"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. That, to secure these rights, governments are instituted among men, deriving their powers from the consent of the governed. That, whenever any form of government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new government, laying its foundation on such principles, and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their safety and happiness.

"Prudence, indeed, will dictate that governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and, accordingly, all experience has shown, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms which they are accustomed."


Sinclair stopped reading. His face was illuminated by the dim glow of the Declaration of Independence below him. "As public servants, we have an obligation to the men who become before us, and a duty to the people here today, to live up to these ideas the best we can. We started with these ideas in the beginning, they were our foundations and made a nation like no other in the history mankind. What our forefathers did was revolutionary, and they became the freest people in the world after much sacrifice... But even that wasn't enough. Eventually, all free men were given the vote, be they land owners or renters, Protestants or Catholics, and then women, and the blacks and Indians and all minorities. We fought a civil war to preserve our Union and those ideas, and to end the tyranny of slavery. We marched in the public squares under the flag and demanded equality for our fellow men and women, and through that we changed our laws to better suit a free people. Mister President, we have managed to do more in 222 years for the causes of liberty and enlightenment than nations and empires of the past - some of whom reigned for thousands of years - could not do in their entire existence. And now, we're once again faced with issues that threaten our ability to move forward, to more light and a better future. If we are to keep marching on, the people at least need a voice through their representatives, and that can't be done until the money problem is fixed. Statesmen can't be bought... sadly, all that means is that there's going to be less and less statesmen in our congress, and in our White House, until there are none left," the Senator concluded.

President Gore was about to say something, before Sinclair walked over to the four pieces of parchment that were in the center of the room. Al followed him.
CONSTITUTION OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA was chiseled in stone above them.

​

"Americans were given the awesome ability, and responsibility, to amend their Constitution when needed. We've done it thirty-three times, and now it's time again," Sinclair stated.

"We would need two-thirds of the House, and the Senate - even if it's the right thing to do, how can we do it with the money problem already in place? The corporations and the banks and those few at the top aren't just going to sit back and watch," President Gore finally said.

"What happened at the Capitol was an act of treason, and an attack on our republic," Sinclair said. "But perhaps the only silver lining is that, now, we have a Senate almost entirely made up of the best that states could muster to appoint, and freshmen congressmen in the House who aren't tied down yet. If we can get this done soon, there wont be time for their ramifications. The power those men have over our federal government is not nearly as strong as in the States, and I feel in every fiber of my being that the American people will support such a reform, such an amendment, if we were straight-forward and told them. This might be our only chance," Sinclair said.

The President looked down at the delicate documents below him and quietly nodded. They both stood there for some time in silence.
"Once you're confirmed," Al said. "This will be our top domestic priority, you have my word."

Sinclair smiled and they shook hands. They walked out of the Rotunda for the Charters of Freedom together, and back to whence they came. Agent West was standing there, as promised. Al stopped and turned to Sinclair. He looked down at Sinclair's gold ring that had a square and compass on it.
"I have to ask," Al said jokingly, "where's the treasure?"

Sinclair smirked and said, "We just read it together," and then walked off into the darkness.

The President and Agent West walked back to the entrance of the National Archives. Before leaving, Al noticed the same janitor who was still standing guard next to the front door. Al approached him and reached into his breast pocket. He took out his favorite pen, and handed it to him.
"Thank you for your help," he said, and then shook his hand. Agent West and the President made it home to the White House shortly before one in the morning, just as planned.