The bar itself was a fairly average place with a few well used pool tables off to the right, dartboards along the back wall, tables, booths, barstools everywhere they would fit, and multiple televisions on every wall. Normally sports would be on every screen. Today was not a normal day.
His men were all in civilian clothes, much like his own jeans and polo shirt, and occupied the largest table in the place. This Friday afternoon’s bar meeting was certainly not the same light-hearted get together they would usually have. They were still mourning the loss of two of their teammates. They were also still pissed off about the loss of the nuclear materials. None of them were really all that happy with the current state of politics in the United States, not because they cared that much about politics, but because it was impacting their ability to do their jobs. They were supposed to be able to liberate oppressed people around the globe. Part of that was the ability to hunt terrorists down on whatever ground they were on. There were always natural limitations to that, but lately it seemed as though cosmetic limitations were becoming more common.
They all knew that thanks to them not being permitted to get in and do their job just a little faster on their last mission the world was a less safe than it had been a short time ago, making the loss of their teammate’s sting all that much more. If only they had just been able to jump sooner, they might have been able to keep control of the stuff. To put the proverbial icing on the cake, the nation’s intelligence groups had no leads on where the nuclear materials had gone.
The country had larger problems to cope with at the moment. The President was in deep political trouble.
Frank sat down and signaled for their waitress to make her way over. She was an attractive 5 foot 6 inches tall, young, blonde, wearing tight jean, and a shirt cut low enough to ensure maximum tips, as well as very limited eye contact, with the establishment’s mostly male customers. He ordered a round of beer for the table on his tab.
The young Captain liked this bar for many reasons. Mostly it was the location. It was at the first turn outside the main gate to Fort Bragg. As a result, the bar owners and staff, did whatever it took to keep “their” soldiers happy. What was on television was a part of that customer service. That could mean anything from sports to news coverage depending on what was going on in the world at that moment in time.
Today all of the baseball games had been moved to the smaller screens scattered around the outer walls of the place. The largest, most centrally located screens, were all tuned to CNN, Fox News, or C-SPAN.
He asked the team, “How long until they vote?”
The crisp, rapid, military style reply from one of the men was immediate and held just the right level of sarcasm given the setting, “Sir, those congressional type people have stated they would vote today. They have not given us information as to the exact timing of said vote. However, based on the live television shots of all the ugly people serving as our Nation’s elected leadership up there on the screen, instead of the more attractive news anchors I would estimate it to be soon, Sir!” Master Sergeant Glenn Brown replied.
Glenn was one of the team’s new replacements, a weapons specialist. He had been in the Special Operations for years, but was new to this team. While he was probably ten years older than the Captain, it was also known to everyone present that he meant no disrespect in his sarcasm, and he didn’t hold Frank’s age against him.
The enlisted men loved Captain Banner, mainly because he always tried as hard as he could to learn from the other men no matter what their rank. He might out rank them, and technically be in command, but these men knew better ways than he did just how to accomplish their overall mission. Frank always thought that learning from these men was like trying to drink water out of a fire hose, but he did his best.
“Ok guys, let’s get the bet going. Who here says Congress lets our Commander in Chief off the hook, and who says this whole thing becomes a show trial over in the Senate so they can throw him out of office and onto the golf course he loves so much?” Frank asked trying to lighten the mood.
“Sir? Us? Bet on proceedings such as these? How would it look if front line, tip of the sword soldiers bet on the guilt or innocence of the President of the United States violating his oath of office?” Master Sergeant Jim York asked. The man was trying, and failing miserably, at playing innocent.
Jim was the oldest member of the team, one of the medics. Despite his age he still kept physical pace with all of the younger members, and made it look easy while doing so.
The remaining members of the Alpha team, eleven other men, ten Non-Commissioned Officers, and a Warrant Officer, laughed and took drinks of their freshly delivered beer. They all knew that history was unfolding before their eyes, regardless of the outcome. Pass or fail, this was history in the making.
Frank pulled out his wallet and pointed to the television showing a wide shot of the of the entire U.S. House of Representatives, “I have $20 against any and all takers that they will say that he is guilty and vote that our President’s future will be decided in the Senate. Let us be clear, we aren’t betting on his guilt or innocence, that would be wrong, merely the outcome of some congress ‘critters’ pushing some buttons yes or no.”
Everyone in the country, at least anyone who had been paying attention at all, knew exactly what the results would be in the Senate.
Under the U.S. Constitution, the House of Representatives has the authority to impeach the President, while it is the Senate that determines the punishment. Today’s vote would either put this in motion or put it to rest.
It had been broadcast on the news for weeks that there were only a handful of Senators who were supporting the President. It was only the most fringe elements of his own party, and he wasn’t even retaining all of them. The punishment phase of this process was a foregone conclusion. By all reports the entire process would be completed before dawn on Monday.
In response to his bet, every man at the table produced $20 taking him up on it. Well crap, Frank was starting to think that this could get real expensive, really fast if he was wrong about this.
“Well, looks like if I lose I will have to find an ATM. That’s okay, I’m not gonna’ lose this one,” he said with a smile, while secretly hoping he wasn’t being too cocky. Recently, he had lost too many of these group bets. This time he hoped things would be different, losing was getting pricey.
Frank knew that the majority of Americans, according to recent polling, held the opinion that Congress and other elected officials tended to view themselves as above the law. Frank was hoping that all of the public opinion data would persuade them to do the right thing. Either way, the overall approval rating for Congress was in the single digits. Perhaps doing the right thing would change that. If enough members of Congress felt finding the President guilty would help their own public image and, as a result, help them to keep their jobs when people went to the ballot box, the man would be fired.
The bartender turned up the volume in response to shouts from around the bar as the proceedings appeared to be getting started. Frank looked around. He noticed that a large number of the people had stopped chatting and started paying much closer attention to what was going on. The only sounds to be heard were those of the commencement of proceedings and the occasional sounds of people ordering a drink.
The television was showing a close-up of the Speaker of the House of Representatives, Congressman Scott Press, as he called the House Chamber to order with a repeated striking of the gavel. The historic room was well lit with the entirety of the elected body present. Every available camera was turned on and recording all conceivable angles searching for the most interesting shots to put on television, and ultimately record in history books.