Chapter 87
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 87
Chapter Title: Killing the Dove (9)
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After Wilson collapsed, the fact that he had devolved into a wind-stricken old fool was thoroughly concealed.
Edith Wilson, who would become his second wife in the original history, had effectively taken over the government, acting as Wilson with the full cooperation and tacit approval of his aides.
A woman sixteen years his junior, who had known nothing about politics until recently, had suddenly shoved aside the vice president and begun ruling the United States.
There were legal ambiguities regarding the criteria for suspending the president's duties, but above all, it was possible only because the inner circle at the White House had kept Wilson's exact condition under wraps.
During this absurd power vacuum, Attorney General Alexander Mitchell Palmer launched a massive Red hunt.
And as expected, this era's Red hunt wasn't targeting genuine revolutionaries plotting an American uprising—it was a one-sided assault on Eastern Europeans, Jews, Italians, labor activists, and the like.
Palmer and his cronies ceaselessly whipped up a security panic with cries of "Communist revolution is at our doorstep!" and "They're plotting to build a new Soviet federation on America's corpse!" Under this reign of terror, citizens still accustomed to wartime repression and control could only shrink back in fear.
That is, until an article from the upstart newspaper The Sun—one no one had paid much attention to—hit the stands.
[Witch Morgan Finally Claims the Throne!]
[Whore of Babylon Rules America!]
[America Falls into the Hands of History's Greatest Femme Fatale—Vice President Just a Figurehead!]
At first, everyone just scoffed.
Sure, the press writes all sorts of trash to sell papers, but what the hell was this tiny rag spouting?
But something felt off.
The Sun kept ramping up the pressure, splashing massive headlines every day: "Wilson is a living corpse, and the First Lady is just rubber-stamping documents."
Freedom of speech or not, could they really say stuff like that in these brutal times and survive?
As everyone's attention slowly turned to The Sun...
[Shocking Interview! "Wilson is already dead!"]
["He's shriveled up and begging for death, they say."]
[20th-Century Pharaoh: The Secret of the Mummified Wilson!]
Finally, the "anonymous whistleblower"—Syngman Rhee, claiming to be a former protégé—stepped into the spotlight, plunging the U.S. political scene into utter chaos by year's end 1919.
"Let me introduce him, father-in-law. Name's Syngman Rhee."
"Wasn't this guy one of Wilson's people? Looks like the same bastard who roughed you up back then."
"Doesn't matter. He's a snake, sure, but now he's my snake."
He'd already stabbed Wilson in the back, so retreat was impossible. But having colluded with the Republicans, repairing ties with the Democrats was out of the question.
Sure, with that silver tongue of his, he might patch things up eventually with time and effort—but our deal with Kim Eugene included "never return to America."
And so the Republicans sharpened their knives, biding their time to take out Wilson and the Democrats, while The Sun's barrage of articles launched Act Two, unleashing the GOP's crossfire.
"The people are all watching the White House!"
"If President Wilson is fit as a fiddle, have him appear before Congress right now!"
"If all these stories are lies from gutter press, just show his face and prove it!"
But the White House remained silent.
This forced even the Democrats—who had reflexively cried slander, conspiracy, incitement, and fabrication when the Republicans first struck—to grow uneasy and start eyeing the White House themselves.
Why wasn't Wilson budging?
He'd claimed no issues with performing his duties—why?
Around this time, a shooting star rose in the Republican ranks, catapulting into stardom overnight.
"America is a nation where justice and morality walk hand in hand. President Wilson, as a representative of Massachusetts citizens, I ask you: Are you currently performing the duties of the presidency?"
His name was Calvin Coolidge.
Having steadily built his career as lieutenant governor and then governor of Massachusetts, he gained national fame by cracking down hard on the massive Boston police strike and promising bonus pay to Massachusetts war veterans.
When the governor publicly lobbed the bomb, "Is the federal government functioning properly right now?", the fallout was unstoppable.
"Mr. President! Show your face and shut down these crazy Republicans!"
"Why no word from the White House? What the hell?"
And by now, everyone was slowly realizing the truth.
The crisis peaked when anti-Wilson Democrats flipped and publicly demanded the president appear before Congress.
[President Wilson Incapable of Performing Duties!]
[Wilson Gang Exposed for Abusing Presidential Powers at Will!]
[How Did the Witch and Her Minions Seize America?]
And finally, the full truth came to light.
Thus, the Wilson administration met its end.
[The Vegetable President's Demise: Vice President Takes Over Duties!!!]
[Ford Civil War Erupts? Ezell Ford: "You'll See Ford Cars That Aren't Model T's Soon"]
[Reds Infiltrating the Countryside! Vowing Red America While Burning Crosses!]
"The Sun! Gimme one copy of The Sun!"
"No, I was here first! The Sun! Hurry up!!"
"Sorry, but there's only one left."
"I got here first—why you gotta do me like this?!"
Hmm. What a madhouse.
I started this, but damn, it's sweet.
"Hey, you—the paper you're holding, is that The Sun?"
"It is."
"I'll buy it! How much?"
I was baffled when some guy practically wrestled the paper I'd just bought out of my hands, but seeing crowds everywhere clamoring for The Sun, this venture looked like a smashing success.
The rag that toppled a president skyrocketed to national prominence, and distributors nationwide were screaming to print more of that damn half-size sheet.
Amid the frenzy, we quietly prepped our next venture. We'd drummed up buzz for the new car without lifting a finger—Ezell Ford must be grinning ear to ear.
The prequel to McCarthyism, the Red Scare, crumbled alongside the half-crippled Wilson.
The Republicans, high on Wilson's blood, and the Democratic rebels set their sights on Attorney General Palmer, the architect of the Red Scare.
"Attorney General Palmer! Persecuting U.S. citizens illegally without even presidential approval!"
"You claimed there was a presidential order? Show us this order, then... Weird, huh? Wilson can't even sign his name now!"
"War's over, yet invoking wartime emergency laws? This regime was clearly plotting a dictatorship under the guise of war!"
"No, this was just the scheme of Wilson and his Kaiser-wannabe cronies—nothing to do with the rest of the Democratic Party!"
Palmer, riding high on his Red hunts, crashed overnight, branded "Robespierre Palmer."
People were sick of it all.
Sick of mouths shut with "Reds!"
Sick of cops swinging billy clubs at the mere mention of wages amid skyrocketing prices.
Sick of a government still trying to control everything with grim, stern seriousness even after the war!
The masses, who had recently smashed Kaiser dolls and busts in victorious frenzy, poured back into the streets, burning Wilson and Palmer effigies while shouting, "Enough already, you bastards!"
America's core values, suppressed by the unprecedented ordeal of World War I, roared back to life.
"What? Government controlling citizens? Looks like you're the real Reds!"
"Government permission? Screw that! Hell no!"
Politicians reacted swiftly to the explosive public outcry.
"The U.S. Congress hereby rejects ratification of the Treaty of Versailles."
"Wooooaaah!!"
"Long live America! Long live!!"
"Clean up Wilson's shit!"
Backed by the masses, the Treaty of Versailles—which Wilson had poured his body and soul into—went down to defeat in Congress.
America would not meddle in Europe's affairs.
America would not join the League of Nations.
We'd just chill across the Atlantic, making bank and having fun.
Just a year after the war's end, Americans reverted to their glorious old ways: isolationism and economic supremacy.
In other words, my war hero popularity had an expiration date.
Regrettable, but fame's always fleeting.
If I'd gotten drunk on the bubble and strutted around like some big shot, I'd be swept away and drowned by now.
Watching this, I had to scrap my plans for a hamburger franchise.
In 1919, with no McDonald's yet...
I'd toyed with launching a burger joint called "MacArthurs"—killer name—instead, to rake in some cash. But with my hero shelf life expired, that idea's toast.
Still, I'd gained a ton from this.
Syngman Rhee snuck aboard a Shanghai-bound liner like a fugitive. With Wilson supporters itching to put a bullet in his head, he should be grateful to escape alive.
One reason the Provisional Government had propped him up was his solid ties to Wilson, the architect of self-determination. With that gone, his political future looked rough.
Of course, that god-given mouth of his wouldn't quit—he rebranded as a whistleblower, public-interest informant, and champion of justice.
But even in 2020, whistleblowers struggle for respect—how much more in 1919?
I stuffed his pockets with dollars for the trip, so I've got nothing left to say. Thought about tailing him, but he'd probably convert any watcher into a fan by Shanghai. Gave up on that.
Woodrow Wilson? No need to say it. His honor was in tatters.
People just wondered if he'd ordered the White House locked down himself, or if the wicked witch and her gang had heartlessly abandoned him for power. Pitiful.
And in this political storm, my Japan trip got canned, naturally. Who the hell sails to Japan in this mess? Insane. Gross.
Ahead lay Republican dominance.
And... the Great Depression.
Before Black Thursday crushed all wealth and passion, I had to fortify my stronghold with impenetrable walls.
And the tide of the times was on my side.
"Incredible. Truly incredible."
The young man meticulously clipped and saved articles from The Sun, which he'd steadily collected, lost in thought.
This fall of President Wilson was the pinnacle of insidious, Machiavellian political engineering in U.S. history.
Others might not see it, but the young man was convinced.
"Curtain rises with third-rate tabloid fodder. Simmering public opinion. From laughingstock to question. Question to suspicion. Suspicion to dismay. Dismay to rage."
This was art.
Art wielding 100 million Americans like instruments at will.
Syngman Rhee, the face of the exposé, was just a front man. Like all crimes, the visible guy is the minion, never the boss.
Accessing top-secret info no one knew, turning nationwide press into heralds, playing the Republicans and Democrats like puppets at whim—culminating in toppling the president.
The Sun.
Syngman Rhee.
Republicans.
A few puzzle pieces were missing for the full picture, but after months of dogged clue-hunting, the young man had pieced together the outline.
His detective instincts—honed from his investigator days—whispered the name of the mastermind.
"General Eugene Kim."
Yeah. His gut screamed it.
But why?
Why would a mere brigadier general topple a president?
Hated the Treaty of Versailles? Laughable.
Every crime has motive: profit, grudge, or belief.
But what profit for a lowly officer returning to duty in toppling a whole nation's leader?
Grudge against the president? Bullshit!
Belief? He's no Red or anarchist. Guardian of Amiens a Red? Even a stray dog would laugh.
Instinct whispered it was Eugene Kim's doing, but cold reason screamed no.
"Either way, a heavyweight's a heavyweight."
He was deeply involved, no doubt. Whether a true black curtain hid behind him or not, the evidence so far led nowhere.
Impressive, even admirable. If it really was Eugene Kim—only two years his senior—the gap in achievements and skill was insurmountable.
"Wish I could get chummy... How?"
Ruby-chasing now might snag a spot in the future GOP regime.
John Edgar Hoover—the young man picked up by Attorney General Palmer to smash Reds, only to find himself jobless overnight—sighed as he gathered his newspaper clippings.