Chapter 8: General Hank Wessel – Malibu, California – later the same day
Although it was only 8 AM local time, General Hank Wessel sat in his expansive Malibu beach home with a generously self-poured glass of Scotch in his drinking hand. His other hand was his smoking hand and in it, he held a cigar. It was a perfect day so far. Then he remembered the trauma of pouring his own whisky and lighting his own cigar: his manservant Juan had the day off.
It could not be a perfect day if he had to pour his own drink, but Hank had to learn to adjust to the laxness of civilian life. In order to keep the ingrate wetback pig, Juan, from squealing to the authorities about slave wages, Hank had to issue him an unpaid day pass once per week. This country is going to the dogs!
As he sipped on his triple whisky, he calmed himself concluding that the little prick always under-poured anyways. Let the stinking swine take the day off – General Hank Wessel would pour his own whisky and get it right for a change! In fact, he had just managed to get his second triple of the morning right only moments ago: he was celebrating.
He needed to congratulate himself because an hour ago, he received a call from his political advisor who had confirmed that General Hank Wessel was about to become Republican Senatorial Candidate Hank Wessel. He understood that while it was true that liberal minded voters dominated the State of California; nevertheless, Hank's team of supporters were the Republican version of a military Special Ops team.
Hank had given them a secret name. He called them his 'Elite Faithful Force of Freedom Fighters' or 'EFFOFF' for short. They had money for bribing, connections for exploiting, and Hank felt certain they knew how to cheat if necessary. After all, he reasoned, most of these workers and contributors previously represented the Bush family.
Hank had no proof, but was certain his EFFOFF team had significantly contributed in 'assisting' Jeb Bush in the miracle of Florida; thus helping to place George 'Dubbya' in the White House the first time, and, considering his track record four years later, probably twice. Hank reasoned that if EFFOFF could do it for politicians Hank considered clumsy and careless, then they would have no difficulty assisting a careful and cagey person like himself to victory.
'A bunch of queers, Jews, and communists may think they're running this State, but my boys will fix all that,' he thought to himself as he puffed on his Cuban cigar. He exhaled, admiring its incomparable taste. Then he recalled that it was illegal to possess Cuban cigars in the USA.
He respected that becoming a high profile candidate meant he would have to modify his illegal activities. As a Senatorial Candidate, he could not risk the shit-sniffing media hounds photographing him smoking this type of contraband. He would have to stay off the porch in future. I need to dedicate one of my 32 rooms in this mansion as a smoking room.
Hank recalled having smoked his first illegal Cuban cigar as a student at the renowned US military academy, West Point. Any memory trip to that hallowed institution included a mind visit to his family.
His father had earned a General's rank in WWII, and survived it; his grandfather did the same in WWI, and his great grandfather made Colonel fighting for the Union in the American Civil War. Of course, Hank was sure his great grandfather would have earned the promotion to General too had he not died on the battlefield.
Hank twisted the handle of his shade blinds, revealing his view to the harbour. Glancing out, he spotted his yacht there and it reminded him of war once again. He had procured it during the war against that ingrate Hussein. To the victor, the spoils!
Closing the blinds again, Hank turned back to his shrine, spied his old record player, and saw a song on it that he loved to play. He fired it up, and then sipped on his whisky. The music started and Hank began to dance jauntily. The song described a military battle from about 200 years ago.
The song did not speak of numbers, but Hank knew the result was about 70 American casualties and over 2000 British. Hank sang along with the chorus of the song as it played, "We fired our guns and the British kept a comin' – There wasn't nigh as many as there was a while ago . . ."
As the song marched on, Hank stopped singing and thought of Dr. Sven Ferengson. He was ostentatious and arrogant like the British but with a different sort of weapon. Sven had a 'cannon in his trousers' that he regularly fired off in any direction, risking the exposure of himself, his troops, and the entire operation.
When the song ended, Hank placed his smoking cigar on the edge of the ashtray, and picked up the USA Today with his now free cigar hand. This edition contained reports about the press conference that that bitch Clarkson-Smythe had held yesterday. Hank had watched local and national news last evening and judging by the general lack of coverage, had concluded that no one in his part of the world gave a shit about it.
This did not mean the issue was dead however.
Hank recognized the dangers that do-good philanthropists like Clarkson-Smythe presented. They were media darlings who sucked up to the press and manipulated them like the idiots they were. She sucked up the media spotlight as a thirsty hound did muddy water. To Hank, a hound was just another sniffing breed of dog and she was just a publicity-seeking version of one: she was a bitch that needed a muzzle and he wanted to be the one tightening it onto her snout.
He would have a hell of an easier time doing so if his sexually deviant geologist employee could turn both his mouth and libido off at press conferences for long enough to avoid the media labelling Dr. Ferengson as 'a stone-aged Valentino' or a 'Viagra-doped Tarzan searching for his burning, yearning Jane'. That was how the USA Today reporter described Ferengson in the story.
Hank decided to call Ferengson to warn him that he would need to be a damn sight more careful dealing with the media parasites. They were the blood-sucking fleas on the bitch hound.
Then Hank remembered Ferengson had spoken of something called 'slant drilling'. One media leech had badgered Ferengson about this topic towards the end of the conference. Hank did not understand what the hell Ferengson was talking about by 'slant drilling' and the USA Today article did not make it more clear.
Hank picked up his cell phone and called the geologist.
"Doctor Ferengson," began Hank, "it's General Wessel. We need to talk fer a few minutes – I trust I'm not interruptin' anything?"
Slightly startled, Ferengson lied, replying, "Of course not, General; it's just the . . . maid in the room – I'll send her away."
"Good, doctor," replied Hank, perfunctorily. "Now then, again, I compliment you on your success at the conference but I have just read a report about the debate y'all got into with that reporter about slant drilling . . ."
Sven interrupted, "Yes, sir."
Hank demandingly asked, "Now what in hell is that anyways?"
Sitting up in his occupied hotel bed, Sven answered, "Yes, General, I thought it might come up. You may be wondering why I renamed his term 'directional' drilling."
Hank interjected, "Uh huh."
Sven calmly asked, "Is that your concern?"
"Yeah, that's right. I'm skimmin' through the story as you say that and there's the reference in print – 'directional' instead of 'slant' – now what's the difference?"
"They are the same thing General," began Sven. Advisedly he continued, "But I would highly recommend that you reconsider your choice of nomenclature . . ."
Confused, Hank interrupted, "My choice of . . . Roman . . . architecture . . . What in tarnation?"
Remaining calm, Sven continued, "I meant, General, the term you use to describe the procedure – the name. I recommend that you refer to it as 'directional' drilling." He paused, and then explained, "You see, although Swedish is my mother tongue; nevertheless, I have learned over the years that the word 'slant' has mostly negative connotations in the English language. Take history for example – people refer to 'a slant on history' as being something that is one-sided . . ."
Recalling it as if it were a fond memory, the General laughed, and interrupted, "Like when I kicked the
m slanty-eyed gooks in Nam . . ."
Slightly startled by Wessel's illogical segue, Sven paused a moment, and then remarked, "Well, exactly General – not only did many factions view that war as a loss for America . . ."
His emotions heightened by the alcohol, Hank loudly interrupted, "Outrageous lies!"
Easily detecting that Wessel had a sensitive spot, Sven commented, "But of course they are, General – but you know what I mean – they referred to a slant on history. Anyway you look at it; the word 'slant' has a negative connotation."
The alcohol influencing his emotional state, Hank continued, "I kicked slant-eyed ass in Nam, doctor."
Using reason, Sven calmly continued, "Yes, General, and you see – there's that word again 'slant' – even if you and I agree it is a fitting description for them; nevertheless, the pacifists and politically correct masses form the majority of opinions and they disagree . . .".
His attention span also shortened, Hank confusedly interrupted, "So what's the advantage in callin' it . . . what was that agin'?"
Sensing something was not quite right, Sven loudly, but politely answered, "Directional! You see, 'directional' can only imply all directions, of which illegal ones can exist, but of which we can deny when needed." Then Sven slowed down again, rationalizing, "In addition, when the politically correct person hears 'directional drilling' mentioned in conversation, he does not negatively respond to such an innocuous and vague term – he passes over it without giving it more thought."
"I hear ya, doctor, and I get it," replied Hank. Then he added, "Well, I sure am glad yer aboard."
Regaining the confidence to continue, Sven comfortably explained, "Should it emerge during any future mining-related discussion, I recommend that you select the word 'directional'. If say, a reporter were to ask you what you meant by your use of that word, you need reply only that you are referring to a 'device with built-in multi-directional drilling capacity', and this will placate them!"
Pleased by this linguistic conspiracy, Hank remarked, "Lordy, now that sounds technical – I like that, doctor!"
Confident they had finished, Sven concluded, "With their mild suspicions subdued, General, the press will continue to use their poisoned fangs upon one another and not us!"
Ferengson watched as Miss Levinski slipped into today's man-catching ensemble, and had just enough time for a lascivious smile sent her way, when suddenly, the General grew secretive, commenting, "Ah yes, doctor, speakin' of the press, that brings me to my next point . . ."
Distracted, Sven absentmindedly asked, "Yes, General?"
With sincerity, Hank explained, "I got to ask you to be more . . . how shall I put it . . . discreet?"
Startled, Sven repeated, "Discreet, sir?" Then he motioned to Miss Levinski to be quiet.
Insensitive again, Wessel explained, "There's a platoon of press pricks and chicks who are lookin' fer scandal doctor, and we can't have that."
Dutifully, Sven replied, "No, sir."
Proudly, Hank confessed, "Y'all have to keep this next thing I'm gonna tell ya a secret – I'm runnin' fer Senator – but no one can know yet, see?"
Cooperatively, Sven remarked, "Congratulations, General, but I'm not sure I follow why no one can know . . ."
"Well, son," interrupted the General. "It works like this . . . politics is a tricky business – certain palms have to be greased, if ya take my meanin' . . ."
Determined to be respectful, Sven diplomatically interjected, "I see."
Oblivious to his listener's situation, Hank continued, "Yeah, we're at a delicate stage . . . the public can't know until we're ready."
Agreeing in order to glean more information, Sven stated, "Yes, of course, sir. I understand your situation."
Relieved that he had made his point clear, Hank comfortably concluded, "I knew you would understand. I can't afford a scandal and yer too smart a man to lead with yer pecker out like that, doctor."
Hiding his shock, Sven transferred blame, rationalizing, "The media exaggerate to sell their pitiful stories, General."
Confirming his stance, Hank firmly remarked, "Yeah, but even if they did lie about you – like the advertisers do about goddamned Christmas – this is about what the stunned-ass voting public believe!"
Ferengson apologized, stating, "Point taken, General!"
Even though Sven thought Hank was overreacting, he had to respect that the General's new public status demanded that his employees avoid scandals at all costs.
Calm again, Hank began, "Now then, doctor, take some advice . . . we both know yer the best at what you do – yer record speaks for itself."
Smiling, Sven interjected, "Thank you, sir."
Then Hank became secretive again, and quickly added, "I need you to keep yer zipper up on this one because that Clarkson-Smythe bitch is squeakier-clean than a duck after a rubber hose enema!"
Confused by the imagery, Sven replied, "A rubber . . . ? Yes, General, I see what you mean, sir!"
Hank continued, "That's right doctor – she ain't gonna appear naked on any magazine cover before you do if ya don't keep it zipped! Do you compre-hendo signor?"
As he gave Miss Levinski a gentle backside pat, Ferengson smiled and replied, "Yes, General, I'll maintain the highest level of discretion moving forwards – I give you my word!"
The two men exchanged goodbyes and ended the call. Although Hank respected the Swede for his opinion that men should use women for pleasure and self-promotion, nevertheless, Hank still considered him a high-profile nuisance with a history of promiscuity. Timing is everything!
Wessel was sending Ferengson to the Peruvian mountains not by choice but by necessity. That remote place was where the gold digging action was. Fortunately, the only women the doctor would encounter there would be goat herders with developing beards or the sort of prostitute the General could easily dispose of, if necessary.
Ruminating, Hank wandered back to the record player. Turning the song on again, he quickly concluded that no matter how many precautions he could take regarding Ferengson, Hank still saw the Swede wearing an obsolete military Redcoat like the ones that cost the British any hope of success in the song.
Having become inebriated, Hank wondered aloud, "What you need, Dr. Ferengson, is a camouflage flak jacket for all your . . . activities!"
While he sang along again, Hank returned to his shade blinds and opened them again, letting in the sun. Hank looked out at his yacht and remembered fondly how Chuck had helped him procure it as a previous spoil of war. Chuck was his handyman. He could as easily repair a broken thing as break it in the first place. Chuck enjoyed moonlight spying and planting incriminating evidence. He liked taking long walks to the end of the pier, where he usually dropped a bed-sheet wrapped parcel into the water. His absolute favourite work was working with explosives.
To Hank, Chuck's comfort level at performing any task, pleasant or unpleasant, as the case may be, clearly indicated the man was a perfect Wessel soldier. The fact that Chuck was possibly an inveterate psychopath was a trifle. Where Chuck was concerned, Hank focused on the man's consummate professionalism, and paid him for it. At Nazca, Chuck would make the perfect spy.
Hank could not afford to have Chuck harm Ferengson though, regardless of any indiscretions the doctor committed, because Hank may need him again. Ferengson was perhaps the world's best geologist and was willing to be amoral.
Hank understood little about mining and less about geology: his view of the Earth had mostly consisted of observing it strewn with dead bodies – perhaps like red-coloured sprinkles dropped onto the blue and green icing on a giant ball-shaped cake. The General paused to savour his clever use of imagery, a large gulp of whisky, and two puffs on his illegal cigar.
After he exhaled, the General concluded that men like Ferengson would promise a thing from one side of their mouth, while breaking the promise on the other side. Chuck would be the General's equalizer. Chuck would manage Ferengson.
Pleased with his decision, Hank
enjoyed a satisfied moment, but then spotted his secret cell phone. He used it to contact the Secret Society. Did he need them?
Far less manageable than Ferengson and likely to cause major problems was Lady Ruth Clarkson-Smythe. By now, Hank had reviewed various tactics that do-good bitch had deployed in past ventures. Virtually all of the corporations she had ferreted her way into, eventually wound up scandalized at some level. The scandals always occurred after she arrived but never involved her.
The General felt that this was largely due to CEOs underestimating both her honesty and tenacity. He admired anyone with tenacity; however, when someone combined it with honesty, then the combination invariably became a nuisance. Honesty was something you taught children about in school – it was far less useful when applied to the adult world.
Lady Ruth Clarkson-Smythe was honesty personified in the real world. She was also obstinate and filthy rich by all written accounts. She was someone who got things done. He admired that quality in anyone except those who did it contrary to his plans.
While walking out to his sundeck, Hank exclaimed, "She's got over 20 billion dollars and it ain't enough. Shit, if only I could turn her to my side, the fun we could have takin' over the whole world!" He shook his head in disappointment because he knew she would never be on his side, yet was his equal as an adversary. She was therefore, someone that General Hank Wessel wanted to do far more than spy on: he wanted her eliminated.
He picked up the special cell phone that Panthera Tigris had given him a few years ago, and made a call.
"Hello, Tigris, it's me . . ."
Suddenly, the thick accent of his former classmate interrupted, "Hello, Heinz 57; always a pleasure; what can I do for you today?"
Hank chuckled upon hearing his goofy-sounding client code name, but respected that its silliness acted as an assurance of anonymity. Quietly, Hank slowly and clearly began, "I require an asset for assignment in . . . Canada . . . no rush."
Zarulium Chronicles I - Destination Nazca Page 10