Clooney held his arms up in the air and smiled. ‘Well, folks. I have to say how good it is to be here in …’
As the President said that, a disgruntled hog farmer in a check hunting cap threw a tomato at him. CC saw it coming and ducked. The armour-piercing bullet tore through CC’s shoulder pad and buried itself in a secret service man’s leg, exiting out his foot. The tomato hit Arlene Tandiero full in the face. She screamed and fell back, thinking she’d been shot, as a wall of secret service men fell on her, the hog farmer and the President. CJ cursed his luck and emptied the rest of the clip at the people around the President, killing three secret service men and wounding several others. In an instant it was pandemonium around the library. People started screaming and shouting as they scattered everywhere trying to find shelter, while the police and the secret service men waved their guns around looking for the assassin. A team of secret service men formed a wall around the President and rushed him towards the limo. CJ got two on the way, then when they bundled Clooney into the back seat, CJ put two bullets in the door, one through the windscreen, two more through the radiator and shot out a front tyre. Blowing steam and flailing rubber, the presidential limo roared away from the library, smashing flowerbeds and scattering people everywhere as the convoy tore out of the park. CJ emptied the rest of the clip at them, then jammed another into the Parker Hale and slowly and methodically started picking off police officers and bystanders. People were huddled screaming, trying to find shelter while the dead and wounded lay where they fell. Everybody with a weapon had it out looking for the gunman. But still nobody knew where the shots were coming from.
Arlene Tandiero was wedged beneath a wall of secret service men, thankful it was only squashed tomato all over the front of her Donna Karan suit and not blood. Amidst all the hullabaloo, her mobile phone rang. She snatched it from her top pocket and pressed receive.
‘Hello,’ she said urgently.
‘Is that Miss Arlene Tandiero?’ came a soft Southern drawl, slower than molasses in winter.
‘Yes it is.’
‘Miss Tandiero. Mah name is Sumner Beau Lafayette. Ahm an agent with the FB Ah, in Baton Rouge, Louisiana.’
‘Yes, Agent Lafayette?’
‘Would y’all kindly tell the folks there, them shots is more’n likely coming from a big old oak tree, on the west sahd of the pawhk.’
‘I’ll tell them.’
‘Thank you, ma’am. Much oblahged. Bah for now.’
‘Hey!’ screamed out Arlene Tandiero, pointing to the other side of the park. ‘The shooter’s in that fuckin big tree over there.’
All eyes turned to the tree line at the edge of the park. A state trooper holding a shotgun was the first to find what they were looking for; a faint silhouette hidden amongst the branches of the tallest oak.
‘Up there to the left,’ he shouted. ‘About halfway.’ The trooper pointed, then started pumping buckshot into the top of the tree.
The next thing, shotguns, M–16s, sub-machine guns, revolvers, automatics — everything but the old Civil War cannon behind the library — opened up on the oak tree.
CJ knew they were onto him when he saw the state trooper pointing towards the tree. Seconds later bullets and buckshot starting ripping through the old floorboards and smacking into the branches. CJ tore off the camouflage netting and stood up wearing jungle fatigues and a bullet-proof vest; round his head was a bandana made from an American flag and pinned to CJ’s kevlar vest was his Silver Star. His jaw set, CJ picked up the Valmet and began blazing away at the people below.
Despite the air around him being now virtually alive with the hum of bullets and flying debris, CJ managed to empty the whole magazine into the park before the first police bullet hit him in the right leg. More slammed into the kevlar vest and a spray of buckshot tore away part of his face. CJ tried to work another magazine into the Valmet as two more bullets ripped into his left leg and one got him in the arm, then a burst of high-velocity rounds slammed into the bullet-proof vest, knocking CJ off his feet. Half shot away, the remaining floorboards collapsed beneath him and CJ fell crashing down through the branches till he hit the ground with a bone-wrenching thump. Covered in blood, CJ managed to raise himself up on his side and with his one good arm, drew the Colt Python from a holster at his waist. He was able to get three rounds off before everybody in the park holding a gun emptied it into Carver Joe Krunstock, turning the Gulf War hero into hamburger.
If President Clooney had been killed it would have been a great story and got saturation media coverage. But getting winged in a shoulder pad was nothing. If anything it was laughable. And nutters taking shots at the President was almost considered just another day in America. It made headlines round the world. But mainly because Clooney’s would-be assassin was able to kill 27 people and wound 40 before he was shot to bits. People barely had time to reload their VCRs when a Hindu militant crashed a small plane into the Vatican killing the Pope, and CC and CJ were swept from the front pages. The big story, however, was getting an interview with the mysterious and reclusive President Milne. No one could.
The fax machine in his office had been switched off, so had the phone; you could send an e-mail or write care of the Australian consulate in Konipeau. But you were still wasting your time. Milne wanted his and the island’s privacy and he wasn’t interested. However, Brian had joked about Milne doing an in-depth interview with Oprah Winfrey on prime-time US TV. So President Milne changed his mind. Yeah, why not, he thought. Give his version of events and get it out of the way once and for all. Then he wouldn’t have to put up with anyone else bothering him. Plus it would be a bit of a hoot to tell some TV journalist a load of absolute bullshit, and see it go all round the world as gospel. But who was going to be the lucky interviewer? President Milne was a hot ticket. Milne chose an Australian TV journalist: Alata Vadjic.
Alata was in her thirties and quite attractive with bobbed dark hair, nice cheekbones and dark, sensuous eyes. She’d worked on Sixty Minutes in Australia and New York and was famous all round the world. She could be sensitive and kind when she wanted to. But when Alata zeroed in for the kill, she lived up to her nickname, The Velvet Wrecking Ball. Keleu and Airu had got to meet Alata when they were in New Zealand. Alata was living in the same block of flats doing the production for an American film company that was in New Zealand, filming a swords-and-sorcerers series called Kador the Mighty. Alata knew the girls were lonely and homesick and she would invite them over for a meal and sometimes take them on set to watch the filming. When the two girls had their flat broken into, something that was totally alien to the two girls from Lan Laroi, Alata looked after them and loaned them money until they got everything organised. Milne found out about all this and wrote Alata a personal letter of thanks. Alata was now semi-retired and did one-off specials interviewing Madonna and Jerry Seinfeld or the President of Russia. She also did a semi-regular show on SBS called Alata Chat. Milne liked Alata’s style and thought he’d repay her the favour. So he got in touch with her through the Australian consulate in Konipeau.
Alata couldn’t fly to Konipeau with a film crew and hire a seaplane quick enough. Milne sent Ohlo and Sohte over to Konipeau to drop Ebonee and Uiitik off to sort out the banking there and in Nauru, then guide Alata’s plane safely back to Lan Laroi, where Alata could have eight hours to get her interview, visit the ruins and see the island and its people. It was now nine o’clock on a beautiful morning in Lan Laroi and Milne was standing on the jetty in Key Harbour, wearing his usual shorts and T-shirt waiting for the planes to arrive. With him were Keleu, Airu and Chief Namalek. Chief Namalek pointed beyond the channel.
‘I think I hear them now, Sawi,’ he said.
Milne shaded his eyes and peered over the harbour. ‘Yeah, you’re right, Chief Namalek. Here they come.’ Milne smiled at the Chief. ‘Nothing wrong with your ears, mate.’
The planes came in over the channel and Ohlo landed in the harbour first. Alata’s plane was bigger, a blue and white te
n-seater job; it landed not far behind Ohlo, then both planes started taxiing noisily towards the jetty.
Milne turned to Airu and Keleu. ‘Tell Alata, I’ll be up in my office.’
‘Very well, Sawi,’ said Keleu.
Milne winked at Chief Namalek. ‘I’ve got to keep this air of mystery about me going, Chief Namalek. I can’t be seen to be too approachable.’
‘Of course not, Sawi,’ said Chief Namalek. ‘An air of mystery suits you.’
Milne left them and walked across to the PP then up to his office. From behind the curtain in front of the balcony, he watched the planes pull up at the jetty and checked everyone getting out after Ohlo and Sohte tied up. The two-man film crew were wearing Hawaiian shirts and baseball caps and had a typical look of bored indifference about them. The pilot in a white shirt and dark trousers stood on the jetty and lit a cigarette. Alata looked her usual well-groomed self, in a smart white trousersuit and maroon top. Milne smiled when he saw the way Alata greeted the girls. She was genuinely pleased to see them and they were happy to catch up with Alata again. Milne was a little chuffed himself, getting to meet Alata Vadjic and having her come all this way for an interview. He let the curtain fall back and sat down behind his desk; a few minutes later he heard them coming up the stairs. Chief Namalek pushed the door open and Alata entered first, followed by her film crew. Keleu and Airu came next, then Chief Namalek. Milne rose from his seat and offered his hand as Alata crossed the room towards him.
‘Alata,’ said Milne. ‘This is a pleasure.’
Alata shook Milne’s hand across his desk. ‘On the contrary, Mr President,’ she said, in that familiar, slightly nasal voice. ‘The pleasure is all mine. And thank you for granting me the interview. I really appreciate it.’
‘That’s okay, Alata. Thanks for looking after Keleu and Airu in New Zealand.’
‘That too was a pleasure, Mr President,’ said Alata, ‘I can assure you.’
‘Yeah, they’re good girls,’ said Milne. ‘Anyway. Take a seat. And off-camera you can call me Ron.’
‘Okay, Ron. Thanks.’
Alata introduced her film crew as Cameron and Scott. Milne gave them a quick handshake then they all sat down; Alata on the lounge facing Milne, the film crew on the lounge chairs either side of her. Milne eased back behind his desk and gave them a chance to check him out. Although they did their best not to show it, Milne soon sensed their surprise at how young he was.
‘Can I get you something?’ asked Milne. ‘Cold drinks? Beer?’
‘A mineral water would be nice, thank you,’ said Alata.
‘Airu. Would you get three mineral waters for our guests, please,’ said Milne.
‘Yes, Sawi,’ replied Airu, leaving for the kitchen.
‘I will be in the kitchen if you need me, Sawi,’ said Chief Namalek.
‘Righto, Chief Namalek,’ said Milne. He watched the chief exit, leaving Keleu standing by the door, then turned to Alata. ‘So what do you want to do? Get the interview out the road first, then see the island?’
‘That would be good,’ said Alata, taking out a notebook. ‘But before we start, there is a question I have to ask you.’
‘Sure. What’s that?’
‘There’s supposed to be another Australian on Lan Laroi. A surf journalist named Brian Bradshaw. He was involved in a shoot-out with the FBI on Konipeau. Two agents were wounded. Is he still here?’
Milne shook his head. ‘No. No one here by that name, Alata.’
‘No? Caucasian. Late twenties. Blond hair.’
Airu arrived back with the drinks and glasses on a tray and handed them around. Milne shook his head again. ‘No. The only other white person on the island is my son. Tak.’
‘Your son?’ Alata put her glass of water down and looked surprised. ‘I never knew you had a son.’
‘Yes. His mother’s in Australia,’ said Milne.
‘Oh? This comes as a surprise,’ said Alata.
Milne smiled warmly. ‘Would you like to meet my son?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I would,’ said Alata
‘Keleu, would you get Tak for me?’ said Milne.
‘Yes, Sawi.’ Keleu left, closing the door behind her.
‘So how was the plane trip over?’ asked Milne.
‘Not bad,’ replied Alata. ‘A little bumpy at times. I’ll tell you something, Ron. You have a darn magic island here. I must have counted four big schools of dolphins and at least six huge whale sharks as we flew in.’
‘Don’t forget the turtles, Alata,’ said Scott.
‘Yes. The turtles too. It was quite a sight.’
The door opened and Keleu returned carrying a baby about a year or so old, dressed in a blue hemp playsuit. Round its neck was a mutami and in its tiny hand was a shell toy. Keleu placed the baby on Milne’s desk and stood alongside. The baby was exceptionally pretty with curly blond hair and a chubby, happy little face.
‘Here he is,’ said Milne. ‘Tak. My pride and joy.’
‘And this is your son?’ said Alata.
‘He sure is. If you don’t believe me I’ll show you the DNA.’
‘My word,’ said Alata. ‘He certainly is a beautiful baby.’
‘Of course he is,’ said Milne. ‘He takes after his old man. Don’t you, mate?’
The baby started laughing and gurgling. Milne smiled and put his index finger out. The baby got a grip on Milne’s finger and started playing with it, laughing away, while it bounced up and down on its little bottom. Being a mother herself, Alata smiled at the happiness on the baby’s face. She glanced up at Keleu and noticed tears trickling down her cheeks.
‘Keleu,’ said Alata. ‘You’re crying. What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing is the matter,’ said Keleu, wiping the tears from her soft brown eyes. ‘I am only crying because he is such a beautiful boy. That is all.’
THE END
A Message from the Author
When I was touring So What Do You Reckon? in 1997, I was signing books in Townsville and this big cheeseburger came up and tossed a copy on the table. I said, ‘What would you like put in the front, mate?’ He said, ‘Nothing!’ He wanted his money back. It wasn’t a Les Norton and I could stick it in my blurter. Well, you didn’t need a degree in literature to know it wasn’t a Les Norton. All you had to do was read the back cover. But the big goose kept putting on this huge drama till I fobbed him off onto my brand spanking new publicist, Melanie Cain, having her first encounter with the Norton Army. The reason I’m telling you this is because if that half tonne of condemned veal on legs in Townsville, or anyone even remotely as dumb as him, has picked up a copy of this book with the intention of buying it, thinking it’s a Les Norton, it ain’t. It’s something else. Okay? So if you buy it and you don’t like it, don’t come whingeing to me wanting your money back. But you’re entitled to know why it’s not a Les Norton and you’re also entitled to know why the book is later than usual coming out.
The reason it’s late coming out is pretty much explained in the press release and the article ‘They Call Me Barbara’ which is appearing in the Sunday Telegraph Magazine sometime in early 2002, reprinted in the back. I honestly started writing this book in March 2001. I was writing about Osama Bin Laden, Muslim terrorists, chemical weapons, buildings imploding, orange fireballs, etc. long before what happened in New York on September 11. The book was finished in September 2001. But the publishers wisely put the brakes on it till March 2002. If it had come out in November as usual, just after the WTC events, it would have gone over like a maggot in a lentil burger. People would also think I was trying to exploit the events of September 11. In fact it’s the complete opposite. The book was held back in respect to the events in New York. I have to add there were a lot of weird coincidences between my book and what happened on September 11 which I won’t mention here. But I’ll put them up on my website. Check them out if you can, they are absolutely bizarre. Anyway, folks, that’s why the book is so late coming out. I’d finished it in time,
but it got held back in respect to what happened in New York on September 11.
The idea for the book itself has been in my head for a few years. What triggered it off was my trip to Pohnpei and those ruins at Nan Madoll. It’s not science fiction. I like to describe it as Intuitive Futurism. IF. You pick up on an idea and figure that it will work one day. And IF you look back over my books you’ll find the odd bit of IF. E.g., lycra swimming outfits a la the Thorpedo — Mud Crab Boogie. Hybrid vehicles — White Shoes White Lines and Blackie. Air powered engines — The Wind and the Monkey. The Human Genome Project — Goodoo Goodoo. John Peter Russell, Australia’s greatest Impressionist artist — The Godson. Things I wrote about it in So What Do You Reckon? are being picked up on now. I’m not saying I’m H.G. Wells or Nostradamus. But RGB likes to think he’s hip to the rebop before the boogie jive goes down. This book involves a different form of propulsion, electro-magnetism. Researching it, I came across patents for these engines going back to 1930. I even got a video of some Nazis standing next to a UFO with a swastika on it. What happened to all these patents I don’t know. Possibly they got lost in the mail. I don’t wish to get into any conspiracy theories; if you want those, read Nexus then get the same conspiracies debunked in Fortean Times. But I will admit, if I owned an oil company or was a car manufacturer, I wouldn’t want to see people getting around in the MeG 21–Urvan. Or if I owned a paper mill making money ripping down rainforests, I wouldn’t want too many people knowing about Jack Herer, the Emperor of Hemp. The man I dedicated this book to and whose ideas I am behind one hundred per cent. Anyway, whether a butterfly kicked me in the head or something when I was crawling around Nan Madoll, I don’t know. But that’s how I came up with The Ultimate Aphrodisiac. And I reckon it’s not too bad a book. One thing I do know: it was a dropkick of a thing to write.
The Ultimate Aphrodisiac Page 42