by Tony Bulmer
Truman Whitaker didn’t have much of an answer for that. He just opened his mouth, struggling to draw form to the indignation rising within. That is when the motorbike’s engine gave out. It just stalled and died, right there on the mountainside.
12
Rockefeller Centre, New York City
Huds Helman swiveled in his over-stuffed leather studio chair and gave a throaty chuckle. “So, I hear you made yourself some money this morning Irving.”
“I make money every morning Mr. Helman. It is the nature of my business. But you are quite right, trading today has been what might be called unusually brisk.”
Again Huds Helman gave a throaty chuckle and raised a crumpled copy of the New York Times over the top of his microphone. He thrust it towards his guest, like it was evidence exhibit #1. The cover headline read, Ploutos Capital in $200 Billion Bonanza. “See that right there—two hundred billion dollars. I congratulate you Irving—only in America could such a thing happen.” Huds Helman paused, looked momentarily somber and said, “Let me ask you something Irving. Did you have breakfast today?”
Irving King’s face twisted sourly as though this was the most ludicrous question he had ever heard. “I never eat breakfast Mr. Helman. There is no margin in breakfast. You must know that the hunters of this world always, without exception, carry out their predacious quest for survival on an empty stomach. Take for example the beasts of the African savanna-lands—lions, leopards or the magnificent cheetah; all of them affect their search for sustenance in a heightened state of fast. Such discipline leads to increased awareness that some say almost borders on spiritual experience.”
Huds Helman nodded. “Every day is a spiritual experience on this show, and we have Lord God Almighty to thank for that. Right Erin?”
Erin Francelle gave the Hudster her brightest smile and completely ignored the question. Instead, she adjusted the microphone in front of her face very slightly, her finely manicured nails sparkling black and gold under the studio lights. “I understand the Dow Jones Industrial Average has fallen this morning close to a thousand points and the S&P 500 is down 15%. The folks at the New York Stock Exchange are screaming that if the slide continues, we might be heading towards another recession.”
King’s black gaze swung across the studio, his eyes narrowing with barely concealed contempt. “The NYSE is nothing more than a photo-opportunity for cable news networks my dear. A vulgar, outdated, tourist attraction offering a sense of drama to those too ignorant to know how the world of finance really works. These days, the real big money action takes place in over sixty independent trading exchanges based in the New Jersey area.”
“Many of which you own right Irving?” Interjected Huds Helman with throaty good humor.
Irving King perused Erin very carefully, his toxic gaze eating into her. At last he said, “I have been both shrewd and fortunate in my dealings Mr. Helman, but the rewards of a life dedicated to pursuing the highest standards within my industry have been substantial.”
Huds Helman smiled blissfully, as though he were hearing an assembled choir of cherubim and seraphim herald a personal dedication to free market capitalism. “I just bet those rewards you are talking have been substantial Irving, if this morning’s successes are anything to gauge your batting average by. How about you tell our listeners just how substantial these rewards are?
“I have been very fortunate,” conceded King, with the coyness of an alligator that has just eaten every steer at the watering hole.
The Hudster inserted the big cigar in his mouth and sucked greedily on it. “I hear you are riding the top of the Forbes rich list Irving.”
“Idle journalistic speculation. I never broadcast such details to the vulgarians in the popular press.”
Erin said, “I hear you have got to make at least five hundred million dollars a day to make top ten on that list,”
King curled his lip very slightly and said nothing, his black eyes eating into her.
Huds Helman beamed with pleasure. “That is quite a per diem Irving. You keep earning that kind of scratch and you will soon be as rich as me.”
King gave an oily smile. “I hardly think so Huds, your legendary success is an example to us all, as is your exemplary understanding of the political situation in this fine country of ours.”
The big cigar popped out of Huds Helman’s mouth right on cue. He fingered the wet end in one of his big meat pie hands, his giant NFL championship ring glittering like a diamond-encrusted knuckle-duster. He leaned forwards in his seat and said. “I know you are no fan of the crippling burden of taxation and regulation that those worthless Communists in the Federal government place on our hard pressed wealth creators; but tell me Irving, this coup those saps are running to overthrow the Chinese government—how is that going to effect the millions of God-fearing patriots who are listening in to this program right now?
Irving King’s black eyes glistened with pleasure. Whenever he wanted to give vent to his spleen, Huds Helman and his revolting little show could always be relied upon to field the kind of open-ended questions that allowed him to wax lyrical for as long as he wished. Helman might be a brainless sycophant thought King, but he certainly had his uses; the assistant however was another matter completely—tricky, smart, and African-American. Of course, the all-pervasive liberal agenda made it impossible to pass comment. To do so would draw down the lynch-lords of political correctness upon who ever was foolish enough to mention such things. But Irving King knew race made a difference, no matter how colorblind society had supposedly become. People of color were the enemy—not for their race, but because of their deep-seated love of liberalism, socialism and the kind of insidious self-serving intellectualism that cocked a snoot at business-minded wealth-creators and the politics of success. Such people were haters, despicable neo-Marxist moochers, who reveled in their mad fantasies of dependency and entitlement. Given free reign, such people would drive the world to the dogs and have the cheek to blame their social betters for the ensuing chaos. Irving King consoled himself with a slick smile. A new age was coming, a new evolved society where there would be no place for moochers and takers. The bitter hating classes and their Marxist ideas would be swept into the sewer pipes of history. The smile got wider and he said, “This is an anxious time and necessarily so Mr. Helman. The irresponsible actions of the Federal government and their foiled assassination attempt on our friends from overseas will create an unprecedented level of animosity towards our great nation. We can expect literally trillions of dollars in lost trade, a savage economic downturn and millions of job losses, as once friendly trading partners turn their backs on this great country of ours with understandable disgust. And I say to you now this avoidable catastrophe is all the fault of the president and his liberal lap dogs in Federal government.”
“Just a second,” said Erin. “Are we going to believe everything the Chinese government tells us? They haven’t exactly got a stellar record when it comes to telling the truth. They are the kind of folks who would run you over with a tank, then slap what was left of you in jail, saying it was your fault you got hit in the first place.”
Irving King gave Erin a look of pity. “My goodness, how out of touch you are my dear. The new China is far removed from its disreputable socialist past. In fact, the expansionary east provides an exemplary model for Humanistian government.
“Humanistian?” said Erin, a frown on her face.
The black eyes narrowed into venomous slits, the smile drooping a fraction then curling slowly, disdainfully upwards once more. Irving King ’s voice was smooth as black velvet. “You surprise me Ms. Francelle, that a woman of your erudition and intellectual advancement is a stranger to one of the most important philosophical ideas to emerge in centuries.”
Huds Helman leaned forwards in his seat and said, “You got to excuse my glamorous assistant, Irving. She looks the part, in that tight little outfit she is wearing, but unless you are talking celebrity gossip, or how to accessorize this
seasons hottest party dress, her interest tends to flag. Now, you mentioned philosophy, isn’t that some kind of fancy blow-it-out-your-ass way of wasting five years at University?” The Hudster jabbed his oversized index finger into the sound-effects panel and the roar of canned laughter filled the room.
Erin’s black and gold nails flexed slowly like talons. “Humanism is a world view devoid of moral absolutes, it believes that man is the measure of all things and he lives in a closed, godless universe. The word Humanistian, comes it comes from the Latin Umanista, or humanist. However, the term has been perverted by post Randist doctrine and is widely used to describe a New World Order where the populace is subject to corporate governance.”
Irving King eased back in his chair and clapped his hands. The mocking applause reverberated around the studio. “Bravo Ms. Francelle, it would appear that you are not only very attractive woman, but a politically astute one too.”
Huds Helman was stunned. He cracked his knuckles together and said, “Wow, if I had wanted to take a political science lecture I would have stopped off in snoozeville one-oh-one.” Helman swiveled his fat leather chair towards King and deadpanned, “You wouldn’t be hitting on the help would you Irving? Because that’s my job.”
Irving King squeezed out a tight look, like he was sucking in the aftermath of a particularly nasty gaseous episode. “Your young assistant is adorable Mr. Helman, but I believe she needs further schooling in the realities of the financial and political world in which we live.”
Huds Helman nodded blankly, his face not registering any understanding whatsoever. Then with a sudden beam spreading wide across his face, he wagged his finger at his distinguished guest and said, “Schooling huh? So you are hitting on her you sly old dog. Well, you better cool your jets, because she has signed on the line, and she is mine all mine.”
“My goodness, you speak as though you are an old married couple.”
“Marriage? I tried that five times already Irving—I finally figured it ain’t for me. Now, this Humanistian thing you were talking about, what is that exactly?”
“A collective term used to describe business minded individuals who believe they have a, shall we say, mentoring role to play on the global political and financial stage. Heaven knows the world’s politicians have been failing our citizens for centuries. I would suggest that it is time to pursue a radically different model of global management.”
“You think globalized corporations should be running the world?” asked Erin.
“They already do my dear, and the world would be a much better place for that, were it not for the malicious meddling and failed management style of political dinosaurs like the Federal government.”
“Anything that gives Big Government a kick in the pants, I am for it whole heartedly,” said Huds Helman happily. “You got a problem with that Erin?”
Erin shrugged, “Just squirting gasoline on the big issues for you Huds. You wanted that remember?”
“That’s right I did—a regular bonfire of the vanities, built out of those fevered egos in the Federal government and right on top of it all, the God-fearing patriots of this great land of ours will torch that satanic arch-nemesis of constitutional freedom, who has the audacity to call himself the President of the United States.” Huds Helman slammed a thick oversized finger into the sound-effects board and riotous applause rang out, mixed with a rousing, rendition of the Star-Spangled Banner.
13
Shanghai China
The steaming engine of the Chinese cop bike was finished. The 600cc Wuyang had taken as much punishment as it was going to and now it was done. Karyn tried a couple of little tricks she knew, figuring she might just be able get the bike started again, but her efforts came up blank. The bike was dead forever and nothing was going to change that.
Truman Whitaker stood by the ditch and watched, his face incredulous, as Karyn walked away from the steaming bike. “Where the hell are you going Kane? Get the bike started, we have to get out of here.”
“We walk from here on in,” said Karyn, heading up the trail into the encroaching Jungle.
“You can’t do that. You can’t just leave me here. You have a duty Kane, an obligation to protect me. I command you to get back here at once.”
Karyn didn’t turn once, just called back over her shoulder. “You got two choices Truman, live or die and just so you know, the live option is this way. So, when you are finished with your jackass comments, you might want to hurry along after me.”
Truman Whitaker looked back down the mountain. In the distance through the craning jungle, the sound of exited voices babbling unintelligibly filtered up towards them, but there was more, the unmistakable clamor of dogs, yelping and snarling—coming through the jungle like an evil mist. It was a sound to chill the blood.
She knew he was racing up behind her, but she kept going. Karyn was building her pace now, heading up the mountain towards the ridgeline. As she strode forwards, she cycled through the channels on her wrist communicator. As the digit counters switched through the channels, dead static was all she could hear. The Chinese Military still had their RCIED jammers throwing out blanket interference. She looked up towards the tree snarled ridge—three maybe four hundred yards away, but with Truman Whitaker trailing after her, the elusive peak might just as well be three or four miles away. The jungle was getting thicker now, closing in around the path and her protectee wasn’t in the greatest shape, trudging behind with heavy breaths and holding her back like a three-ton anchor.
“They’ve got dogs on our heels. We’ll never get away Kane, you know that don’t you?”
“You have got yourself some kind of attitude Truman—all of it bad. How you ever managed to land yourself a job at the top of the political food chain, I will never know. I will tell you one thing however, we are getting through this, even if I have to carry you over the top of this mountain.”
“Where the hell are we going any way? If we keep walking into the jungle we will die for sure. There are snakes, bugs—all kinds of diseases in places like this. Don’t get me wrong; I had a dozen shots at least before I left the States. But I don’t think that is enough to cover a situation like this, and anyway this goddamn rainforest, or whatever it is, probably goes on for another hundred thousand miles at least. We go much further and it won’t much matter what happens to us because no one will find us anyway.”
“Will you shut up Truman? We are in a park—like Central Park—or Anacostia Park in D.C., only this one is full of big hills and strange trees. So stop your wretched sniveling, because just as soon as we get out of this reception trough I am going to dial in our back up, to lift us free of this delightful little nature trail.”
“Oh, I thought…” Truman Whitaker swatted at the cloud of bugs buzzing his head. The sound of a giant helicopter cutting low over the treetops interrupted his train of thought. The heavy, insistent thrum of the rotors grew louder, then a bestial shape drifted slowly overhead, blocking the sun for an eternal moment. The helicopter drifted away, but was quickly followed by a second and third, moving in tight formation. As the last helicopter passed, even lower than the first two, the trees overhead coiled and swayed beneath the heavy rotor downwash.
Karyn squinted upwards. “Mi-190’s. They are moving up the big pieces now Truman. I hope you are ready for a sprint to the ridge line, because we haven’t got much time left.”
“What do you mean? You said we were going to come through this, you said that…”
“I know what I said Truman, but we are working a fluid game plan here, so step up the pace, because just as soon as those fat-bellied choppers find a place to touch down, we are going to have troops closing in on us on all sides. Now, we might just make it through as the noose closes, but that is really down to you. Do you know how to jog?”
“Of course I do,” snapped Whitaker. “I go to the gym five times a week. My trainer says I am pretty fit—I do circuit training, spinning, the elliptical and a whole bunch of weights as w
ell; I can bench more than 90lbs.”
Karyn nodded, “Real impressive. We can use that. But let me give you a visual incentive, just to spur you on. Those helicopters had special-forces markings. We are talking the kind of death-squad badasses this tin-pot Commie hellhole is famous for. Now, if we are real lucky, they will want us alive. If we aren’t, they will get to that ridge line before us and machine gun everything in a two mile radius—including us.”
“They would never get away with it. I am Secretary of State to the United States of America,”
“I am sure they will be real impressed, as they are spooning your carcass into a zip-close body bag. Now get moving, I could use myself a stiff drink, and I sure as hell ain’t going to find one on this backwoods nature hike, so step it up would ya, I get cranky when I am thirsty.”
The sound of the search dogs barking and yelping their way up the mountainside was ever louder now. The excited calls of their handlers confirming beyond doubt that the hounds had the scent. The window of opportunity for escape was growing shorter by the second. They had to move fast and move now. Karyn said, “Let’s go Truman, and keep up this time would you, or you will likely end up as puppy chow.”
Truman Whitaker needed no further encouragement, he set off up the trail as fast as he could. He couldn’t exactly run in his shiny slip-on loafers, but he did the best he could; the slick leather soles of his shoes skated across the rain-sodden carpet of mud and leaves that oozed underfoot. He tried desperately to keep up the pace, but it wasn’t long before once again, he was panting and wheezing, his face glowing red with panic and exertion. “I don’t know if I can make it,” he said weakly. “My socks are all wet, and I feel terrible. Do you think I might be about to have a heart attack? My personal trainer says that a man of my age should never work beyond peak performance, as it could lead to a stroke or a coronary episode.”